The Blue Nowhere

killer.
    “Where’re Gillette’s files?” Backle asked. “And his disks?”
    No one volunteered the information. The team gazed defiantly at the agent. Backle shrugged and said in a cheerful tone, “We’ll confiscate everything then. Doesn’t matter to us. We’ll just take it and you’ll see it in six months—if you’re lucky.”
    Bishop nodded at Sanchez.
    “That workstation there,” she muttered, pointing.
    Backle and the other agents started looking over three-and-a-half-inch floppy disks as if they could see through the colorful plastic coverings and identify the data inside with their naked eyes.
    As Miller stared at the screen uneasily, Bishop turned to Patricia Nolan and Mott. “Can either of you run Wyatt’s program?”
    Nolan said, “I know how it works in theory. But I’ve never cracked into somebody’s machine with Backdoor-G. All I’ve done is try to find the virus and inoculate against it.”
    Mott said, “Same with me. And Wyatt’s program is a hybrid he hacked together himself. It’s probably got some unique command lines.”
    Bishop made the decision. He picked the civilian, saying to Patricia Nolan, “Do the best you can.”
    She sat down at the workstation. Wiped her hands on her bulky skirt and shoved her hair out of her face, staring at the screen, trying to understand the commands on the menu, which were, to Bishop, as incomprehensible as Russian.
    The detective’s cell phone rang. He answered, “Yes?” He listened for a moment. “Yessir. Who, Agent Backle?”
    The agent looked up.
    Bishop continued into the phone. “He’s here, sir. . . . But . . . No, this isn’t a secure line. I’ll have him call you on one of the landlines in the office. Yessir. I’ll do it right now, sir.” The detective scribbled a number and hung up. He lifted an eyebrow at Backle. “That was Sacramento. You’re supposed to call the secretary of defense. At the Pentagon. He wants you to call on a secure line. Here’s his private number.”
    One of his partners glanced at Backle uncertainly. “Secretary Metzger?” he whispered. The reverent tone suggested that calls like this were unprecedented.
    Backle slowly took the phone that Bishop pushed toward him. “You can use this one,” the detective said.
    The agent hesitated then punched the number into the phone. After a moment he came to attention. “This is CID agent Backle, sir. I’m on a secure line. . . . Yessir.” Backle nodded broadly. “Yessir. . . . It was on Peter Kenyon’s orders. The California State Police kept it from us, sir. They got him out on a John Doe. . . . Yessir. Well, if that’s what you’d like. But you understand what Gillette’s done, sir. He—” More nodding. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be insubordinate. I’ll handle it, sir.”
    He hung up and said to his partners, “Somebody’s got friends in fucking high places.” He nodded at the white-board. “Your suspect? Holloway? One of the men he killed in Virginia was related to some big White House contributor. So Gillette’s supposed to stay out of jail until you collar the perp.” He hissed a disgusted sigh. “Fucking politics.” A glance toward the partners. “You two stand down. Go on back to the office.” To Bishop he said, “You can keep him for the time being. But I’m baby-sitting till the case is over with.”
    “I understand, sir,” Bishop said, running to the office where the agents had thrown Gillette and unlocking the door.
    Without even asking why he’d been sprung Gillette sprinted to the workstation. Patricia Nolan gratefully yielded the chair to him.
    Gillette sat down. He looked up at Bishop, who said, “You’re still on the team for the time being.”
    “That’s good,” the hacker said formally, scooting closer to the keyboard. But, out of earshot of Backle, Bishop gave a laugh and whispered to Gillette, “How on earth d’you pull that off?”
    For it hadn’t been the Pentagon calling Bishop; it was Wyatt Gillette himself. He’d rung Bishop’s cell phone from one of the phones in the office where he’d been locked up. The real conversation had been a bit different from the apparent:
    Bishop had answered, “Yes?”
    Gillette: “Frank, it’s Wyatt. I’m on a phone in the office. Pretend I’m your boss. Tell me that Backle’s there.”
    “Yessir. Who, Agent Backle?”
    “Good,” the hacker had replied.
    “He’s here, sir.”
    “Now tell him to call the secretary of defense. But make