Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [62]
“You’ve done enough,” Spitzer had Rumford type back. “Give us till ten.”
You’d better come through. This stuff is almost too easy. Those Columbine guys could’ve blown away their whole state with it. Imagine al-Qaeda’s people scrolling through the file, or some of those murderous tribal types in Central Africa.
At the end of the message, the onscreen cursor winked patiently back at the three men, awaiting commands.
Spitzer and Hayes caucused. “There’s no way the Bureau is going to cough up ten million for this weirdo on our say-so alone. No way.” Despite the fact that it was very comfortable in the study, sweat was beading on Hayes’s forehead. “We’ve got to find a way to get to him before he starts posting.”
“We don’t even know if he’s in this country,” Spitzer reminded his partner somberly. “He could have come in just to pay his visit to the library.”
“I know, I know!”
“I said there were one or two things I could try.” In the room, with the sun beginning to set outside, only their host remained relatively composed. “I can’t go ahead—I won’t go ahead—without your authorization, though.”
Turning, Hayes frowned down at their host. “Why not?”
Rumford’s expression did not change. “There could be ancillary consequences that I can’t predict.”
“What, online? Go ahead. If there’s something you can try, try it.”
Rumford was very precise. “Then I have your authorization?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Spitzer told him. “If a router goes down somewhere or you crash an ISP, we’ll take responsibility. We have to try something. Maybe you can find out where this guy is. If you can do that, and if it’s on this continent, we can have people there within the hour. Overseas, within a day.”
Their host nodded. “That’s not really what I intend to try, but I’ll keep it in mind.” Swiveling in his seat, he turned back to his monitor.
It took less than thirty minutes. There was no shout of triumph from their host. He clearly wasn’t the type. But there was quiet satisfaction in his voice. “Got him.”
Both agents were more than a little impressed. “That’s impossible,” Hayes insisted tersely. “Our technical people at the Bureau have been working on this since yesterday, and all through the night, and we haven’t been beeped. Which means they couldn’t locate squat.” He eyed their stocky, intense host closely. “How come you could do it?”
Beady blue eyes flicked in the agent’s direction. “I’ve been dealing with individuals of this type for some time. Let’s just say I have access to a search engine or two even your people don’t know about.” He smiled thinly. “The Net’s a big place, you know.”
Spitzer loomed over both of them. “It doesn’t matter. Where is he? Physically, I mean.” He already had his phone in his hand, ready to transmit the vital information back to Virginia.
“Let me try something first.” Without waiting for a response, Rumford returned to his typing. “If he thinks you’re on to him, he can still post a lot of dangerous material before your people can restrain him physically.” Both agents read over their host’s shoulder.
Wilbur: Do not post the Necronomicon or any part of it online. By doing so you’re making it available to children and to people unaware of what they are dealing with. The Necronomicon is not a video game.
The response was immediate.
Don’t lecture me, Rumford. I know all about the Necronomicon and I know what I’m doing. I want my ten million! Tell the Bureau people that.
“He doesn’t know you’re here,” their host murmured. “Probably thinks I have and am on a phone connection to you.” He typed.
If you persist in going ahead with this, steps will have to be taken.
The reply was prompt.
I’m not afraid of the government. I know how fast they don’t move. By the time they find out where I buy my groceries, I can post the entire contents of The Book.