Wired - Douglas E. Richards [21]
“Exactly,” said Griffin. “So if those searching for you uncovered your purchase, even if they couldn’t trace you, the false identity you used would be blown.”
“Okay. Suppose she did steal the subscriptions. Could you track such a theft?”
Griffin gazed at the ceiling as he considered the various facets of the problem. “I think so,” he said finally.
“Come on, Matt,” chided Desh. “Someone with your prodigious talent? Should be a snap for you.”
“I’ll take that as a challenge,” said Griffin.
“Good,” said Desh, determination burning in his eyes. “Because that’s exactly the way I intended it.”
7
Matt Griffin worked on the problem for an hour while Desh looked on patiently. As it neared lunchtime, Desh offered to go for takeout, an offer that Griffin readily accepted. Desh returned thirty-five minutes later carrying a paper sack containing a number of white, garden-variety Chinese takeout boxes and knocked on the door.
Griffin hurriedly undid the locks and opened the door with a broad, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his bearded face. “I did it,” he announced triumphantly.
“Fantastic!” said Desh, handing him the bag of Chinese food and shutting the door behind him. “What did you find?” he asked eagerly.
“You were right about her. She’s good. Very good.”
Griffin sat down at his desk chair and set the bag of food on the floor beside him. “If she really does have a background in biology rather than computers, I think she’s earned rookie of the year honors.”
Desh lifted the large wicker chair with one arm and moved it a few feet back so it was facing Griffin. Desh sat down, his eyes locked intently on the giant as he continued.
“It turns out that all three journals have a number of, ah … discount subscribers, shall we say, that they don’t know about. Somehow, considering the nature of these journals, that surprised me.”
“Didn’t think readers of such scholarly journals would engage in petty theft?”
Griffin nodded.
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” said Desh cynically. “So how did you sort through them to find her?” he pressed, not allowing the discussion to become sidetracked.
“Two of the journals were being siphoned to the same e-mail address as of about ten months ago. No other stolen subscriptions among the three journals had the same signature.”
“Good work,” said Desh appreciatively. “Now tell me the bad news.”
“What makes you think there is any?”
“It couldn’t be this easy.”
Griffin smiled. “You’re right, as it turns out. It’s a dead end. She’s more sophisticated than I had guessed. The e-mailed journals are routed through an impenetrable maze of computers. Even someone better than me—if such a person existed,” he added, grinning, “wouldn’t be able to trace through all the relays to find her computer.”
Desh frowned. “At least we know she’s still alive.”
“And still keeping up on the latest research,” added Griffin.
Desh nodded at the bag of food. “Dig in,” he offered.
Griffin went to the kitchen and returned with large plastic forks and the biggest cardboard plates Desh had ever seen, with a cheerful, orange-and-yellow floral pattern printed on each one. He handed a fork and plate to Desh, and dumped two full containers of cashew chicken along with a container of white rice on his plate. Desh slopped half a box of beef broccoli onto his own plate with some rice, and began picking at it, while Griffin shoveled the food into his giant maw as rapidly as he had navigated the Web.
“You’ve done a nice job, Matt,” said Desh. “We’ve made faster progress than I expected. But this is about where I thought we’d end up.”
“So any ideas of where to go from here?”
Desh nodded thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, yes. We can’t trace her through all her relays, but can we use them to contact her?”
Griffin raised his eyebrows. “Interesting thought.”
“Well?” pressed Desh.
“Sure. It would be easy. Just name your message and I’ll send it,” he offered helpfully.
Desh held up a hand. “Not just yet,” he said. “I’d like to ping her first. Send in some