The Langley Profile Page 7

  Braxton’s job wasn’t to analyze the actual jobs that had been run—he still didn’t understand everything that Omega/ChildSafe did—but to simply ensure that the jobs that were run were logged according to the company’s written security procedures.

  As he had expected, a set of quality assurance programs were run regularly every day. For ChildSafe, there was a program that checked the integrity of the main subject database. The program ensured that all the registered children were linked to their DNA structures and that all additional demographics, family connections, and more were intact. Wilson had identified this program as “Genelinks.” To avoid slowing down work during regular working hours, Genelinks was started automatically at 8:00 PM every night. It usually didn’t complete until early the next morning.

  The log entries for Genelinks provided a base timeline for the rest of Braxton’s analysis. His analysis uncovered two inconsistencies.

  First, both Kennedy and Kerry McAllister had told him that daytime activity from the ChildSafe data should be quite low. Once a subject’s profile data had been entered, it wasn’t accessed again until the child was reported missing. But there were frequent retrievals from those databases every day. There seemed to be a nearly constant flow of data from the records back to the ChildSafe developers. It could just be testing of new retrieval applications, but the volume seemed too high for that. What could they be doing?

  Second, there was significant variation in the running time of Genelinks. The program itself was massive, thoroughly testing the integrity of the structure of the data elements. Given the size of ChildSafe’s database, it took over eight hours to run. The sophistication of the program, and Omega’s commitment to its regular use, rated a very positive comment in his evaluation.

  But while the normal running time was eight hours, about once a week, Genelinks hadn’t completed so quickly. It hadn’t finished until after 8:00 AM, a full twelve hours after starting. According to the logs, there were few other programs running at night and Braxton could gauge the performance of the overall system by the time it took Genelinks to complete. This generally was between seven and a half and nine hours. But sometimes, much longer.

  In some ways, computers are very simple devices. They can only do one thing at a time. Programmers have done lots of fancy things to make it look like computers run multiple programs and have multiple users at the same time, but in reality, this is just because each of those programs gets broken up into little pieces and each piece is run one after the other. As computers have gotten faster, the perceived delay in any one job has faded. But they were still slowed.

  Braxton recalled lazy Sunday mornings when he would relax on his sofa to read the Boston Globe’s sports pages. He could usually get through that section in one hour. But every once in a while, his ex-wife would have a question. She’d interrupt his focus; ask him about cleaning up his office, or where he wanted to go for dinner. Each interruption slowed him down and it would be two hours or more before he got to the back page with the latest rumors.

  The same was true of Genelinks. Now he knew Omega Genomics had a complex computer infrastructure with high-speed data links connecting headquarters to their farms of multiprocessor computers. But Genelinks had been designed to take advantage of all that. If it was running slower, it was because some other program was interrupting it—stealing its cycles.

  The slowdown occurred once a week, usually on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday nights. Other programs could be causing the slowdown, but when he had looked, no other programs had been running. That by itself was unusual. In every organization Braxton had ever worked in, there were always a few insomniac programmers putting in a few extra hours. But on these nights, the log didn’t show any other programs run. It was like someone had deleted the intervening entries.

  Was this more of the retrievals he had seen during the day? Or something else?

  Whoever was running the rogue programs had to have executive privileges to modify the logs. That didn’t leave too many suspects. How could he determine who it was?

  Dammit! It’s not my job to worry about this.

  Slattery was paying him to conduct a security audit. Was Omega Genomics’ data secure? Were their competitive assets being protected? That’s all he should be worried about.

  Why was this bothering him so? Hadn’t he gotten into enough trouble already poking his nose into things that didn’t concern him? He had promised himself he was going to—

  “Don’t you ever stop working?”

  This time, he didn’t even need to turn around.

  “Yes, Colleen. I’m still working. How was lunch?”

  “Super. We had this great Pad Thai. How about you?”

  He finally turned around and faced her. Her smile was infectious. He just couldn’t be mad at the interruption.

  “I can truthfully say that the pork barbecue was something to remember.”

  She laughed. “I should have warned you. We all go out on Wednesdays for a reason.”

  Braxton shook his head and smiled. “You could have mentioned that. Now you owe me one.”

  “Okay. Let’s grab dinner tonight. You look like you definitely need a break. You can’t work all the time.”

  She was wearing him down. He knew he should refuse, but he did have to get something to eat didn’t he? And besides, he might get some of his nagging Omega Genomics questions answered outside these stifling office walls.

  “Okay, but something simple and we go Dutch. I do have to keep up my impeccable reputation.”

  Her smile brightened. “Agreed. Do you know Cabrios on Mass Ave? It’s really good and just a few minutes’ walk down from your hotel.”

  “That sounds fine. Something early though? Say 6:30?”

  “Great! I’ll get a reservation. See you then.”

  O’Connor’s hair flashed around her head as she spun and headed toward the exit.

  Watching her unmistakable saunter, Braxton’s heart beat a little faster. He hadn’t had much in the way of personal relationships over the past few years. They just hadn’t been a priority. He had no expectations of this encounter having any lasting impact on his life, but maybe the practice would do him some good.

  His cell phone buzzed and he checked the caller id.

  Oops. He hadn’t phoned home.

  “Hey, boss. How’s it going?” Chu’s cheerful voice came through loud and clear.

  “Just fine, Karen. Trying to stay out of trouble. Why the call?”

  “Well, you hadn’t called yet and I have to leave in a few minutes. Russell and I have a meeting at Greg’s school. I hope I didn’t bother you.”

  “Not all at. Just wrapping up here.”

  “How does it look? Will we make the deadline?”

  “We should make it. I’ll send you some initial notes tonight. Pour those into the report template and we can discuss next steps tomorrow. Sound okay?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Don’t work too hard tonight.”

  Braxton considered the evening’s schedule and smiled.

  “No problem. I promise.”

  As he turned back to his laptop he remembered what O’Connor had said about the restaurant.

  How does she know where I’m staying?

  Chapter 9

  Cabrios Restaurant, Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Wednesday, 6:30 p.m.

  Braxton had gone back to his hotel, thrown on a fresh shirt and walked down Mass Ave to Cabrios. The wind had lightened and he had actually enjoyed the walk in the cool temperature. It was the only exercise he was going to get today.

  He arrived promptly at 6:30. Cabrios was in a small building fronting Mass Ave, stuck between a ReMax Realty office and an upscale wine store. He walked in and was immediately swathed in air thick with the smell of cooking oil, saffron, and cayenne. Posters of Spanish attractions hung on the walls and the staccato notes of a Flamenco guitar drifted softly in the background.

  O’Connor was sitting at a small bar area engaged in an a
nimated conversation with the young male bartender, who was obviously enjoying the exchange with the striking woman.

  Her red hair had been pulled back in a tight braid and she had changed into a dark green cotton dress—tight, short at the hem and low in the neckline—apparently her preferred mode of attire.

  As he approached the bar, she jumped off her stool, reached up and gave him a peck on his cheek. He felt a warm flush color his face.

  She waved back at the disappointed bartender—he had apparently already been paid, but had been hoping for a longer-lasting relationship—and walked to the dining room. They checked in with an attractive Latino hostess who led them to a table by the front window. The dining area was small, no more than ten tables, about half of which were occupied. The diners were too old to be students, probably a mix of professors and businessmen desperately trying to sell each other their respective wares.

  They settled at the table, reviewed the menu and decided to go ahead and order. Which was fine with Braxton since he had thrown out the tasteless barbecue sandwich he had purchased for lunch. O’Connor chose gazpacho and a salmon salad and Braxton ordered the paella. A bottle of Chianti Classico served as an appetizer.

  They toasted and O’Connor got right to the point.

  “So what do you think of our little group at Omega Genomics?”

  “Haven’t met all that many people, really. Let’s see. Dr. McAllister, Devon,” he corrected, “Mr. Kennedy, Kerry, Frank Wilson and you. With the exception of Devon,” Braxton flashed a broad smile, “and you, I get the sense I’m not very welcome. Wilson was especially hostile. I guess that’s ‘cause I’m mostly poking into his territory. What’s his background?”

  O’Connor wrinkled her nose. It was cute. “Don’t know very much about him. Came in a few years ago. Pretty much a loner, sticks to himself. He never talks about his personal life. But he’s good at his job. Makes sure all of us toe the line on the security protocols. A real hands-on guy, too. Doesn’t just give out orders. I’ll give him credit for that. He even works the operations graveyard shift every week.”

  “Wow. That’s pretty impressive for an operations manager. I’ll have to give him some slack.”

  “Probably won’t make much difference. Frank isn’t too concerned about social niceties.” She paused and took another sip of wine. “But okay, mister hot-shot consultant, what about you? Have you always been a cyber-sleuth?”

  Braxton cringed at the sobriquet, but he had learned the phrase was now ingrained in pop culture. “I went to school around here, at Boston College,” he began. “I was an engineering major. Took a few computer classes along the way, but wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. After I graduated I joined the Army. They found out I knew how to program and put me into InfoSec.” O’Connor wrinkled her forehead. “Sorry, Information Security. Took a bunch of courses and turned out I was pretty good at it. Spent the next few years leading teams at Army bases around the country. Even had an assignment at the Pentagon.”

  “That sounds exciting.”

  “Not all that exciting but I saw a helluva lot. I left after my tour was up and got a job at Cen…, ah, a big networking firm. Did okay, but they had some problems and I was let go. Consulting seemed like a good opportunity. It’s worked out pretty well.”

  O’Connor was smiling and shaking her head in agreement as if she knew all this already. How much did she know about him?

  “I have a confession, Adam,” she said with a crooked smile.

  Okay, here it comes.

  “I did Google you. Found some pretty interesting articles on the ‘Net.”

  Braxton wiped a pair of very sweaty hands on his napkin. This was not how he wanted the conversation to go. Would he ever be able to put this history aside?

  He did his best to put on a relaxed smile.

  “Now, Colleen. You know better than to believe everything you read on the Internet. All that’s a lot of speculation and media fiction. I’m just a consultant trying to get by.”

  “Some of it must be true. It sounded really exciting.”

  Braxton shook his head. “Hardly that exciting. I hope I helped with the investigations, but I wasn’t involved in any of the dangerous parts. That was for the professionals.”

  O’Connor took a sip of her wine. ”Like the man from In-Q-Tel? Is he with the CIA, too?”

  “I am not with the CIA, Colleen,” Braxton snapped. But after a glance at O’Connor’s expression, he realized she had been kidding, and he had fallen for it. Time to toss it back. “Of course if I was and I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he whispered.

  “Nice catch, mister consultant,” she replied with a wry grin.

  “But that’s enough about me,” he said. “You have to tell me how you ended up at Omega. You don’t seem like a hard-core techy.”

  “I guess I’m not.” She shrugged and a lock of red hair uncurled down her cheek. “I’m all right brain. When I finished at Mass College of Art and Design, I was ready to take on the art world. Be a real innovator in graphic design. But six months later, I was a shipping clerk at a graphics arts store and feeling like crap. Then a friend told me the Media Lab was hiring. They hired me on the spot.”

  “The Media Lab? Wow.” The MIT Media Lab had been created in 1985 by MIT Professor Nicolas Negroponte as an amalgam of science, technology and art. Over the years, it had demonstrated major advancements in the fields of wireless networks, web browsers, robotics and bionics. It drew its funding from some of the largest companies in the world. “That’s quite a place. I’m really surprised.”

  O’Connor’s face froze. “You don’t think I’m smart enough?”

  Damn. Open mouth, insert foot. I thought I was getting better at this.

  “I’m sorry, Colleen. I didn’t mean that. Ah … it’s just that I thought only MIT staff worked there.” That’s the best you can do?

  O’Connor shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She hesitated, and Braxton’s pounding heart beat even harder.

  “Okay. You’re forgiven.” The sexy smile returned and Braxton took a long-needed breath. “But only ‘cause you’re so cute.”

  “It must have been an amazing place to work. I remember all the press about the wearable computing fashion show.”

  Her smile broadened. “That’s what everyone remembers. It’s a tired cliche in the Lab, but it was cool. Nicholas got design studios from all over the world to create clothing that integrated computers. It was quite avant-garde in 1997. They say they don’t like it, but their halls still have photos of gorgeous fashion models slinking down the runway draped in electronics.”

  Braxton unconsciously patted his pockets which contained only a few of his current electronic gadgets. Maybe the show hadn’t been so silly after all.

  “I remember seeing some of those photos. Must have really bloated MIT’s admissions list. What projects did you work on?”

  “The Lab had just gotten a huge grant from Honda to work on humanoid robots. Honda wanted their robots to be more socially engaging. The Lab was desperate for staff.”

  He really tried to control it. But he knew his face gave him away.

  “I saw that!” O’Connor exclaimed. “But okay, they were desperate and this ditzy art major came in at just the right time.”

  “No disrespect, Colleen, but why did they need an art major?”

  “Well, Honda didn’t really want the Lab to build a robot, they actually had lots of those, but they wanted their robots to have a face. A soft, pliable face that could show reactions and emotion. MIT had some neat technology for the malleable face material, but they didn’t know how to make it realistic. The Lab had hired engineers, anatomists, material scientists, all doing exciting work but no one could figure out how to make expressions. What is a frown? What is a smile? How do you make a smile? That’s why they needed an artist. Michelangelo wasn’t available so they hired me.”

  O’Connor’s hands flew in front of her face almost as fast as her words. And her voice rose in concert
with the gestures.

  Braxton had to smile. It wasn’t often he met someone that held such joy in their work. O’Connor was apparently one of them. He leaned back in his chair and soaked in the exuberance. “What kind of work did you do?”

  “Just about everything. The problem was that no one knew how to describe an expression. At least in a way the engineers could understand. I started with the anatomy. Do you know there are forty-three separate muscles in the face and a smile requires most all of them? So we started trying to replicate muscles mechanically. Not all of them, but some. I tried to figure out which of the muscles were most important. That’s where we started.”

  “Fascinating. How did it go?”

  “Pretty well. The shape of the mouth for smiles and frowns was relatively straightforward, but it was the subtler cues like nose flarings, and eye squints that were hard. And it turned out that those were the really important features that humans use to recognize emotion. We all learned a lot about how hard it is to mimic facial expressions.”

  “Were you successful?”

  The excitement left O’Connor’s face as rapidly as it had appeared. It was really easy to read her emotions.

  “We made some progress, but two years after I came, Honda pulled their funding. They said driver-less cars were the new frontier. Most of the researchers lost their jobs.”

  Braxton felt a twinge of sympathy. He had been in the same place. It was often a tough recovery. “What did you do then?”

  “Well, while I was moping in my apartment feeling sorry for myself, Dr. McAllister, Kerry, called. She said she had heard of my work and had an interesting opportunity. When she described the job, I jumped for it.”

  Dinner arrived and Braxton took the opportunity to retreat into the safety of casual conversion on the vicissitudes of New England weather and the gentrification of Mass Ave in Cambridge.