Sliver Of Truth

He shrugged. “The government has been making a lot of noise that terrorists are using communications like this. They want stricter regulations on the software that makes it possible to create these encrypted messages. They’re virtually untraceable. Unless someone stumbles on a site like this and knows what they’re looking at, there’s no way to even know it exists. More and more, this type of thing is preferred to phone communications. The government is nervous because it significantly cuts down on the ‘chatter’ they monitor through conventional counterterrorism measures.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by chatter, though I’d heard the term before. I asked him about it.

“Yeah, the government can monitor terrorist activity by watching the frequency of communications between known terrorist groups. When they see an increase in communications-or even a falling off of communications-coupled with other things, say content intercepts or satellite observations, they know something is going on. But things like these websites, disposable cell phones, even Internet cafés like this one are making things a lot harder for them. Of course, organizations like the FBI and CIA probably use sites like this all the time to communicate with agents in the field, freelance contacts, God only knows who else. They just don’t want anyone else using it.”

“Sarah Duvall told me that Myra Lyall had a screen like this up on her computer when she ran out of the Times that afternoon.”

“No shit?” he said. “Can I put that on my site?”

I gave him a look. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

He took his glasses off again and rubbed them on his T-shirt. He was sweating profusely now.

“Is there any way to know who set up this site or where it originates from?”

“I can take the URL and go back to my place, see what I come up with,” he said, putting his spectacles back on. “There are ways to trace these things, and I know a couple of guys who might be able to help.” I could tell he was trying to act cool, but it wasn’t working. A tiny bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face.

“Can I get you some water or something?”

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his brow with his hand and then wiping his hand on his pants. “I sweat when I get really excited. This is pretty exciting stuff. I mean, I can’t believe I’m sitting here with Ridley Jones.”

The way he said my name, with such awe and reverence, made me a little queasy. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been writing about the whole Project Rescue thing for months. If it weren’t for you, none of it ever would have been exposed. Now you’re on the run from the police. Max Smiley might be alive. It’s too rich.”

I felt my face go hot with anger and annoyance. “This is my life, Grant, not some movie of the week. People are dead. This is serious.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s what makes it so cool.”

“Look,” I said, rubbing my eyes. I felt so tired suddenly. “Can you help me or not?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want to know where this website originates from, how to log in, and what kind of messages are contained inside.”

He took his glasses off again and looked me dead in the eye. The teddy-bear sweetness was gone. “What’s in it for me?”

I shrugged. “What do you want?”

“An exclusive interview with Ridley Jones for my website,” he said without hesitation.

What a vulture, I thought. His eyes suddenly looked beady; he had an aura of smugness about him as he leaned back in his chair. I wanted to punch him in his big, soft belly.

“Okay,” I said. “When this is over.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No offense, but how do I know you’re going to make it, you know? You said yourself everyone else in this mess has disappeared or is dead. What makes you think you’ll be any different?”

I felt my stomach bottom out. People say the shittiest things, don’t they?

I forced an aura of confidence and gave him a wan smile. “That’s a chance you’re going to have to take, Grant.”

I wondered if he’d walk away. He didn’t have to do this, would probably be better off if he didn’t. But I was banking on his curiosity getting the better of him.

“How will I reach you?” he asked.

I slid him one of my business cards, which displayed my name, home phone, cell, and e-mail address. “I’ll be in touch with you in a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours,” he protested, lifting his hands. “Dude. Impossible.”

“Grant, I don’t have a lot of time. Just do your best.”

He nodded, scribbled down the URL on the back of my card, and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. “I better bolt.” He handed me a card as well. “Here are my numbers. They’re all secure. There’s a secure e-mail address on there, too.”

I slipped it into my pocket and watched him get up. “I’m serious, you know,” he said, looking at me. “Your face is everywhere-on the television, the Times website…will probably make the evening editions. If you’re not looking to get caught, be careful.”