The Peccavi File

By Howard E. Adkins

Martin Thorpe is a Finance student at Berkeley. Recently orphaned when his parents were killed in an auto accident, his only blood relative is Harry Rowe. Rowe is the wealthy C.E.O. of a company that searches out and destroys computer viruses, NetPro, Inc. Married to a very beautiful and youthful wife, Pamela, who is nearly as young as Martin, Rowe has always been so Bohemian that he has been a virtual outcast from Martins family. When Martin makes a Christmas visit to the Rowe mansion hoping to become better acquainted with the Rowes, Harry is murdered. His dying word is peccavi.

The F.B.I. has had an interest in Harry because it, in the personage of Special Agent Teresa Kingsley, thinks that he or his colleagues might be involved in causing the bankruptcy of several companies, the failure of each being precipitated by virus-spawned destruction of the companys computer system.

After much puzzlement and searching, young Thorpe finds that peccavi is the password to an obscure computer file belonging to Harry. On opening the file, he discovers that it contains a curious series of numbers and letters, undoubtedly an code of some type, but one that neither the F.B.I. nor the National Security Agency can break.

Meanwhile Pamela, Rowes youthful widow, is making a serious flirtation with Thorpe. Somewhat callow, he resists but not long nor successfully.

The reader now learns that the Exeter hedge fund with its Mafia connections, is involved with the computer viruses, with the resultant company failures, and even in the murder of Harry Rowe. Moreover, Exeter is being deprived of profits because some unknown person has been contacting companies that have had viruses implanted but as yet not activated. For a very high price, this unknown person has supplied various companies with their particular virus signature. The result is that then the virus can be isolated and removed before it causes harm and that company is no longer a potential profit source to Exeter whose shorts and puts and derivatives are all geared to gain from the bankruptcy of that firm.

A number of murders now are committed as Exeter tries to eliminate any person who could possibly have the knowledge or access to sufficient information to carry out this elaborate blackmail scheme.

Thorpe and Special Agent Kingsley take separate but parallel courses of analysis and investigation. Gradually it becomes clear that Harry Rowe had indeed been the brains behind the implantation of very sophisticated stealth viruses in the computers of a number of companies and had gained significant wealth from his past efforts. Next, the Reader learns from the Rowe lawyer that Harrys offshore accounts total nearly $40,000,000 and that, as Pamela had earlier suspected, this money is going to be left to his nephew, Martin Thorpe, instead of being hers to inherit. Martin is unaware of this impending good fortune.

As all but one of Harrys partners and their spouses are killed at the behest of Exeter and a murder attempt is made on Rowes widow, Kingsley finally locates an offshore account in Belize belonging to Pamela. Suspicion supplants sympathy for her. When Pamela is convinced that the F.B.I. suspects her and is closing in, she attempts to flee by herself to Buenos Aires.

How involved was she in Harry Rowes murder? Can she identify and implicate individuals in the Exeter Fund? Is she the blackmailer of companies that have bought their liberation from the stealth viruses? If so, does she possess the $26,000,000 the various companies have paid? Can companies already infected with the viruses that are as yet not triggered be saved? Does Pamela know the key to the Peccavi code and have the information to neutralize it? Was the desire to share his anticipated inh

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 14, 2000
• ISBN: 9781453565827

Howard E. Adkins

Howard E. Adkins, a graduate of Harvard Medical School, is a retired Ophthalmologist who lives in Boise, Idaho with his wife, Nettie. A fourth generation Idahoan, most of his writing has had either a western or an historical theme. A time period of particular interest to him has been the early Twentieth Century.

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Copyright © 2000 by Howard E. Adkins.

Library of Congress Number:     00-191913

ISBN #:        Softcover               0-7388-3448-3

                     Ebook                   978-0-7388-9421-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1999

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1999

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHRISTMAS DAY SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1999

CHAPTER SIX

SUNDAY DECEMBER 26, 1999

CHAPTER SEVEN

MONDAY DECEMBER 27, 1999

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

TUESDAY DECEMBER 28, 1999

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 29, 1999

CHAPTER TWELVE

THURSDAY DECEMBER 30, 1999

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FRIDAY DECEMBER 31, 1999

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SATURDAY JANUARY 1, 2000

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SUNDAY JANUARY 2, 2000

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

MONDAY JANUARY 3, 2000

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1999

CHAPTER ONE

In the first chilling moments after it happened, Martin Thorpe decided his first inclination had been correct. He shouldn’t have come here in the first place. After all, he had not even met old Uncle Harry or his youthful Aunt Pamela before they came to his parents’ funeral three months ago.

Perhaps it was her throaty voice on the phone when Aunt Pamela had invited him to spend the Christmas Holidays with them. Perhaps it was the fact that she was just a little older than he. Perhaps he just wanted to become better acquainted with Uncle Harry, who had been the family outcast all of Martin’s life. He told himself, however, his decision to accept the invitation was purely based on the grim prospect of spending Christmas alone at the University of California now that his parents were dead.

And today, when he arrived at their huge estate and saw its guards, its vast gated grounds so overgrown with eucalyptus trees, and was all the more amazed because he had been totally unaware of his uncle’s wealth, he should just have turned around and gone back to Berkeley. Although Martin, a twenty-two year old, auburn-hair giant, was not easily intimidated, he found that boundless wealth had its own way of sparking inferiority feelings in him. And even though Harry Rowe was now his only living blood relative, this sort of luxury was so alien to Martin that it placed his uncle and him in entirely separate universes.

But damn it, he thought, I didn’t return to Berkeley!

Instead, in bumpkin fashion, he had just driven right on into the estate. He had been even further overwhelmed when he saw the immense Spanish-style mansion with its fountains and courtyards, swam in the indoor pool, and was thoroughly captivated when Aunt Pamela made her sensuous entrance in the flesh-colored string bikini which exposed her as though nude. Although he had grown impatient at times, he had endured the often preoccupied, but always irascible, attitude of Uncle Harry who presented him with the endless Sazeracs the old gent seemed always to be mixing and drinking, accompanied glass for glass by Aunt Pamela.

Martin had learned through it all, however, that Uncle Harry was the founder and C.E.O. of Network Protection, Inc., a leading firm in the prevention, discovery, and treatment of computer virus contaminations. He found out more than he wanted to know about file viruses, multi-partite viruses, file overwriters, polymorphic viruses, and as his uncle lectured him in the most precise detail, about the terribly malignant stealth viruses.

Dinner was a study in contrasts that seemed in keeping with Uncle Harry’s reputation of being a maverick and an unpredictable Bohemian. Although the elegant dining table was long enough to seat several dozen, the three sat knotted in a close little prandial grouping at one end. The richly paneled walls were hung with paintings worth a fortune . . . two Cezannes, a Matisse, and Manet’s Portrait of a Lady With Black Fichu, among other masterpieces. But, the three diners were dressed so casually they appeared to be party-crashers. The wine was a marvelous 1994 Vin D’Alsace Pinot Blanc, and the table was beautifully set with expensive silver, china, and candles, but the entree was simple fish and chips. With catsup. Martin drew some comfort from these inconsistencies between apparent tastes and actual habits; his relatives were human after all.

Uncle Harry’s tongue gradually loosened more, being well lubricated with Sazeracs and Pinot Blanc. He spoke in more detail about his company, NetPro, founded while he was married to his first wife, Melody. He dwelt once again on the details of the stealth virus, and then became maudlin when he spoke about his ostracism by the Rowe and Thorpe families.

It was at that point that the cell phone in Uncle Harry’s pocket buzzed again, as it had so many times during the afternoon, and he wearily answered it. After listening for a moment, he rose and went into the hall. From the sketchy parts of the conversation Martin had heard, his uncle seemed angry and threatening. God damn it . . . harass me any more . . . my wife . . . His voice rose in pitch and volume, and his anger obviously mounted even further. . . . and I’ll just sterilize the whole shitty operation. Just wipe it clean. You know damn well I can bugger every one that’s been implanted. And by God, I’ll do it, too, if you don’t play ball! Then silence. Uncle Harry returned to the dining room, once again deeply preoccupied and no longer talkative. Pamela had then made small talk to fill the conversation vacuum.

Perhaps half an hour later, Roger, the burly young butler, came into the dining room and whispered something into Uncle Harry’s ear.

Are you sure?

Roger nodded. Only the motion sensors in the southeast quadrant.

Send Eric and Claus out there to investigate, Harry ordered.

I already have, Sir. Roger faded into the shadows but did not leave the dining room.

Don’t worry, Harry said to Pamela, it’s probably just another malfunction. To Martin, he explained, This has been happening at almost this same time every night for the past week. Our security never finds anything.

A cell phone buzzed in Roger’s breast pocket, and when he reached into his jacket to extract it, Martin got a fleeting glimpse of the handle of an automatic protruding from a shoulder holster.

Roger listened to his phone for just an instant and then said, The disturbance has moved around east of the house, Sir. I think you should leave the dining room and go where you’re less exposed. He began drawing the draperies over the windows that comprised much of the east wall.

Pamela’s face became ashen. Harry started to help her up from the table.

Martin was also about to rise from the table when the glass of the nearest window had suddenly imploded, showering everyone in the room with a burst of splinters.

Roger dived to his left and dragged a screaming Pamela to a prone position so he could cover her with his body. Harry was flung backward until he almost sat on the dining table, but then slowly slid off onto the floor. Martin was across the table from the window and closest to the west wall of the room; in reflexively jumping backward away from the irruption, he ended near the light switch. He reached over and flipped off the overhead chandelier. Only the feeble light of two candles remained.

Raising himself momentarily, Roger struck down the nearest candle and pulled the drapery over the shattered window in an effort to screen everyone from the shooter’s view. He then slid Pamela to a different spot on the floor before he crept to examine the inert form of Harry.

Martin joined him there.

Harry struggled noisily to breathe through the bloody froth coming from his nostrils and mouth. Martin tried to raise his uncle’s head and shoulders to make breathing easier, but his hand sank into a cavity from which Harry’s right shoulder blade had been blown away.

Roger hastily dialed 911 on his cell phone and spoke into it with authority. Send police and an ambulance to the Rowe mansion . . . 200 San Marcos Way. Mr. Rowe’s been shot, and there’s a sniper on the grounds.

The mortally wounded man gasped something, but Martin could not understand what he said. He wiped some of the blood from his uncle’s mouth, hoping to make breathing easier, and said, Don’t talk, Uncle Harry. An ambulance is on its way. Hang on!

Pamela crawled to Harry’s side sobbing. Just hang on, Harry. My God, just hang on!

Harry made a feeble movement of his hand as though trying to quiet the others. He gasped to inhale enough air and then weakly gurgled a single word . . . Peccavi. He gasped again, attempting to speak further, but blood welled up and drowned the sound. His head slumped

and Martin could feel no carotid pulse.

Uncle Harry was dead.

Martin heard the approaching wail of sirens and thought they were now safe. Slumping against the leg of the dining table, he suddenly felt very tired. Closing his eyes, he wondered if he had heard Uncle Harry’s dying word correctly. The garbled utterance was unfamiliar and puzzling to him.

CHAPTER TWO

Special Agent Teresa Kingsley grimaced her disappointment as they crossed Market St. on their way toward I-280. She had been looking forward to dinner.

Accompanying her and driving the car was Agent Mark Larson of the San Francisco Office of the F.B.I. who had been assigned just today to assist in her investigation. Twice before when the Bureau sent her to the Bay Area on cases, he had been the local agent selected to give her whatever help she needed. She found him to be pleasant and extremely competent and had asked for him this time, only to find it necessary to wait until late this afternoon for him to get off another assignment. He apparently enjoyed working with her also, because he suggested that she brief him over dinner this evening. Such informality was not Bureau protocol, but she saw no harm in bending the rules a bit, now and then.

Left behind at the Wharf were untouched plates of crab and nearly a whole bottle of a delicious Napa Valley Chardonnay. The briefing had not even started when her cell phone rang and the Santa Clara County Sheriff’s people she had been working with informed her of Harry Rowe’s murder. We’ll be right there, she said and then to Larson, Bad timing. We have to go.

What’s up?

I’ll tell you on the way, Mark, she said over her shoulder as she rushed from the restaurant.

When they reached the car, he offered to drive and she knew that would be quicker. Head for Palo Alto, but turn off at Los Altos Hills. I’ll fill you in as we go.

Larson sped up the on-ramp to I-280 and insinuated his car into the speedway-tempo traffic.

Several companies have gone bankrupt in the past six months due to complete computer failures. In each case, the cause was some sort of virus so sophisticated it hasn’t been identified yet in a single one of the incidents. Each time, the infection was so devastating that all computer functions were destroyed and the companies were no longer viable entities.

Larson’s eyes went wide.

Kingsley continued, "Also in each case, huge blocks of shares had been sold short and maximum-sized puts were bought at such low target prices that their purchase costs were just peanuts. Each bankruptcy represented huge financial windfalls for somebody. Of course,

S.E.C. suspected insider trading in the beginning and got the Bureau in on the investigation, but as patterns developed, the virus linkage became obvious. Almost all of the market activity was consistently initiated from off shore, mainly Belize. We can’t get access there to the critical information we need, so the investigation has to be from this end."

Larson gunned the car to go around a lane-staller.

Since I had to start somewhere, Kingsley continued, I figured I should look first at the various virus protection companies who deal with viruses all the time. I mean, who else would know more about the little beasts than they? There are twenty-nine such companies nationwide, but only three are the superstars. I got court-ordered wire taps on those three, and you know what I found? Most of the phone calls of Network Protection, Inc., were highly encrypted. Some of those secret messages even involved calls on cell phones belonging to each of the four partners who head up the company.

So how long have you been concentrating on Network Protection, and have you broken their encryption? Larson asked.

Wiretap started Dec. 7th, and no, we haven’t been able to break their encryption. It’s a bitch.

So where are we now?

You won’t believe it. Harry Rowe, the C.E.O. of NetPro and our prime suspect, has just been killed. I’m not sure what that will do to the investigation.

Wow! Larson exclaimed as he chanced a brief glance over at the woman beside him. Curiouser and curiouser.

Both were quiet for the moment, Kingsley thinking about the case and Larson thinking about Kingsley.

He knew she had been with the Bureau for about five years, but had been born in Jamaica. She had become naturalized, gotten a master’s degree in finance and later, a law degree at Georgetown University. For obvious reasons, her assignments usually linked her with Treasury Department, either A.T.F. or I.R.S., or because of problems encountered by the Securities and Exchange Commission. Although she was only about ten when she came to the United States, she still retained that lilting English accent of the island. He found her speech almost as attractive as the light tawny color of her skin. But the beautiful shapeliness of her sinewy body and that flashing white smile of hers were what made her so great as an investigative agent, he thought. She looks like a model and not a cop.

He edged into the right lane in order to take the Los Altos Hills exit.

*     *     *

The first police car had arrived no more than three minutes after Roger’s call, its lights flashing through the few still-undraped windows and making psychedelic patterns as they danced along the walls of the dining room. Next came the wailing siren of an ambulance, accompanied by several more patrol cars.

Now the house and grounds were like a disturbed anthill with uniformed police, plainclothesmen, and three more butlers who were dressed exactly like Roger. All were probing everywhere.

Roger and Martin had brought the hysterical Pamela into the living room and forced her to lie down on the sofa. She gradually calmed after a large glass of brandy; Roger had considered it unwise to give her one of her sedatives after all of the drinking she had done earlier.

Soon after the police arrived and Roger met them at the front door, one had come to the living room to assure himself that those there were all right. A short while later, he returned and drew Roger aside to whisper a message.

In a moment, Roger took Martin out of Pamela’s range of hearing and said quietly, They found Eric and Claus out there. They’re two more of my Security Force. Both dead. A single head shot in each case. We’re dealing with a real pro in this. He probably had a rifle with a night vision sniper scope.

Martin looked over at Pamela who lay on the sofa, silent and virtually catatonic. She stared fixedly at the ceiling. Turning back to Roger, he said, Do you know what Harry said? You know, just before he died?

No. Peckwee, I think, or something like that. Didn’t mean diddly to me.

Uncle Harry said there had been alarms from the motion detectors every night for the past week, Martin said.

Yes. I think those were nothing more than probes. I think the bad guys were mapping out our detectors, seeing what the response was, and getting everything set up for tonight. I think maybe even more than one person was out there this time; one to get off the shot at Mr. Rowe and somebody else to deal with my men.

Martin shook his head in disbelief. Why? Why would anybody do something like this to Harry?

I have no idea. I’ve been a bodyguard here for over a year and the place has always been quiet as a church. No problems at all.

At that moment, a tall, neatly dressed woman of color and an older white man entered from the dining room and walked with authority toward Martin and Roger. She flashed a badge and said, I’m Special Agent Kingsley of the F.B.I. and this is Agent Larson. I understand you gentlemen and the lady were present at the time of the attack. I would like to ask you a few questions.

I’m Martin Thorpe, nephew of the victim. I came here just today to stay for the holidays as a house guest. Moving toward Pamela on the couch, he continued, And this is Mrs. Rowe. Pamela remained supine and unresponsive, in the same stuporous state.

Roger quickly moved forward and said, I’m Roger Earhart, head of Security for the estate. I’m afraid we have Mrs. Rowe pretty intoxicated. She was so hysterical after the shooting that we had to do something.

Special Agent Kingsley, perhaps thirty and remarkably attractive, moved her penetrating gaze slowly from one to the other as she shook hands and looked deeply into the eyes of each. Although pleasant in her business-like approach, there was the impression of bridled tension about her. She had a