The First Suitor

The First Suitor

A Romantic Suspense Novel

by

Robert James Allison

Copyright © 2004 by Robert James Allison

ISBN 978-1-59088-308-2

Published by First Suitor Enterprises at Smashwords

February 2013

Cover photo: The White House

(U.S. Government works)

All rights reserved

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. 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 publisher.

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www.RobertJamesAllison.com

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Dedication

To my son, John and my daughter, Anna, two outstanding members of the

Illinois Air National Guard and Generation D.

Chapter One

Jack Allen slowly opened his eyes, debated about closing them again and going back to sleep for a while longer, but the red glaring numbers from the digital alarm clock across the room already read 12:30 and he knew that was p.m. not a.m. As usual, he had spent all of his Saturday morning in bed and he had a million things to do that would not get done now. It was his nature, it always had been—except for the short time he had spent in Air Force training in Texas he rarely got out of bed before noon on Saturday and most of the time on Sundays. When he lived at home and wasn’t working on Sunday morning he only got out of bed because his parents pestered him until he begrudgingly crawled out to attend church. Sometimes he even resisted their pestering and slumbered on blissfully as they went off to church with his sister. Although older than Jack, she was just unable to ignore Dad’s wrath. Jack couldn’t always do it either, depending upon the level of its intensity at a given time.

Sitting now on the edge of his bed and looking around his cluttered bedroom he had a thought that he should straighten it up, but the thought was only fleeting. He knew he wouldn’t do it—no need, he knew where everything was and he could usually get to his computer keyboard if he moved a few things. In fact, right now he wouldn’t even have to move anything, it was just as he had left it when he finally gave up last night—no, early this morning—and went to bed. Three o’clock it was, or close there about.

Jack was a night owl, he did his best computer work between midnight and four a.m. Computers were his life’s dream and ambition. He loved them and hated them at the same time. Loved them when he was beating them, making them do what he wanted, even when they didn’t want to, and hated them when they didn’t bend to his manipulations. Yet those were the times when he best enjoyed working on them, when they challenged him, when he had to be creative to whip them into shape. Still, in some dark corner of his mind, he hated them when they acted like that. They were alive in his mind, not breathing alive, but pulsating alive. They had minds of their own, not blood and flesh minds, but a synthetic, artificial intelligence that every now and then tried to rebel against the human master, him. Jack talked to them, not so much out of conversation, but out of frustration and as a means of imposing his will on them. Computers understood him and when they began to rebel he would often times verbally berate them as he tortured and tamed them with messages sent through their keys by his rapidly flying fingers.

People thought he was nuts, but he wasn’t really, computers understood him and most important of all, he understood computers and everything associated with them. Their circuits, their processors, their software, their electronic pulsations and artificial intelligence. Jack was a prime example and product of Generation D—digital. Digital best summed him up. He thought digital, he communicated digitally with digital equipment and he loved everything and anything even remotely associated with digital electronic signals—especially computers, whether they were hand held, palm size, laptop, desktop, personal or mainframes.

Along those lines, his new job was his dream job. Having graduated from Indiana University, Magna Cum Laude, with a Bachelor of Science degree in electrical/computer engineering, the National Security Administration had immediately recruited him. Had they not, he would have come knocking on their door anyway, because all he could ever remember wanting to do was work for the NSA and work with computers and computer software. Now he was there. Graduating from school, moving to Washington DC and starting work, all in June.

Now it was August and he was having a ball at work. Home was a different story, he didn’t feel at home. Jack knew no one in Washington other than a couple of co-workers who lived on the other side of town and were married. That was another reason he didn’t try to break his Saturday and Sunday sleep-in routine, what was the use? Aside from errands, shopping and banking, etcetera he had nothing to do when he wasn’t at work. He was a small town boy from a rural community and though he had been in some big cities from time to time, San Antonio, Texas for Air Force training and Indianapolis, Indiana for college, he wasn’t a big city person. His one bedroom apartment was sparsely furnished and strewn with empty pizza boxes, his main course.

Though he was 24, six foot one, dark and arguably handsome, there was no girlfriend in his life and never really had been, but he was hopeful. Oh he’d had the occasional girl acquaintance, not girlfriend, and more than a few interesting dates. But there had never been anyone with any special meaning. His family still lived in rural Indiana, too far to visit anytime other than on major holidays, so Jack was lonely, if not homesick. Still, his job kept him here and he was sure it would for a long time. He never contemplated otherwise. After working and dreaming so hard to get to the NSA, he wasn’t going to let a little loneliness get in his way.

Jack was just an entry-level computer analyst with the NSA, but when he was in his little fourth floor cubicle at the NSA building, working on a computer problem, he was in another world, the only world he ever really understood. That, he decided, was sufficient in and of itself—the rest would come in time, God willing. He didn’t think he would stay entry level for long. His supervisor had been impressed with him in just the last two months, at least he thought so. At the NSA it was hard to tell what anyone was thinking, they lived that way, closed mouth and sometimes closed mind. Still, some of Jack’s programming skills and broad understanding of computers as a whole had, he hoped, been noticed by his supervisor. Jack was anxious to move up the ladder and get into a position where he could get paid to hack into other computers all over the world with total immunity and impunity. That was his real dream, to get paid to mess with the computers and minds of other people in this country and in other countries. It didn’t get any better than that.

His specialty was encryption, that was where his Air Force training had first led him and it seemed that the die was cast. However, encryption covered a much larger field than most people realized. It was codes and decoding, but more than that, it was computer viruses—penetrating other systems and writing software to encode or decode all types of computer programs. Though computer hardware was important to understand, the mainstay of computer work was programming. A programmer could work magic where the ordinary person only saw chaos. That was what had kept him up until the wee hours of the morning. He had been fine-tuning a program he’d finished writing just last month, that seeks out and destroys a series of the latest viruses. This program was so versatile that with a couple of hours of work a week it could be continually updated to work with most, if not all, of the latest viruses. Not only that, but once a virus was found and destroyed this program had the ability, if the user knew how, to reconstruct most, if not all, of the lost data files.

Right now though, he was just lonely—and hungry, he realized—as he headed for the shower. A nice long shower, then he would see what the freezer held for lunch. Maybe a frozen potpie—no pizza, he had finished that off last night. Not that he couldn’t cook if wanted to cook, he just rarely wanted to cook. He did occasionally cook some pasta, chili, vegetable soup, etcetera, but usually he opted for a pizza delivered or picked up on the way home. His weight was starting to show those pizzas though and, even though he didn’t have to watch his weight so closely now that he was out of the Air Guard, he wasn’t about to let himself get fat. With that thought he stopped short of the bathroom and went into the living room to do twenty-five sit-ups and fifteen push-ups. He knew he should get into the habit of running, but he hated to run, always had, even in Air Force training, though for a while he had almost gotten used to it.

After the exercise, the shower felt exceptionally good. As he showered he tried to picture his family back in Indiana. He wondered what they were up to this Saturday afternoon. Dad was probably mowing, in the summer he always was. They lived in the country and there were several acres to mow each week during the summer. Mom was probably doing the wash or shopping or just watching the TV. His sister Beth could be doing just about anything, from sleeping to working. Beth was in medical school now, studying pediatric medicine, but home for the summer at present. Though she had to be about ready to head back to school, he decided, it was August after all. Maybe I’ll call them later, he mused, though that often times made him lonelier than not calling.

Chapter Two

Good morning, Mr. Johnson, the President will see you now, the ever-pleasant Judi Latham, with her brightest Monday morning smile, said to James Johnson, director of the NSA.

Thank you, Judi, he responded simply, but a little more brightly than he felt this Monday morning—Judi’s good nature was infectious. She was a mousy blonde, about twenty-six or so, he guessed. Not tall, but not short either, just average in all respects, but her attitude was far above average and her personality was superb.

James ceased his musings about Judi as he lifted his heavy frame out of the expensive looking chair. Heavy frame is the way he liked to think of himself, not fat, even though he sometimes admitted to himself that he was really fat, not just large boned. His expensive pinstriped suit was not snug anymore, it was downright tight. He had gone from a forty-four waist to a forty-eight waist in just a year. Not good for the old ticker, he knew, especially in his line of work. Well past fifty now—nine years to be exact—his hair was almost all gone except for thin bands of silver above his ears. His face always looked strained, even when it wasn’t, which wasn’t very often anymore. He was here for his routine informal briefing of national security matters for the President of the United States and though it was always his privilege to do so, Mondays were not good days for him. Undoubtedly over the weekend something or many things happened to make his Monday a chaotic nightmare.

With a bright smile, Judi held the door to the Oval Office open for him and he returned her smile as he passed, holding it all the way to the President’s desk. Infectious good attitude, no wonder the President keeps her around, he decided.

Absently, not saying a word of greeting, the President waved James to take a seat and once seated in a deep leather chair in front of the President’s Oval Office desk, he realized the President didn’t look to be having a good Monday either—Judi’s smile had not brightened his day. There was a deep frown on his normally smooth face and a preoccupation about his manner. Oh well, he thought, if the President wants to confide in me he will, but more than likely not. I’m not a confidant to President Frank Marshall, just the guy with the scoop on the dirt from the weekend.

Jim sat and waited and bided his time, trying to be unobtrusive, but wanting to get back to his office and clean up the weekend messes or supervise their cleanup. Without being obvious, Jim studied the President. Normally a tall, imposing man of fifty-five, he looked somewhat shrunken behind the large mahogany desk with piles of papers strewn about it. Not the neatest of men, the President, but Jim knew him to be as honest as the day was long and as sharp as a blackberry thorn. Not overweight in the least, the President was the picture of health. He worked out constantly and still had a full head of dark brown hair with just a hint of gray here and there. Jim envied him, not his job, but his ability to stay in shape and especially his full head of hair.

A soft knock on the door and the bouncy voice of Judi Latham floated into the room, Mr. President, your daughter is on line two.

Excuse me, Jim, I need to take this one, President Marshall said simply and reached for the phone.

Jim just nodded and continued to let his eyes wander around the Oval Office, taking in the majesty of the place, marveling at the power that seemed to exude from its walls. It was as if the room had a life of its own, a power of its own.

Hi, honey. What did you find out? the President said pensively into the phone.

Jim watched as the President’s brow furrowed and his lips pressed together in response to what his daughter said.

Some kind of family problem, Jim surmised. Funny he had never given much thought to a President having family problems. First Families were so secluded and their affairs so sanitized. Especially this one. This President played by the book and never let his family do anything he wouldn’t let himself or his staffers do. His ethical standards were extremely high and he enforced them with rigor on his family, staff and close acquaintances.

Jim didn’t know a lot about the President’s family, but did know that his only daughter, named Jane, was twenty-three, a recent graduate of Georgetown University with a major in journalism, a pretty petite blonde and jealously protected by the President from the limelight. Jane’s Secret Service detail was devoted to her and insulated her from the most mundane that life had to offer. Jim saw that as both good and bad.

I’m sorry, Hon, no I don’t. Yes, of course. Don’t you have a copy? Oh, I see. I wish I could do something. Sure. Okay. Bye, baby.

After hanging up the President made a visible effort to turn his thoughts from his daughter’s problem back to the events he was paid to handle. Sorry, Jim, I guess I owe you an explanation.

The director didn’t see it that way, but before he could muster the courage to say so the President went on and he wasn’t about to interrupt the President. That would not be considered a good career move, even though he really didn’t want to know what the President’s daughter had gotten in to—it was better to not know some things in this city.

My daughter has been writing a book. Sort of memoirs about her first four years of being the President’s daughter and the limelight associated with it. She was pretty much done with it and thought she even had a publisher interested, but she has lost the manuscript.

Pretty dumb, Jim thought. How could you put yourself in a position to lose a whole manuscript? Didn’t she have a safe place to put it and why not keep copies or at least prior drafts. Dumb. He stopped editorializing to himself, as the President continued.

For one, I can’t believe she didn’t keep a copy somewhere just in case or that the publisher didn’t keep a copy, but I guess the publisher never had it, just a synopsis and proposal. The whole thing was stored on her computer and now it’s gone. She isn’t sure what happened, one day it was there and the next day it wasn’t. She can’t find a trace of it anywhere on her computer. All her drafts and notes were in one directory and that directory is gone, too. She is devastated. Four years of work up in smoke. She could re-write it, but it would be an almost impossible task. She has had computer experts look at her computer since Saturday morning to no avail. The last one just left a few minutes ago. He says it may have been a virus. The whole computer seems to be acting up now, it barely even runs. I’m a little in the dark about computers myself, but I’ve used my influence to bring in some of the best computer people this town has to offer and it hasn’t helped a bit.

Jim said nothing, but was thinking, he had kids, too and they were getting old enough now that he rarely saw them, but on the rare occasion when one of them called for his advice or his help, he hated not to be able to help. He supposed Presidents of the United States were no different. Why should they be? he decided.

Okay Jim what’s new in the world of National Security?

Snapping his mind back to the room and the President, he responded cautiously, Mr. President, before we begin might I suggest something?

What do you mean, Jim?

Well, sir, you mentioned a virus. It just so happens that recently my agency has hired some real computer hot shots. One in particular. He eats and sleeps computers and his expertise seems to be viruses. I know you have had the town’s best, but this guy is good. He’s only been with us a couple of months, but his supervisor says he is hot and if he can’t fix it there is no hope. I guess he has pulled some data off of computers everyone else thought to be a total loss. If you want, sir, I can have him take a look at it. Won’t hurt, from what you say it may be a lost cause, but if this guy can’t do it then I’m pretty sure it can’t be done.

The President’s face brightened like a kid at Christmas. Would you? I’d really appreciate that. I feel so inadequate. Jane doesn’t ask for much, but when she does I like to be able to help and I’ve failed miserably this time.

Jim reached for the cellular phone attached to his left hip, held it up and said, With your permission, Mr. President? and began dialing, as the President nodded expectantly.

Bob, this is Jim. I need a favor. What’s that new guy’s name? You know. The crypto/virus guy. Yeah, that’s him. Send him over to...

looking at the President and covering the cell phone with his right hand, he asked, What’s the address, sir?

1402 Cherry Lane, the President shot back.

"1402 Cherry Lane. Jane Marshall has a problem with her computer and needs some expert advice. Yes, that’s right, that Jane Marshall. Yeah, right away. She’ll be expecting him. Better give him some directions. He’s pretty new to the area and he might wander around town for a week if he gets lost. Yes. Right. Okay and thanks Bob. Sure you can spare him? Good, see you later this morning. Bye."

Slapping the flip phone shut to discontinue the call, Jim turned to the President and said, Thirty minutes, sir.

Frank grabbed his desk phone and dialed a number. Hi, Hon, you going to be around a while? Okay. Yes, well there’s another computer guy on the way over. I know, I know, but this one is from the NSA and he is supposed to be top drawer. Let him have a look. He’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Can’t hurt, can it? Sure, bye.

~*~

Jack Allen was in his small cubicle engrossed in his computer and on a roll. Having completely blotted out the constant din of ringing telephones and conversation in the large partitioned area of the fourth floor, he had just about found the hole in the firewall he was looking for and once he knew how to get in he could plug the hole so no one else could get in later. A few changes here and there in the firewall software was all it would take. Firewall software was designed to keep people out of other computers sharing the same network, but it didn’t always work the way it was supposed to and in the NSA that could mean someone cleared for one thing could get access to something else he wasn’t cleared to access. Jack was cleared pretty high, but not even he was sure just how high. He had to be pretty high or they wouldn’t be letting him try to access different systems that undoubtedly held information above his top-secret clearance.

Jack? His supervisor’s voice snapped him out of the trance that he generally slipped into when he was hot on a computer problem, he more or less traveled inside the computer and left the world behind.

Looking up, still not quite focused back on the real world he responded, Yes, sir.

Bob Trent, a youngish looking man with a medium build and thick rimmed glasses, handed him a piece of paper with a name and address on it and stated flatly, Head over to that place and check out the computer. The Director said to take whatever time you needed. See if you can help out.

Jack looked at the address and the name struck him right between the eyes. Uh, sir. Is this the Jane Marshall I think it is, or is this another? he asked, already knowing the answer.

Yes, it’s the President’s daughter and it seems she has lost some important data on her computer. Could be a virus, not sure. A lot of experts have taken a look, but no one can figure it out. See what you can do.

Okay, no problem, but how do I get there?

~*~

As Jack was trying to maneuver his Ford Mustang down the narrow street known as ‘Cherry Lane’ he tried to remember what he knew about Jane Marshall. Not much, he decided. He had seen her holding the Bible for her father at his second inaugural just this last January. She looked ‘hot’, a phrase Generation D used for an attractive looking female. About five foot six, he guessed, slim, blonde, shoulder length fairly straight hair, a real cute face and way out of his league, although about his age, maybe a couple of years younger. About the only thing he had in common with her was that they were both single and that was where it ended.

There it is, he mused. A nice looking two story brick home with a two car attached garage. A high wrought iron fence surrounded it and huge trees dotted the large yard. Money, was the first word that passed through his mind. He knew how much he was paying for his one bedroom apartment and from the looks of this house it must cost a fortune.

He pulled into the driveway, got out and grabbed his laptop computer case from the back seat. As he made his way up the front walk and approached the small front porch, the front door opened and a large man of about thirty, dressed in a light brown two piece suit with a no-nonsense look on his face and a burr hair cut filled the door frame. Jack’s first thought was Secret Service and he was right.

Jack Allen? the man asked and Jack had a fleeting thought of not wanting to be alone with this guy in a dark alley, or a lighted one for that matter. Jack was in fairly good shape, but this guy looked like he could fight tigers two at a time.

Yes, sir, Jack answered with more bravado than he felt.

Been expecting you. Step inside. What’s in the case?

Uhhh, a laptop computer, some disks, cables, stuff like that. Jack’s bravado was fading fast—this guy was more than just intimidating, he was deadly serious.

Motioning toward a table just inside the door the agent said, Open it up please.

No problem, Jack responded, trying to sound and act normally. In fact he was fairly used to this routine. He had to subject his belongings and his person to search everyday when he left and entered the NSA building, but for some reason this was slightly more intimidating.

The agent rifled expertly through the contents of the case and as he did Jack noticed Jane Marshall standing in the center of the living room, watching with interest. Better than on TV, Jack said to himself, meaning Jane, of course. From behind him a second agent, almost as large as the first and just as serious, approached and with a hand held scanner checked Jack over quickly.

Okay, the first agent stated and stepped back so that Jack could close and retake possession of his computer and case.

Jane stepped forward then and with a graceful hand extended, said brightly and warmly, I’m Jane Marshall, thank you for coming. The computer is down the hall and to the left.

Jack took the hand and felt the soft warm touch, dropped it and said lamely, Jack Allen. Before he could respond further, he was led down a short hall just off to the left of the living room and into a small workroom filled with books, papers, a couple of chairs and a desk with what had to be the offending computer on it.

Jane had flipped on an overhead light as she entered, even though the small corner room had two windows that flooded the room with plenty of light. A good workroom for a writer he noted, guessing that that was what she did. He thought he remembered hearing that she was a journalism student at Georgetown and aspired to be a writer.

Figuring by the way she had promptly led him in to this room without small talk that she was in a hurry to see if he could help, Jack went right to work. Firing questions without emotion, You on the net here?

Yes.

What’s your hookup? Telephone line, cable, microwave or satellite?

Used to be telephone, but just last week I got the new broadband through the cable TV line. It’s a lot faster, why?

"Maybe nothing, but if you’re using cable you should have a firewall, because it isn’t a secure line. Without a firewall to keep them out, anyone else on the network can access your computer if they know what they’re doing and you don’t have to be on it