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soft employee whose favorite uncle had died over North Vietnam while flying an F…105 fighter…bomber； and who did his patriotic work entirely without the knowledge of his parent pany。 It also dovetailed exactly with the NEC code； with the effect of making it virtually invisible even to a line…by…line inspection of all the code within the machine by an expert software engineer。
The Ghost had gone immediately to work； creating a di…rectory that sorted the documents on Ming's puter first by date of creation modification； and then by file type。 Some files； like the operating system； it ignored。 It similarly ignored the NEC…created transcription program that converted Roman characters； actually the English phonemes of the spoken Mandarin language； into the corresponding ideographs； but the Ghost did not ignore the graphic…text files that resulted from that program。 Those it copied； along with telephone indexes and every other text file on the five…gigabyte hard drive。 This entire procedure took the machine； guided by the Ghost； seventeen…point…one…four seconds； leaving a large file that sat by itself。
The machine did nothing for a second and a half； then new activity started。 The NEC desktop machines had built…in high…speed modems。 The Ghost activated these； but also turned off their internal mini…speakers so that no evidence of the transmission would be heard by anyone。 （Leaving the speakers on was a primary security measure。 The flashing lights that told of their activity were hidden because the modem was inside the box for this model。） The puter then dialed （this term had somehow survived the demise of rotary dials on telephones） a twelve…digit number rather than the usual seven used by the Beijing telephone system。 The additional five digits sent the seeker…signal on a round…robin adventure through the hardware of the central switching puter； and it came out in the place designated two weeks before by the engineers at Fort Meade； who； of course； never had an idea what this was all for； or where it would happen； or who might be involved。 The number that rang…actually there wasn't a mechanical or electronic ringer of any sort…was the dedicated modem line that exited the wall by Chester Nomuri's desk and ended in the back of his very high…end laptop…which was not an NEC； because here； as with most puter applications； the best was still American。
Nomuri was also watching TV at the moment； though in his case it was the CNN international news； so that he could know what was going on at home。 After that he'd switch to a Japanese satellite channel； because it was part of his cover。 A samurai show he liked was on tonight； in theme and simplicity rather like the Westerns that had polluted American TV in the 1950s。 Though an educated man and a professional intelligence officer； Nomuri liked mindless entertainment as much as anyone else。 The beep made him turn his head。 Though his puter had software similar to that running in Ming's office； he'd allowed the aural prompt to tell him that something was ing in； and a three…key code lit up his screen to show exactly what it was and where it was ing from。
Yes！ the CIA officer exulted； his right fist slamming into his open left hand hard enough to sting。 Yes。 He had his agent in fucking place； and here was the take from Operation SORGE。 A bar at the top of the screen showed that the data was ing it at a rate of 57；000 bits per second。
That was pretty fast。 Now； just hope that the local mie phone system didn't develop a bad connection somewhere between Ming's office and the switching center； and from the switching center to his flat； Chester thought。 Shouldn't be much of a problem。 The outbound leg from Ming's office would be first…rate； tasked as it was to the service of the Party nobility。 And from the switching center to his place would be okay； because he'd gotten numerous messages that way； most of them from NEC in Tokyo to congratulate him on exceeding his sales quota already。
Yeah； well； Chet； you are pretty good at making a sale； aren't you？ he asked himself on the way to the kitchen。 He figured he owed himself a drink for this bit of performance。 On returning； he saw that the download wasn't finished yet。
Damn。 How much shit is she sending me？ Then he realized that the text files he was getting were actually graphics files； because Ming's puter didn't store ideographs as letters； but rather as the pictures that they actually were。 That made the files memory…intensive。 Exactly how memory…intensive they were； he saw forty minutes later when the download ended。
At the far end of the electronic chain； the Ghost program appeared to shut itself down； but in fact it slept rather as a dog did； one ear always cocked up； and always aware of the time of day。 On finishing the transmission； the Ghost made a notation on its inside index of the files。 It had sent everything up until this day。 From now on； it would only send new ones…which would make for much shorter and faster transmissions…but only in the evening； and only after ninety…five minutes of total inactivity on the puter； and only when it was outwardly in auto…sleep mode。 Tradecraft and caution had been programmed in。
〃Fuck；〃 Nomuri breathed on seeing the size of the download。 In pictures this could be the porno shots of damned near every hooker in Hong Kong。 But his job was only half done。 He lit up a program of his own and selected the 〃Preferences〃 folder that controlled it。 Already checked was the box for auto encryption。 Virtually everything on his puter was encrypted anyway； which was easily explainable as trade and business secrets…Japanese panies are renowned for the secrecy of their operations…but with some files more encrypted than others。 The ones that arrived from the Ghost got the most robust scrambling； from a mathematically derived transcription system； fully 512 bits in the key； plus an additional random element which Nomuri could not duplicate。 That was in addition to his numeric password； 51240； the street number of his first 〃score〃 in East LA。 Then it was time to transmit his take。
This program was a close cousin to the Ghost he'd given Ming。 But this one dialed the local Internet Service Provider； or ISP； and sent off a lengthy e…mail to a destination called patsbakery @brownienet。 The 〃brownienet〃 was putatively a network established for bakeries and bakers； professional and amateur； who liked to swap recipes； often posting photos of their creations for people to download； which explained the occasional large file transferred。 Photographs are notoriously rapacious in their demands for bytes and disk space。
In fact； Mary Patricia Foley had posted her own highly satisfactory recipe for French apple pie； along with a photo her elder son had taken with his Apple electronic camera。 Doing so hadn't been so much a case of establishing a good cover as womanly pride in her own abilities as a cook； after spending an hour one night looking over the recipes others had put on this bulletin board。 She'd tried one from a woman in Michigan a few weeks previously and found it okay； but not great。 In ing weeks she wanted to try some of the bread recipes； which did look promising。
It was morning when Nomuri