Page 98 of The Secret of Secrets

“All you need to know is that the people who hacked PRH were in a hurry! They saved time by using a piece of their own recycled code—duplicated strings that hackers call copy pasta! It saves time, but it also risks revealing—”

The tech suddenly jumped to his feet and spun around, staring intently back through the rows of rack-mounted gear in the direction of the entrance. “Allison?!” he shouted.

Faukman was already on edge. “Who’s Allison?”

“My boss. Either she’s early or I’m hearing things.” Alex stood up, checking his watch. “Did you hear the door beep open?”

Faukman shook his head. I haven’t heard anything since October 5, 1987. Fourth row, Pink Floyd, Madison Square Garden. Gilmour was sublime.

“Hold on,” Alex said, disappearing into the maze of computers.

Unbelievable, Faukman thought, waiting impatiently.

Ten seconds later, the tech returned with a shrug. “Sorry, I’ve been totally paranoid tonight.” He looked shaken as he sat back down. “The people we’re up against are not the kind you screw with.” Alex rolled his chair to a nearby computer terminal and motioned for Faukman to join him, which he did. “Let me show you,” the kid said, launching a web browser. “You’re not going to believe—”

Faukman abruptly reached out and seized the tech’s arm, signaling for him to stop talking. Not another word!

“What the hell?!” Alex said, recoiling.

“Sorry,” Faukman said loudly but calmly. “I just want to check one quick thing online.”

Faukman raised a finger to his lips, staring intently at the young tech, urging him to be silent. When Alex nodded his understanding, Faukman took over the computer keyboard. The browser had opened to a standard search page, and Faukman quickly typed his search string all in caps:

You and I are not alone in here…follow my lead.

The tech spun toward Faukman with eyes flashing fear.

Yes, I’m scared too, Faukman thought, having just realized that the entry beep Alex heard was not a paranoid imagination; someone had indeed entered this control room and was now hiding somewhere among the gear racks behind them.

And now they are listening to us. A moment earlier, Faukman had noticed a barely perceptible dot of blue light reflected in the glass of the framed illustration nearby. Editing spy thrillers just paid off. Some would have assumed the dot was a laser sight from a gun, but this dot was blue, not red, and it was aimed at a sheet of glass.

“This site is interesting,” Faukman said, calmly deleting his first message and typing another.

Who is responsible for hack?

Alex’s face was pale as Faukman pushed the keyboard back to him.

Taking a deep breath, the tech dutifully tapped out his reply.

Faukman studied the bizarre, hyphenated word that Alex had typed. It was unfamiliar to him. He gave the tech a confused shrug and anxiously mouthed, “Who…is…that?”

Alex began typing again—this time a short acronym.

Faukman stared at it in mute shock. No.

On any other morning, Faukman would never have believed what had just appeared on the screen, but considering all that had transpired tonight, the information certainly answered a lot of questions.

Fuck.

The question now was what Faukman was going to do about his current predicament. The answer, he suspected, lay in his skills with dialogue…and also in understanding the subtle difference between two very similar words.

Misinformation and disinformation.

Chapter 63

Inside the Baroque Library, Langdon scanned and rescanned the faces of the crowd of visitors, finally accepting that he had arrived here too late.

She’s gone.