The Boy Scout and the Hacker

Chris and Sam are zeroing in on the perps. At the same time, they are exploring the mysteries of the human body with great pleasure. The key has not yet entered the lock.

To Lyon - Sam

We found a nice place along Lake Zürich to have a quick lunch. Then we hit the road for Lyon. Jean-Pierre and Google both overestimated the travel time. Neither of them knew me. Shay referred to me as Miss Leadfoot because I treated any road as if it were an autobahn, and this came close to being one. Chris looked like he'd scream like a girl if he weren't so macho. But my juices were flowing! Yes, those juices too. Until now, driving fast was my only sexual thrill.

We took the A1, a main and heavily traveled route. The Alps ran parallel and twenty to thirty miles south of us for most of the trip. I was sure wonderful tourist attractions beckoned along the way, but this was a business trip. Or so Chris kept reminding me when he felt I was enjoying myself too much. This might be a nice place for a honeymoon.

When we reached Lyon, our Interpol contact, François Mechamp, had arranged for us to stay in a nicepensionenear headquarters. He assumed that, as business partners, we'd need two rooms. Damn! I'd thought the French were more French than that. When we got to the desk, I said to the proprietor, who we named M. Billy-Goat Gruff because of his funny beard and his demeanor, "We really only need one room, provided the bed is big enough for two." I didn't know if he disapproved of the morality of us sharing a room or resented the loss of a second room fee. Chris looked quite surprised that I had made the request, but our night sharing a bed in Basel hadn't set off any alarms. He still thought of me as a computer nerd with no backbone and no interest in worldly adventure. Wrong! Uneducated, unskilled, and apprehensive? Yes. Willing to learn? I was getting there.

I'd had the same sex ed class in high school everyone my age did. The purpose of such classes wasn't to learn how, but hownotto make babies. Of course, some parents thought such classes would somehow lead their children astray, and the parents needed to be in control. How a bunch of labeled sketches of the relevant organs and constant admonitions to 'be careful out there among them English' (Witness, with Harrison Ford) lured youths into debauchery, I didn't know.

Anyhow, I knew some basics--fluids containing little fishies went from the testes, prostate, and seminal glands out the end of the male penis and found their way to eggs, which were released from the ovary inside the woman. I knew that I regularly popped an egg, as evidenced by 'the monthly curse.' Simple biology. The exact procedure for delivery baffled me. Getting that worm-like appendage to penetrate what I felt was a pretty small orifice seemed akin to pushing a rope into a piece of tubing. My first reaction was, "Preposterous!"

Nobodyneededformal sex instruction as the human race had proven for millennia. It happened--eventually--on its own. Some learned earlier by listening to others who had experience or by watching educational materials like porn. The slow group, which included me, learned by doing, one step at a time.

I was arriving late to this game, but toward the end of summer, my foot was beside the brake instead of on it. My inhibitions were falling away. I sometimes allowed my own hands to wander and intriguing things were happening below Chris's belt.

After checking in, we hurried up to our room, and I looked at the bed. It was smaller than the one in Basel. Would that be a problem? Unlikely, since we used little of the vast expanse of the king when we slept, what with being wrapped around each other. We might have needed a little more space if we did anything other than sleep in one huddled mass, but my parents had had a queen and had three kids, so it couldn't be a major obstacle.

Chris looked more nervous than I did. We left the room and went back down to street level to explore the vicinity around thepensionefor a while. As we strolled, we passed in front of Interpol HQ. I had done a quick Google search to familiarize myself with the organization. It began over a hundred years ago and had grown from twenty member countries to 194. The HQ had been there in Lyon for thirty years and housed nearly 1,000 employees. One interesting tidbit for a computer jockey like me--Interpol had over one hundred million police files in a database that was consulted once every twenty-three seconds! Also, their agents had no powers of arrest; they were only a coordinating organization.

Our dinner was standard French cuisine, i.e.très bon. We went back to our room with our bellies bulging a bit. Unfortunately, the bathroom was down the hall from our room and the shower wasn't appetizing. We each took our turn sluicing off the grime of the day and hopped into bed. They needed to invest in some new, firmer mattresses. We promptly rolled together in a heap in the middle of the bed. Romance went out the window as we couldn't stop laughing. I had to get at least one point in today, so I semi-sang, "We have all the time in the world." (On Her Majesty's Secret Servicewith George Lazenby in his only appearance as Bond and Diana Rigg as the wife who died in his arms.) Eventually, Chris and I retired to our own edges and maintained our precarious positions as we slept. So much for my brilliant machinations.

In the morning, we went downstairs for a light breakfast of croissants, jelly, fruit, and yogurt. We didn't intend to bill Bosworth for this day, so we made sure not to do any work. Unfortunately, the second night was no more romantic than the first.

On Monday morning, we walked over to Interpol for our rendezvous with François. While the banks of computers contained terabytes of data, what we needed were the written notes, which Chris suspected might harbor clues that the police investigators didn't digitize, judging them as irrelevant. Chris sifted through reams of paper, which he was more comfortable with anyhow. I fed him grist for his mill, hunting down specific items for him to digest and organize in his mind.

He said, "I'm not as useless as I have seemed up to this point. Although I'm not a superspy or a Most Wanted Criminal, I understand criminals--psych major, remember?--and catch clues others miss. I haven't used computers much in my work, but I concede that some of my jobs would have taken less time if I had access to the right operator. Of course, I had decided you were Miss Right before I even knew your technical qualifications. Now I'm convinced that we have a decades-long future in crime fighting and marriage.

"Now, let me get back to work. Find me file number XT373256. Please."

We both dug in and worked through lunch, logging about nine straight hours. My bloodhound was tireless. I helped by occasionally rubbing his shoulders and scalp. He seemed to enjoy both but found it impossible to continue working while my hands were on him. I walked the fine line between letting him cramp up, thereby stopping work, or distracting him so completely with my massage that he would also cease work. We finished going over everything Interpol had and then left with our notes for a night of pure relaxation. We walked along the Rhône for about an hour, pausing several times to sit on park benches and pretend to be French. Isn't French kissing all they ever do?

We meandered over to Buvette de l'Observatoire, a nice little outdoor place in a park across the Lac de la Tête D'or from Interpol. The atmosphere was delightful, especially as afternoon became dusk became evening. A painter could have sat at our vantage point during those hours and painted a series, each with a different color cast and shadow pattern. We finally dragged ourselves to our feet and headed for our torture chamber. I used that term because it was likely to be a restless night, and I would be feet away from Chris instead of millimeters.

I said, "Tomorrow is another day. Scarlett O'Hara,Gone with the Wind." Chris gave me a kiss and a point. That helped a lot.

Op Center - Chris

In the morning, we were ready to work but had no suitable operations center. I began rifling through the index cards in my head for useful contacts. Earlier, I had made a preliminary list of to-dos. I had completed the second item: persuading Sam that a Lamborghini was not the under-the-radar vehicle needed for this gig. Maybe some other time. My list now included:

1. Buy some weapons. I didn't want to count on the couple not shooting at us. I didn't like surprises.

2. Buy a map and colored pushpins. Computers would never replace the physical allure of a paper map for me.

3. Buy the equipment critical in every police investigation on TV--a whiteboard, dry erase markers, and a bulletin board to hold the pushpins.

4. Find a place to set up the equipment away from prying eyes, such aspensioneproprietors.

5. Conduct victim interviews. This was going to mean a lot of driving for Sam, so she wouldn't feel left out.

6. Make sure our ops center had adequate Wi-Fi. Sam had her laptop, but without a connection to the outside world, it might as well have been a brick.

7. Find a small martial arts studio. I wanted Sam to at least learn some rudiments.

8. Make sure the place had a comfortable bed and a shower big enough for two. I had been thinking about showers since the morning she said don't. It was her fault! Besides, adequate sleep and cleanliness were essential to the efficient handling of our client's affairs.

Item #1 had to wait a bit. During a previous job, I had run across a small illicit gun shop 'nearby,' i.e., in France. Since my map wasn't yet in place, we would wait to see where Marseille fell amongst the pushpins. I wanted a Sig Sauer pistol, 9 mm, for myself. Sam couldn't be defenseless, but arming an untrained civilian was asking for trouble. To prepare her for gun ownership, we would frequent the gun range when we returned stateside. Until then, I'd pacify her with some badass ninja outfits and tales of some of my past adventures and the equipment she could look forward to using some day.

For now, I thought a collapsible baton and pepper spray would have to suffice. I'd have preferred she had bear spray, but the containers were too big to conceal.

I loved the big picture provided by paper maps. To zoom, one moved closer. Insets gave greater detail of cities. I'd admit that finding a specific address or casing the surroundings of a site of future action was a forte of Google Maps or one of the other similar apps, so I didn't turn up my nose at using them when appropriate.

While I was organizing what we had and laying out our next moves, I wanted Sam to let her fingers do the walking to find the map, the office equipment, a restaurant for lunch, and a martial arts studio that accepted walk-ins. Then, as designated driver, she would fetch the materials and chauffeur me to our 'office' and to lunch.

"While you are out, I'm going to call Claude Bisset to see if we can use his vacation chalet in the Alps for our ops center."

"Who is he?"

"I rescued his daughter, Nell, when she was kidnapped. In gratitude, he extended a standing invite for me to use it anytime he isn't in residence. I haven't yet taken him up on the offer, but this seems like the perfect opportunity."

"I want to hear more about the rescue."

"Not right now. We have too much to do. Skedaddle!"

Claude picked up the phone after one ring. Caller ID told him who I was, and he enthusiastically greeted me.

"Christopher, my friend. It is so good to hear your voice. Nell enjoys your periodic email exchanges and would love to see you. She has started the new school year this week after we spent a relaxing month at the chalet, hiking the trails and blotting out the darkness of her kidnapping."

I chuckled. "She will be a real catch in a few years. Such a positive outlook combined with brains and looks. Unfortunately, when she comes of age, I'll be well overage, so I won't wait around for her.

"As we finished our business last year, you wanted to thank me beyond that check you slipped in my pocket. I was wondering if your chalet might be available for housing my colleague and myself for the next week or so. I'm on a job that needs some thinking space."

"Absolutely! As I mentioned, we got back from there days ago. It hasn't been closed up for winter yet, and we are unlikely to drop by again until late autumn. You are welcome to use it. I'll give you the coordinates since addresses up there are almost useless. The dwelling one kilometer to the southwest is my neighbor. I will notify him of your impending arrival, and he will give you a key.

"Thank you. I really appreciate it."

"Is there anything else you need? Any chance you will stop by for dinner while you're in Europe? We would all love to see you."

"We'll be driving to all points of the compass, but our itinerary isn't yet set. I'll let you know if and when we'll be in or near Paris. If we can find a convenient time, you can count on a visit."

Sam walked in as Claude and I talked. Had she purchased our supplies in that brief time? No, she'd hit thepatisseriearound the corner and grabbed breakfast croissants and juice. She listened in as she began laying it out on a table.

"Regarding the chalet, my colleague has a few logistical questions. She wants to know if you have a large, firm bed, and a fast internet connection. For myself, I'm hoping for a large shower."

He burst out laughing. "A female 'colleague' is a new wrinkle. The answer is yes to each of these questions. However, I'm hearing mixed messages. I can't remember any of my lovers ever inquiring about internet speed. Last I heard, you were footloose and fancy free. She will accompany you if you visit, yes? Nell might get her nose bent out of joint that she can't monopolize you when you visit.

"I've texted all the info you need.Au revoir, mon ami."

I said goodbye and hung up. Sam looked at me with a twinkle in her eye. "Colleague? That sounds so dry. And you made me sound like a loose woman. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to show my face to him now. And why the interest in the shower?"

I reasoned, "He's French. I'm sure he endorses a bit of romance. As for the shower, I like a nice, relaxing shower, and the last place was a great disappointment."

I quickly changed the subject. "Well, now we have a place to set up shop. It meets your requirements and should be relaxing when we need a break. We should also get in a daily workout. Do you like mountain trail running?"

"Never tried it. I'm from the Midwest, so I mostly do flat. I'm guessing it's strenuous."

"Duh! That is the idea, silly. You complete your workout in less time, leaving extra time for whatever other activities we think of."

She grinned. "When you put it that way, I'm all for it."

I gave her butt a little pat--like a football player would do with his teammates, honest--and said, "Let's get going. You have some errands to run. Did you find sourcing for everything and directions to get there? I still have to do some final organizing of our data, so if you don't need me, I'll finish that while you're gone."

Sam confirmed her readiness with a, "Yes, Boss," and headed for the door.

"When you get back, we'll head for the chalet. It lies at around 4,000 feet altitude, so breathing won't be a problem when we go hiking. Sam was visibly excited. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shone. "I can't wait to zoom up that mountain. The roads look wonderfully twisty and steep. Young man, you are about to go on a thrill ride! Maybe you should wear earplugs so you can't hear yourself scream."

Sam hopped in the car and fired up the GPS for her shopping trip. Navigating a foreign city with a paper map and no human navigator wasn't advisable, even for me. Upon returning, she pulled up in front of thepensione, I loaded the luggage, and we took off toward the Alps. Sam opened the windows wide, let the wind tousle her hair, and looked like the happiest girl in the world. I glanced over at her, and she held her own compared to the fabled beauty of the Alps. I envisioned how she would look with goggles, a scarf, and a dirty face from the road dust generated by her open-top roadster. Everyone has seen images like that--think Amelia Earhart or Snoopy.

We arrived at our destination mid-afternoon; unloaded the car and set up the computer; checked the connection speed, the bed, and the shower; stowed the groceries; and carried a light lunch out to the balcony. The view was magnificent. Below us, a stream noisily rushed over the rocks. I told Sam that I could stay there forever, but, "When constabulary duty's to be done, to be done, a finder's work is not an 'appy one, 'nappy one." That last phrase was sung in my basest bass because I was emulating Tony Azito from the samePirates of Penzancemovie Sam had quoted with her clever orphan/often line.

We had our work cut out for us in the coming days. The nights promised to be long and boring unless we found stimulating and/or relaxing activities. Crosswords? Scrabble? I had other ideas and prepared to broach the subject with Sam.

Chalet - Sam

Until recently, I had enjoyed nothing as much as driving a car up a steep mountain road as fast as possible while simultaneously staying alive. Kissing and ancillary activities were moving up on the outside and would move into first once Chris realized my foot was getting further and further from the brake. I wasn't sure what had gotten into me. From cautious interest to hot-to-trot in months.

The contest was chugging along, and Chris got another point with that cleverPiratesparaphrase. It was hilarious hearing him growl out "'nappy one." As agreed, we dug into our studies after lunch in our makeshift office. We didn't have desks or filing cabinets, but tables and counters provided ample surfaces to work on and organize.

I marked the locations of each of the contacts -- red pins for those that fell for the scam and blue for those who resisted. The pins were spread all over Europe. Although I would have loved spending a couple of weeks driving for $1,000 per day, skinflint Bosworth would have most certainly objected.

Two cities, Paris and Marseille, had multiple pins. We decided those would be excellent driving destinations as they each killed more than one stoned bird. We'd visit Claude and Nell in Paris and then get weapons in Marseille, a notorious underworld hangout. Chris was an honorary member, having assisted in some family matters. I was sure I would get that story out of him eventually.

Chris spent five hours calling the list. The earliest reported activity involving Cleave (my catty nickname for Miss Cleavage) and Hoss was in late 2019. Chris wasn't expecting much new to come out from four-year-old contacts, and he was right. The more recent ones were more fruitful. He asked the victims from the Marseille and Paris areas if we could stop by to discuss things, telling them we were associated with Interpol and we were independently restarting investigations. Not a lie though a stretch of the truth.

So far, little had contradicted what we had read in the files at Interpol. One couple handled every attempt though they never used the same name twice. One of the first facts gleaned from his calls was that nobody had gotten any of their money back. No surprise there. And unless there was more than one base account, the crooks had spent a hefty portion of what they scammed, so even if we wrapped this whole thing up in a bow and distributed the cash currently being cared for by the two crooks, at least ten people were out some money.

The Boy Scout and the Hacker Ch. 03

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