"What?" his mother screamed from right behind him. "What is going on? What are you doing? What..." There were quite a lot of "what's," in fact.

None of which fazed the men in black at all.

Since then, he had been here. Wherever here here was. It was somewhere near Washington, D.C.; that much he knew. A collection of old-looking buildings surrounded by tall trees and a high razor-wire fence, a mile or two from the nearest town. was. It was somewhere near Washington, D.C.; that much he knew. A collection of old-looking buildings surrounded by tall trees and a high razor-wire fence, a mile or two from the nearest town.

He had seen it when they had flown over in the black Learjet emblazoned with Homeland Security logos, and again, up close, through the wire-mesh windows of the black Chevy van that had brought him from the small airfield to his new home.

As prisons went, it could have been worse, he thought. The floors were a polished dark wood, and the walls were timber panels, although he suspected they covered a more solid, concrete construction. There was a toilet in a cupboard on the left side of the bedroom and a communal shower block at the end of the hallway.

It wasn't a prison for adults. It was some kind of remand center or juvie hall for youth offenders. n.o.body he saw through the mesh on the window looked older than eighteen.

There was a beep from the electronic lock on his door and it opened. It was one of the wardens, a hard-faced man named Brewer with a gut that hung low over his belt.

Brewer looked around the cell before placing a large cardboard box on the floor. It bore a red label with the word "inspected."

He scowled at Sam and left.

Sam got up off the bunk and opened the carton.

On the inside flap, he found a huge heart drawn with a thick marker pen and I love you, Sam I love you, Sam written in his mother's neat hand. written in his mother's neat hand.

That was the only communication from his mother in three days.

The carton was full of clothes: shirts, shorts, and socks.

Under the first layer of clothes was his model of Thunderbird 2, carefully wrapped in a couple of T-shirts. He took it out and placed it on the windowsill.

Below that were some sweaters, although it was too warm for those just yet.

He started to lift them out, then stopped, his fingers nerveless. He let the sweaters slip back into the box. In his mind, an image of his mother, sitting by herself at the small round dining table of their apartment, eating meals by herself.

Another image. This one of him sitting in this same cell as the fall leaves drifted off their branches. As the cold winter winds began to howl across the state and the first tiny soft snowflakes turned into flurries of white ice.

He had been so sure of himself, so confident of his own cleverness, that he hadn't ever really stopped to consider the consequences of his actions. He had charged around the country's networks as if he was playing a computer game. But it wasn't a game. It was real.

He'd thought he couldn't be caught, and yet the whole time they had been watching him, just waiting to pounce. That uncomfortable feeling he had had inside the Telecomerica network. That had been more than just a case of nerves or indigestion. Thinking he could fool them with a C-3PO mask at the hackers' conference. What a joke that was.

But the joke was on him.

And there were consequences. And at the moment, the consequence was a cell, a "bedroom," in an unnamed security facility somewhere near the nation's capital.

He turned back to the window, picked up the Thunderbird model, and hurled it against the far wall.

It shattered and fell.

He lay back down on the bed and cried.

That afternoon, he was allowed out for exercise in the courtyard for the first time. It did not meet his expectations of a prison courtyard at all. It had pleasant, gra.s.sy, parklike grounds, bushy trees, and a small pond.

There were about seventy or eighty other inmates, all boys, wandering around the courtyard in groups or pairs or playing soccer on a flat patch of ground in the center, using shoes to mark out goalposts.

Others played basketball on a concrete court over by the administration block.

Sam kept to himself in an empty area of the park. He had heard too many horror stories about life in prison to want to get on the wrong side of the wrong people. Right now he didn't even know who the wrong people were.

The sky was that kind of indecisive overcast that could fade away to sunshine or intensify to showers just as quickly.

He sat on the gra.s.s, keeping his eyes low, careful not to make eye contact with the other inmates, and contemplated his own stupidity.

"G'day, mate," a voice intruded, and he looked up. He hadn't heard the boy approach.

He was about seventeen, in Sam's best guess, and wore a pair of thin, wire-framed gla.s.ses. His hair was wild. His mouth was open in a goofy grin that made him look a little soft in the head. Sam wondered if he was.

"Um, hi, I guess," Sam responded. "Australian?"

"Nyew Zilder," the boy said, which Sam took to mean "New Zealander." That was a small island off the coast of Australia, he thought, or was that Tasmania?

The boy stuck out his hand. Sam took it and shook it. He seemed harmless enough.

"Jase," the boy said. "They call me Kiwi."

He p.r.o.nounced it koy-wee koy-wee.

"Kiwi, like the fruit?" Sam queried.

"Like the bird," the boy, Jase-Kiwi-said.

"Sorry, no offense," Sam said.

"No worries," Kiwi said.

"I'm Sam," Sam said.

"What are you in for?" Kiwi asked.

"Stuff," Sam said, not wanting to give away too much. "What about you?"

"Armed robbery," Kiwi said.

Sam blinked. With his casual appearance and goofy grin, Kiwi didn't look like a typical armed robber. "Really?" he asked.

"True as a fart in a suitcase," Kiwi said, although Sam had no idea what he meant. "I robbed a bank in Nebraska, armed with a computer."

Sam laughed. "Computer fraud?"

Kiwi hushed him. "Don't tell any of them." He nodded at the rest of the inmates. "They keep away from me. Think I'm dangerous."

"Sure thing, killer." Sam smiled.

"So what are you in for?" Kiwi asked. "You're cyber, too, right? I saw the CDD van when you arrived." He saw Sam's quizzical look and elaborated. "Cyber Defense Division. Homeland Security boofheads."

Sam shrugged. "They reckon I was somewhere I shouldn't have been."

"Where?" Kiwi asked.

"I'm not admitting anything," Sam said.

"Yeah, yeah, same, same, but what did they accuse accuse you of breaking into?" Kiwi asked. He sat down on the gra.s.s beside Sam and crossed his legs like a first grader on a teacher's mat. you of breaking into?" Kiwi asked. He sat down on the gra.s.s beside Sam and crossed his legs like a first grader on a teacher's mat.

Sam looked at him and decided that he was an unlikely snitch.

"The White House," he admitted at last.

Kiwi's jaw dropped. "No way."

"That's the accusation," Sam said.

"The White House! That's impossible. You'd never get near it. It's on GovNet; it's air-gapped and Therminated. You wouldn't have got within a hundred miles."

He wasn't quite as dumb as he looked, Sam decided.

"The White House," he confirmed.

"Oh, that's funny." Kiwi laughed. "How far did you get?"

"Could have peed in the presidential john if I'd wanted to."

"No way of the dragon!" Kiwi breathed.

"How long have you been here?" Sam asked. "How long did you get?"

"Just three years," Kiwi said. "'Cause of my age. Woulda been worse if I'd been older. I got one year here at Recton, then a couple of years upstate. After that I'll be repatriated. Sent home to New Zealand. Kicked out, in other words. How about you?"

"I dunno," Sam said. "I haven't been officially charged with anything yet, as far as I know. I haven't seen a lawyer, haven't been to court. Nothing like that. I haven't even spoken to my mom."

"Right," Kiwi said knowingly. "CDD."

"What does that mean? How long can they keep me here?" Sam asked.

"Long as they want," Kiwi said. "They got me under the Fraud Act-that's criminal. But they would have got you under the Terrorism Act. Since Vegas, if they call it terrorism, they can do what they want with you. You'll stay here till you turn eighteen; then you'll head upstate to a real prison. With the adult prisoners. Good chance that they'll throw away the key and forget you ever existed. Sorry, mate, but I'd rather be in my shoes, if you know what I mean."

Kiwi must have seen the look on Sam's face, as he added quickly, "You should e-mail your mum, let her know that you're okay. There are computers in the library."

"There's a library?" Sam asked.

"Over by the admin block."

"With computers?"

9

THE LIBRARY

The library was old and, if it was possible, even more wooden than the long hallways and bedrooms of the dormitory block.

The tables were scrawled over with graffiti, most of it obscene. There was shelf after shelf of books, but Sam didn't stop to investigate just yet. First stop was the computer table.

There were four computers in all, separated by wooden part.i.tions. Only the first one was in use. The user was a rat-faced boy with the word "Bada.s.s" tattooed, not professionally, on the back of his neck.

Sam chose the farthest computer.

He sent a quick e-mail to his mom, a.s.suring her that he was okay and not to worry; then he browsed around the computer, seeing what was available to the inmates.

It was a standard HP computer, running a Microsoft operating system. But it was locked down tighter than any computer he had ever seen. Net Nanny, WebMarshal-the list went on-all bound into a managed environment so the user couldn't reconfigure the machine in any way.

Internet Explorer was available, but only a restricted list of sites was accessible. Solitaire and Minesweeper were the only games, although one of the allowed Web sites was a chess site where you could play against people from all over the world.

One way of pa.s.sing the time.

The prison e-mail program was allowed, as were a few utilities like calculators and spreadsheets.

Other than that, there was nothing.

Nor was there any way of loading software onto the computer. The keyboard, mouse, and screen were the only accessible parts. Everything else was locked away in a solid-looking cupboard below the table.

A sign affixed to the top of each computer warned that any attempt to interfere with the computers would result in their being removed.

That would be one way to get yourself noticed, Sam thought, and become highly unpopular with the other inmates. Still...

Sam played solitaire until Bada.s.s left, and he kept a careful eye on the door to make sure n.o.body else came in.

He didn't know where he was, and he didn't know how long he would be staying, but he did know that he was sitting in front of a computer. And that computer was connected to the prison network.

And despite the warning sign on the top of the screen, he couldn't resist the temptation.

To have a go.

Just once, to see if it could be done.

Control+Alt+Delete: the basic reset keys did nothing. That was no surprise.

The spreadsheet program was the key. He was surprised that they allowed it, but that had to be plain ignorance.