Chapter Twenty-Seven
Noticing the red and black icon at the bottom right corner of his computer
screen flashing, his eyes automatically slid slightly left – to the Caller Id
box, where the name of the person trying to reach him would be displayed. In
reading it, a malicious smile gradually spread across his lips.
Well. Well. Well, Mr. Thompson, Phillip Cuttingham mentally said to himself while grabbing his wireless mouse, so he could click on the Accept Call button. Apparently, you ARE the dolt I took you for. You actually believed Krypton’s threat. … How can you be so dumb, Carl? Didn’t you realize the odds of anyone caring about the contents of a picture or video of you taken at Woodstock would be close to slim and none? Gee. You must be gullible.
As the Accept Call button on his monitor transcended from a bright yellow to an “I wish my lawn was this color” green, Phillip couldn’t help but let out a short laugh.
“Phillip Cuttingham’s office,” he announced soon after turning his headset's mic on. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Thompson?”
“You could let me off the hook, Mr. Cuttingham,” Carl snarled over the receiver. “What you and your company are trying to do isn’t right, Phillip … and all of you corporate yahoos at Krypton Software know it.”
Phillip initiated a computer search for his copy of the Woodstock video that featured Carl Thompson as a nude, carefree flower child and upon locating it, instructed Windows Media Player to play it.
“Yes. I could, Mr. Thompson,” he said with a nod even though it was virtually impossible for Carl to see him. “However, even if I agreed to do what you’ve asked it wouldn’t do you any good. My boss also has a copy of these files, and he’s not about to let this issue drop – until you give us what we want.”
Carl paused as if contemplating his reply. “And what exactly is your company going to do if I refuse?”
Phillip leaned backwards in his black simulated leather office chair. “Are you sure you want to know Mr. Thompson?”
“Yes.”
Phillip chortled at anguish within his victim’s voice. “Okay. Since you insist.”
Bringing up a Google listing of all the local TV stations in the Triad, NC area, “Mr. Thompson, have you ever heard of a TV station called WFMY? It appears to be located either in or near downtown Greensboro?”
“Of course I have,” Carl said, clearly irritated.
“Good. Because they would be the first media outlet we would send this incriminating material to, just before providing the Guilford County School Board and your school’s principal a copy. … What’s his name, Raymond Skinner?”
“Yeah, that's him.” Carl said nothing more for several seconds afterwards. “Would you Krypton guys really do all that? What are you trying to do, totally destroy me?”
“No. Not really.” Phillip nonchalantly responded reaching over the side of his desk and grabbing the white and blue Krypton Software mug sitting next to his keyboard before taking a long sip of an Auld Lang Syne flavored coffee. “All you have to do, Carl, is tell us what we need in order to get the latest beta of the computer club’s game. After that, you won’t have anything to worry about. The moment we verify we've obtained a working copy of Plutonium’s Revenge; we'll delete every incriminating picture and video on file, and you’ll never hear from any of us again.”
“Yeah. Right,” Carl sarcastically retorted. “Until the next time Krypton wants something else …”
“No. It won’t be that way at all, Mr. Thompson,” Phillip assured him, fully aware that his victim had spoken the truth. “When I say you will never hear from us again. I really mean it. You’re going to have to trust me, Carl.”
Placing his hand across his phone’s mouthpiece, Carl gazed at the handset and pressed its oval-shaped mute button.
“I swear,” he silently muttered. “Phillip must think I’m an idiot or something. But what can I do? If I don’t give Krypton what they want, they’ll ruin me. Yet, if I do release the access codes to the kid’s game, I’d make an even bet they’ll be on my case again the instant Paul or Tim create another one.”
Shaking his head in frustration, Carl frowned and pressed the oval button again to un-mute his phone. “So you really think I should trust you, Phillip?”
“Yes, you should. But even if you don’t, what choice do you have, Carl? It’s either give us what we want, or you can kiss your job, career, and mostly likely, your family good-bye."
Carl grimaced, knowing his adversary was right. “Okay, Phillip. You win. But I hope if Krypton ever gets caught because of their misdeeds, people like yourself will at least have the decency not to reveal where they got their information.”
Decency? Phillip mentally cackled. “I promise we won’t say a word, Carl. Like I said, within a couple of days of obtaining a copy of Plutonium’s Revenge, we’ll erase every record within our files, which indicates we ever contacted you.”
“Okay. … I just hope you're actually telling the truth.”
Pulling up the computer file where all of his sensitive data was stored, Carl felt his stomach muscles involuntarily tighten, and an internal voice bluntly reminded him that not only what he was about to do was wrong – at some point in time it would probably come back to bite him.
“Are you ready for the name of the Gibsonville’s Computer Club website and all the codes you’re going to need?”
“Yes.” Phillip beamed from ear-to-ear as he grabbed a pen and yellow Post-It note. “Let’s have them.”
*****
Standing next to Krypton’s dark-gray plexiglás external wall, Ray Sizemore carelessly gazed across the forest-covered slopes of the eastern Appalachian Mountains before stopping to glance at his diamond-studded Rolex. Hmmph. It’s already five past four. Phillip’s late again. … I wonder what excuse he’s going to use this time?
A metallic rap then resounded from his office doorway, and Mr. Cuttingham walked in wearing his usual business attire: tan slacks, white shirt, and brightly-colored flora necktie – something similar to what a tourist might wear while vacationing in southern Florida.
“You’re late,” Ray said, making an exaggerated display of looking at his watch while his subordinate took a seat.
“I know.” Phillip briefly stared at the carpeted floor below him. “But before I came here, I wanted to verify with Mike that the software we got was fully operational.”
Ray Sizemore’s right eye narrowed. “And?”
“It’s a good copy,” Phillip stated, though his grin revealed his lack of self-confidence. “Plutonium’s Revenge fired right up – no problems at all.”
“Hmm.” Ray pursed his lips. “There weren’t any passwords that needed decoding or any other security measures in place?”
“No, sir. Once we entered the Computer Club’s website using the codes Mr. Thompson provided, locating the game and making a copy of it was no problem at all. In fact, it was almost too easy.”
Ray grimaced, then abruptly grabbed a red, white, and blue aluminum can from the top of his desk, took a quick sip, and slammed it down so aggressively, a couple of drops of soda jetted out of its lid like a pair of liquid rockets.
“That was exactly what I was afraid of, Phillip.”
Cuttingham's lips parted. “What do you mean, Sir?”
“What I mean is…,” Ray began to growl in a low tone. “Paul Pontiac and Timothy Hegler may be just a couple of teenage kids, but they’re certainly not idiots. … One cannot help but wonder – Why in the world would they have a copy of Plutonium’s Revenge where it could be easily accessed? It wouldn’t make sense.”
Phillip squirmed in his chair like a grade-school kid overly eager to answer his teacher’s question.
“But the game wasn’t totally unprotected, Mr. Sizemore. Not only did we have to use the password Mr. Thompson supplied in order to access the computer club’s website, the game itself was also password-protected – Not to mention, encrypted.”
“It was encrypted?” The crease in the middle of Ray Sizemore’s forehead deepened.
“Yes, Sir. It took Mike Furror’s software-development personnel over two hours to decrypt it, even with using the key Mr. Thompson provided.”
“Two hours?” Ray frowned deeply with puzzlement. “Why so long?”
“Well. According to what Mike told me, when his team tried to decrypt Plutonium’s Revenge, they discovered it had been encrypted using something called a 384-bit Blowfish algorithm. It’s supposed to be stronger than a standard military encryption.”
“384-bit, you say?” A smirk formed on Ray Sizemore’s face as if he was impressed. “Now that sounds like something Tim and Paul would do. … All right!”
“So them doing that makes everything okay?” Phillip asked while a few of his fingers continued to twitch.
Ray presented an affirming nod, before rising to his feet and walking toward the plexiglás wall.
“Phillip,” he said, before stopping to watch a chicken hawk haphazardly sail over some distant foothills. “For once in your life you did good. And after our version of the game hits the market, I’ll see you’ll finally get that raise and promotion you’ve been bugging me about.”
Phillip grinned as he thanked him, then shook his boss’s hand and proceeded toward the door.
Thank gawd; you’re such a stupid dolt, Mr. Thompson, he mentally shouted as he started down the hallway toward his cubicle. And because you are, I’m finally going to get what I truly deserve.