The Big Bad Wolf

A DOZEN OR SO AGENTS were sitting around eating thick roast beef sandwiches and German potato salad and drinking iced tea when contact with the Wolf's Den was made again. "Roast beef" had a special meaning inside the FBI, but that was another story. The Wolf was calling. Potter. We've made a decision on your request, the e-mail said. Get back to us. The group continued to eat. We agreed there was no need to get back to the Wolf instantly. It would raise his suspicions if Potter was there waiting for the call. An agent was already playing the part of Dr. Homer Taylor in Hanover. We had spread a lie that the professor had the flu and wouldn't be conducting any classes for a while. Occasionally, "sightings" of Professor Taylor were arranged at his house - sometimes looking out windows or sitting out on the front porch. To our knowledge, no one had inquired about Taylor at Dartmouth or at his house in Webster. Both locations were being watched closely by agents. I hoped that the agents in the field knew what the hell they were doing. At this point we had no idea how careful the Wolf was or whether his suspicions had already been aroused. We didn't know enough about the Russian. Not even if he had someone in the Bureau feeding him information. It was agreed that I would wait an hour and a half, since I hadn't been on-line when he established contact and the Wolf would know that. During the past day we'd been unsuccessful in trying to connect the Wolf's Den to an owner or even to one of the other users. This probably meant that a high-level hacker had protected the site well. The Bureau's experts were confident they would break through, but it hadn't happened yet. Homer Taylor had been transported to D.C. again, and we used his eyes for the retina scan. Then I sat down at a computer and began to type. I was following the model of communication to the Wolf's Den provided by Taylor as part of our deal. This is Mr. Potter, I began. Can I have my lover?