Chapter 5 The Anatomy of a Cage

She started the project the moment the door clicked into its frame and sealed her inside with the hazy outlines of current cologne scent and echoes of threats. Panic was a luxury Serena could not afford. Despair was poison, so she put on an icy, methodical calm. Not only was he a counselor, but also a master of security; he taught his daughter that any fortress built by man could be unmade by man.

Falcones had executed her father: not just an advisor, but the man who had trained Serena to such an extent that she finally declined to accept panic because it is altogether a luxury and allowed herself to enter into the downfall which she knew was poisoning.

He was a master at handling security, but Serena's father taught her that every man-made fortress could be unmade by another man. Instead, she summoned a cold methodical calm. She started with physical space. Around her hands and knees, Serena traced the walls while her fingertips searched for the telltale hum of a listening device. She was checking an ornate light fixture and the back of the TV. And later the frame of the mirror that had mocked her earlier. Cameras installed for obvious detection would be nestled into ceiling corners, with tiny red lights looking at her in a constant proprietary stare. But she really is in search of the things he wouldn't want her to see. After an hour, she discovered one: a pinhole-sized microphone, about a grain of rice, placed very expertly within the base of a heavy floor lamp. Untouched, to the knowledge the being watched was a disadvantage; knowing indeed how it was seen was leverage.

Having completed the physical survey, she plunged into the digital cage. The bedside table had on it a sleek black tablet, which one could say was the central nervous system of the suite. It used this to control all that pertained to lighting and climate, entertainment, and even connecting to a food-ordering service directly from the kitchen. It was advertised as some sort of convenience, just another layer in the overwhelming richness of the room. Yet, to Serena, it was an impenetrable lock on her cell. She picked it up, fingers flying across the screen. As expected, the device was lock down, usually operating on a heavily restricted guest network, firewalled from the main estate's server. Any access denial from trying to access a forbidden file or system brought up a simple but elegant "Access Denied." A novice would have given up. But not Serena. She wasn't a novice. She wasn't trying to break down the door; she was looking for a keyhole. For hours, she sat cross-legged on silk sheets with a tablet in her lap, running diagnostics, probing protocols, and studying the architecture of the network's defenses.

With that, Serena got up and walked to the door, testing her humanity and breaking the monotony. Steadying herself, she opened the door and stepped into the hallway as if looking for something casual. Before she had taken a couple of steps, however, the guard was an unyielding plush wall of tailored grey wool in front of her. Ma'am," he said with a totally emotionless voice. "You are to remain in your suite." She got him with a disarming smile, the one that had opened doors and loosened tongues countless times before. "I'm sorry, but I was just hoping to find the library. I get a little jumpy without something to read." No change in the guard's dial. "All requests can be made through the tablet. Mr. Moretti will be notified." She was told clearly that she was not to have any dealings with other people. She was not to be walking around at will. The suite was her world, and the only opening to the outside world was via the technology Damiano controlled. She nodded, the smile never leaving her face, and retreated back into her room, the door clicking shut behind her. The protocol was confirmed: total isolation.

Back on the bed, reading through the tablet now into an annoyed focus. It was late afternoon when this was discovered: Not an error in the firewall or backdoor on sight, it was a faintly discernible anomaly in the signal analysis taking place passively. In the encrypted stream between her suite and the main server, it experienced very slight data packet losses that happened every 60 seconds to the dot that lasted for less than a millisecond-an average user would probably not even notice it was there. A normal diagnostic checked against it would quickly brush it aside as unknown "bad wind" in the network. But it was too regular, too precise. It wasn't a glitch; it was a pulse. Just timed and rhythmic whisper in the silent digital dark-cast the murky conditions, something like an expensive bottle of whisky, was dropping in. The flavour was of the type that had an electronic signature of a hidden process, a ghost in the machine siphoning minuscule, almost untraceable amount of data. This was the traitor. How he communicated, how he slipped information past Damiano's digital watchdogs: through his shrewd traps, Damiano had imprisoned her in a smart cage, surrounded by technology he believed he controlled absolutely. According to him, this was yet another bar on her cell. Never did he imagine she could read the shadows he so searches. She looked at him, the minuscule rhythm of the signal drop, and for the first moment since walking into his ballroom, she began feeling real, genuine hope. She was no longer just a captive. She was a spy hidden in plain sight, and she had just found the first thread that could unravel Damiano Moretti's entire empire.

Open the door and walk through it, as if testing the human element of her confinement. She took a breath to steady herself before swinging the door open and stepping outside the room into the hallway with what she hoped would look like a casual curiosity. Before she could take a couple of steps, the guard was in front of her-a silent wall of tailored grey wool, strong and unyielding. "Ma'am," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You are to remain in your suite." He had found her self-derogatory dazzling smile, the kind that had opened doors and loosened tongues in thousands before. "My apologies; I simply was trying to locate the library." Without something to read, I get just a bit restless." Guard couldn't change expression, "All requests made via the tablet. Mr. Moretti will be notified." Clearly there was no interaction permitted. Clearly, no moving freely. The suite was her world, and the only window she had to the outside world was through the technology Damiano controlled. She gave a nod under the bright smile she was continuing to beam and retreated back to her room as the door clicked shut behind her. The protocol had been confirmed: total isolation.

Back on the bed, she returned once again to the tablet, but this new focus was driven by frustration. It was late afternoon before she found it: Neither an error in firewall nor a backdoor that was obvious, but the anomaly was virtually imperceptible. Running passive signal analysis, she discovered the tiny, recurring data packet loss every sixty seconds on the dot lasting less than a millisecond within the encrypted stream between her suite and the main server. A normal user would never notice it. Even a standard diagnostic would dismiss as benign flutter across his network. But it was too regular, too precise. It wasn't a glitch; it was a pulse. Just timed and rhythmic whisper in the silent digital dark-cast the murky conditions, something like an expensive bottle of whisky, was dropping in. The flavour was that of an electronic signature of a hidden process, siphoning minuscule, almost untraceable amounts of data. This was the traitor. The characterization of how he slipped information past Damiano's digital watchdogs: through his smart traps, Damiano had imprisoned her in a smart cage with technology he believed he completely controlled. This was just another bar on her cell. He never imagined she could read the language of the shadows he was hunting. Serena stared at the diagnostic graph on the screen, at the tiny, rhythmic dip in the signal, and for the first time since she had walked into his ballroom, she felt a genuine spark of hope. She was no longer just a captive. She was a spy, hidden in plain sight, and she had just found the first thread that could unravel Damiano Moretti's entire empire.