by D S Kane
She waited for his reaction and when his jaw inched open, she giggled. “You can’t afford to let me walk. So, one more time. What are you offering?”
* * *
Before the end of the day Brown had signed a series of agreements that would make her rich, and signed a non-disclosure agreement. She wrote her own memo informing the employees of Swiftshadow that she was there. She signed it “Butterfly (not Butt, not Butter) Brown.” And took a cubicle in the mercenary area, telling Wing, “I need to figure out what goes on here. Firsthand.”
As the afternoon drew into evening, she introduced herself to the last arriving merc sitting in the desk area. Most were playing cards in the tiny cafeteria. And she still had time to work her chosen assignment. By the end of the day she’d developed a report for William containing what she’d discovered.
She created a compendium of document files from Alternate Existence; over 100, mostly small, but a few were enormous. All stolen from the Muslim avatars. One of the largest files had multiple black-and-white pictures with embedded labels.
On a hunch, she studied a photo of a medium-sized object. It was an aluminum suitcase. She was able to hack the Internet and find a copy of the one she already had. Gotcha! The suitcase represented a small nuclear bomb. Now, who owned the original file? It might take her days to find out.
She picked up the desk phone and dialed Wing’s extension.
* * *
Around noon the next day, Judy called the deli and had them deliver a raft of sandwiches and a tub of cola cans to the back of the conference room. Wing stood at the front of the room, next to a screen on which a projector connected to the local area network threw slides.
On the screen was a matrix of English words and a strange language, whose characters looked more like chemistry symbols than letters of an alphabet. Wing said, “We deciphered what Ms. Brown found and it’s shown in this matrix. As you can see, the language here relates to this nuclear device, but, as we processed the remaining documents, we were able to discern the probable meanings of over four thousand words. Basic crypto. We’re now pretty sure that we know who they are. We don’t yet know who’s funding them. We still don’t know where they obtained their nuke, or, more likely, nukes.” The stir around the conference room was progressively louder and out of control.
“William, I have a question.” Major Alister McTavish’s voice brought the room to silence. “Could this be the group that overthrew the monarchy in Oman?”
Wing flashed a new slide on the screen. “Don’t know yet. They might share the same control management and yet be a different group. But the cipher is one used by several Islamic fundamentalist groups.” The screen showed another page. “Looks like they want a foothold in another country. Between Iran and Oman, they can aim next at Saudi Arabia. That’s indicated by the message we decoded. The Saudis are tottering, have been for years.”
Wing reached for the Dagwood sandwich he’d taken bites from, and chewed off another piece. He waited for another question but none came. “They want us gone from their countries. And fundamentalists—Christian fundamentalists, Jewish fundamentalists, neo-conservative capitalists, the folks from move-on.org—all are suspicious of one another on a good day, and wish death to each other on a bad day. If they succeed in fomenting revolution throughout the Middle East, it might become a series of country revolutions, including global jihad. Possibly even a world war.”
“Can we tell one of our former allies?” Captain Halid Sambol’s tone indicated he was worried.
Wing nodded. “Not yet. But something bad is brewing. The new Christian fundamentalist government of the United States, urged on by the neo-con capitalists, may send an invasion force to the region, and things could even escalate into a thermonuclear war.”
CHAPTER 10
December 15, 6:14 p.m.
16 Palm Street, Santa Cruz, California
April O’Toole was one of the best investigative reporters alive, according to the awards that sat on a shelf and the plaques that decorated the walls of her Santa Cruz apartment. In her late forties, she avoided the few mirrors built into her bathroom. Out of shape and nearly fat until she had an affair with one of the convicted murderers she was writing a story about, she’d trimmed down, but the other result of the affair left her career as one of the best investigative reporters badly messed. It had also jarred her back into focus.
Over the last year she’d followed several stories that excited her. The most important was about a former arms dealer who’d used an office at the Bank of Trade’s Fort Lauderdale branch office. It was an Edge Act branch, dealing in trade finance only, not taking deposits. The bank cleared documentary collections and letters of credit, and performed foreign exchange on behalf of corporate clients. But, and this was a big but, April was sure the bank was also instrumental in funding terrorism. Now, she was trying to turn a gut feeling into a body of facts.
Her big break had come several months ago when an Israeli government official named Yigdal Ben-Levy had announced on behalf of one of his clients that the former President of the United States had actively funded terrorism. Other reporters reached for the story and a feeding frenzy ensued.
April tracked the details by following the exploits of an outed NOC—a so-called non-official cover, an operative without accredited connection to the US government—from an unnamed intelligence service of the United States, and fed them to Representative Thomas Dillworthy in exchange for an exclusive on the Congressional Oversight Committee’s inner workings as they had moved toward impeachment of the soon-to-be former President. Cassandra Sashakovich had told her next to nothing, the locations she’d visited told a larger story. When April’s story was published as front-page news, the day after the President-elect was assassinated, it had led the Vice President-elect to call for the sitting President’s prosecution for treason. And Dillworthy had placed her front and center, giving her insights regarding everything the committee did.
But she’d been stalled lately. There was a missing piece. She was sure there was an even bigger story here. Where did the funds go? Where were they drawn from? She had to find out. Her career could be made by this piece.
She needed the skills of an expert hacker to get this piece finished. Once, many years ago in Hong Kong, she’d met a man who claimed to be the world’s best hacker. His call sign was CryptoMonger. What was his name?
* * *
President Mastoff examined the bank endpoint codes in the updated SafePay manual. Yes, they were all there. He’d promised Gilbert Greenfield that he could stay as director if he managed this project for him. And the man had delivered as promised. Of course, he’d need everything to remain a closely held secret. With the SafePay changes implemented, everything was ready, except for the deaths of Tyler and Greenfield.
He’d arrange for Greenfield’s operatives to terminate Tyler. But how to arrange the director’s death was still an unknown. And he might need the man until he figured out exactly how to get his little war started.
Maybe this would require too many people knowing too much. He’d need to think it through. But he was sure he could make it happen. He wanted revenge for his father: Rid the planet of all who aren’t Christian. Amen.
* * *
Sam Tyler had his bags packed and was about to leave his apartment for the last time. He’d completed the work “they” wanted done and sent it via the secure link. Then, Mockingbird added the requirement that he document the updated specifications to SafePay before she rendered payment. He’d done that. But no money had arrived in his numbered bank account and he worried that perhaps something other than cash would come his way. Something terminal. On his way out of the apartment, he took the door that led to the parking lot, but before opening it, he watched through its reinforced window for a few minutes. Nothing unusual in the lot.
He shrugged. Maybe he was overreacting and this wasn’t as big a problem as he imagined. He started to push the door open. But he saw the tiny glint of reflec
ted sun from the back end of the parking lot. He froze. Looking more carefully, he could make out the details. Damn. Looked like the reflection of a rifle scope. A shooter. Slowly, so as not to show himself through the window, he moved back and away from the door. And then he ran to the front entrance of the apartment. Here, there was a lower probability that anyone would try to kill him. The street was busy with people living their normal lives. Again, he watched through the door. No one seemed to be waiting nearby, but he needed to be sure. He made mental notes of everyone on the street. Did anyone pass by twice?
He watched the street action for a few minutes. No one, no suspicious activity alerted him. Tyler sighed. He couldn’t risk getting his car from the lot out back. He’d have to walk. He trotted up the stairs to his apartment and redressed. He pulled a woman’s blonde wig from his closet, along with a bra, and donned a hoodie sweatshirt. He grabbed a purse and stuffed things he thought he’d need in his pockets within it. Except for his cellphone. He’d buy a new one, a pay-by-the-minute burner. He pulled off his pants and wore a skirt. Damn, his legs were too hairy to pass. Off to the bathroom where he shaved his legs before he fled, shifting his hips with every step to give his disguise a little credence.
* * *
Sharon Marconi sat on the lower bunk of a cell in the bowels of Government Center. There was a stainless steel sink and toilet. Her bed was bolted to the wall. The woman she shared the cell with tried making conversation, but Marconi sneered at her. “Shut your hole, bitch.”
She was marched from the cell and led to the processing center. A massive man—at least his girth was huge—read her her rights, offered her counsel, and read her the charge of murder in the first degree she was being held on: death penalty if convicted for the young attorney she’d blasted away. Not to mention the charge of attempted murder of the little bitch who murdered Louis Stepponi. She was next led to a private room, empty except for her. The guard’s back was visible through the glass pane in the door.
She sat at the table, staring at the empty chair across from her. In ten minutes her attorney arrived. She examined him and laughed to herself. Lot of good he was going to do. All she wanted was to get out on bail so she could finish her work. The little bitch still had to die.
Her attorney was old, fat and wore a cheap suit, and his breath stank of garlic. There was a red stain on his yellow tie. He ambled around to his side of the table in the jailhouse meeting room and held out his hand. “I’m your lawyer, Ms. Marconi. My name is Arnold McGraw.”
She looked at his hand but didn’t offer hers. “Can you get me out of here?”
The man shook his head. “Don’t know. We’ll ask for bail, of course. And I think I can get the charge reduced from murder two to manslaughter. If so, I may be able to get you bail. So, here’s how it’s gonna work. Don’t tell anyone—even me—anything that might indicate your guilt in this crime. Is that clear?”
She nodded. “What else?”
He spoke to the space a few feet to the right of her. “If you do get bail, you have to remain on your best behavior. Any additional misbehavior will very likely be used as a sign of your guilt when we go to trial.”
She prayed for another chance at the young bitch who’d killed Louis. “I promise. I’ll be a model citizen.”
“Good.” He looked at his wristwatch, rose, and beckoned for her to follow. “Time to meet the judge.”
* * *
April O’Toole hunched over the notebook computer in her studio apartment. Her brow furrowed. She moved her fingers over the keyboard and then brought them back to her lips. She grimaced, as her fingers sprung onto the keys, parsing another command. The Internet website opened and she stared in surprise. Aha! So that’s how they did it. But why?
The screen in front of her face glowed back a certainty she couldn’t feel. Why? She knew that why was the kernel of the story. It always was. And now she knew with certainty the who, the when, and the how. Certainly how was the most important and new piece of data. But why told the story, involving the reader. And once she had that, she could craft the whole fable.
She knew lots already. The funds-transfer system called SafePay had been in existence for decades. Created in the mid-1970s by the head of the CIA to pay for covert operations. And it was even used to free the hostages at one time.
And the network was reprogrammed from an ad hoc jumble of endpoints into a codified system during the next three years, siphoning tiny amounts of cash from rounding fractions in tax payments, to fund “special ops” run out of the West Wing. Presidents of both parties used it for over two decades, until it was reprogrammed again just a few years ago to make it even less detectable. The current President had used it to fund terrorism, and he was now being tried in the press for treason. O’Toole was convinced a real trial would follow soon.
Wallace Winton was the only recently elected President who never used the system, and that was because she was assassinated before she could be sworn in. But O’Toole harbored a strong feeling in her gut that Amos Mastoff was using it. Why? She needed to know and first, needed someone who could tell her. And who was helping him?
* * *
Sharon Marconi walked under Government Center in Boston and flopped into the front seat of her car. She massaged her wrists, still sore from the rough handling of the tiny bitch’s bodyguards and Boston’s finest on her way to lock-up. As she pulled out of the parking garage, she headed toward the Massachusetts Turnpike. It was a long drive. Might take her two days, since she was too tired to drive straight through. She programmed the GPS to the street she’d found from googling “Sashakovich, Chevy Chase, Maryland.”
Patience, she told herself. It’ll take a few days for the tiny bitch to get home. But sooner or later I’ll get another chance. One more chance. It would have to do. No more fuck-ups. Maybe I can snipe her as she enters her school grounds. Didn’t she attend a private school? What was its name?
* * *
Nikita Tobelov grinned. He read the text displayed on the computer screen. Bank of Trade showed his account balance was now fifty million US dollars richer. He wished he’d had more of the suitcase nukes, but that was the last of the three he’d received from his brother. He stroked the goatee under his chin and placed his legs up atop his desk. He picked up the phone and punched in a number. “It’s his brother. Please get me Vladimir.”
He waited several minutes until he heard distant conversation growing closer to the receiver. The sound was scratchy, not because of the distance but because of the quality of the telephone technology between Vladivostok and Moscow. “Greetings, brother. How are things in eastern Siberia?”
“Not funny, Vladdy. I know your time is limited and your hands are full, managing the bureaucracy of Russia. But I need you to switch on Encryption-Lok and let me ask a favor.” He waited a second for the familiar screechy handshake of telephones synchronizing. “That’s better. Are there any more suitcase nukes?”
Vladimir Pushkin barely whispered. “No. International Nuclear Disarmament Commission has taken them all.”
Tobelov was sure he was lying. “Rats. I could easily sell ten more if you had them.”
“Your greed will be the end of us. Even if I had them, selling more to you would be the last thing I would do. In return, all I got was your failed assassination attempt of Kovich, the former FSB covert agent. And it made the news. Sloppy work. I could have done the job better myself. Nicky, call me when you want to talk about family, not about business. Goodbye, brother.”
The connection terminated and Tobelov’s face overflowed with rage. Damn the man. How can someone so smart act with such stupidity? And be so useless? He slammed the receiver onto the phone.
But then he had an idea. There was something his brother might still be interested in. He needed to be the one to connect his brother, Vladdy Pushkin, the Russian President, to the most powerful politician in the world with the special agenda he had in mind. But how?
CHAPTER 11
Decemb
er 15, 6:57 p.m.
Pendleton Outlet Store,
Cannery Row, Monterey, California
Just before closing time, Sam Tyler examined himself in the dressing room mirror in one of the outlet clothing stores on Cannery Row in Monterey.
The suit and shirt altered his appearance slightly, but not nearly enough. He knew the systems used by the intelligence agencies to monitor city streets would capture his facial image, do a facial and skeletal comparison, and flag him sooner or later. Still, with the size 46-short dress suit on his size 38 frame, and the makeup he’d bought at the woman’s fashion emporium to obscure the shape and size of his eyes, it would have to do. He’d avoid every streetcam he could see and hope they didn’t record an identifiable image of him.
He paid for his purchases and entered the bedding store where he bought two pillows. Then on to a hardware store where he bought duct tape and scissors.
He marched to the rest room at the shopping mall. When he emerged minutes later he’d aged twenty years and gained forty pounds.
Where to go? He needed someone to craft a fake passport so he could exit the country into either Mexico or Canada. But maybe not. That would be something they’d expect. And the security cameras at border crossing stations always had the latest software upgrades. No, trying to do that would be suicide. He’d have to hide in plain sight.
Who could help him? Where could he go? He sat at a bench in the indoor mall, watching tourists pass by.
He sighed and shook his head. Was there any way out of this mess?
Walking to the hamburger stand in the food court, he bought a greasy burger and thought about possibilities while he swallowed the fatty mess.