“So he read it,” Max guesses.
“Yeah.” She heaves a sigh. “He shouldn’t have read it. There was some scary shit on there. And he didn’t want to be caught reading it. But it worried him. He needed to know if he should even be working for these people. So he …” She hesitates.
“Mirrored it to another channel?” Max guesses. “To read later?”
“Yep.” She swallows hard. “The thread he saw was about some kind of super creepy poison,” she says, shivering. “When he read it that night at home, he got kind of freaked out.”
“Oh man,” Scout says, taking another corn chip from the bag. She’s here to play the good cop, I think. In case Teagan needs convincing.
“Yeah, my boyfriend wanted to drop him as a client. When the creepy boss asked to increase his hours, he made an excuse, like he was too busy with his long-time guys. But the scary dude offered to triple his pay and give him even more hours, so he stayed.” She hangs her head.
“And that was a mistake?” I offer gently. “Did he hear more things that he shouldn’t?”
“Well, it’s funny that you put it like that. My boyfriend has almost no hearing.“ Her eyes tear up again. “He’s almost completely deaf. But he’s really good at lipreading. And—this happens all the time to people who have a disability—they treat him like he’s blind and stupid, too. The younger guys that guard this office, they will say anything in front of him. They talk about who they’re going to shake down next. And my boyfriend pretends like he can’t understand anything they’re saying.”
“So he hears a lot,” Max says.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. And then …” she takes a big breath. “The first hacker murder hit the newspaper, and they couldn’t shut up about it. My boyfriend noticed that they knew more about it than was in the papers. So that freaked him out.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “So …” Max’s eyes are as bright as I’ve ever seen them. “You think these guys are killing hackers for the scary boss?”
“They might be,” she says quietly. “But the way they talk, it seemed more like they know the guys who did it. Meanwhile, the messages keep rolling into that mirrored channel. There’s talk of obtaining more poison gas. And how to move it from place to place.”
“Can you show us the channel?” Max asks.
She shakes her head. “I’m not the hacker.”
“So who spoofed your phone to behave like a laptop on WiFi?” I ask, because that’s the trick that fooled me.
“My boyfriend. Obviously. He needed me to help get the authorities’ attention, but he didn’t want anyone to figure out who was ratting them out on a public WiFi. I only post things when he’s at work on their machines. We figure they can see his keystrokes. They won’t think it’s him. Because it isn’t.”
“Uh huh. But let’s back up a second,” Max says. “I want to hear more about the scary boss. Have you seen this man? Do you know what he looks like?”
She shakes her head again. “My boyfriend doesn't want him to know I exist. They never ask him about his personal life. But they have his home address, and his social security number. He wants to just disappear, you know? But it’s not that easy.”
“I understand that,” Max says. “Take me through your thinking, then. Why share the details of a crime on a public WiFi? What purpose does that serve?”
“We’re just looking for a way out of this mess!” Her eyes burn with fury. “We didn’t really know how to point a finger at the boss without giving too much away. We couldn't name the location of the office, because we can’t tell if the murderers had actually been there. So we triangulated it instead, with the WiFi locations.”
“But there's thousands of people who live and work inside that triangle,” Max argues.
“Yeah, I got that. But did you miss the part where I said we don't actually know what we're doing? I make donuts, for fuck’s sake.”
“But your guy is a hacker,” I point out.
“Sure, but his big crime is selling cheat codes to teenagers. The only thing he's ever killed is the Gargoyle on level Z of Starmancer.”
“He played level Z?” Scout asks, her head popping up. “Whoa.”
Max shoots her a look that suggests she really shouldn’t change the subject.
“So what's your plan?” Max asks, cracking open a soda. “Empty the contents of your donut account and move to Costa Rica? Hope he can't find you?”
“Something like that. We don't have a real plan. We were just hoping someone would swoop in and take him away in handcuffs.”
“But they didn’t. So you upped your game, right? You've been posting about a planned killing.“
“Yeah. They're pissed off at some guys who are in their way.”
“In their way of what?” Max presses.
“Something about selling hardware to a car company. They never said what the hardware was, or if car was really a car, or code for something else.”
Well, shit. That sounds like our new client. So Max—and me by extension—are the target now?
Cool, cool. Just another day at The Company.
“… My boyfriend feels so bad,” Teagan says tearily. “Someone is going to die if we don't do something.”
“Here’s a crazy thought,” Scout says. “Why didn't you go to the police?”
“Because we stole information off someone else’s computer. And we sound like psychos!” Teagan throws her arms in the air. “Picture me going in there and trying to explain a mirror channel to a beat cop. I barely understand what it is myself. They’ll make a report, and send me home again, right? These guys have our home address and my boyfriend's social security number. I don't know how to get away from this. And I didn’t have a better idea. We were just hoping someone was paying attention. And you were paying attention, right? But I still don’t see how you can help me.”
“Teagan,” Max says, propping his hands behind his head. “I need his name. And I need to meet him. Today.”
She makes a face. “I bet you can’t help us at all. If you’re not the police, you can’t protect us.”
“I can hide you for a while. My primary business is protecting high net-worth clientele. I employ hundreds of guards, recruited from militaries around the world. I can put you in a safe house in New England for a few days until I can get this guy into the hands of the authorities.”
“Why would you, though? And what if they don’t catch him?”
“Because I’m the guy who's getting in his way of selling the hardware. And I don’t want to die.”
“Oh,” she says heavily. “He wants you dead, and I’m drinking your soda. Why don't I feel safer right now?”
Scout lets out a snort. “You’re really selling this, Max.”
Max ignores her. “Look. If your creepy boss is who I think it is, the State Department wants him. If we can prove his location, I’ll summon the guys who will take him away in handcuffs.”
“And what if it’s not the right guy?” she challenges.
“We can find you a backup plan. I have a branch on the West Coast. Worst case scenario—I’ll get you new identities and put you up for a month in California. You can find some new clients. I'll be your reference. You can just disappear and start over somewhere new.”
I expect her to hate this idea. But she doesn’t. “That's really tempting. But what if you don't follow through?”
“You're going to have to trust somebody. Why not me? Now tell me your boyfriend's name.”
* * *
The guy’s name is Geoff Pinter, CPB. Max sends an agent to Geoff and Teagan’s apartment, bearing a note from Teagan. And Geoff is a smart enough man to follow him back here.
When the bookkeeper eventually steps into the interview room—after he’s patted down and surrenders his phone and smart watch—he and his girlfriend exchange a quick, hard hug, and then a bunch of rapid-fire sign language.
I don’t know what they’re saying, but it might be: These people are all a little
crazy but they don’t seem to want us to die.
It’s the truth, anyway.
They finally sit down, and Max is all business. My friend always manages to broadcast a calm demeanor. But I’ve known him long enough to sense the excitement radiating off him.
This could be big for Max. He’s wanted to catch Aga for more than a decade.
Max attaches a keyboard to a computer projection on a screen that we can all see. Then he passes the keyboard to Geoff, and begins the interview. “Please tell us the boss’s name. And what does he look like?”
Geoff begins tapping on the keyboard, while we all look up at the screen to read his answer. He introduced himself to me as John Smith.
Of course he did.
The checks I cash say JS Entertainment. He shrugs. He is older than you. Maybe late forties or fifty. His head is shaved bald. He has an olive skin tone. He usually wears black jeans and a black suit jacket over a white shirt. Once, just jeans and a black T-shirt. He looks like a guy who's taken care of himself. Like he goes to the gym. He had a mustache when I started, but then he shaved it off.
Max looks directly at Geoff to catch his attention. “Does he have any scars on his face?”
Geoff points at his neck, just to the side of his chin. Then he types, Right here. A thin scar. And the man's nose has a bump right here. He taps his own.
Max doesn't say anything for a moment. But I can tell he's struggling to remain calm. “Interesting. I'd like to show you a group of photos and ask if you see him.”
Of course.
I flip open the folder I'm holding and pass over the black and white print-out we made before he arrived, with a red marker. There are twelve photos on that page, all of men in the same age bracket as Aga.
Geoff uncaps the marker and—with zero hesitation—circles a photo at the edge of the page. He glances up at Max, then taps the paper twice. That’s him.
Max goes completely still. And then a slow smile spreads across his face. Max doesn’t smile all that often, so the effect is startling. “Okay, Geoff,” he says calmly. “Here’s what’s going to happen next.”
* * *
The Company headquarters becomes as busy as a hornet’s nest in a heatwave. Anyone off duty is recalled to base. It’s time for recon, and last-minute intelligence.
I instruct a team of analysts to learn everything we can about the block where Geoff goes to work. Who owns the building? When did the club open? And so on. If Max is going to prove that a notorious arms trafficker is living in Manhattan and running his operation out of a SoHo nightclub, we’re going to need to make some connections.
If we’re very, very lucky, we can help the feds prove that Aga is guilty of a petty crime, and they can hold him on that while they try to prove his ties to the murders or to old weapons deals.
Geoff’s interview continues, too, as we press him to recall anything he can about the finances of the nightclubs, and the shady transactions he was asked to book. Dates. Amounts. Names. Anything he can.
“Why did you call yourself The Plumber?” I finally remember to ask. “What’s the significance of that?”
There’s an old sign painted on the bricks right across from the nightclub. It says The Plumber in red letters.
“Oh, shit.” Another damn clue I could have found if I’d looked.
I am very tired, Geoff writes. Can we take a break?
I glance at the clock and note that it’s ten o’clock. Oops. “I’m sorry to keep you so late. We can take you home and watch your building, or we can check you into a hotel room.”
He and Teagan communicate in sign language for a moment.
“Take us home,” Teagan says finally. “But we don’t want to be seen getting out of your car.”
“No problem,” Scout says. “We’ll drop you a few blocks away and follow you discreetly. And you’ll carry these, to explain where you’ve been.” She opens a folder and removes two playbills from the musical Hamilton.
“Okay,” Teagan says, fingering the program. “I wish this were real. I wish I were watching a musical instead of trying to catch criminals.”
“If we do this right, you can be,” I promise her. “Tomorrow you’ll make donuts and go to work as usual, okay? And Geoff will go to his regular appointments before coming home for the night. We’ll watch both of you from a discreet distance. We’ll pick you both up for the op the next morning.” That’s when he’s due back at the nightclub. About thirty-six hours from now.
“Thank you,” she says, standing up to go. Then she lifts her chin and looks me right in the eye. “I really need this to work. I’m counting on you.”
“Of course,” I say smoothly. “Don’t worry.”
Although there’s still plenty to worry about. I need to get this guy. And I need to do it soon.
29
Gunnar
After Teagan and Geoff are escorted home by two of my operatives, I wolf down a wrap sandwich that somebody ordered for me a few hours ago. Then I head upstairs to Max’s office, where he’s been squirreled away making calls. It’s his job to get the right G-men fired up to take Aga out, and he needs to do it fast.
He’s not on the phone now, I observe, looking in through his office window. There’s a small fleet of empty coffee cups on his desk, and a plate filled with crumbs. He’s tapping furiously on his computer keyboard. The screen looks black, though, because his office window is a very special kind of glass. It’s bullet-proof, because Max will always have enemies. Furthermore, it blocks certain rays of light, so nobody can read his screens through the window.
I knock on his door. He looks up to see me, then reaches for a button on his desk. I hear the soft click of the door unlocking for me, so I go inside. “Hey man. How’s it going?”
“Close the door,” he says quickly.
As if I’d forget. I pull it shut with a tight click and take a seat in front of him. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. Why?” He swivels around in his desk chair and studies me.
“Because you’re vibrating with excitement,” I say with a chuckle. “I’ve seen calmer six-year-olds on Christmas Eve.”
“No idea what you’re talking about.” He grins.
“So. What are you going to do to Aga once you see him?” Max has wanted this man’s head on a plate for ten years.
“Me? Nothing. But the State Department will swoop in immediately after I confirm his identity. I knew they’d want him.”
“Don’t they want to verify it themselves?” I ask.
“They’d rather let me take the risk,” Max says drily. “Then they’ll arrest him on some flimsy nightclub charge that never gets adjudicated. He’ll just disappear. You’ll never see his name in the paper. He’ll never surface again.”
“Yikes.”
Max shrugs. “Do you know how many people he’s killed? Hundreds, directly. And untold thousands via the weapons he sold in Syria. That man, that brilliant man—” he closes his eyes and shakes his head “—he devoted his life to making money off any dangerous device or substance that came his way. He could have built things. He could have led his countrymen forward. He could have taught more brilliant minds to do great things.”
“What a waste,” I agree, hoping Max will calm down. I should remove all the coffee from the building before his heart explodes. “In thirty-six hours, it could all be over. What will you do if they don’t get him?”
“They’ll get him.” He leans back in his chair and lets out a big breath. “I can’t really process it, though. And it isn’t really about me.”
I suppose that’s what he’s supposed to say. But we both know it matters a great deal. What must it feel like for Max to be so close to something he’s waited ten years to do? To bring down the man who killed the woman he loved.
“How are you doing, anyway?” Max asks me.
“Fine, dude. What do you mean?”
“If you go back to Cali next week, that’s pretty much the end of your time with Posy.”
&n
bsp; “Yeah, thanks for the memo.” I give him a sour look. “My head is totally in the game now.”
“I know that.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long to finger Teagan. I apologize for my distraction.”
Max frowns at me. “It was a slick op, Gunn. They disabled the cell service and the GPS in her phone and spoofed it to Windows. Then they re-installed Instagram to fool anyone who was nearby. Top notch tech in the hands of a donut maker.”
“Still,” I grunt. “I let a woman play me, because I was busy staring at another one. I won’t lose focus again.”
“Everyone loses focus.” Max scratches his chin. “Well, everyone but me. But you’re totally into Posy. When were you going to ask me for a permanent assignment in New York?”
“Never.”
“What?” He gives me a look like I’m not making sense. “Why not?”
“Because.” I know that’s a dumb answer. But in my defense, Max asked a really stupid question. “Because I hate New York. And because I’m just like you—married to this job. We’re a couple of mercenaries, and we like it that way.”
“It wasn’t always like that.” Max folds his hands behind his head. “I used to have someone. And I would have done anything for her.”
“Look how that turned out.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It’s not Max’s fault that the love of his life was killed by the same terrorist we’re trying to pin down with the bookkeeper’s help.
But Max doesn’t even flinch. “I’d do it all again. I mean—I’d happily skip the part where I got the intelligence completely fucking wrong, causing the deaths of at least three people. But there’s no parallel universe in which I don’t love her. You can save yourself from terrorists, but you can’t save yourself from loving the right woman. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Who are you?” I grunt, and I’m not really joking. Max never talks about her. Cassie. I haven’t even heard her name in five years.
“Who are you,” he echoes, “to walk away from someone who loves you? I’m not proud of what happened. But I never walked away from her willingly. Why would you do that if you didn’t have to?”
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