by D S Kane
Staffing required: Cassie, hack team leaders and members.
Estimated calendar time to completion: 1 month.
Precursor event: all Set-up phase tasks.
Is precursor to: Arming the Trap.
Arming the Trap
oExecute bank hacks
Discover who the agency mole is.
Move all funds from Muslim extremist current accounts to agency mole’s bank account.
Move half the mole’s money to an unrelated numbered account for later use and distribution.
Staffing required: Cassie, hack team leaders and members.
Estimated calendar time to completion: 1 week.
Precursor event: Training Phase (all tasks).
Is precursor to: Plant false evidence trail.
oPlant false evidence trail
Copy and modify bank records for all executed transactions.
Staffing required: Cassie, hack team leaders and members for electronic records, and Cassie, attack team leaders and members for physical paper records.
Estimated calendar time to completion: 3 days to one week.
Precursor event: Execute bank hacks.
Is precursor to: Springing the trap phase.
oTake local delivery of materiel
Arms.
Armor (Kevlar vests, etc).
Ammo.
Vehicles.
One location; Riyadh.
Springing the trap
oExecute telecom interruptions
Prior to attack on Muslim extremist locations, need to ensure no reinforcements can be called up.
Staffing required: Cassie, hack team leaders and members.
Estimated calendar time to completion: 1 to 2 days.
Precursor event: Plant false evidence trail.
Is precursor to: Launch attacks.
oLaunch attacks
Covert, silent physical attack on Muslim extremist organization within Riyadh city and Upper Pachir, with objective being no survivors left alive.
Staffing required: Cassie, attack team leaders and members.
Estimated calendar time to completion: 1 day maximum.
Precursor event: Springing the trap.
Is precursor to: Final meeting with agency mole (with me killing the mole).
Acknowledgments
So many people were crucial in preparing this manuscript for you, the reader.
As always, my critiques were provided by the ActFour Writing.com group, including Dennis Phinney, Linda Rohrbough, Janet Simcic, Brenda Barrie, Aaron Ritchey, Caryn Scotto, Liz Picco, Julia Reynolds, Daniel Houston, Steve Eggleston, Juliann Kauffman, Teri Gray, Carl Vondareu, Claudia Melendez, Megan Edwards, and Judy Whitmore. I also received valuable feedback, especially concerning military tactics and strategy, as well as inside information regarding sites where conflicts have occurred or are now occurring, from several folks from the Drink of the Month Club, a group consisting mostly of Naval Postgraduate School administration and faculty, including Ron Nelson, Martin Metzger, Fred Drake, Lee Scheffel, and Gary Ohls. Also, my friends and family contributed critiques, including Barry Groves, Michael Spicer, Frances and Elliot Spiselman, and Dana Gorman. And finally, Andrea Brown, my wife, and the CEO of the Andrea Brown Literary Agency, Inc. is the best and final voice for judging what I create.
Several best-selling authors have contributed to my efforts, including James Rollins (for his discussions with me on Liquid Armor), Barry Eisler for his advice on self-publishing, Holly Lisle for her coursework on world building, and Greg Bear during our discussion on craft after the graduation ceremony at Northwest Institute of Literary Arts.
I want to thank my publication team, consisting of my editor, Sandra Beris; copyeditor Karl Yambert; graphic, designer Jeroen Ten Berge; Barb Elliott at BookNook.biz; my website designer and host Maddee James of xuni.com; my publicist Brandi Andres; and Paul Marotta and Megan Jeanne of the Corporate Law Group, who incorporated The Swiftshadow Group for me.
I also want to thank my literary agent, Nancy Ellis, and my film agent, Brandy Rivers, for all their hard work on my behalf.
I am grateful for all the suggestions and advice I have received but I alone am responsible for the resulting work.
About the Author
D. S. KANE is the name the author has chosen to write under. He worked in the field of covert intelligence for over a decade. During that time, he traveled globally for clients including government and military agencies, the largest banks, and Fortune 100 corporations. One of the banks he investigated housed the banking assets of many of the world’s intelligence agencies and secret police forces, including the CIA and NSA. Much of his work product was pure but believable fiction, lies he told, and truths he concealed.
Now, he’s a retired spy, still writing fiction. Through his novels, he exposes the way intelligence agencies craft fiction for sale to sway their countries and manipulate their national policy, driving countries into dangerous conflicts.
He’s been published under his real name many times in financial trade journals on topics including global banking, computer fraud and countermeasures, financial forecasting, global electronic-funds transfer networks, and corporate finance, including one book on finance published by a major publisher. He has been a featured speaker at financial conferences and conventions. His children’s book, A Teenager’s Guide to Money, Banking and Finance, was published in 1987 by Simon & Schuster. He was once the CEO of an eBook publishing company and writes a blog (http://dskane.com) on topics that include new technology, politics, and the future of publishing.
He has been guest lecturer at the Whidbey Island MFA program, and also teaches a course at the Muse Online Writers Conference entitled Covert Training and Covert Operations for Fiction Writers, and one on a similar topic at California libraries, funded by a federal grant. He has taught a thriller-writing course at the Pikes Peak Writers Conference and was a featured speaker at a dinner meeting of the California Writers Club. He taught finance at the Stern Graduate Business School of New York University for over ten years, and is one of the co-founders of Act FourWriters.com, a unique email-based novelists’ critique group (http://www.actfourwriters.com). His website can be found at http://dskane.com. He can be found at
@DSKaneThriller on Twitter and at
www.facebook.com/DSKaneAFormerSpyStill TellingLies.
Graynet
Book 4 In The Spies Lie Series
By D.S. Kane
Copyright © 2014 D. S. Kane
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-0-9960591-9-0 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-9862321-1-4 (Kindle)
ISBN 978-0-9862321-0-7 (ePub)
Cover design by Jeroen Ten Berge
[www.jeroentenberge.com]
Print layout by eBooks By Barb for
booknook.biz
Created with Vellum
Praise for D.S. Kane
Bloodridge
“A globe-trotting spy thriller dense with intriguing insider’s knowledge.” —Kirkus Reviews
“I thoroughly enjoyed this book…It is definitely a page-turner.” —Judge, 22nd Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards on Bloodridge
“This is a sizzler torn straight from tomorrow’s headlines. Bloodridge by D.S. Kane is one you won’t want to miss.” —John Reinhard Dizon, author of Nightcrawler and Wolf Man
“What a wild ride! Filled with adventure and suspense and kept me on the edge of my seat. There wasn’t a slow moment in it. Reminiscent of Ludlum and Follett.” — Sharon Law Tucker, Author, How To Be A BadAss, A Survival Guide For Women
DeathByte
“Readers who adore action-packed thrillers in the vein of Robert Ludlum’s Bourne series will enjoy its many double-crossings.” —Kirkus Reviews on DeathByte
“This was a great thriller … and the speed of the plot was breathtaking.” —Judge, 22nd Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book
Awards on DeathByte
Swiftshadow
“A must read for lovers of this genre.” — Sheri A. Wilkinson, book blogger
Also By D.S. Kane
The “Spies Lie” Series by DS Kane:
Bloodridge, Book 1 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
DeathByte, Book 2 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
Swiftshadow, Book 3 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
GrayNet, Book 4 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
Baksheesh (Bribes), Book 5 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
ProxyWar, Book 6…with more to come.
For Steve Schear, one of the original cypherpunks, a great friend who inspired much of this story,and Deb, who keeps him happy.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events depicted here are the work of the author’s mind. Most but not all of the places are real.
“Nothing is ever certain.”
—Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones
“If one good deed in all my life I did,
I do repent it from my very soul.”
—William Shakespeare, Spoken by Aaron, in Titus Andronicus
Part One
Chapter One
87-25 Colonial Road, Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, New York City
June 13, 5:28 p.m.
The tremors in Sarah Silbee’s hands were worse than ever. Withdrawal. Ann watched her mother, frightened, but she knew there was nothing she could do when mom was like this. Ann’s complaints would usually just get her the back of mom’s hand. It had been either the food or the drugs, and there was just so much cash.
Ann’s brother Joshua was too young to understand, but Ann was fourteen and had started asking questions about the drugs. Sarah took the book of matches from her purse and lit the crack. She inhaled, and almost immediately, her expression softened. She took a second toke and lay back into the sofa’s cushions.
Ann watched her mother lift the pipe to her lips. She backed away and found Joshua in the corner of the room, playing with a toy gun. Ann hugged him, then stared across the room, her hands clenching and unclenching, again and again. The hunger pains in her belly mixed with anger.
Her mother’s eyes appeared to be in another world. How could she not know that her children were starving? Ann had been the surrogate mother to Josh, but this was no way to grow up. She hated her mother.
Her mother’s arms began thrashing, and her face showed panic. Ann ran to her. “Mom?”
Sarah Silbee fell over in a heap. Her face reddened, then turned a light gray. Her chest heaved once, then stopped.
Ann screamed. “Mom!” She pounded on her mother’s chest, but nothing happened. She hugged her mother, rocking her back and forth as she cried. “I’m so sorry I hated you.”
Joshua came over and tugged at Ann’s sleeve. He pointed to his mouth. All Ann could do was pull him into the hug. After several minutes, Ann began to think. What do I do now? No food in the apartment. Mom gone forever. If we stay here, we’ll starve. Child Protective Services might find us, but they’ll separate Joshua and me. I can’t let that happen.
She rose and pulled her younger brother with her. “Come, Josh. We have to leave here.”
The apartment was across the street from Owl’s Head Park. She dragged her brother through the park. She asked several people if they had spare change and gathered a few dollars, not enough to pay for a meal. At least in summer they wouldn’t freeze.
An old man pushing a shopping cart emerged from behind a hedge. He was muttering something, and when he saw them, he smiled. “You mama near? Could she spare an old beggar some cash?”
Ann stopped walking, afraid to come any closer. “We’ve got no mama. We’re looking for someplace safe. Can you help us?”
The old man scratched his gray beard. “Only place I know where you might abide is them tunnels. In Manhattan. You gets there at the north end of the Grand Central. Might be many thousands of homeless there. That’s where I’d go. Safer than the shelters. That’s where I got this.” He pulled the ratty cloth cap off his head and pulled back his hair.
Ann could see a long scar running from his ear to just under the front of his hairline, about three inches, an angry red color.
“They cracked me head open. Almost deaded me. Stay away from them shelters. The tunnels is safer.” He pushed his cart past them.
Ann turned to Josh. “Come. We’ll scoot up there now.” They walked several blocks to the subway and Ann waited until no one was close enough to see them. She dragged Joshua through the turnstile without paying for a ride.
Less than an hour later, they arrived at Grand Central Station and made their way to the train track platforms on the lower level. And, just as the old man had told them, at the north end of the platforms Ann could see tracks stretching out into the darkness. She held Joshua’s hand and pulled him with her, down the stairs onto the tracks. They walked north for a few minutes. On both sides she saw lights and heard the murmur of voices. Left or right? She decided to go left. There was a tunnel entrance about two hundred feet in front of them, lit by candles.
Ann could smell the odors of human waste and garbage, but that meant people were eating food. She faced Josh. “Come. Let’s take a look.”
Josh nodded. “But where’s mama?”
Ann said, “Mama’s not going to be with us anymore. Now, I’m your mama.”
Josh began to cry.
“Don’t worry. I can take care of us.” She smiled, hoping that would quiet him. She took his hand and moved them further into the tunnels. She could see an intersection that was better lit and pulled her brother that way. There were three alternate paths here and she stopped, unsure of which way to go.
“Ain’t you a bit young for these parts?” A huge man.
Ann backed away. He was a lot older than her mother, but not as old as the beggar who’d advised them to come here. He wore a red-check flannel shirt and ripped jeans. His odor made Ann feel like retching.
He advanced as they backed away. “Hey, girlie, I’m harmless. Why you running?” But he was faster than the two children and in seconds he was on top of Ann, ripping open her blouse. Joshua saw what he was doing and jumped on the man’s back. The man stopped ripping Ann’s blouse and picked Joshua up by the throat.
She heard a snapping sound, then watched as the man tossed Josh on the pavement. Her brother’s neck was bent so his chin now was on his own back. She realized the man had broken Josh’s neck. She tried to run to her brother, but the man was on top of her, tearing at her skirt and and panties.
“Whatcha got for me, little one?” He grinned and his breath smelled like sewage.
He spent less than three minutes on top, taking from her what no one should. And when he was gone, Ann sat next to Josh, sobbing, gasping for breath. All she wanted now was for him to kill her as he had her brother.
One Year Later
Chapter Two
Outside Penn Station, New York City
September 14, 5:28 a.m.
The night train she’d taken from Union Station in Washington, DC, stalled just outside Trenton. Cassandra Sashakovich waited in her seat for over four hours without an explanation. She knew from past experience this happened often.
Looking out the window into the darkness, she saw her reflection. Her face had been surgically altered to confuse the identification programs of the intelligence agencies’ surveillance cameras. It had gone badly. Dr. Sheldorf had raised her cheekbones and built up her chin. How was he to know she would look like her uncle Misha, the KGB spy she hated? She desperately wanted her original appearance back.
Was the world now safe?
The twenty-nine-year-old, athletic, brown-haired woman settled into her seat. On her cell phone she was reading an ebook novel by Barry Eisler, about an assassin, She looked up every so often as the train crept through Manhattan’s west side. The book was almost a mirror of her own last year and she found it comforting to pass time within the folds of such a recognizable world.
At nearly mi
dnight she looked up and saw the train arriving into Penn Station. Stepping down the stairs from the platform she walked through the familiar passenger labyrinth of the underground tunnels.
The tunnels connecting Penn to Grand Central were filled with narrow chokepoints ripe for muggers and rapists. Even with her self-defense skills, she thought the tunnels especially dangerous at night. Store windows provided reflective surfaces to watch her back without turning her head. Using this standard counter-surveillance measure, she told herself she was safe. She felt a familiar wrenching feeling in her heart remembering how she’d wandered homeless here, six months ago.
As she rode the escalator to the street level, Cassandra scanned the area for threats but found nothing. On the street outside the station—even at this hour—cabs waited for fares.
She hailed a taxi to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel on Park Avenue. The cabby’s Russian accent was familiar to her, because it was the language she heard from her parents. He offered conversation, probably, she assumed, to practice his awful English. “Is late at night, no? Want safe hotel? I know the best!” She shook her head but he continued. “Waldorf too expensive. I take you to the best, small, cheap.”
“No. The Waldorf please.”
“You need cheaper hotel.”
She felt heat surge through her cheeks. “I’m paying you to drive me to the Waldorf.”