The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

“This is ridiculous,” Cam finally interrupted. “Maybe I’ll just let my friend here put a bullet in your head. You can spend the night at the bottom of the river. Besides, intercepting a package from your London office before it gets to Vegas is child’s play for guys like us. I believe you’ve overplayed your hand, Rook.”

  “And I believe you’re bluffing, Mr. Lyle. Besides, the information can always be posted out again or even hand delivered to the agent in charge of this case.”

  Cam, Michael and Trip flashed stares of frustration between one another. With a quiet nod, Cam let them know this offer was indeed worth consideration. Fifteen million was a lot of money, and their attempts at intimidation were proving unsuccessful.

  Understanding the silent agreement hanging in the air, Rook continued on: “The artifact is set to depart Arica, Peru, on a shipping freighter. Its destination is San Diego, California, where CIA officers will be awaiting its arrival. The asset, however, can never reach its destination.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” complained Cam. “The Central Intelligence Agency?”

  “Dr. Diaz has sold the artifact to the highest bidder. In reviewing the ship’s manifest, a peculiar piece of cargo—our target—has been coded ‘C-Level Juliett Six.’ There will be eight, armed security contractors from Danika PMC aboard the ship. They’re a private military group whose orders will undoubtedly be to protect the asset at all costs. You’ll be outgunned eight to three.”

  “What the hell is C-Level Juliett Six?” asked Trip.

  “It’s an asset classification used by private security teams,” Cam quickly answered. “Juliett means the asset is non-human. But more importantly, C-Level means the asset is the property of none other than the United States’ Central Intelligence Agency. And Six is the value of the asset.”

  “On a scale of what?” questioned Trip with a hint of nervousness.

  “Six.”

  “Perfect,” mumbled the IT expert. “When does the freighter depart Peru?”

  “Fourteen days,” confirmed Rook. “I suggest you begin the planning phase immediately. As I’ve already stated, you have our complete support and we can supply any resources you need. Seven and a half million US dollars will be sent to you within twenty-four hours as a down payment.”

  “So that’s it?” Cam barked. “An op like this will take months to prepare for. You’re sending us on a suicide mission.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of time,” Rook pointed out. “We chose you for a reason. I’ll be in touch shortly to coordinate everything. A full target package is awaiting each of you at this very moment. Cameron, your package is in the bottom drawer of the workbench in your garage. Michael’s is in the gun safe at his D.C. apartment. And William, your package is hidden behind a painting on the wall of your office in California. Not to worry, we locked the door behind ourselves. Gentlemen, I suggest you get started.”

  And with that, Rook turned and made his way to the stairs where he ascended into the restaurant and disappeared into the dark Washington night. The three men sat bewildered in the wine cellar, staring at the cold cement floor at their feet.

  “To the next hunt,” Cam quietly mumbled.

  Chapter Eight

  Special Agent Rand Kershaw already looked at all the possible options. He’d scanned, digested and devoured every shred of information on over a dozen high-profile robberies and heists from the previous calendar year. From his laptop just outside Las Vegas, he’d traveled the globe searching for crimes committed by three masked men—three ghosts.

  It had been a week since Rand began fantasizing about possible links to the Hamilton hack. There was already an ongoing investigation being run out of the Department of Homeland Security, and the last thing he wanted to do was go waltzing in trying to convince upper-level DHS guys that a connection existed between their case and the Wynn robbery—a very thin connection. He’d be laughed out of the room.

  Rand couldn’t afford to take another hit. His career wouldn’t survive it. For a fleeting second, he tinkered with the idea of going rogue. Maybe take a short leave; Brodsky would definitely go for it. The entire Las Vegas office would likely appreciate a break from his self-destruction. It would give him an opportunity to qualify his theory in the field—off the record—without anyone monitoring his movement. If he failed, no one would ever know.

  Don’t be stupid, Rand.

  He leaned back in his chair and rolled his head toward a photo hanging across the hall. It was him, from earlier in his career. The photo had been ceremoniously hung in the hallway, lined with headshots of all the other agents who’d also been given the FBI Medal for Meritorious Achievement. He sighed heavily. The past seemed to weigh on him now.

  The cluster of paperwork strewn across his desk seemed disorganized and random. But there was a method to his madness. The three documents in the center of his mess highlighted the few cases that he felt could be linked to his ghosts. And, as expected, the Hamilton hack rested firmly at the top of that pile. The rest of the paperwork lining the edges of his workspace were copies of donation receipts that had been tracked down from various charities around the globe—all with potential links to the cyberattack.

  To his surprise, there were very few anonymous donations that exceeded $250,000—well short of the number he was searching for. His theory dictated that the donation would have to have been ninety percent of the total heist. The Hamilton hack resulted in a loss of six million—a lot of money, even for the world’s largest entertainment corporation. Hamilton owned theme parks, movie studios and countless publishing entities. They were a household name.

  According to his ninety percent rule, Rand was looking for an anonymous donation in the amount of almost five and a half million dollars—one that lined up in the months following the hack. The only problem was, it didn’t exist. There was nothing remotely close to that number buried in the paperwork in front of him.

  It seemed Rand Kershaw’s biggest fear was becoming reality—that if the ghosts indeed committed a previous robbery and gave most of it to charity, they had broken it up and disseminated the funds to multiple humanitarian organizations, which would make it impossible for anyone to piece together. And if that’s what happened, Rand’s case was dead in its tracks.

  The donation receipts he’d originally plucked were no more than dead ends; $150,000 anonymously given to the Wounded Warriors Foundation, $80,000 donated to the Red Cross for Louisiana Flood Relief, and dozens of other nameless donations that simply didn’t fit his profile.

  As Rand let his mind wander through chronological timelines and mathematical calculations, he zeroed in on a rather strange donation buried in the mess. One that he had immediately written off days before.

  Four months after the Hamilton hack, one and a half million water filtration systems were shipped to an organization called Charity Water—a non-profit humanitarian effort to bring clean water to villages in Africa. It was yet another media feeding frenzy that Rand remembered seeing in the news. Much like the St. Jude mystery, the anonymous donors were championed as heroes by the press. To complicate matters, there had been no dollar value attached to the items. With none of the other receipts fitting into his formula, Rand allowed his mind to freelance.

  He snatched up the donation document and read through the information. Hidden in the fine details, he located the name of the company that had manufactured the water systems—Nyofer Industries. He reached for his laptop and ran a search for the company. Within seconds, he was scouring their digital footprint.

  After sifting through their website and a few related articles, Rand learned that the manufacturer was based in Burbank, California; it was the subsidiary of a large plastics company. So, he began his investigation of Nyofer Industries the same way he o
ften began investigations—with a simple phone call.

  . . .

  Two hours later, Rand stood nervously outside Steve Brodsky’s office. The door was closed, which probably meant Steve had drowned himself in vodka the night before and was sleeping through a painful day of nothingness.

  Rand knocked anyway.

  “Come on in.”

  He carefully opened the door and stepped into the office.

  “Agent Kershaw, what’s it going to be today?” Steve Brodsky was in the middle of doing absolutely nothing, just as Rand suspected.

  “Sorry for the interruption, sir.”

  “Not at all. What’s on your mind?” The words seemed to fight their way out of Brodsky’s mouth.

  “I’ve been checking into some other high-profile heists, as well as anonymous donations.”

  “Hold on, hold on,” the boss interrupted. “Update me on the solar panel robbery in Furnace Creek first.”

  Rand was flustered by the request but quickly gathered his thoughts. “Ah, we traced the panels to a warehouse in Bakersfield, recovered by field agents,” he replied, hurrying to get it over with. “Turned out to be a group of thugs from Fresno who were stupid enough to think they could unload government-issued solar panels on the black market. We also found the body of a plant employee buried in the desert half mile away, which was turned over to local homicide.”

  “I never saw the report,” Brodsky pointed out. He was hammering Rand’s armor for chinks.

  “I—I submitted it last—” Rand was suddenly lost as to the location of the full report, attempting to visualize what he had done with it. “It must be on my desk,” he finally confessed, clearly defeated.

  Shit!

  With a deep sigh, Brodsky reclined back in his chair, visibly unamused. “Alright, Rand. What the hell’s going on with your Wynn case?”

  Rand filled his lungs and began his pitch. “The Hamilton hack—”

  Steve Brodsky raised his head in concern. “Tell me you’re pulling my fuckin’ dick, hombre.”

  “It happened roughly a year before Wynn,” Rand continued. “372 days to be exact. I know it’s not a strong-armed robbery, but it served the exact same purpose.”

  “And what’s that?” entertained Brodsky.

  “To steal from a large corporation and—” He was searching again.

  “And what? Give it to the starving children of Biafra?”

  “Actually, yes, something like that,” confirmed Rand. “Remember the ten percent difference I had talked about? How the guys donate ninety percent and keep the rest for themselves?”

  “Sure,” Brodsky recalled.

  “I just spent a week trolling through countless high-profile heists and donations.” Rand’s confidence was on the rise. “Six million is stolen from Hamilton, right? So, four months later, almost the exact time between the Wynn robbery and the St. Jude deal, an anonymous donation of one and a half million water filtration systems are delivered to villages in South Sudan, Ethiopia and the Congo by way of a sustainable water project called Charity Water. Sorry, Biafra was dissolved in the Seventies.”

  “So, what the hell’s your point? Water filtration systems have to cost…what?” inquired Brodsky.

  “I spoke with the CFO over the phone and asked him what he knew about the donation, which he says he’s been asked a hundred times by every media outlet in the country. Of course, I put a little federal pressure on him and he says the order originated through a wholesaler. He invited me to swing by and dig through the database.” Rand paused for a moment before answering Brodsky’s original question. “Then I asked him what the per-unit cost of one and a half million systems would be at wholesale.”

  Steve Brodsky narrowed his eyes with anticipation.

  “Three dollars and sixty cents per unit,” stated Kershaw. “A grand total order of $5.4 million—exactly ninety percent of the total stolen from Hamilton Entertainment.”

  For the first time since either man could remember, Rand had captured Steve Brodsky’s attention.

  “That’s pretty goddamn interesting, Rand.”

  “I thought so myself,” added the agent, now feeling a dose of pride course through his veins.

  The feeling would be short-lived.

  “Keep digging,” Brodsky grumbled. “You need to run this down and show me the same three assholes who stormed Wynn or you’re back to square one. I’m glad your math is adding up, but you know the drill, march it backward until everything’s connected.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Rand. “I’m heading over to Burbank tomorrow to dig through the order information. That should lead to something.”

  “What’s the name of the company again?” Brodsky asked.

  “Nyofer Industries.”

  “Never heard of ’em. Touch base with me in the evening; let me know what you find. I’m sure Gayle can square you up on travel arrangements, stay as long as you need and don’t come back until you’ve got something.”

  “You got it.”

  “And, Rand—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Good job.”

  Chapter Nine

  Nyofer Industries, Burbank, California

  Rand waited patiently in a large, sterile lobby. He was sure it was a power play. Every private sector executive he had ever met with seemed to enjoy making him wait. It was a show of strength to the federal agent that had come to shake them down.

  Classic move, thought Rand.

  After twenty minutes of sitting on a steel bench surrounded by spotless marble flooring and over-adequate natural light beaming in through wall-to-wall windows, Rand was finally greeted by CFO Timothy Battle.

  “Agent Kershaw, my apologies for making you wait.”

  Sure you are. Rand stood to shake Mr. Battle’s hand. The CFO was a tall, buttoned-up executive with a towering posture. His perfect brown hair was neatly combed back, not a follicle out of place. Battle’s grip was firm and his eyes were intimidating. Clearly, the life of an upper-level plastics executive had treated him well.

  “I appreciate you seeing me on short notice, Mr. Battle,” Rand offered as they walked through the lobby corridor toward a set of elevators. “I’m sure you’re quite busy so I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Agent Kershaw. More than happy to assist in any way I can.”

  The two exchanged more pleasantries and weather reports on the ride up to the eleventh floor, where they quickly got out and pushed through a set of broad infinity doors. Battle mumbled a passive greeting to the young, attractive receptionist at the front desk as they wove their way through the department, finally arriving at Timothy Battle’s office.

  The room was quite large. It offered a desk, a wet bar and what appeared to be an observation deck on the outside. Rand took his seat across from the CFO, who now sat smiling behind his German-engineered desk.

  “So, you’re looking for the man who ordered millions of dollars in water purification systems and anonymously donated them to Charity Water,” opened Mr. Battle, framing his comment as a statement rather than a question.

  “Correct,” Rand coldly replied. He wanted to let his new friend do most of the up-front talking. It was a useful strategy that was meant to set the tone for the rest of the interview.

  “Wonderful,” Mr. Battle announced. “I took the liberty of getting my PA to pull all of the order information before your arrival, Agent Kershaw. I’m hoping it contains everything you need.” Battle grabbed a folder from his desk drawer and handed it over to Rand. “I also have an electronic archive that I can access here on my c
omputer. Again, anything to help the FBI.”

  “Sounds good,” Rand said, as he began looking over the documents.

  “I know I shouldn’t ask,” Battle continued, “but curiosity has gotten the better of me. We were more than happy to fulfill the order that was placed last spring. I later read in the paper that the units were given to Charity Water, a group supplying water solutions to East Africa. Needless to say, I was delighted. Yet, I find it a bit peculiar that the Federal Bureau of Investigation is interested in the donor.”

  “What’s peculiar, Mr. Battle, is the notion that someone would spend over five million dollars on a goodwill effort and have absolutely no interest in the recognition that such a prestigious donation would bring.”

  Battle nodded his head in agreement as Rand continued scanning the order forms and various internal paperwork.

  “So, this order was placed through one of your wholesale partners in Minnesota?” Rand asked.

  “It was,” Battle confirmed. “Twin Cities Water Solutions submitted the order directly with us. They’re a large distributor for our northeast markets, but even they didn’t have one and a half million units of inventory available. All of the filtration systems were shipped directly from our manufacturing facility in Santa Clarita.”

  “Shipped to where?” Rand pressed.

  “By request of the buyer, the units were delivered directly to Charity Water’s headquarters in New York City.”

  Rand flipped through a few pages of the folder until he came to the original order that had been submitted by Twin Cities Water Solutions. It stated that a deposit of three million dollars was made to the distributor, which was, in turn, sent to Nyofer to secure the order. And just below that, on the line for Payment Method, was a word Rand had hoped to avoid: cash.

  “Three million in cash was laid down as a deposit? That seems strange,” the agent inquired.