people are doing something a whole lot wrong. Maybe you don’t want to be that guy. Maybe I don’t want to be that guy. But somebody has to.” She beamed at him angelically. “In short, one man’s traitor is another woman’s whistleblower. And I don’t have to tell you the cameras are rolling, so do me a favor and smile like a big dog and just keep walking.”
John kept walking. “For the record? This is pure batshit crazy.”
“Einstein said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Could be you and I are the last sane people on the planet.”
“Why don’t I find that reassuring?”
“Look. Everything is totes cool. “
“Totes?” John’s sarcasm was multi-layered.
“Totes. They are expecting two guys and two guys are showing up. More or less. There will be two passes waiting for us at check-in. Security will call the target office and an escort will show up to take us to wherever they’re hiding this very interesting little box of horrors. I’ll do my magic, I’ll discover – oh no! – we left something critical behind and badda-bing! We’re outta there before the first shift finishes its second cup of coffee.”
They approached the building as the lights in the vast parking lot were fading out like so many dying stars. They joined a growing throng of employees, both military and civilian.
“And this is supposed to save the world, huh?” John groused.
Jen scrunched up her face. “Gives us a shot? At the very least we’ll afflict the comfortable, comfort the afflicted, and get set for some serious Robin Hood action. And, hear me now -“ she lowered her voice a little. “If this thing bolos, my advice to you is to double back and come out on the other side. Like Vinnie. You have my blessing.”
“Oh right! No blood, no foul?” He addressed the pale impassive sky. “Man oh man. Can we just go back to the good ole days? The drug-lords, the gun-runners, the penny-ante dictators. Life was so much simpler. I was happy.”
“Plausible deniability,” Jen murmured as they inched toward the south entrance. “It’s what’s for breakfast.”
Two members of the Pentagon Protection Force checked their kit, took their paperwork and fake IDs, and consulted the day’s roster. One of them made a quick phone call.
“You’re early. They may not be in for an hour or more. No – wait.” He spoke into the phone. “Your party’s here. Sherlock? Chertoxx. Yeah right.” He held out the roster and pointed to a line. “Sign here. Have a seat over there. He’ll be up in a few.”
John and Jen took a seat on a nearby bench, watching the slow flood of uniforms and suits build and ebb and build again. Shortly thereafter a middle-aged Brit with a phone to his ear walked up, signed them in, shook hands, and gestured for them to follow him while he continued his conversation.
“Oh yes, for an arm and a leg. And we complain about the national health. Well you know, like everything else on this side, falling apart. No, no, I want you to make an appointment and I’ll bloody well fly back and have it bloody well done over there.”
The Brit led them up passages and down passages to the Mezzanine level, where he carded them into a suite of offices identified by a number and a nameplate that read ‘Cascade Systems, Ltd.’ The door locked with a decided click behind them.
“No,” the Brit nattered on. “Because they won’t, that’s why. Because it’s all a bloody scam over here, a total bloody scam, they only cover you if you’re NOT sick. Crazy? Don’t you believe it. It’s financial genius, love – you come down with something and nine times out of ten they discover, Crikey! It’s not an illness they have to treat because you were going to get it anyway. A pre-existing condition they call it. Of course it’s ballocks. You bet your sweet Adeline. It’s total bloody ballocks…”
He punched a code into a keypad to unlock one of the inner offices, switched on the lights, indicated they should enter, waved encouragingly, and retreated to another room to complete his transatlantic call. Jen looked at John and raised her eyebrows. Archly. Then bent to examine the hardware before them.
“How lucky is this,” Jen marveled. “The setup is way old. No cameras, no microphones. But just in case, better rig for silent running,” she held her finger to her lips, then swiftly set up shop, plugging in the Jolly Roger flash drive and rebooting to access the root directory. John shook his head doggedly.
“We need to can the window-dressing bullshit. If I’m in, I’m in. You got some ‘splainin’ to do, Lucy.”
Jen sat down, pursed her lips, and thought a minute. “Fair enough. You remember in class how we covered the reporting function?” John nodded, recalling what he had seen onscreen in the hacker cave. “That data was aggregated from sites all over the world. Central banks, private banks, tax havens, investment groups, holding companies. But it had one thing in common. It could all be traced to the same source.” She patted the master computer. “What you saw was output. The data this puppy is designed to track, filter, and store. But there is also input. The supply side so to speak. This hard drive literally holds the keys to the kingdom. Routing and account numbers, passwords, IP addresses, stock transaction codes, government contract identifiers – all deemed sensitive, suspect, potentially dangerous or potentially useful to the powers that be. This system, its programs and files, will enable us literally to map the world’s illicit money rivers. Like old-timey prospectors and explorers, we will be able to follow every river upstream to its headwaters. In the end we will know not just who’s who and what’s what - but how it all fits together.”
Jen slid a CD out of her computer bag and inserted it into the disk drive. In the outer office the Brit was singing ‘Rehab’ and trying to make coffee.
“Oh bloody hell. So typical, bloody cow.” He stuck his head around the door. John and Jen froze in place. “Damn secretary forgot to restock the tea caddy. She’s off today, gone to see the changing of the guard. So I’m just going to trot ‘round to Starbucks. Back directly.” He walked away. Then, before reaching the outer door, he stopped dead in his tracks.
“Hold on,” he said sternly. And came back. Peeking around the door again, he found they had not moved a muscle. “Want anything?” he asked hospitably.
They shook their heads in unison, exhaling in unison when the outer door clicked shut. Jen’s fingers flew over the keyboard. John began to prowl the small space like an animal sensing an impending earthquake. He bent to examine a notebook computer sitting atop some other equipment.
“Huh. This looks pretty state-of-the-art.” The computer unexpectedly flipped on and mirrored back a picture of him bending down. Next to the video image were two camera stills stacked one above the other – visible wavelength and near infrared scans of his left iris. John had one question for Jen and he asked it in a voice of foreboding:
“How long is this going to take again?”
27 While All the Vultures Feed
Strung up by her wrists in the basement of the mansion, Jane assessed her situation. Camera over the door, check. Guard posted outside, check. Manacles – she yanked hard this way and that to test them – manacles secure, check. She decided to go for the weakest link.
“Hey there, handsome. Yeah, you.” The guard looked over his shoulder through the open door. “Been here long?”
The guard shrugged. Faced forward again.
“No English? No problem. I just thought we could maybe chat or something.”
“I have English. You Americans always assume everybody is uneducated like you,” he filled the doorway and he was angry. Angry at her imagined insult, angry at the adopted country that had no heart for him, angry at a world that lied about everything. “Exactly how much Somali can you speak?”
Jane bowed her head. “Waan fahmay. Hal luuqad marna kuma filna.” [“I understand. One language is never enough.”]
“Af Soomaaliga maad ku hadashaa?” he sai
d, unbelievingly. [“Do you speak Somali?”]
She nodded modestly. “Wax yar. Enough to get around Mogadishu.” [“A little.”]
He began to look both animated and admiring. About this time, the intercom lodged high up in one corner crackled to life and the Reverend Poe’s voice filled the air.
“Ladies and gentlemen, heads of state, captains of finance and industry, distinguished military guests, brothers and sisters all, I want to welcome you to an unprecedented joint meeting of our Foreign Relations and Global Commerce Councils, held on this momentous day, the 20th of January, in the year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Nine.”
After the first few syllables, a hand, attached to someone otherwise unseen, stretched slowly slowly slowly from behind the door jamb and applied a stun gun to the guard’s neck. Rudely jolted, the guard jerked in a violent spasm and crumpled to the floor. Sebastian Ball, he of the wooly-head, entered and swiftly unlocked the manacles, tossing Jane a cream-colored burka as he strode back to the door.
“I thought that was you,” Jane said, rubbing her wrists.
“Well it’s not. We’ve got five minutes,” he said. “Ten tops. After that, someone is bound to notice the cameras are all switched to the big meeting and the big boss.”
The big boss, meanwhile, was warming up the crowd. “Remember the words of the Pharisee: ‘I am
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