The King of Fear: Part Two: A Garrett Reilly Thriller

by Drew Chapman

  “Yes, I do.”

  That seemed to shut her up. “Be careful!” she yelled as the cab pulled away from their house and headed down Martin Luther King toward the freeway and the Peninsula. “Don’t let them fuck you in the ass!” His mother had always had a unique way of expressing herself.

  Bingo called Garrett from the middle of the Dumbarton Bridge, and Garrett told him what he wanted Bingo to do. That only increased his unease, but he was committed now—even though he still couldn’t completely wrap his mind around how that had happened—and he told the cabbie to wait as he rang the doorbell at the front door to the condo building on High Street in Palo Alto, just east of Stanford University. He was buzzed in and went up to the fourth floor. The door to the apartment was cracked open, and Bingo knocked tentatively, and when there was no answer, he went inside.

  Celeste Chen was sitting on the couch, watching daytime TV—some kind of self-help show about unwed mothers—and eating popcorn from a bag. She looked bad: hair unbrushed, old shorts on, a stained sweatshirt hanging loosely around her shoulders. The condo was a mess as well. Paper plates of take-out food were scattered around the kitchen, with empty gin bottles under the sofa and piles of dirty clothes in the living room. The place stank, like cat pee maybe, although Bingo didn’t notice any cats around.

  Bingo knew that Celeste—a twenty-eight-year-old linguist and code breaker—had been in China until recently, living underground with a persecuted revolutionary sect. She’d been there for six months, on the run, sick and starving, until the CIA had extracted her, against her will, and brought her home. Bingo had found this out from Alexis Truffant, but she had told him just the basics of the operation, even though he’d wanted to know more. She also asked Bingo to stop in on Celeste a few months ago and see how she was doing—but he never did. He didn’t want to have to face her despair, up close and personal. Also, he didn’t want to leave his room.

  “Garrett wants you to come with me to New York,” Bingo said.

  “Fuck Garrett,” she said.

  “Does that mean no?”

  She went back to watching the television without answering. Bingo called Garrett and told her what Celeste had said.

  “Put her on the phone,” Garrett said.

  Bingo gave her his cell phone. He could hear Garrett talking to her, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Celeste grunted her answers—“Yes” and “No,” with the occasional “Fuck you” thrown in—and then she said, “Eat shit,” and tossed the phone back to Bingo.

  “If she doesn’t come with you, then tie her up and drag her into the cab,” Garrett told him.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Okay, fine. Just tell her it’s for her own good.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “It has to work. The shit is hitting the fan. You both need to get on that flight to New York. This is the last conversation we’re going to have on this number. Don’t use it again.” Then Garrett hung up.

  Bingo thought about this. He went downstairs and told the cabbie it might be a while. The cabbie didn’t seem to care—he said the meter would have to keep running. Bingo went back upstairs and looked around. On closer inspection, the apartment really was disgusting. Along with the endless assortment of half-empty diet-soda cans, piles of unopened mail sat in stacks on chairs and on the kitchen table—a couple of the envelopes were lined in red and looked suspiciously like past-due notices. Celeste seemed to have completely given up on life.

  Bingo pulled a chair into the living room and sat a few feet from Celeste. Her eyes never left the television. He liked Celeste, but he was a little afraid of her as well: she was smart and tough and had an acid tongue that she was not afraid to use.

  “Alexis told me what happened in China,” Bingo said carefully, unsure how to reopen the conversation. “Being on the run and all. And the CIA pulling you out of the country. That seems harsh.”

  “You have no idea, Bingo. None whatsoever. Go the hell away.”

  Bingo sighed. He leaned his elbows onto his knees and tried to look as compassionate and caring as he could manage. He was, by nature, extremely shy.

  “It hasn’t been easy for me either. What I mean is, when I went home, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’ve been staying indoors mostly. Reading. And maybe playing a little bit of Xbox. A lot of Xbox. And the conclusion I’ve come to is that I’m not sure sitting in my house is a good thing. It’s kinda ruining my life. Maybe ruining your life too.” Bingo grimaced. “No offense.”

  Celeste turned from the TV and took a long look at Bingo. “How I ruin my life is none of your business. And you’ve gained weight.”

  Bingo sighed. That was true. He had gained some weight, maybe ten pounds. Or twenty. Or more. He hated talking about his weight. His dad had been an all-state high school offensive lineman. He’d been huge. Sadly, Bingo had inherited his size, but not his athleticism.

  “I’m working on that,” he lied. “Going to the gym.”

  “You said you hadn’t left the house.”

  “I said mostly hadn’t left the house.”

  “Why are you doing this, Bingo?” Her eyes narrowed. “Seriously. Why the fuck are you doing what that asshole asked you to do? Re-forming Ascendant? He’s a selfish jackass who will only bring you grief. Give me one good reason why you’re doing this and I’ll go with you. I promise. I’ll pack up and go right out the door. But it’s gotta be good, and it’s gotta be the truth.”

  That took Bingo by surprise. He started to answer, then caught himself, shook his large head no, then started again and halted once more. He began to panic. He felt droplets of sweat form on his forehead and on the back of his neck. This was his best chance of getting Celeste downstairs and into the waiting cab—without force, at least—and he was blowing it. Then, in a flash, the answer came to him.

  “I’m doing this because it’s what I was meant to do. And it’s what you were meant to do as well.”

  • • •

  Alexis took a shuttle flight from LaGuardia to Reagan National, caught a cab to her condo, then drove herself to Marine Corps Base Quantico in northeastern Virginia. She tried to keep an eye out for anybody following her, or tailing her car, but as far as she could see, she was clean. The FBI hadn’t put her relationship with Garrett together yet. Or if they had, they were sitting on it, waiting for a better moment to pounce. At Quantico, she checked in with the duty officer at the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group, a pinched-faced sergeant named Holmes, and asked to see Private John Patmore. The last time she had spoken to Patmore he was a lance corporal, but he’d recently been demoted back to E-1 private. His file said the cause was insubordination, which didn’t surprise Alexis. Patmore was a gung ho marine, but he had a fungible—some would say erratic—sense of military hierarchy. With Patmore, following orders appeared to be optional.

  She found him sitting at an empty desk in the far corner of an unused file room. She entered without knocking and suspected that he’d been asleep. She cleared her throat.

  “Captain Truffant,” Patmore grunted, head snapping up from his chest. He bolted out from behind the desk. “What are you doing here? I mean—not that you have to explain yourself, ma’am. Captain, ma’am.” He caught himself, straightened his back, and saluted her from the side of the desk, knocking over a raft of paper cups.

  “Looking for you, Private.” Alexis scanned the dusty office. Filing cabinets lined one wall. Folding chairs were stacked against another. Other than that, the room was empty. “What do you do here?”

  “Ma’am, I file reports. In those cabinets there. And when somebody asks to see them again, I pull them out and hand the reports back to them.”

  Alexis could see a layer of dust on the top of the filing cabinets. “And how often does that happen?”

  Patmore gestured briefly with his right hand, as if to point to an i
maginary number in the air. But he stopped, mouth open, then put his hand back down at his side. “Once a week, ma’am. At most. I don’t think they put me here as a reward.”

  “Why’d you get busted back to private?”

  Patmore winced, waggling his head from side to side. “I said some stuff to the wrong people, ma’am. Probably shouldn’t have. I should probably keep my mouth shut most of the time.” He let out a long sigh, and his shoulders slumped slightly. “I was bored.”

  Alexis smiled. “Well, you won’t be bored anymore. I’m having you transferred. You’re coming with me. You’re back in Ascendant. But we’re keeping that last bit a secret.”

  Alexis thought she saw Patmore lift up onto his tiptoes. “Ma’am, this private is very happy to hear that news. Very much, extremely happy.”

  NEWARK, NEW JERSEY, JUNE 17, 12:09 P.M.

  First, Garrett hacked the Jenkins & Altshuler enterprise resource-planning system. That was just a fancy name for the company’s supply-ordering site, and hacked was a bit of an overstatement as well: Garrett already knew all the passwords for the planning system, so all he had to do was log on as an administrator and create a false account name. The guys in purchasing changed the passwords every month, but Garrett made a point of ordering a new chair or a printer every few weeks, just to keep himself in the know. He never knew when he would need to make J&A pay for something.

  It helped that Garrett was a collector of passwords. He didn’t care much about computer-generated ones—they were, by definition, a random jumble of numbers and letters—but he found human-generated passwords fascinating. He could recall pretty much every password he’d ever heard or read, and at night, if he couldn’t sleep, he sorted them in his mind, arranging them into categories: passwords that were all numbers (rare), passwords that were mostly letters (more common), a decent mix of the two (most frequent), or ones that were numbers, letters, and symbols (most rare). He loved trying to parse the etymology of people’s ciphers, although he was regularly astonished by how many of them still used 12345678, or that almost as many simply used the word password. People were such creatures of habit.

  Next he ordered couches, desks, chairs, and computers for the Newark offices of Ascendant. Garrett knew that the J&A purchasing department checked new orders twice a month, on the first and the fifteenth, and any order under $10,000 was rubber-stamped, especially if it was furniture going to one of the company’s real estate holdings. The guys in purchasing were not the brightest bulbs; they spent an inordinate amount of time playing Magic: The Gathering and making penis jokes. Garrett also made sure to rent the furniture instead of buying it, which made it seem more like a sales staging deal than a purchase for a working office. The office supply store in Hoboken said they’d swing by in a few hours.

  Garrett went downstairs to alert the guard at the front desk. He decided to swagger his way through the problem of being recognized. The guard was old, sixty-five at least, and his tiny body seemed lost in his baggy, dark blue uniform. Garrett started talking, loudly, the moment he stepped out of the elevator. He said he was from the start-up on the seventh floor—AltaTech Partners was the first name that popped into his head—and that a furniture delivery was due by the end of the day and could the guard please show them how to get to his offices. The guard said sure, taken aback and a little intimidated by Garrett’s attitude, but then seemed confused when he couldn’t find a record of any company called AltaTech Partners in the building.

  “We just signed the lease yesterday,” Garrett said. “We’re going to take over the entire floor. But not this month. Next month. And the eighth floor too, but not until the fall. At least that’s the plan.” Garrett winked at the old guard, figuring if you were going to lie, then lie big. “We might go totally broke before then. You just never know, do you?”

  “Yeah. Been there,” the guard said.

  Garrett stopped talking for a moment and looked at the old man’s face, lined with wrinkles and age spots and a pink scar that ran from his chin to just behind his ear. Whatever he’d done before becoming a security guard, it had been a hard life, and Garrett could see the consequences on his skin.

  “Thanks,” Garrett said, slightly ashamed of himself for taking advantage of the old man and his crap job status, and hurried upstairs.

  • • •

  Back in the office, Garrett considered what facts he knew about Steinkamp’s murder, and what he wished he knew. He had tried to research Anna Bachev, but she was a virtual nonentity: no digital footprint, no search references, no social media presence. She had no financial records or court documents, either. Bachev’s ghostlike history was probably why they’d hired her to do the job in the first place. It occurred to him that hired was the wrong term. He guessed that Bachev had been blackmailed into shooting the Fed president. She had killed herself, after all—nothing else made any sense.

  But who had done it? Ilya Markov? And what was the geopolitical line of connection between Markov, a Chechen-born Russian, and Bachev, a Bulgarian? The whole thing was beginning to take on a distinctly East European flavor.

  Garrett researched events in Eastern Europe. He blew right through the usual assortment of corruption stories and threats of ruble devaluations, and came immediately to Belarus. While he knew that Belarus was a country, he didn’t know much more than that. It had been a part of the Soviet Union and lay between Moscow and the bulk of the nations of Western Europe; it was a bleak, flat Russian vassal state—at least, it had been until a few months ago. That was when the citizens of Belarus somehow gave a plurality of their votes to a young reform candidate for president, forcing a runoff election. Most analysts assumed elections in that country were always rigged in favor of their longtime dictator, Alexander Lukashenko, but the government had grown complacent. They thought they would never be voted out of office, but they were disastrously wrong.

  Of course, those in power weren’t leaving without a fight. Civil war had erupted in the country—a civil war stoked by Russia and its vast security and intelligence agencies. The runoff election was scheduled for eleven days from today, and both sides—pro-Russia and pro-reform—were campaigning, and killing each other, at breakneck speed.

  Garrett pondered this. Could civil war in Belarus be related to the death of Phillip Steinkamp in Manhattan? That seemed like a stretch, yet Garrett could feel trails of connection between the two. Patterns didn’t always jump out at him—sometimes they needed to be coaxed gently out into the open.

  He checked one last thing while he had the time: stock and bond ripples from the buying and selling in the black pool he’d found. Nothing certain jumped out at him, but he saw some unusual oscillations in the behavior of recent tech IPOs on the NASDAQ, specifically a Brooklyn-based company called Crowd Analytics. The company website said it harnessed the power of crowdsourcing to help solve corporate planning issues. Garrett found a splashy feature article about Crowd Analytics’ CEO, a bearded, twentysomething Harvard grad named Kenny Levinson. The company was his brainchild and was valued at $30 billion. Garrett had to keep his revulsion—and envy—in check as he stared at the picture of Levinson on the steps of his Brooklyn brownstone, his startlingly pretty wife and perfect child at his side. Garrett didn’t want what Levinson had—but he kind of hated him for having it nonetheless.

  He pushed that from his mind. He couldn’t quite see the pattern that surrounded the company, but one was out there, for sure, and when it became fully visible, he would spot it.

  The furniture arrived at four in the afternoon. He signed the purchase order as Earl Erglittry—his favorite anagram of Garrett Reilly—and the movers didn’t give him, or his signature, a second look. The old security guard came up to peek into the offices as well, and Garrett handed him a Diet Coke for his troubles. Garrett took another Percocet and stared out the window toward the Jersey sprawl and Manhattan beyond it. The summer light was hazy and thick, and white explosions of clouds
drifted overhead.

  Where was Ilya Markov, and what pattern was he weaving in his travels? Garrett didn’t know, and the drugs were beginning to take hold. The instincts that he relied on to discern order out of the white noise of everyday life faded from his mind. He sat on one of the new black couches and stared out at the vast country that was the United States. There were so many places to hide: so many apartments to hole up in, so many parks to disappear into, so many back roads to use for escape.

  The pain in his head lessened, Garrett lay down on the couch, and for a blissful few moments, he let the world’s troubles slip away and caught up on some sleep.

  ORLANDO, FLORIDA, JUNE 17, 1:09 P.M.

  Ilya Markov’s driver took him from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando. Ilya had found the guy on Craigslist, a student at UF named Jim who needed extra cash. The cost was $25, plus gas. Ilya had Jim drop him at a motel just south of Orlando, where Ilya spent the night sending encrypted e-mails and texting his American contacts on burner phones he’d picked up in Miami.

  Ilya needed more money wired to him in the States. He had carried $1,000 through customs, just to have cash on hand, and had been planning on using his own ID to collect more at Western Union offices in Florida and Atlanta, but the raid on his motel room had rendered that impractical. A blanket digital sweep would be on his name; anywhere he went with his current identification would trigger alarms, so he needed a new identity. He could have used James Delacourt’s name, but he wanted to save that for later. He had already sent Delacourt’s vitals to a colleague in Moscow. That colleague would do the rest and send the results back to the States when Ilya asked for it.

  He took a cab to a Starbucks in downtown Orlando, amid the cookie-cutter office towers and generic parks, bought a coffee, and sat near a young man with a goatee, who was working on his laptop. Ilya waited ten minutes, then asked the young man if he would watch Ilya’s own laptop while he went to the bathroom. The young man agreed, and Ilya took his time in the men’s room. He wanted the young man with the goatee to see how much Ilya trusted him; how willing Ilya was to put a valuable possession in this young man’s hands. Compassionate reciprocity was a key weapon in the social engineer’s tool kit. Ilya sat down five minutes later and thanked the young man, then opened the computer and surfed the Web for a while.