by Brandt Legg
Once on the plane and out of Singapore airspace, Wen still had to act the part of In-Flight Supervisor that the burgundy color in her uniform signified. She’d arranged in the computer to have the real supervisor assigned to a later flight, and the attendants on board were so professional they didn’t need any guidance. Wen had studied the Singapore Girl’s manuals and protocols the day before, and was careful to uphold the charade.
As the miles between her, the dead agent in the butterfly garden, and all that she’d left behind in China began to accumulate, she wondered if the MSS would figure out where she went. Surely her trail would now be much simpler to follow when they found one of their own floating broken and bleeding beneath the waterfall, but she still had a few more tricks to use.
Franco actually liked Sliske and felt the two men were similar—willing to do whatever was needed to achieve their goal, intolerant of incompetence, certain they were superior to their peers. However, Franco was never going to be blamed for a mistake he hadn’t made.
“The Chairman is worried about Chase Malone,” Franco said, accepting a truce, as the two men continued their rooftop conference.
“You got to Porter in time. Chase doesn’t know anything,” Sliske said, pacing to the other side of the roof. A layer of mist gathered below the Space Needle.
“Porter isn’t the only way Chase could have found out.”
Sliske had been so worried about Porter that the possibility of other leaks or avenues of information available to Chase had not occurred to him. “Chase isn’t Porter,” Sliske said, inhaling deeply. “He has a fortune, respect in the tech world, and is somewhat famous.”
“Yes,” Franco agreed, amused that the American public seemed to idolize billionaires, making them celebrities only because they had figured out a way to legally steal. He did a quick double-step.
“If Chase does know,” Sliske continued, “then that’s a problem not so easily dealt with.”
“Any problem can be dealt with,” Franco said, so coldly and confidently that Sliske, a hard and ruthless man himself, nearly shivered.
“We need to know for sure before we risk that.”
“With all due respect, Irvin, that’s not your call.”
“I’ll have that conversation with the Chairman myself. In the meantime, it would be a good idea for you to find the truth before we off a superstar.”
“Truth?” Franco echoed, as if the word were in an unknown language. “Chase was in Hong Kong on Monday . . . would have been a good place for an accident.”
Sliske was happy to hear that if Franco had to eliminate Chase, it would be done more creatively than a faked suicide. “What was he doing in Hong Kong?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
“HuumaX?” Sliske asked, immediately concerned. The massive Chinese company where Chase had worked while in China years earlier was TruNeural’s nemesis. Chase’s connection with HuumaX, perhaps the only company with the potential to beat TruNeural, had long been troubling.
“Possibly. We’ll know in a few hours. But if he met with HuumaX, then we can be sure that he knows.” Franco held Sliske’s stare. “And if he knows, he cannot be allowed to see tomorrow.”
“Again, I urge caution,” Sliske said. “That one will not be so easily swept away.”
Franco looked at him with a sly smile and quoted the opening line to The Death Instinct by Jed Rubenfeld. “‘Death is only the beginning; afterward comes the hard part.’”
Sliske rolled his eyes while congratulating himself for not responding when he wanted so desperately to do so.
Rong Lo wandered the terminals of San Francisco’s airport looking for someone to kill. At least, that’s how he felt. A payoff to get him onto the BE corporate jet, prior to Chase’s flight south, had fallen apart. He’d have another chance, Chase would be heading north to Vancouver, but the MSS agent did not like mistakes or missed opportunities. Still, Lo knew that Chase was more than just a hurdle on the run to the real prize: Wen Sung. Chase Malone had also become a danger. But Lo had a hunch, and some solid intelligence, that it would soon all come together and he’d be able to eliminate both problems in Vancouver. He didn’t need to be on the same plane as Chase as long as he landed before him. The charter pilot he’d hired was on standby. This time, there would be no mistakes.
Seventeen
Tess Federgreen paced around her large office in a non-descript building located in the Virginia suburbs, across the Potomac River from Washington, DC. As the head of one of the most secret divisions within the US intelligence community, she’d already tackled many tough battles. However, what lay before her had all the makings of a worldwide conflict that could quickly grow out of control.
Seven IT-Squads had reached their destinations in the past few hours. The eighth had touched down in Hong Kong only minutes earlier. It would be another day before they produced anything concrete that she could act on. She scanned the live feeds on her desk as she passed—nothing new—and offered a silent wish that no one died today.
Travis Watts, sitting with his feet up on the small conference table in the corner, watched her while considering the same situation. The two had worked together since the Corporate Intelligence Security Section, “CISS,” had been formed four years earlier. The division, a joint operation of the CIA, NSA, and FBI, had a mandate to prevent war between corporations.
The Department of Homeland Security created CISS, reacting to a World Economic Forum report showing that only thirty-one of the top one hundred global economic entities were countries, with the other sixty-nine being corporations. The shocking trend, expected to continue, meant that in the next fifteen years, ninety-five conglomerates would dominate the list, with only five countries remaining. A secret government study concluded that a shift from nation states to corporate states made the likelihood of major conflicts, or “wars,” erupting between companies, or corporations and countries, highly probable as the world entered a new phase of decentralized power. CISS’s mandate was to keep the peace, or, at the very least, make sure the “right” side won.
Tess, a no-nonsense forty-something-year-old, had risen through the ranks of the NSA with an impressive list of Washington contacts and knew more than her share of secrets. With auburn hair and eyes the color of wet jade, she sometimes looked prettier than she was, but most described her as “a handsome woman,” and “tough, but fair.” A master with strategy and presentation, Tess could usually sum up a complex situation and bottom-line it while many of her peers were still sifting through reports, data dumps, and exhibits. However, the current crisis was an anomaly—trouble wrapped in whispers and hunches.
She’d learn to anticipate, based on accumulated scraps of information, somehow noticing a pattern, like knowing a hurricane was starting by seeing a few stray clouds over warm water and a burgeoning breeze.
“We’ve just got pieces of this thing,” Tess said, stopping at a large digital globe protruding from the wall. “Not enough yet to go to the Director.” She glanced at a 20” by 30” framed photo of the Rio Grande Gorge. All the art on the wall were photographs of Northern New Mexico, most depicting the stunning beauty of Taos—her favorite town. And all were taken by the same man—Geraint Smith, her favorite photographer.
Travis raised an eyebrow, realizing that if she was already considering taking this to the Director of National Intelligence, it must be extremely grave. In the four years they’d been working together, only once had something gone to the DNI—a case involving several Chinese companies violating international sanctions against a nuclear state. Everything else had always been handled internally. CISS had been set up to be self-contained, with the two of them sharing responsibilities—Tess overseeing strategy and interagency coordination, while Travis handled field operations.
“I’m missing something,” Travis said. “What makes you think this one is that serious?” The thirty-six year-old son of Nigerian immigrants was much more than a tactician. He spoke four languages fluently, a few mo
re with passing form, and had been part of the CIA dark ops program out of the army, having dropped in on dozens of hot spots earlier in his career. Tess and Travis operated in perfect balance with each other. Subordinates often referred to the pair of leaders as Yin and Yang.
“As you know, GlobeTec has one of the most sophisticated corporate security units out there,” Tess said. “Couple that with Chase Malone's AI background and his ties to HuumaX, the Chinese AI powerhouse.” She stopped, clicked a few keys, and a new screen flashed. “We’ve just learned of a suspicious suicide. Joseph Porter. He was a key employee at GlobeTec’s subsidiary TruNeural. And, no coincidence, the dead man used to work for Chase.”
“So you think Joseph Porter’s suicide might have been murder?”
“Yes,” she replied instantly, staring back at the globe before meeting his eyes. “And I think his death might be a spark that could set off the first corporate world war.”
“I’m not questioning your instincts, because they’re Yoda-like, but I think we need a little more before we scream to the Director.” Travis knew that corporations were increasingly using their enormous resources to fund security operations that doubled as quiet pro-military or special ops units. Therefore her statement didn’t surprise him, CISS had been created for just this reason, after all, but it seemed too quick of an escalation.
“That’s just it,” she said, walking back to the globe. “I’m worried that if we wait too long to get the facts we need to be sure, it’ll already be too late to stop it.” She issued a voice command to her computer and suddenly the large screen on the wall next to Travis switched from the CISS seal to satellite video footage. “This was taken four days ago. What you’re looking at is a TruNeural testing facility.”
“Self-driving cars?” Travis asked, squinting to get a closer look
“Not quite.” Tess picked up a corresponding pad from her desk and zoomed in so the screen was now filled with cars racing around at high speeds just missing collisions with other vehicles, robotic pedestrians, and other hazards by mere centimeters.
Travis could now see that the cars all had drivers. “I’ve taken CIA evasive driving courses down at the Farm, and I’ve spent time with top stunt drivers,” Travis said. “But I’ve never seen driving like that. Who are those people? How are they doing that?”
“Scary isn’t it?”
Travis nodded.
“It’s a lot scarier than you can even imagine.”
Eighteen
Chase sat in the visitor’s room of Lompoc Federal Prison Camp, located about an hour’s drive northwest of Santa Barbara. He’d been there many times before. His old friend was serving “a dime” and still had four years remaining on the ten he’d been sentenced. Normally, someone with that much time wouldn’t be sent to a minimum-security prison like Lompoc, but the normal rules never seemed to apply to “Mars,” as he was known. Chase studied the other inmates and tried to guess their crimes, something at which Mars claimed a ninety percent success rate. He recalled Mars explaining how he got his moniker, saying that in prison fellow inmates usually give you a new handle, often calling you the town you’re from—Richmond, Memphis, Portland, whatever. In his case, people thought he was so strange that he must be from Mars, and the name stuck.
Chase, fifteen years younger than the forty-three-year-old inmate, had known him since he was a kid. He’d always looked up to him, and had been devastated when Mars, a lawyer, had been sent to prison six years earlier. But prison had been good for him. He ran a mini-empire from inside that earned him more money than he’d been making while free.
Sporting a week’s worth of stubble and a close-cropped haircut that guys without much hair left on top seem to favor, the 6’4” con entered the room. Only when he spotted Chase did his tough and confident expression change to a winning smile. After surveying the room and checking in with the guard on duty, he made his way over to his old friend. Minimum security prison camps had a relaxed visiting atmosphere since the inmates were non-violent and generally “white collar” offenders. Chase, as usual, offered to buy him something from one of the many snack vending machines. A turkey sandwich, trail mix, fruit juice, and a cinnamon roll now filled their small table. Chase got a water for himself.
“Mars, I need your help,” Chase said, opening his bottle of water.
“Must be pretty serious, brother.” Mars, crunching on almonds and yogurt covered pretzels, stared into his eyes. “Because you’ve never asked me for anything before. You’re always the one doing the favors.”
“It is.”
“You know I’ll do anything for you,” Mars said. “But I’m a little worried because with all your billions, your supercomputers, and your wild success, if you can’t solve a problem, then I’m not sure what I can do locked up in here.”
“I need a new identity,” Chase said, lowering his voice.
“Not for you?”
“No. A woman. A Chinese national.”
Mars broke out in a surprised grin. “The woman?”
“Yeah, she’s in trouble. Chinese secret police are after her.”
Mars nodded knowingly, his expression turning quickly serious again. “How much time do you have?”
“None.”
“Well then, as long as there’s no pressure.” Mars smiled. “Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good,” Mars said, shaking his head. “Glad you’ve got things under control.”
“The situation is very fluid.”
“Apparently. But we’ll need a good recent photo complying to passport regulations.”
“No problem. I wrote a program,” Chase said. “It takes any photo, in this case some I took of her back in China.”
“Five years ago?”
“It doesn’t matter how old. It makes a new photo based upon age plus other factors, and puts her in front of any background, in any pose.”
“Wow,” Mars said. “I could put that to use.”
“I might be able to arrange that.”
Mars nodded. “Chase, MSS agents aren’t generally known for their manners, if you know what I mean. If they want her, even with the best fake papers, they’ll find her.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“They have more money than you . . . I know you loved her once, but you’ve got it all, brother. Is she worth getting dead for?”
“It’s about something more important than love.”
“I know,” Mars said. He, better than most, knew that Chase valued loyalty above all else. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”
“I do.”
“I know you’re used to being the smartest guy in the room, but the Chinese have some pretty smart players, too.”
“When can you get the papers?” Chase asked, locking eyes with his friend.
Mars furrowed his brow, worried. After a hanging silence, he finally replied. “A man named Beltracchi will call you in a couple of hours. If your photo program is as good as you say, he’ll have a final set of documents from the country of your choice by midnight, tonight.”
“Thanks,” Chase said, relieved. “You’ve saved my life.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Mars said quietly.
Nineteen
Franco, heading to the San Francisco International airport, waited impatiently as his call was routed to Sliske. He’d check in later with GlobeTec’s Chairman, but the “big boss” seldom wanted the “play-by-play.” He didn’t care about the details. “Just get me results,” he often said.
“News?” Sliske asked, taking the call on speaker in his private office.
“We just got word he’s boarding a plane at SFO. I’m heading there now.” Franco had flown from Seattle to San Francisco, intent on catching up with Chase for a chat. He was on his way to BE headquarters when he got word its CEO was ready to board the corporate jet. He had his driver instantly head back to the terminal he’d just left.
“Where’s
he going?”
“Don’t know yet, but we’ll have the destination before I get in the air. Lucky for us, the FAA requires flight plans. And their computers are about as secure as Equifax.” He laughed.
“What’s the plan?” Sliske asked.
“Planes crash,” Franco replied. “Passengers rarely survive.”
Sliske checked the indicator light on his desk to be sure the call was being encrypted. He knew it was, he never spoke to Franco Madden unless the line was secure or they were in person, but stress bothered him, and he didn’t find killing people relaxing like Franco did. “I thought we weren’t taking him out unless we knew he knows.”
“We now know he knows,” Franco said. “Porter got data out earlier than previously thought. Chase Malone not only knows more about the RAIN program than anyone outside your team, he is the only person alive who can stop it.”
Sliske clenched his jaw and let the pure acid of the hatred he felt for Chase Malone galvanize into a response. “That cannot happen. It doesn’t matter how his death occurs, how much collateral damage there is, or what the cost.” Sliske stood up and walked to the window. He gazed out at the sky above Seattle, as if searching for Chase’s plane, wanting to see it explode into a million little pieces. “This is not a time for considering consequences, this is a time for urgent action. We’ll deal with any ramifications later.” He checked his watch.
Franco smiled. He didn’t need Sliske’s permission, but it pleased him very much to hear someone share his own ruthlessness. “Excellent,” Franco said, sounding a little too diabolical. “It will be done . . . and there will be no trace.”