by AC Fuller
I think she knew it was a bluff because her face didn't register anything. In fact, her mind seemed to be elsewhere. After a long silence, she said, "Seleste and Delfino are dead."
She pressed her hands into the table, reached for her laptop, then let her hands fall off the table.
"The shots we heard from the restaurant?"
"Yes. I thought those shots came from my apartment. Now I've confirmed it." She tapped on her laptop.
I was getting the impression that Innerva had many different helpers around Cuba. People who owed her favors. Clearly someone had confirmed about Seleste and Delfino. "I'm sorry," I said. "They were nice. And Delfino was—"
"He was the most promising young hacker since Bhootbhai. Since my friend Aloop."
Aloop Sarin was a name from the past that I didn't want to think about. He'd been a brilliant young hacker until he was murdered in a porta-potty in lower Manhattan after getting wrapped up in a plot to rig the 2004 election. It occurred to me that between Aloop, James, and now Delfino, Innerva had lost three men who were close to her, all of them involved in hacking. Three I knew about anyway. They'd all brushed up against that privatized-politics security system, and all ended up murdered for no good reason.
"I'm sorry," I said again. Her eyes were down, glued to the table. "Innerva, look at me."
She did, and her eyes held a resigned look I never expected from her. "Innerva, please. Tell me your plan."
"Juan's nephew is a police officer a few towns over. He's going to be here at daylight to take you and Greta to the airport. He'll drive you there himself. You're getting out of here."
My heart lifted a little, then sank. "Wait, only me and Greta? What about you?"
"He wants to help me, but he can't. I was able to persuade him to get you and Greta out, but they're already looking for me. I had to agree to go with them."
"With who?"
"He wasn't sure, but when I tried to convince him that there were members of the mafia here, he didn't buy it. He said that people much higher up had struck a deal with U.S. law enforcement. Every police officer in Cuba is looking for me."
She stood and walked around the kitchen. "Looks like I've overstayed my welcome in Cuba."
I was trying to think of something to say, something to make her feel a little better, but honestly I was mostly just happy that Greta and I would be making it home alive. "Thank you," I managed.
Innerva sat down and slid her chair right next to mine. "It's not free, Alex."
"What isn't free?"
"You have to help me."
I leaned back. "How?"
She pressed the USB drive into my hand. "When you get back to the U.S., you need to slide this into the first Wi-Fi-connected computer you can find."
"Then what?"
"That's it. Well, you'll have to double click the one file that's on the drive."
"And then—"
She managed a weak smile. "And then, boom goes the dynamite."
I placed the USB drive on the table. "I'm not saying yes, but, assuming I did what you're asking, tell me what happens next. Tell me what 'boom goes the dynamite' means. Exactly what it means."
"Well, you understand the basics of the attack. I'm holding hostage the servers of most of the private security contractors in the U.S. My original deadline passed yesterday, but I knew they were never going to shut down on my demand. I know how they think. Even if threatened with personal embarrassment and the revelation of state secrets, I knew they wouldn't shut down."
"Then why make the threat to begin with? If you already had access to all their data, why not destroy them without warning? Why make the threat?"
"So no one can say I didn't give them a chance."
I had to admit that her logic made sense. "How could you be sure they wouldn't shut down, or try to negotiate with you?"
"They'd rather be embarrassed than cease existing. And they knew that, even if they have to fire half of their employees, they can replace them with the next batch of people willing to dance within their system of perfected evil."
"They're not all evil," I said.
"Don't give me a ridiculous 'few bad apples' argument, Alex. That might work on others, not me. I know more about these people than they know about themselves. And I mean that literally. They keep the system decentralized so that no one person knows too much. There are so many branches of our military, so many interconnected pieces of our security system that operate outside of military control, that no one knows everything. No one but me."
"And what do you know?"
"I know how the sausage is made. I know how the intelligence is gathered. How much of it is wrong, how much of it is guesswork. I know who concocted the story that got us into Iraq, and why. I know about the internal debates that Nixon squashed to keep us in Vietnam. I know what Amand did in Pakistan, and who ordered it. I know what he's done since he got back. I know what kind of prostitutes he likes, and where his kids go to school. I know everything about that bastard except what he had for breakfast." She paused, then said, "And I know everything that happened that led to James's death. Every innocent little box that was checked and email that was forwarded that led to him getting shot in the chest with a shotgun from twelve inches away. There were no bad apples involved. It was the system working exactly as it's designed to."
I took a few deep breaths, trying not to visualize James's death. "What will it do? I mean, if I stick this into a computer, what will it do?"
"You stick it in and open the folder. Then double click the one file: FreedomCollective.zip. Then walk away."
"It'll do what it needs to do on its own?"
"Yes."
"And then what happens?"
"I don't think you want to know."
"Humor me."
"The file will upload directions to my botnet, to all the computers I've taken hostage. My botnet will begin uploading files to the dark web. Every piece of information I'm holding hostage goes public. It will take years to sift through, but I've separated out twenty highlights, a top sheet of sorts. This will make it easier for the press to get on the story."
"The press?"
"The top sheet will be emailed out to about five hundred journalists at the same time, along with around five thousand pages of supporting documents. I'd say the first major stories will take a week or two to appear in the mainstream media—TV news, The Times and The Post."
She was right about that. Stories this big would take a team of reporters at least a week to sift through, and because of the sensitive nature of the material, senior editors would have to meet with military leaders, lawyers, and anyone else who might object to their publication.
But Innerva was smart. By emailing it to hundreds of journalists at once, and putting it up on the dark web, she was ensuring that someone would write about it. So, while the details might trickle out over weeks or months, the mere fact of the leak would lead every newscast right away.
"And your threat to destroy their systems?" I asked. "Is that real?"
"Yes. Besides the leak, my program will destroy every piece of data on every last machine that's involved in the American private security complex. Without exaggeration, they will simply cease functioning. Those bastards are going to roast for what they did to James. First in the public spotlight, then in hell."
"Don't tell me any more."
Now I knew why Innerva didn't want to tell me everything. The more she talked, the more I saw how she'd changed. How James's murder had radicalized her, had turned her into an obsessive. And even though I believed her about all the terrible things that had gone on, as much as I didn't buy my own 'few bad apples' argument, I didn't see the total destruction of the system as a viable alternative.
"Now you know why I didn't involve you from the beginning." She sighed deeply, and her face trembled. "I—"
"You knew you weren't going to get away with this from the beginning."
"People like me always hope they're going to get away with it. And usually we do.
But, in this case…" She trailed off. "After James I…"
She didn't have to say it. James and Innerva weren't the lovey-dovey types. They never kissed in front of me, and I doubt either ever brought the other flowers. They were united by a shared mission to make the world more transparent, to hold politicians, governments, and businesses more accountable.
Even though I didn't always agree with the way they did it, I respected them. And the more I stared into Innerva's quivering and broken face, the more I knew that she'd loved James in a way I didn't understand, and might never understand.
She slid the USB drive toward me. "Please, Alex. Do this for James."
"I'll think about it," I said, sliding my hand over it.
"Thank you."
I was about to get up, when she put her hand on mine, and said something that surprised me as much as anything she'd said before.
"It's not a few bad apples, Alex. That's naive, and I don't even think you believe that. But…" She paused, and I could tell she was choosing her words carefully. "But there's an extent to which I agree with you. Sometimes I think you're right, and I actually created multiple versions of the program. One version burns the entire system to the ground, one version does…does less."
"What do you mean?"
"Not destroying any of their system isn't an option. But completely destroying every aspect of it might just function as a transfer of power from one group of unelected pieces of shit to another, who would take the same power and do things that are equally bad. The Russians, Saudi Arabia. Or worse. Half the time I think I don't care, they deserve it. Consequences be damned. And half the time I think I might make things even worse. Sometimes I think about what James would have wanted me to do."
"And what would James have wanted you to do?"
"I'm still making up my mind."
I gripped the USB drive tightly, thinking of James, and thinking of Greta.
Innerva was making up her mind, and so was I.
26
As the first light crept through a slit in the living room curtains, a rooster let out its morning call. Greta was still asleep on the couch and I was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
Innerva came in from the kitchen and opened the curtains, allowing the soft gray light to fill the room and waking Greta.
"When they get here," Innerva said, staring out the window, "I'll walk out, hands up. Juan's nephew assured me that he'd come with only a few officers. They will take me back to the station, where they will turn me over to Amand, or whoever shows up from his team. That's the price he needed to pay to convince Amand's people to let you two go."
"What's going on?" Greta asked, rubbing her eyes.
"I'll explain everything," I said.
"After they take me," Innerva said, "they'll drive you to Baracoa, about an hour away, where you can get a bus or a colectivo back to Havana. He gave me every assurance that you'd be safe."
I sat on the couch next to Greta and explained the plan as Innerva stared out the window silently.
Under the best of circumstances, Greta is not a morning person. And now she seemed barely able to comprehend what I was saying. Before I could make her understand, Innerva said, "They're here."
I jumped off the couch and looked out the window. Two gray-and-white police cars were parked out front, lights on and still running. Two men had gotten out, and were walking toward the front door.
Innerva pressed her face against the window, turning her head left and right. "It's them."
"You're sure."
"Yes."
She walked quickly to the couch and hugged Greta, then did the same to me. "Goodbye, Alex."
Before I could respond, she was opening the front door.
She walked slowly down the crumbling stone walkway, arms held out to her sides. It was overly dramatic, I thought. The officers weren't pointing guns at her and, from what she'd said, they knew she wasn't a threat to them.
Once she got into the police car, she'd probably be safer than she had been since James died. At least until they turned her over to Amand, I thought.
I was wrong.
As Innerva neared the police car, a shot broke the stillness of the morning. The officer closest to Innerva fell first. Then another shot, and a second officer fell, leaving Innerva standing alone.
One more shot, and Innerva was knocked back before collapsing on the ground.
Next, a spray of bullets hit the two police cars, shattering glass and puncturing the car in a hundred places. I dropped to the floor and shimmied over to Greta, pulling her onto the floor next to me. We crawled behind the couch as more shots rang out.
"It was an ambush," I shouted. "Innerva was shot!"
"¿Que es eso?" It was Grandma Martinez, calling from upstairs.
Then from outside, I heard Innerva's voice, screaming with pain. "Alex! Alex!"
More shots, then men's voices, yelling in English and Spanish.
"Innerva! ¿Que es eso?" Grandma Martinez, again.
More shots, then Innerva's voice. "Alex, hold down command-two when you click the file!"
Springing up from behind the couch, I saw Innerva crawling toward the still-open door. All the cops were either on the ground or slouched over in their cars, covered in blood and broken glass.
"Into the kitchen," I yelled.
Greta raced into the kitchen as I bounded up the stairs, three at a time. When I reached the bedroom door, Grandma Martinez was walking out. I knew immediately that she couldn't move as fast as I needed her to, so I picked her up and stumbled down the stairs with her in my arms.
Greta was already out back, yanking the tarp off the car. I made it to the car as I heard a voice from the front of the house. "Don't make us shoot you!" It was an American voice, but one I didn't recognize.
I set Grandma Martinez in the back seat and leapt into the driver's seat, backing out as Greta hopped in and slammed her door.
"Did Innerva get hit?" Greta asked.
"I think so," I said, half in a panic as I slammed the gas pedal. "I think she's...I don't know...maybe dead...maybe...I don't know."
From the back, Grandma Martinez let out a scream. "¿Que esta pasando? ¿Dónde está Innerva?"
"Tell her it's okay," I shouted. "Tell her Innerva asked us to keep her safe. Tell her anything to get her to shut up."
Grandma Martinez screamed again, and Greta reached back, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Innerva fue con la policía. Ella nos dije que necesitas salir con nosotros."
I took a sharp right onto a wider road that I hoped would lead out of town.
But about a mile down the road, it became a one-lane path, not much wider than the car, and deeply rutted from years of use. The road was walled in on both sides by thick hedges and brambles, and dead-ended a few hundred yards ahead at what looked to be an old farmhouse.
"¡Déjame salir! ¡Déjame salir!" Grandma Martinez yelled.
"What's she saying?" I asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. She was pointing at the farm house.
"I think she's saying to let her out," Greta said. Then, to Grandma Martinez, she said, "¿Quieres que te dejemos salir?"
"El Señor San Lucas vive aquí. ¡Déjame salir!"
"She says she knows someone who lives here."
In the rearview mirror, I saw that no one was behind us, but I knew someone would be soon. I drove over a sad patch of grass up to the front door of the farm house. "Run her in!" I said to Greta.
But Grandma Martinez was already halfway out of the car. Greta followed her up to the porch, but turned back when Grandma Martinez slammed the door in her face.
Seconds later, Greta was back and we were flying down the dirt road in the direction we'd come from, car rattling and spraying dust and rocks behind us.
I hit a bump that lifted the entire car a few inches off the ground, and I saw them. Two vehicles heading straight for us. They weren't police cars, though. They were unmarked, black SUVs, a type of car I hadn't seen since we arrived i
n Cuba.
A type of car that I hoped I'd never see again.
27
The day after James died, after I met with Innerva in Las Vegas and she gave me the antique hard drive he'd been killed for, I found the one person who could help me access the data. Her name was Quinn Rivers, and, to put it kindly, we didn't hit it off right away. While we'd been arguing about what to do with the hard drive, a silver SUV had pulled up.
One that looked eerily similar to the two black mini-tanks speeding straight toward our busted-up sedan.
I guess Quinn was right. Bad things really do start with a knock on the door.
If you'd asked me four days ago whether I'd ever end up in a game of chicken with two SUVs sent by Amand, I probably would have said "No." But if you'd asked me whether I would have responded the way I did, I would have said, "Definitely not."
That's because I had no experience with high-speed chases. No experience outrunning cops or bad guys. I'd never even seen one of the Fast and Furious movies. So if you'd asked me four days ago how I'd respond, I would have said that I'd panic, slam on the brakes, and give myself up.
I didn't.
Instead, I became calm and surveyed the terrain. The matching SUVs were about a quarter mile away, one following closely behind the other. The dirt road was one lane, and my guess was that they expected me to slow down, knowing that my little sedan would surely lose a game of chicken. The bushes on both sides of the road boxed me in, and I knew right away that I had three choices.
First, I could slam on the brakes and back up as fast as possible toward the house where we'd dropped Grandma Martinez. Maybe I could speed over a field on the other side of the house, find some route that would connect with a road. But it hadn't looked like there was one, and something in me wanted to keep these guys as far away from Grandma Martinez as possible.
The second option was to floor it. Race toward the SUVs, counting on them to swerve first. But that was a suicide mission. If they didn't swerve, my little yellow hoopty would get crushed like a junk car at a monster truck rally. So for this option to work, both of them would have to swerve off to let me pass. I considered going straight for them, then veering off into the shoulder to try to pass them, but it was only a few feet wide and even competent driving on their part would enable them to stop me.