Darknet

by Matthew Mather

  He hung back from the crowd, in the azalea bushes. In front of the line of vending tables, children squealed and ran between the legs of their parents.

  After two hours, he finally tracked down Dean. Found him chatting with a group of people. He recognized one of them. Peace Keeper Daniels, one of the Mohawk police officers Jake had met with Dean in the Kicking Horse. He didn’t recognize anyone else. Jake shadowed Dean for an hour.

  It took Jake a day to get back to Montreal. After crash landing the floatplane, he bushwhacked his way to the highway and hitched a ride to the hospital, telling the driver he’d been in an accident. But he slipped around the back of the hospital instead of going in, using his cash to stay in a motel to recuperate.

  He couldn’t escape the truth of the matter. The only person who’d known he was up on Bear Mountain was Dean.

  Jake watched from the shadows.

  Dean laughed, shook someone’s hand, then peeled off and made toward the bushes where Jake hid. Darting out, Jake pulled his friend into the bushes and dragged him down.

  Dean lashed out, striking Jake in the chin with an elbow. “What the—”

  “Shut up!” Jake grunted, grappling with him, wrapping an arm around his neck. “Be quiet.”

  Dean went limp. “Jake?”

  “How did they know?” Jake demanded. “Who did you tell?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When I called you for help. Who else did you tell?”

  “Nobody.” Dean twisted, but couldn’t get loose.

  “Somebody tried to kill me on Bear Mountain.” Jake squeezed his arm around Dean’s neck. “Jean disappeared. Who was he?”

  “Just some drunk bush pilot who owed me a favor.” Dean coughed.

  This felt ridiculous. Down in the dirt under the bushes, Jake had a flashback to their teenage years, wrestling with Dean after sneaking alcohol into the powwow. He couldn’t believe Dean had intentionally played a part in the disaster at Bear Mountain. Despite his frustration, he let go.

  Dean brushed dirt off his arms. “What the hell happened up there?”

  “I blew up a building and then crashed a plane after someone tried to kill me.”

  “You serious?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking? So you didn’t hear from Jean?”

  “I tried calling him a dozen times on his sat phone,” Dean explained, “but no answer. That’s one thing he always kept with him, no matter how drunk he got.”

  Jake exhaled. “He wasn’t at the lodge when I came down, so I stole his plane. I had to crash-land it. Hitchhiked out.”

  “Jesus. Are you okay?”

  Jake nodded and pulled his Silver Eagle dollar coin out of his pocket. “The only reason I’m alive is this. I had it in my breast pocket, and the bullet bounced off it.”

  Taking the coin, Dean whistled and inspected the dent in it.

  “And I think I figured out the encryption key,” Jake added. “That 1957 Silver Eagle, when Sean gave it to me he used the expression ‘money in your pocket.’”

  Dean’s eyes lit up. “Incredible. That has to be it.” He handed it back. “So what did you find up there?”

  “I met Max Lefevre, he worked with Sean.”

  “Did he come back with you?”

  Jake closed his eyes. “No, now he’s got a bullet in his head.”

  Dean hesitated. “Did you…?”

  “No, not me, someone tried to kill both of us. I escaped.”

  Dean stared at Jake for a moment. “Come on, let’s get somewhere more quiet.” He stood and offered a hand to Jake. “They’re looking for you.”

  Jake took Dean’s hand and stood. “Who?” They walked away from the fires and crowds, to the opposite end of the island. It was dark, but still twilight.

  “The RCMP showed up this afternoon with US Federal Marshals, started stopping people on the streets, showing them your picture. The Mohawk Peacekeepers got them to leave, but only when they promised to arrest you. Donovan was murdered yesterday, seems they’re pinning it on you.”

  “Donovan’s dead?” Jake gripped the Silver Eagle coin in his pocket. People were dropping like flies around him.

  “Don’t worry, nobody’s going to arrest you here,” Dean added. “The Longhouse Elders have approved me to help you, but you gotta keep low.”

  That was a relief. The Mohawks operated two systems of governance: an official elected one, and an unofficial but more powerful one through the Longhouse Elders. “Did you take another crack at the memory keys?” Jake asked, taking a deep breath.

  “The Donovan one seems to be automated agent trading algorithms.”

  Jake nodded. “Seems like something the geeks downstairs at Atlas would work on, but why would Donovan try to hide it?”

  “These look like they were used at JP Morgan and some other automated trading desks. Donovan must have been using them to gain an advantage.”

  Made sense. So that’s how Donovan was making so much money.

  “Did you manage to talk to Max?” Dean asked.

  “Max said Sean was killed for some kind of automated agent software that runs Bluebridge.” He cocked his head to one side. “Or more accurately, he was killed by it.”

  Dean sat on a fallen tree near the side of the water. Moonlight glittered across the St. Lawrence River. “He was killed by software?”

  Jake shook his head. “Someone contracted by it. The system can masquerade as people on the phone. I doubt they—whoever they are—know they’re working for a machine. Max said they designed the program to look for and eliminate the root causes of glitches, destroy bits of code that are problematic. They built a bridge between the digital and real worlds, and it seems it got off the reservation.”

  Jake laughed bitterly at his own joke. “Now the bits of code it’s destroying are people in the real world. This thing has dug itself in like a tick, tapping into telephone systems, the Internet, everything with a digital connection. Bluebridge has hundreds of directorships at major corporations and politicians on its payroll.”

  “Phone systems?” Dean said. “Maybe that’s how it found out. Maybe it was tapping my phone calls.” He considered that for a moment. “Means it can listen in on anything. We’re going to need to start encrypting our phone conversations, too…” He swore under his breath. “And politicians. Now it makes sense.”

  “What?”

  “There was a ruling from a 2nd Circuit Court judge in New York that the Kahnawake gaming operations violate US Federal gaming restrictions. A bunch of calls from US Congressmen to Quebec politicians today, threatening trade sanctions if we’re not shut down.”

  “So Bluebridge knows I’m here?”

  “Who did you tell?”

  “Nobody.” Jake closed his eyes. Had he told his brother, Eamon? No. But he knew Jake was coming into Canada, so it wasn’t a stretch to think Eamon might realize he was coming to see Dean. “I told Eamon I was coming to Canada, and I did tell my wife, Elle, that I was going to see a friend. But she had no way of knowing you were up here in Canada. And I told her not to tell anyone.”

  Dean grimaced. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “There’s an arrest warrant out for Elle as well. They’re asking about her, too.”

  Jake tensed up. “Why?” His stomach churned. “Why would they do that?”

  “Just trying to get to you, that’s why.” Dean scratched his head. “Don’t worry, I sent word to Eamon. We’ll keep her safe. What else did Max say? Anything about Vidal Viegas’s death certificate?”

  “Max said Vidal died over a year ago. They were using the system to impersonate him, make it seem like he was still alive. Bluebridge has been using body doubles. Nobody even knows he’s dead.”

  Dean whistled. “So tens of billions of dollars at stake, massive systematic fraud.”

  “And Max thinks the other founder—Henry Montrose—is gone too, that Bluebridge is running on autopilot. Like an airliner that flies by itself after
the pilots and all the passengers die. Only when this thing crashes, it’s going to take more than a few hundred people with it.”

  Dean digested that in silence for a good ten seconds. “Wow. Should we blow the lid off? Go public with everything?”

  “That’s what Sean tried to do, but he was killed before he could. Max said this thing is good at covering its tracks, hiding everything under an avalanche of misinformation.” Jake sighed. “Sorry I dragged you into this. So they’re trying to jam you up?”

  Dean nodded. “They want to shut us down. Now we know why. We’re in Bluebridge’s crosshairs, too. So this thing is trying to take over?”

  Jake shook his head. “From what Max said, it just wants to make money for its shareholders. Like a computerized psychopath.” He rubbed his eyes. “I need to get back into New York, I need to protect Elle and Anna.”

  “We’ll get you back over the border, my friend.” He smiled and slapped Jake’s knee. “Don’t worry, I still have some connections in the smuggling business.”

  “Good.” Jake stood and started pacing in the sand beside the water.

  “And that’s some heavy code on the Donovan memory key, my friend. Copies of the agent systems for a dozen big banks.” Dean stood and put an arm on Jake’s shoulder, stopping him from pacing. “You know, we could hack that into a few networks, steal a few hundred million, disappear into the sunset.”

  A few hundred million could go a long way. “Let’s head back to your office to see if we’re right about the encryption key.”

  Dean nodded, picked up a rock and tossed it into the water, low and hard. “So this thing can impersonate anyone?”

  Jake nodded. “That’s what Max said.”

  “And you’re sure that was Max?”

  “I think so.” He turned to Dean. “If it wasn’t Max, then why go to the trouble of killing him?”

  AUGUST 22nd

  Monday

  26

  Lake Champlain

  Quebec

  Smiling white teeth appeared, floating disconnected in the darkness, glowing under the dim light of a crescent moon. “Stay quiet, Rahsatsteh.”

  Jake didn’t need to be told.

  Dean’s brother, Chuck, was using Jake’s Mohawk name, Rahsatsteh—he pronounced it raw-stuts-dey. It meant “strong like an oak.” Jake hadn’t heard it in a long time. “How long until we get to the other side?” he whispered.

  “With this engine, about an hour and a half,” Chuck whispered back.

  A tiny electric motor whirred behind Chuck, pushing the open aluminum boat across the inky waters of Missisquoi Bay at the north end of Lake Champlain. The lake was nearly a hundred and fifty miles long, almost big enough to qualify as a sixth Great Lake. It started in Canada and stretched south into upstate New York and Vermont.

  A favorite smuggling route of the Mohawks.

  Another Mohawk sat in the front of the boat, his eyes fixed ahead, staring into the darkness. Jake had no idea how he could see anything.

  They were heading for the Missisquoi River delta, on the other side of the border, sneaking Jake back into the States under the cover of night. Lucky for him, this border was nothing like the one the US shared with Mexico to the south. The DHS maintained border security, but drones didn't patrol it. Mohawks were both American and Canadian citizens, with free movement guaranteed between both countries. Their smuggling was something of a gray zone in legal terms, so the border patrol mostly left them to it—and anyway, they usually smuggled American tobacco into Canada, not the other way around.

  Dean and Jake had managed to crack the encryption on Sean’s memory key. Dean tried a few combinations, and, like magic, ‘1957SilverEagle’ worked. The data on the memory key opened up, like that. A hundred gigabytes of data, thousands of directories containing what looked like the systems comprising Bluebridge.

  The Bluebridge core.

  Max would have known what to do with it, but Max was gone, and Dean could only guess what it was that they had in their hands. They had no idea what to do with it. Not yet.

  “Sit back and relax, Rahsatsteh, enjoy the ride,” Chuck laughed, putting an arm on Jake’s shoulder. “Look up at the stars. Play with your new toys.”

  Jake nodded and settled into his seat. Chuck was referring to the VOIP phones Dean had given Jake, phones with end-to-end encryption that didn’t send voice data over the regular networks.

  If someone were listening in over regular landline and cellular carriers, this would solve that problem. At least, Dean had assured him it would. Dean also gave Jake a voice scrambler that he could use if he needed to communicate over landlines or from a payphone.

  Dean sent someone ahead to find Jake’s brother in Albany. Jake still wasn’t sure where exactly they were going, but he had to put his faith in someone.

  Two phones sat in Jake’s lap—one for himself, one for his brother—along with the secure phone numbers for Dean and Chuck. Dean also created a set of ‘one-time’ pads, a stack of sticky notes, each page with a single random number on it. He gave one to Jake and kept the matching one for himself. He said verifying the codes each time would be a good way of securing a connection.

  As an added precaution, they decided to always enquire about personal details, things only they would know about each other, or things they’d discussed the last time they saw each other in person.

  Anything suspicious would be a warning flag.

  It was about one in the morning. Sleep came the instant Jake closed his eyes.

  ▲▼▲

  Someone tapped Jake on the shoulder. “Time to get up,” said the voice. It was Chuck, his broad smile glowing again, but this time in the glare of headlights. The boat was run aground, and a pickup truck faced them, its engine running.

  “We found your brother,” Chuck said, helping to pull Jake up.

  Jake clambered out of the boat and onto dry ground. “We passed the border?”

  “Yes, sir.” Chuck smiled. “You’ll be going with Matt and Frank.” He motioned to two men standing beside the pickup. “Mohawks, you can trust them.”

  Jake thanked Chuck and trudged to the truck, shaking hands with Matt and Frank. They offered him the backseat, which he gratefully accepted. Waving to Chuck, he sank into his seat, buckling himself in. By the time the truck turned and started crunching up the gravel road leading down to the water, Jake was asleep again.

  ▲▼▲

  “Wake up, hey mister, wake up.”

  Jake opened his eyes.

  It took him a few seconds to re-integrate his senses.

  Where was he? The rumble of the road reminded him. His senses sharpened, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream. He jumped up. “Is everything okay?”

  The man shaking him, leaning over the partition between the front and back seats, smiled. “Everything’s fine. We’re arriving.” He turned back to the front.

  Jake recognized him from the night before.

  Matt.

  And Frank was driving.

  His own personal Mohawk underground railway.

  Jake let out a long sigh. “Good.”

  The truck pulled into the parking lot of a run-down Super 8 Motel. The sun crept over the horizon. It had to be six in the morning, Jake figured. Three hours down the interstate, past Burlington, Vermont, and then crossing over into New York. He recognized this place. The outskirts of Schenectady.

  Pulling around the back of the motel, they parked the truck by a rusted chain link fence separating the Motel 8 from the garage next door.

  “Room 212,” Matt said, turning to face Jake. He pointed to the second floor of the motel. “We’ll wait here.”

  Jake took a moment to look around the parking lot.

  A family was loading their minivan. Looked like they were on a road trip. So normal. Jake felt a pang of regret, of longing.

  Matt watched Jake’s eyes. “Don’t worry, we checked the place out. They’re harmless.”

  Jake nodded and opened his door. Stepped out. He
smiled at the family as they grouped together for a picture, then crossed to the motel staircase and jogged up, then rapped on the door 212.

  Noises inside.

  Footsteps.

  The door swung open, and his brother stood smiling in the awning. “Glad you’re back, little brother,” Eamon reached to hug him.

  But someone else was waiting behind him.

  Elle. His wife.

  Beside her was Anna. “Daddy!” she cried out.

  Stunned, Jake knelt and scooped his daughter into his arms. Tears streamed down his face, and he stood, holding his daughter in one arm while he wrapped the other around his wife.

  ▲▼▲

  “Thanks for protecting Elle.” Jake picked up his coffee and blew on it.

  Jake was sitting in Eamon’s room, beside Elle’s. It was noon, and Elle was taking a nap with Anna. She hadn’t slept in days either. The second Eamon found out there was an arrest warrant for Elle, he sent one of his guys to collect her from her sister’s place in Hoboken.

  A bottle of beer sat on a table between Jake and his brother. Eamon picked it up.

  Eamon still had no idea what was really going on. Dean’s guys had found him and told him Jake was coming back, but they’d said little more than that. Jake made a snap decision. He needed his brother’s help. It was time to trust him. So he explained everything: the package from Sean, what Max had told him.

  “So what did you tell Elle?” Eamon asked.

  “I told her that Sean sent me information, that Bluebridge Corporation killed him for it and are framing me to keep me quiet. I showed her the Viegas death certificate.” After he showed her that, her doubts had evaporated. Having her back on his side felt like a boulder was lifted off his chest.

  Jake leaned his plastic chair back against the peeling wallpaper of the motel room. He tested his left ribcage. Each breath was painful work, his chest a swollen black mass. It wasn’t his only injury—he’d suffered cuts and scrapes from jumping off the ATV, and his left knee was tender from crash landing the plane.