Dark Trojan (The Adam Drake series Book 3)

by Scott Matthews

  He inhaled deeply, stretched his arms high over his head, and turned to go back inside the EIS building. That’s when he noticed the three young men watching him from the other side of the parking lot.

  Their heads were shaved, and they were all wearing black T-shirts, jeans and combat boots with red laces. He couldn’t make out the tattoos on their arms, but he would bet money they showed the Nazi and rebel flags somewhere on their bodies. He had prosecuted young men like these for hate crimes while in the District Attorney’s office. He knew a skinhead when he saw one.

  He returned their stares, and was giving them a mock salute when he saw the tallest of the three raise his cell phone and take his picture. Whoever they were, they were there observing him.

  Drake walked back inside, and from the vestibule near the elevators watched through the glass doors as the skinheads turned and left the parking lot. It was no coincidence, he knew, that they had shown up so soon after he had left Walker’s mansion, where he had found the neo-Nazi mouse pad with the flag of the Golden Dawn of Greece.

  He found Senator Hazelton where he’d left him, watching Bradford instruct him team on the distribution of the worm repair kit.

  “Senator,” he said in a quiet voice, “when you return to Washington, I think we’ll want to look into the connection between the banker and American skinheads. Three of them were outside just now, watching me. It’s possible he’s working with the neo-Nazis as well as the Islamists.”

  Chapter 77

  At noon, Pacific Time, precisely when the blackout had been scheduled to roll across the land, four catering chefs wheeled trolleys into the EIS conference room and set up serving tables. In minutes, a big pot of steaming clam chowder, hot loaves of sourdough bread, beer-battered prawns, a heaping platter of In-And-Out burgers, and an ice bucket full of bottles of beer were ready for the weary cyber warriors and their guests.

  Bill Bradford stood next to Drake at the end of the long conference table and watched his employees and the Symantec team move down the serving line. The banter and laughter reminded Drake of a locker room after a winning game.

  Bradford took a folded check from his shirt pocket and handed it to him. “I thought I’d save you the trouble of sending me a bill.”

  “We never discussed my fee, Bill.” He unfolded the check and let out a whistle. “And this is a lot more than I would have charged you.”

  “You earned every penny of it, buddy. Without those flash drives you found and everything you did before, the blackout would have ruined us.”

  Drake nodded. “We were lucky this time. It’s still hard to comprehend how destructive a cyber attack like this could have been.”

  “And unfortunately, way too easy to pull off. You mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Depends on the question,” Drake said with a smile.

  Bradford looked across the room to where Liz Strobel was talking with Senator Hazelton. Drake was prepared to deflect a question about his interest in the beautiful woman standing next to his father-in-law, when Bradford threw him a curve.

  “I reached out to your father-in-law because I knew him personally,” the CEO said. “I didn’t want to risk a government investigation of the cyber phishing being leaked to the press. I imagine there a lot of situations like mine that require a more delicate touch. Would you be willing to help others like you helped me? Or is this a one-time favor for the senator?”

  Without taking his eyes off the senator and his soon-to-be staffer, Drake said, “I don’t know the answer to that right now. There are some things I have to sort out first.”

  Handling things with a delicate touch wasn’t exactly how he would have described the events of the last week and a half, but he understood what Bradford was saying. Being a lawyer with a unique skill set would indeed allow him to help out in a number of situations similar to Bradford’s. What he needed to decide was whether that was the role he wanted to be playing.

  Senator Hazelton tapped a glass of champagne with a knife and proposed a toast. “In the days to come,” he said to the exhausted experts, “there will be a few more people who will learn about what you did here today but, for the most part, your countrymen will never call you heroes. On behalf of your government, therefore, I will do it for them. Thank you for keeping the lights on. You all deserve a medal.”

  When he lowered the glass, the senator waved Drake and Bradford over.

  “I wanted both of you to know that I’ve been approached by a couple of freshman congressman asking about their recently departed colleague, Congressman Sanchez. One of them is another California congressman and one is from my state. They had asked that Sanchez be investigated by the Attorney General for campaign contributions they believe he received from the drug cartels. Since he appears also to have been involved with our missing banker, I’m interested in looking into the allegation for a number of reasons. The Attorney General probably won’t, since Sanchez is dead and was a member of his party. So if you’ve come across anything that you think might be helpful, let me know.” Then he smiled again. “Also, Liz has just informed me that she’s accepting my offer to join my staff as my liaison with the Senate Intelligence Committee. Anything you care to share, share it with her.”

  Drake acknowledged her decision with a nod and a smile. “Congratulations, Liz. Senator, you mentioned there were a number of reasons you were willing to investigate Sanchez. May I ask what some of the others are?”

  “There are some members of Congress who vote consistently for measures that favor our Islamist enemies. Sanchez was one of them. I’m interested in knowing if others are taking money in exchange for their votes.”

  Chapter 78

  When the lunch gathering started to break up, Liz Strobel asked Adam Drake if he would give her a ride back to her hotel. Senator Hazelton was returning to Washington later that afternoon and had asked her to join him on the flight to discuss her new role in his office.

  The conversation during the drive to the Huntington on top of Nob Hill was subdued and unusually shallow, as neither of them was willing to bring up the one subject on both of their minds: their future relationship. They talked instead about how kind Bradford had been to let him use the Audi, how they enjoyed the flight to Lake Tahoe, and how beautiful his summer home on Crystal Bay was.

  When they arrived and had entrusted the car to the doorman, Strobel slipped her arm through his and walked him through the lobby. “Come see my room while I pack,” she said. “I splurged and booked a suite. It has one of the best views of San Francisco you’ll ever see.”

  Drake followed her into the ornate old elevator, with its red floral panels and brass molding. It was a grand reminder of an elegant past, and also a clue to the romantic nature of the woman beside him. His taste ran more to the modern luxury of the Marriott Marquis, but he could appreciate the choice she had made.

  “My mom and dad used to stay here whenever they were in San Francisco,” she was saying. “They always left me home.”

  “Is that why you wanted to stay here?” he asked.

  “That’s one reason,” she said as she led him out of the elevator and down the hall. “The other is you’re staying at the Marriott. I didn’t want you to think I was chasing you.”

  When she stopped in front of her room, she opened the door with a flourish. “Come enjoy the view.”

  Drake started to say that he was already enjoying the view, but thought better of it. The last thing he wanted to do was to appear to be flirting with her while they were alone in her hotel room.

  She was right. The room had a great view of the city. As she began putting clothing in her suitcase, he kept his back to her, standing at the window to allow her some privacy.

  He heard the suitcase locks snap closed and felt a change of energy as she walked toward him.

  “Is the offer to take me skiing in Oregon this winter still open?”r />
  “Would you like it to be?”

  She stepped around in front of him and put her hands around the back of his neck. “What do you think?” she said, and pulled him down and kissed him.

  Her kiss lingered and then she looked up for his answer.

  Drake leaned down and returned her kiss.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said.

  AUTHOR’s NOTE

  The New York Times reported on October 12, 2012, that Defense Secretary Leon Panetta had warned in a speech that the United States was facing the possibility of a “cyber- Pearl Harbor” and was vulnerable to computer hackers who could dismantle the nation’s power grid, transportation networks and government.

  More recently, on November 6, 2014, ABC News reported that a destructive “Trojan Horse” malware program had penetrated the software that runs much of the nation’s critical infrastructure. The Department of Homeland Security believes the Trojan Horse malware was planted as early as 2011, and, although it was only recently discovered, remains inactive.

  The threat of a cyber attack on the American infrastructure is real, and the casualties that would result are incalculable. The possible destruction mentioned in this work of fiction is based on real and current estimates made by real experts paid to worry about real threats to our national security.

  Excerpt from THE ASSASSIN’S LIST

  1st in the Adam Drake Series

  At the back of the executive office building, Kaamil Sayf waited in the shadows outside an emergency fire door. At midnight, the security system his company installed and maintained would crash and go offline for five minutes. In those five minutes, he needed to run up four flights of stairs to the CEO’s office, retrieve a keylogger device he’d placed on the CEO’s computer a month ago, and get back out before the security system rebooted.

  On the outside, after his prison conversion to Islam, he led a covert cadre of assassins working as employees of the International Security and Information Services, or ISIS. The mission he trained for, and was selected to lead, aimed to assassinate powerful American leaders. Mighty America killed its enemies with cowardly high-flying drones, but the world would soon know how jihadists killed enemies, up close and personal.

  Before the first strike next week, he had to ensure encrypted passwords for the security plan at the chemical weapons depot had not changed. The only way to know was to retrieve the keylogger that recorded every keystroke on the CEO’s computer.

  When his watch flashed 12:00 a.m., Kaamil used a key to open the steel fire door and ran up the stairs. He knew the old security guard posted at his station at the main entrance wouldn’t hear him, just as he knew the security cameras wouldn’t record his visit for the next five minutes. No one was expected in the building.

  He raced down a long hallway to the middle of the top floor. Through Janice Lewellyn’s office, he entered the CEO’s inner sanctum. Kaamil was under the large rosewood desk when the elevator doors chimed. Somebody besides the security guard was in the building. Kaamil pocketed the device, getting up as the office lights came on, and froze.

  Sweat formed on his forehead when he heard someone walking into the office.

  “What are you doing in here?” Janice Lewellyn demanded. “Why are you hiding in Mr. Martin’s office?”

  “Take it easy, Mrs. Lewellyn, you know me. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m just checking to make sure the upgrade for the security system is working.”

  “Since when do you do middle-of-the-night upgrades without my clearance? I think you better stay here while I call security. You shouldn’t be in Mr. Martin’s office.”

  “Call security. They know all about it. I’m just doing my job, Mrs. Lewellyn.” Kaamil feigned a smile, hoping she didn’t notice the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  As Janice Lewellyn turned toward the phone on her desk, Kaamil took an Emerson combat folding knife from his pocket. Moving quickly, he caught her from behind and pulled the razor-sharp blade across her throat.

  Lowering her body to the floor, he cursed his rotten luck. He would keep on the surgical gloves he was wearing until he left the building. And pray to Allah nothing was left behind to identify him, because his five minutes were almost up.

  He would have enough trouble explaining the collateral damage to his leader without worrying about the police.

  Excerpt from OATH TO DEFEND

  2nd in the Adam Drake Series

  Undercover agents do not like to stand out, especially when they’re in a foreign country, they don’t speak the language, and they’re new. Randy Johnson, rookie DEA agent on his first deployment, was no different. But standing six foot seven, with red hair, freckles, and a baby face that reminded you of your fifteen-year-old younger brother, he had no choice.

  While on assignment in Cancun, Mexico, Randy chose to accentuate the obvious by wearing shorts, a pink linen guayabera shirt, and a red Boston Red Sox hat. His job was to look like a tourist and observe and report on cartel members spotted in and near the Mayan Riviera. He remembered faces. He’d been taught to compartmentalize them, identify features, and then compare them to photos in the DEA’s cartel scrapbook.

  Randy was waiting for Juan Garcia Salina to show up at the Presidente InterContinental Resort. An informant had reported that he liked to eat lobster and shrimp curry at the hotel’s seaside El Caribeño restaurant. Salina was believed to be responsible for the recent torture and execution of a Mexican army general who had cooperated with the DEA.

  The man Randy recognized on this muggy, overcast day sitting at the poolside bar and drinking a cold glass of Superior Beer was not, however, a cartel member. Randy had recognized the face of the bodyguard of a man at the top of the FBI’s most wanted list, the man thought to be behind the assassination attempt on the Secretary of Homeland Security a month ago in Portland, Oregon.

  Jamal James, a former NFL defensive tackle weighing three hundred and fifty pounds and standing six foot eight inches tall, worked for David Barak. Barak had been the CEO of International Security and Intelligence Services, or ISIS, a top international security firm. After the attempted assassination, the FBI had wanted to question Barak, but he and his bodyguard had vanished. Both his corporate offices in Las Vegas and his residential compound in the mountains near Mt. Charleston, north of the city, had been searched. The FBI found evidence on a restored computer hard drive that linked Barak to the assassination team and made him appear to be its mastermind. But they didn’t find anything that revealed where he might be hiding.

  Randy saw the big bodyguard walk to a table where three men were having lunch and lean down to speak with one of them, who handed him an envelope. The bodyguard then turned and walked back to the hotel lobby.

  Although the men at the table were not on the DEA watch list, Randy took a quick picture of them anyway with his cell phone, left money on the bar for his beer, and hurried after Jamal James. The man was moving like a bus through the traffic in the lobby.

  A black Range Rover sat idling at the parking attendant’s stand. James tipped the attendant and hoisted his massive body into the passenger’s seat. The Range Rover settled an inch or two with the added weight before the air suspension restored the SUV’s balance. The vehicle drove off.

  For a moment, Randy Johnson hesitated. Stay on post as ordered, or follow? Follow the bodyguard, he decided. If the Range Rover led him to Barak, he’d be able to send a Flash Priority One alert that every DEA agent would envy. Handing the well paid attendant a five dollar bill, he signaled for a taxi.

  “Stay with that Range Rover, Carlos, and I’ll double your fare,” he said, glancing at the driver’s ID and picture as he slid into the back of a green and white Camry.

  “Not necessary, señor. With this traffic I cannot lose it. Where do you think it is going?”

  “No idea, no idea at all. Here, swipe my Visa card in case I have to leave in a hu
rry.”

  “Does this involve your wife, señor?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Couples come here after weddings. Sometimes men follow wives after they fight.”

  The young agent had to laugh. Carlos Rodriguez, the middle age taxi driver, had probably seen his share of honeymoons gone bad.

  “Not fighting with my wife, Carlos. You and I might go a round or two, though, if you lose the Range Rover.”

  For the next forty-five minutes, they drove down the coast from Cancun. Highway 307 was a four-lane divided freeway and they maintained a steady seventy miles an hour, slowing only for a couple of traffic lights and reduced-speed zones. The towns they passed through weren’t much to see, Puerto Morelos and Tres Rios, but the beauty of the Caribbean Sea on the left and the thickening mangrove jungle on the right served to heighten the young agent’s sense of adventure.

  “Señor, the Range Rover is turning. It’s heading into the Mayakoba resort. Do you want me to follow?”

  “Let’s make sure this is where he’s staying. Drive in. I’ll check it out. I might have to stay here myself some day.”

  “A very expensive place, señor. The Mayakoba is one of the best hotels in the world.”

  Carlos appeared to be right. The Mayakoba was surrounded by a mangrove jungle and was built around a network of crystal clear waterways and small inland islands next to a white sand beach.

  The Range Rover stopped in front of the main lobby. The bodyguard got out, rolled his massive shoulders, and walked in. No luggage was unloaded before the Range Rover drove off.

  “Stay here, Carlos. I’ll just be a minute.”

  The rookie agent approached the Mayakoba valet.

  “Hi, could you help me? I think that man who just walked by was Jamal Johnson, the best NFL tackle ever. Is he a guest here? I’d pay a small fortune for his autograph.”