Blood Brothers

by Rick Acker

  George’s years at MIT had been troubled. He got straight As, but he routinely violated school rules. At first, the school tolerated his misbehavior on the theory that he was having difficulty adjusting to life away from home and living in an alien culture. But eventually they cracked down on him. He was expelled and deported in the middle of his junior year, when the school caught him hacking into the registrar’s computer system—a feat that the registrar’s office had thought impossible—and changing other students’ grades for money.

  Back in Ukraine, George promptly landed a job with a computer-security company. He worked there for two years and apparently did good work. He received large bonuses each year and was promoted twice. However, his employer ran into legal difficulties for helping some of their customers build security systems specifically designed to prevent government surveillance. The company shut down its Ukrainian unit as a result, and George found himself unemployed.

  Next, he began doing freelance consulting. His services were in high demand, particularly in the Ukrainian and Russian underworlds. He already had prodigious talents for both creating and hacking into computer security systems. He now branched out and began doing electronic money laundering and website design for several of the more sophisticated drug gangs and their front operations.

  The turning point in George’s career came three years ago. A smuggling ring hired him to hack into the system of a financially troubled drug wholesaler in northern Russia and make its computers crash on the eve of a crucial shipment. The wholesaler would go bankrupt, and George’s clients could buy it for a song at the bankruptcy auction. They could then use it as a front for their business, and it would probably even make some money on its own if competently run. All went as planned at first—George successfully wrecked the company’s computer system and it missed the shipment deadline, losing a key customer in the process. It went bankrupt shortly thereafter.

  But then George learned that the smugglers had decided not to pay his fee. Geist’s report was unclear on how George had made this discovery, but the results were soon obvious. Less than a week later, the head of the ring died when the electric fence at his dacha malfunctioned. The coroner ruled the death accidental and blamed a bug in the software that operated the fence. The police anonymously received copies of the other members’ bank statements the same day and arrested them for tax evasion.

  Meanwhile, the bankruptcy proceeded and George made it known that he intended to submit a bid for the wholesaler he had ruined. No one bid against him. He took possession of the company’s assets and relaunched the business as Cleverlad.ru. He moved from Moscow to Yuragorsk and made it his base of operations. He quickly reached agreements with the local militsiya—law-enforcement authorities—and within a few months, Cleverlad.ru and a cluster of affiliated entities were doing brisk business. George stayed away from traditional drugs like heroin and meth, which would have brought him into conflict with his former clients. Instead, he focused on selling prescription drugs without prescriptions.

  American and European authorities soon discovered Cleverlad and tried unsuccessfully to get the Russians to shut it down. The militsiya, of course, had no interest in attacking George’s company, and the national authorities had better things to do than go after a savvy and wealthy provincial exporter whose main crime was violating foreign drug laws.

  So the FBI and NSA tried taking matters into their own hands. Despite considerable effort, they were wholly unsuccessful. The investigation remained confidential and the dossier didn’t say exactly what happened, but the only result of the American efforts was to knock Cleverlad offline for a grand total of six hours. The next day, one of the FBI agents on the case discovered that his bank account had been drained and his credit score ruined. The investigation was closed two weeks later.

  The rest of the dossier consisted of a long list of websites and companies known to be owned or controlled by George, a chronicle of murders and other major crimes in which George was implicated, and two relatively recent pictures of him. Karl held these up to the light and studied them. In one, George looked like a slightly geeky grad student. He was walking down the street, his thin shoulders slouched and nearly hidden by the folds of an oversized hooded sweatshirt. His unruly black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing a slightly receding hairline. Dark knockoff Wayfarer sunglasses covered his eyes, and his hands obscured the lower part of his face as he lit a cigarette. In the second picture, he looked older and more dangerous: his hair was shorter and he wore a dark, well-tailored suit. His face was clearly visible in the second picture, and it wore a shrewd, calculating look that few grad students have developed.

  Karl put down the report and sipped his iced tea thoughtfully. Getting to George Kulish would be difficult. He had built an impregnable electronic fortress around himself that the best minds in American and European law enforcement had been unable to crack. He was also adept at detecting and eliminating threats to himself and his businesses.

  George was formidable indeed. Formidable, but not invincible.

  Ben and Sergei sat in the hospital cafeteria, each with a cup of steaming black coffee from a large stainless-steel urn that stood at the end of the room. Sergei took a tentative sip and his eyebrows went up. “You know, the coffee here is actually really good.”

  “Not what you expect from hospital coffee, is it?” replied Ben, taking a sip from his cup. Two days’ worth of stubble covered his face, and his brown hair was uncharacteristically disheveled. “Noelle clued me in to it; otherwise I’d be out looking for a Starbucks right now.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Better than I expected. She’s sleeping now, but she seemed to be herself while I was with her. The doctor said both Noelle and Eric should be fine. Both of them are past the most dangerous stage now.”

  “That’s a real answer to prayer,” replied Sergei. “So, how are you doing?’

  “A lot better now that it looks like they’re going to be okay,” said Ben. “Man, was I scared coming over here on the plane. I kept picturing what it would be like to land and find out that the baby was dead or that Noelle had died during delivery because of the shock and blood loss from being shot. Thank God that didn’t happen. I’m still mad, though, and the more I think about it, the angrier I get. Who shoots a pregnant woman?” he demanded. “What kind of animal does something like that?”

  “Someone who needs to be behind bars for a long, long time,” Sergei said. “The police have made catching him a high priority—not just because of what he’s already done, but because of what he’ll do next. If he would shoot a pregnant woman in cold blood, he doesn’t have any limits. The people I talked to in the police department are very worried. Right now, they’ve got an arson, a drug theft, and two attempted murders to solve, but they think that list is going to get longer if they don’t catch this guy quickly.”

  “Two attempted murders,” repeated Ben. “Have you heard anything about Henrik Haugeland’s son? Noelle said he got shot up pretty bad.”

  Sergei nodded. “The kid has two bullet wounds in the abdomen and one in the shoulder. He had lost a lot of blood by the time he got to the hospital. He’s been in surgery twice since he got here.”

  “Any idea what his prognosis is?”

  “No, but the senior detective said he’d seen a lot of bullet wounds and these looked bad.”

  Ben shook his head. “That’s terrible. You know, if it wasn’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have a wife or a son right now. The guy who broke into Norge shot Einar first before he came after Noelle. Einar could have run away, but he followed the guy and kept him from getting a clean shot at Noelle. Then he basically took a bullet for her.”

  “Wow. He’s a hero,” said Sergei. “A real hero.”

  “He is,” agreed Ben. “I hope I get the chance to thank him.”

  “If I hear anything more about him, I’ll pass it along.”

  “I’ll do the same,” replied Ben. He took another sip of his c
offee. “Do you know what happened after Einar got shot the second time? I’ve only heard the story up to there.”

  Sergei nodded. “The cops think the shooter used his last bullet on Einar. Then Henrik, who had been in the storage area in back, came in with an ax from one of those glass ‘Break in Case of Fire’ boxes. The guy was out of ammo and ran. He’d already poured gasoline in strategic spots around the building, and he lit it on his way out.”

  “I didn’t talk to Noelle about the fire. Do you know how she got out? Was it Henrik?”

  “It was. He pulled her and Einar out of the building before the fire reached them. The fire department managed to save the warehouse, but the offices and file room were completely destroyed.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “What a surprise.”

  “FYI, the cops say there are a dozen cases of drugs missing from the warehouse. Karl may be behind this and may have staged the theft as a diversion. If he did, it’s working. Right now, the police are treating this as a warehouse burglary gone bad.”

  “Have you told them about Gunnar’s case and Karl’s fraud?”

  “Some, but not much.”

  “What do you say we stop by and fill them in?” Ben asked with a hard-edged smile.

  “Definitely, but not today. I’m going to check on Elena. According to the detective who interviewed her, she’s taking this pretty hard.”

  Sergei took a deep breath and knocked on Elena’s door. A moment later, he heard the locks turning. The door opened and Elena looked at him with wide-eyed surprise. Her face was blotchy and what little makeup she usually wore was gone, but she wasn’t crying at the moment. “I didn’t know you were here. When did you get in?”

  “I flew over with Ben. We got in around noon, and I’ve been at the police station and the hospital since then. I stopped by as soon as I could. I thought you might want someone to talk to.”

  “It’s good to see you. I was at the hospital with Noelle until Ben came, but then I thought I’d let them be alone.”

  “Want to go for a walk?” he asked. “Nothing cheers me up like sitting in a hotel room by myself, but I know I’m a little strange that way.”

  She smiled. “A walk would be nice, but do you think it’s safe? The shooter may come after me too.”

  “We’ll stick to crowded places. Besides”—he patted his side—“I’m carrying. It’s not technically legal here, but I talked to the police and they made a couple of calls, and they’re okay with it.”

  Her smile widened slightly. “You’re always ready to go out on the town, aren’t you? I need a few minutes to get ready.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll wait for you in one of those chairs by the elevators.”

  Half an hour later, they were strolling down Kongens Gate. A rainstorm had swept through earlier in the day, but the sun was out now and the city had a clean, fresh-washed look. Sergei tried making conversation on various topics, but he couldn’t get Elena engaged. After his third attempt flopped, he said, “Okay, your choice. We can talk about last night or not. Just let me know what you’d like to do.”

  She bit her lip and walked in silence for several seconds. “I want to talk about it . . . or, well, I need to talk about it, I guess.”

  “‘Need to’?”

  “It was awful, absolutely awful. I haven’t been able to sleep since it happened; I can’t even turn off the lights.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to live with myself after this.”

  “What happened?”

  “I dropped Noelle off in front of the building, and then I went downtown to do some last-minute shopping and see a play. When I got back, the ambulance was just pulling into the parking lot.”

  “You think you shouldn’t have left, that you should have stayed with Noelle to protect her and Einar?” he asked.

  “Basically, yeah.”

  He nodded. “I’d probably feel the same way in your shoes. You know what, though? This wasn’t your fault. You had no reason to stay behind, no reason to know what was going to happen. And even if you had stayed, what would you have done? You’d have gotten shot and wound up in the hospital like Noelle and Einar—or in the morgue.”

  Elena looked down. “That’s not completely true.” She stopped and shrugged. “In fact, it’s not true at all. I did know what was going to happen—or I should have, anyway. Two days ago, I saw a gray sedan parked across the street from the Bjornsen building. There was a man in it who seemed to be looking at his phone. There was nothing suspicious about him. It was just one of those things you notice a dozen times a day.”

  “What the Kasman calls Bureauvision, right?” said Sergei. Mark Kasanin was a retired agent who had trained new agents when Sergei and Elena were hired. One of the axioms he used to drill into his classes was to be aware of their surroundings. He gave every new class the same speech: “Everyone notices something unusual; you have to notice usual things. You have to be able to see the two or three totally normal details that, put together, are evidence of a crime. That’s Bureauvision, and you’ll need to develop it if you want to be successful here at the FBI.”

  Elena nodded. “Yeah. Anyway, I thought I saw him again yesterday. He drove past as I pulled into the parking lot to drop off Noelle. Then he drove by again going the other way as I was leaving.” She paused and Sergei glanced over at her, but she kept her eyes resolutely on the sidewalk. “I should have made the connection, but I didn’t. I was too focused on getting downtown to do my shopping.”

  “He matched the description that Noelle and Henrik gave the police, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Now I get it,” said Sergei. They walked in silence for several seconds. “I won’t tell you there’s nothing to feel guilty about. You wouldn’t believe me even if I said it.”

  “It would be a lie,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “Maybe. Everybody gets sloppy sometimes, and in our business sometimes people get hurt as a result. It’s happened to me, and I paid for it by spending two days in a torture chamber. And I never would have made it out if you hadn’t come in after me.” He paused, but she didn’t respond. “But I was the only one who got hurt that time. I got off easy compared to you.”

  “When I drove up and saw Noelle and Einar lying there covered in blood and not moving and the look on Henrik’s face as he sat there next to his son . . .” Her voice trailed off into a sob. Sergei put his arm around her and guided her to a park bench. She put her face in her hands and cried uncontrollably. Passersby glanced at them curiously, but kept their distance. After a few minutes, she took a deep breath and said, “It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’ll never be able to forgive myself. Never.”

  “Of course not,” Sergei said gently. “No one can forgive their own sins.”

  She nodded and sniffed. “I don’t know if it will make things any better, but I’m going to talk to Noelle when she’s stronger. I’m also going to talk to Henrik, but what about Einar? What if he dies?” Tears welled up in her eyes again. “What if he dies and I know it’s my fault and I never get to tell him I’m sorry?”

  “Then maybe we can have another one of those religion talks you used to enjoy so much. The Bible is big on forgiveness. But we can worry about that later. Einar is still alive, and we should focus on keeping him that way.”

  She looked up at him. “How?”

  “Well, there’s a church up the street that I visited when I was here last time. I plan to go there and pray for him when we’re done talking. You’re welcome to join me if you want. Or I can take you back to your hotel room.”

  She thought for a moment. “I’d like to come with you.”

  He nodded and suppressed the urge to smile. “Do you want to go now, or did you want to talk some more?”

  “We can go now. It’s just that, well, you know I don’t necessarily believe in God, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s fine. You can just sit next to me if you want; you don’t have to pray.�
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  “Actually, I’d kind of like to pray. I’m just wondering if it’s, well, if it’s okay.”

  “You mean, if there is a God, will he be offended if you pray to him without believing in him?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I haven’t really thought about that one, but I’ll bet that won’t bother him. I’m pretty sure he’d rather have you pray with all your doubts than not pray at all.” He stood and reached out his hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

  The bronze doors of the Oslo Domkirke stood open, and a small sign in English and Norwegian announced that it was open to the public from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. every day. The interior seemed cool and dim to Elena after the bright warmth of the late-July day outside. There were no services or concerts that day, so the church was mostly empty and quiet. A handful of people sat or knelt in random pews, and a few tourists strolled around the edges of the sanctuary, reading plaques or talking in whispers and pointing at the richly carved altar or one of the windows. Elena and Sergei picked an empty pew and sat at the end by the central aisle.

  Sergei bowed his head and closed his eyes, but Elena felt a little hesitant—almost shy—about joining him. She sat with her hands folded in her lap and let her eyes wander over the church.

  The Domkirke was very different from the church she had attended with Sergei in America. Sergei’s church had the look and feel of a well-designed convention center—good lighting, comfortable seats, a modern sound system, and large display screens on which songs or PowerPoint notes complementing the pastor’s sermon could be shown. This church had none of that, but something about it made anyone who entered instinctively speak in a whisper.

  The years lay thick in here, a deep layer of invisible dust that hushed the voice and stilled the spirit. The Domkirke’s ancient holiness was almost palpable, hovering at the edge of her senses like a faint sound just below the threshold of hearing. Every day for centuries, men and women had come here to pray and praise, and their worship had left an indefinable residue, a scent of fire and incense that only the soul could catch.