Intentional Acts

by Melissa F. Miller

  “So? What did Ingrid want?”

  The laughter died in his throat. He tensed his shoulders. There was zero chance he was going to spend their romantic, kid-free dinner explaining that he’d been put on notice that he might be asked to kill someone, no questions asked, in the near future.

  Make that a less than zero chance he was going to talk to her about that prospect—and not only because doing so would be divulging sensitive national security information. No, the conversation would devolve into a massive fight if he so much as hinted at the choices the government was sometimes forced to make in order to protect the country.

  He waved his hand in the air. “Oh, just bureaucratic stuff. She needed to go over some budget stuff with Hank. And you know Hank, he wasn’t going to suffer alone. So he roped me into the meeting.”

  He forked a chunk of potatoes into his mouth and chewed slowly, watching her watch him over the rim of her wineglass.

  “Hmm.”

  He swallowed and lifted the decanter of merlot. “More wine?”

  She nodded and pushed her glass toward him. He refilled hers then topped off his own glass.

  “Thanks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to make me tipsy … or change the subject.”

  “Good thing you know better.” He raised his glass.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Did you have any interesting meetings today?”

  “Nothing that could compete with a budgetary review, I’m sure. But I actually did meet with a new client. Well, new to me. It’s one of Naya’s transactional clients.”

  He felt the tension in his neck and back ease a half a notch at the welcome distraction. He’d been replaying Ingrid’s parting words in a loop for what felt like hours. If Sasha could displace them with a story about some corporate issue, he might even get some sleep tonight.

  “Are they suing someone? Or being sued?”

  “Neither, yet. Possibly both, eventually. They’re a pro bono client; Naya helped them get their charitable tax-exempt status from the IRS last year. They do anonymous crowdfunding for vetted charity projects.”

  “Sounds cool.”

  “It’s a pretty decent model. I mean, it’s wildly hipster. They have offices in East Liberty in one of those loft-type spaces. All glass block and open work corrals. No doors, no desk drawers.”

  “Average age, twelve and a half?”

  “Exactly. Well, except for the CEO. Gella’s probably only about five or six years younger than my mom. After her kids were grown, she enrolled in divinity school, which is where she had her vision about this charitable giving model.”

  Leo finished his last bite of roasted carrots. “The hipster work environment aside, it doesn’t sound like an outfit that could’ve pissed off someone badly enough to need your services.”

  She pushed her plate away as she warmed to her topic. “So they promise their users—sorry, their tribe—complete anonymity. On both sides of the transactions. It’s part of their core mission.”

  “Why?”

  “Long story, but mainly to protect people’s privacy from Internet trolls and, you know, any enemies they may have in real life.”

  “Enemies?”

  “Stalkers, vengeful exes. Nothing too crazy.”

  He stuck out his lower lip and nodded his head. It wasn’t the worst idea to limit one’s virtual footprint if it could be done.

  “So if they don’t make their users public and presumably don’t sell their data to advertisers, how do they pay the light bill?”

  “A portion of each donation does go to operating expenses, but they run lean. Their numbers are good.”

  He made a mental note to talk to the Kurcks about their next project. Naya’s client might be a good partner for the big anti-human trafficking initiative he, Elli, and Oliver were planning.

  “Got it. So what happened?”

  “A disgruntled employee uploaded a list of their users to a text storage site where it was publicly available for at least ten hours.”

  He groaned. “Let me guess, credit card numbers, home addresses, dates of birth, the whole ball of wax?”

  He was surprised when she laughed. “Nope. Full names and zip codes. That’s it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Apparently, the data is compartmentalized internally so the charity sherpas—”

  “Come again?”

  “Two internal employees are assigned to each project. They call them sherpas. Anyway, one employee works with the donor. The other works with the recipient. They only know the identities of the people on their side of the transaction. The donations and the disbursements are processed through a third-party processor, so identifying financial information isn’t retained on their local systems. At the end of the year, the payment processor sends a file with the information the company needs to issue tax documents. Those are stored in hard copy in a safe in Gella’s office.”

  “So, this hack or leak was really no big deal? I mean, presumably the leaker was fired, but beyond that, no harm, no foul. Right?”

  “That’s how it looks. The programmer who uploaded the list quit, so he can’t be fired. What he did was obviously wrong, but unless the company incurs some actual damage, they probably don’t even have grounds to sue him.”

  “So the biggest issue is reputational. The breach could damage their fundraising efforts, right? If they make a point of the fact that they facilitate truly anonymous giving, and that’s been called into question by this jagoff, couldn’t they sue?”

  She beamed at him. “Mr. Connelly, you may’ve missed your calling. That’s a solid legal analysis.”

  “No thanks. I’ll take chasing bad guys over reading deposition transcripts any day.” He snorted.

  “Your loss. Anyway, yes, if they get a black eye in the charitable crowdfunding community, they can go after this guy and his new employer. But I helped Gella craft a pretty strong apology message to their users. And the charity sherpas are personally calling every single person to explain what happened using a script I gave them. If they manage this right, honestly, it just demonstrates that they’re human beings. But also, it’s a chance for them to show that they take privacy seriously and are committed to fixing the vulnerabilities in their system that allowed this to happen in the first place. I feel like it could be a public relations win in the end. Or at least, a neutral event.”

  She reached across the table and began stacking the dirty plates. She was halfway to the kitchen with them when the hole in her story hit him.

  “Wait. Why’d he do it? What was the point of leaking a bunch of names and zips? Just to be a dick?” He screwed up his forehead. It didn’t make a lick of sense.

  She pivoted, resting the dishes against her hip, and looked back at him. “Actually, we have a theory about his motivation, but it’s farfetched. Let me load the dishwasher and then I’ll pick your brain while we finish off the wine. Deal?”

  “You’re on.”

  He swept up the wineglasses and the decanter and moved to the pair of chairs in front of the fireplace. While she banged around in the kitchen, he congratulated himself for successfully evading any further questions about Ingrid. Then he resolved to push the subject of Ingrid firmly out of his mind for the remainder of the evening.

  Sasha returned from the kitchen bearing a fancy silver tray they’d received as a wedding gift. “Look honey, I made dessert.”

  “You broke a dark chocolate bar into pieces.”

  “It’s my specialty.”

  He plucked a square of chocolate from the proffered tray and popped it into his mouth. Then he handed her wine to her as she sank into the chair across from him.

  “My brain’s all yours. Pick away.”

  “Eww.” She wrinkled her nose. After a sip of merlot, curled her legs up under her and leaned toward him. “Okay, the rogue programmer went to work for a company called Sentinel Solution Systems. It’s in Arlington, Virginia. Ever hear of it?”

  He searched his m
emory. “No. Should I have?”

  “I’m not sure. They’re a government contractor.”

  He laughed so hard he choked on his chocolate. She pounded him on the back.

  “Sorry,” he said when he could breathe. “Do you have any idea how many hundreds, no thousands, of government contractors there are? I don’t know every one.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I thought you might have run into these guys, though. They do work for the National Counterterrorism Center, whatever that is. Based solely on the name, they sound like a group you might have run into a time or two.”

  Leo took a long drink of wine to rinse the chocolate out of his mouth. He took his time about it, too, so he could frame his response. He had to be forthcoming enough to satisfy her lawyer sensibilities but vague enough that she’d lose interest in the line of inquiry.

  “Sure, I know the NCTC. But they use loads of contractors. Desk jockeys who analyze computer files all day, searching for needles in digital haystacks. It’s probably even more boring than being a litigator.”

  She appraised him for several long seconds. He looked back at her, blank faced.

  Finally, she nodded. She nibbled on a square of chocolate then said, “This leaker going to work for this particular NCTC contractor was a weird coincidence, though.”

  “Why’s that?” His voice was lazy. The wine was starting to make him tired.

  “Last week, Sentinel sent a letter to my client asking them to voluntarily provide information to assist in some investigation.”

  The words chilled him as thoroughly as a pitcher of ice water being poured over his head. “They did? Did your client comply?” he asked, suddenly alert.

  “Are you kidding? Of course not.”

  “You do realize the NCTC works round the clock to prevent another major terror attack on U.S. soil, right? And that without cooperation from the civil sector, their job becomes much harder—some might even say impossible?”

  She gave him a flat look. “Connelly, let’s not rehash this argument, okay? Just like you’re not going to wake up one morning convinced that the First Amendment right to privacy is more important than defending the homeland, I’m not ever going to think it’s smart for anyone—whether they’re an individual or a corporation—to hand over private information to the government just because they asked nicely. Benjamin Franklin put it best, ‘They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.’”

  He hated what he was about to say. He knew it would annoy her. He told himself not to do it.

  And, yet, the words left his mouth, seemingly of their own accord. “Yes, that’s what’s inscribed on the Statue of Liberty, and, yes, it’s attributed to Franklin. But it’s a misinterpretation of what old Ben actually said. In a 1755 letter, he wrote ‘Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.’ The letter was written in the middle of a power struggle over whether the Pennsylvania assembly had the power to tax William Penn’s land. So, it’s not really on point.”

  She stared at him.

  “American History major, you know, I couldn’t help myself.”

  She closed her eyes for a nanosecond then said, “I can’t do this with you right now, Connelly. Your super interesting factoid notwithstanding, that quote has a long history of being used to defend our right to liberty. It’s not engraved on the symbol of America because of some tax dispute that predates the formation of the country. You know that, right?”

  He did. He also knew that when she flushed from her chest all the way up to her cheeks, he was dangerously close to sleeping on the couch. He watched the red stain travel from her collar line up her neck and contemplated whether it was too late for damage control.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted you. Why don’t you go on?”

  She gave him a long, cool look. “Fine. So, no, my client didn’t voluntarily provide the information the NCTC wanted, which apparently upset the programmer. They think he leaked the list of names so this Sentinel outfit would find it.”

  “That’s a pretty big assumption.”

  She shrugged, conceding the point. “Can you think of any reason the NCTC would want a charitable organization to confirm whether any people on a list of names had donated to or received a donation from one of its campaigns?”

  He could think of dozens. None of them were reasons he planned to share with his fiery bride. “I suppose it depends on the names.”

  She sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

  He rested his glass on the tray and reached for her hand. As he rubbed his thumb over hers, he said, “I know you don’t like advice, especially the unsolicited kind. But because I love you, and I’d selfishly like you to stay alive and unincarcerated, I’m going to give you some anyway. Do not mess with the NCTC.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I mean it. Promise me you won’t get anyone there riled up.”

  “As the parent of toddlers, you know as well as I do, that I can’t control anyone else’s emotional reactions. All I can do is control my own actions.”

  He managed a half-smirk as she parroted the latest piece of wisdom she’d picked up from one of her parenting books.

  “Does that mean you’re promising to behave?”

  She leaned over and kissed him lightly. He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her back, not at all lightly, the question already forgotten.

  Sasha sat on the edge of her bed and watched Connelly slumber. As he always did, he slept soundly. And, as it always did, his ability to do so made her jealous. She’d been a light sleeper her entire life and hadn’t truly realized how much pleasure a person could derive from a solid night’s sleep until she’d met Leo Connelly.

  She studied his face by the diffuse light filtering through the bedroom curtains. Always closed and unreadable when he was awake, in sleep, his expression was relaxed and open, as if he’d tell her anything she wanted to know if she could manage to weave her way into his dreams.

  If only it were that easy.

  He was keeping something from her. That much was obvious. The notion that Ingrid Velder had made a day trip to Pittsburgh to discuss run-of-the-mill budgetary issues was beyond laughable. If the number one person in Connelly’s organization had come to see Hank and Connelly in person, it was because whatever she had to say couldn’t be put in writing and shouldn’t be said over the phone.

  Sasha wasn’t naïve. She realized those restrictions could apply to at least half of what Connelly did for the government. But she also knew there was no reason for a face-to-face meeting to discuss finances. The logical conclusion was, at best, her husband wasn’t being completely forthcoming.

  At worst, he was lying to her. She suspected, if she pressed him, he’d say he was doing it to protect her. And because disclosing details to her would be a federal felony.

  They’d been together for seven years and married for five—in no small part thanks to their standing agreement not to pry into the confidences their respective jobs required them to keep. Still, she wondered, and not for the first time, exactly what it was her husband did in the name of national security.

  Sometimes—most times—she was glad he couldn’t tell her. But other times, like now, that excuse felt a little too convenient. Did they hide behind confidentiality to avoid discussing issues that might drive a wedge between them?

  The incessant questions bouncing around her brain made her restless. She stood and crept on silent feet out into the hallway. If she couldn’t sleep, she could at least check on Finn and Fiona. To no one’s surprise, Maisy had brought them home dirty, delighted, and dead on their feet. They’d fallen asleep within minutes.

  She tiptoed over Java, who evidently believed the appropriate place for the family feline to sleep was stretched across the middle of the upstairs hallway. She cracked open the door and peeked into the bedroom the twins shared. The soft glow of the night light revealed they were bo
th sound asleep in their favorite positions—faces down, arms splayed, bottoms sticking up in the air. She eased the door closed, hurdled the cat again, and padded back into her room.

  An involuntary glance at the alarm clock on her bedside elicited a soft groan. It was nearly two o’clock. If she didn’t manage to fall asleep soon, it would take an excessive amount of coffee, even by her standards, to drag her out of bed in time for her morning Krav Maga class.

  She slipped into bed beside Connelly and tried to still her mind. But she kept returning to the inescapable fact that he was hiding something from her. She pushed the thought aside to focus on the upcoming morning’s schedule.

  She was making a mental note to bring Naya up to speed on the situation at DoGiveThrive when it hit her: The reason why she was unusually upset about Connelly concealing something from her was that she intended to do the same thing to him.

  His pushback when she mentioned Sentinel Solution System’s information request had taken her aback. Even accounting for their disparate views on personal liberty versus security, he’d reacted strongly. Unusually strongly. Her instincts told her his behavior meant the NCTC had something to hide. Which, unfortunately, meant she’d soon have something to hide from him.

  For starters, if Elizabelle could convince the pastebin site’s owner to tell her who had accessed the leaked list, Sasha was certain the company would have grounds to file a complaint against the government contractor. And that was exactly the sort of information she would need to withhold from the man who currently had his right arm thrown across her torso and his face nuzzled in her hair.

  She shifted her weight so that her back was pressed against his chest, squeezed her eyes shut, and willed herself to sleep.

  6

  It was just after one o’clock in the morning local time when the telephone rang in a small concrete structure in a rural community located forty miles east of Houston near the Gulf Coast.

  Ordinarily, Fletcher Lee Holden wouldn’t have been rattling around the dimly lit interior of the windowless building at that hour of the night. Ordinarily, he’d have been home, snug in bed next to his wife of twenty-five years, Melody Lynn.