by Sam Cade
She eyed Jake’s tray when he returned. “I thought you were some kind of martial arts guy or athletic or something.”
“Yeah, I work out a little,” said Jake as he put extra salt on the fries and opened three ketchup packs. “I heard a long time ago the great Herschel Walker went to McDonald’s for his pregame meals at Georgia. It won him the Heisman.”
Jake wore a banded sleeve black polo shirt today. It complemented his olive skin and dark hair. Big Mac or not, Belinda’s eyes walked over the masculine cut of his arms.
“So, what’s on your mind?”
“Couple issues. One thing, cryptocurrency, the other, hacking into someone’s computer. Know anything about it?”
A frown creased her face. Come on, now. “Only two hours for this lunch? I don’t think so.”
“Come on, how can I hack in?” said Jake.
“That’s the stuff I’m paid to do. Okay, give me some info. Who owns the computer and where is it located?”
Jake filled her in on Theo. High level mathematics and computer degrees. Looks and acts like a geek. He has a tower computer in his office as well as two laptops. “This is a guy that has been a nerd his whole life. A guy who takes digital stuff seriously.”
Belinda sparingly poured some homemade balsamic vinaigrette dressing on her salad and opened a package of wheat crackers.
“Okay. Not easy. Likely impossible. A lot of people like that are inherently paranoid about others getting into their stuff. They know other like-minded geeks that will try to commandeer their computer for the thrill of it, so they’re cautious.”
“Okay. So, I’m screwed on that aspect of it you think?”
Belinda sighed. “Not sure. But it will be difficult.” She had some lettuce on her fork, poked it towards his face as she spoke, said, “You can damn sure bet on this. That guy has encryption that even the NSA couldn’t crack in a thousand years.” She placed the salad in her mouth, chewed with her hand over her mouth as she spoke. “So, it would do you zero good to steal the computer.”
Jake had eaten ninety percent of his Big Mac. He focused on every word. He’d never thought a woman was sexy while she ate, but somehow Belinda was. Something with her lips.
He took a swig of Coke. “Any ideas?”
“Is that a real Coke? Oh, never mind. So, you’ve been in this guy’s office more than once, right? If you can tell his laptops apart, which one is he using?”
“Yeah, I can tell them apart. One has a Mr. Robot sticker on it. But he’s always using his tower computer when I’ve seen him. The laptops are always plugged in, charging.”
Belinda smiled. “Bingo, baby!” She did an air fist pump. “Might have something.” She reached across the table and grabbed two salty French fries, dipped them in ketchup, and slid them in her mouth. “Oh my God, that’s so good.”
“Okay, what do we have?” Said Jake.
“Computers charging. You and I and most people have a work computer and a personal computer. My guess is if any shenanigans are going on it’s in the one with the Mr. Robot sticker. By the way, I’ve seen every episode of that show. Your guy obviously likes devious machinations. All of us geeks do. The plan is this. I’m going to give you a handful of USB ninja charging cables, different colors and lengths. The wall plug is implanted with an attack payload that you can physically upload into the guy’s computer. In this case I suggest something like a keystroke logger.”
“How the heck do I do that?”
“That’s the tricky park. If possible, and a big if, you need to get in his office and swap out the cables on both laptops. Then you need to be within forty feet of the computer when it’s re-plugged in and activate a Bluetooth trigger programmer, and whammo... you’ve dumped malware in his computer.”
Jake raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. Calls for a French fry.” Jake ate a couple. Finished with a slug of Coke. Belinda grabbed the last fry.
“This is illegal without a judge’s order,” she said.
Jake looked at her, expressionless for a couple of beats. “I go by military standards. Don’t ask don’t tell. We never had this conversation. It’s just a peek anyway. Now. Cryptocurrency for dummies. Know anything about it?”
“Yes, quite a bit. I even own some. What do you want to know?”
“Well, I don’t understand any of it. I’ve been reading site after site about the stuff on the internet. I’m still clueless. Here’s the deal. We know the extortion money went overseas. Now, John Simmons says funds in a Hong Kong account have been exchanged for Bitcoin. So, take it from there.”
Belinda took a breath, looked at her watch. “Not a whole lot of time. Okay, Jake, I can explain it to you, but I can’t understand it for you.” She shot him a skeptical look.
He shook his head. “Aw, now come on. You damn Stanford chicks.” He picked up his McDonalds cup. “You’ll have an easier time today. I’ve been drinking Real Coke. Plenty of sugar and caffeine for my brain.” He wagged his fingers towards himself. “Give it to me.”
Terminology spewed out of Belinda’s mouth leaving Jake even more confused. Internet exchange of digital assets. Decentralized blockchain. Bitcoin is pseudo-anonymous. Digital wallets. Public Keys. Private keys. Fungibility.
Jake raised a hand. “Hold it. One question. Bitcoin itself. Can this be traced to the owner?”
“Well, transactions occur across cryptographic addresses and anyone can create a boatload of addresses. But it is possible to trace back to your IP address. All transactions are public history and they can be analyzed for spatial and temporal correlations. If one address can be linked to a person, the related transactions could be identified. Bottom line, it’s possible.”
“Hold it, hold it, Belinda. It just dawned on me.” Jake shook his head, befuddlement in his face. “That’s why this is your job not mine.”
She laughed. She placed her napkin over her mouth trying to suppress it, but her face was lit up.
“It’s not that funny.” Jake smiled, too.
“It’s just that you reminded me of something. You on those TV commercials with that grill of yours. Playing that doofus. You’re hilarious.” She stopped laughing. “I’ve even thought of buying one, you know for fish. I just feel like I need to road test one first.”
Jake processed what she said...did he just hear an expression of interest? He didn’t miss a beat. “Probably nobody more qualified to demonstrate the thing than me. Seriously, it’s a Cadillac. How about I grill you a nice thick slab of well-seasoned black grouper, whip up a superstar vegetarian salad, and open a nice Sauvignon Blanc over at my cottage this Saturday?”
“Are you serious? You’d do that? I’m free then, too.”
“Shoot, yeah, I’d love to,” he said. Heck, that was easy.
“That sounds great, really great.” Belinda was beaming.
“Glad you’re excited. The weather’s supposed to be perfect, low humidity, a little cool front. I’ve got a great fire pit. We can eat outdoors. It’ll be a nice evening for us.” He loved her enthusiasm. And it was kind of her idea, which meant game on.
“Not for me, dummy. My husband is dying to meet you. We’ll bring the salad. He can talk football for hours.”
Huh?
87
Black Point, Alabama
Thursday, August 8, 2019
LUCAS KNIGHT, CEO OF KNIGHT FORCE, ARRIVED IN BLACK POINT with two hard men that would make most guys feel overmatched. One six-three, the other six-four, both a firm 240-250 pounds. Squared shoulders, block heads, but neat. No facial hair. Well-trimmed haircuts that a first-day IBM salesman could wear and fit in.
During a phone interview, Lucas told Bill he could get on the scene fast with the highest caliber battle-hardened men available in America. Money was discussed. It was expensive but Bill said money wasn’t an issue, so let’s do it.
Lucas said, “Not so fast. I meet you. I check out the scene. I hear you verbalize your needs to me in person. I don’t accept any jobs in which I have not person
ally met my client. I want to see your office and your home. And, Mr. Burnham, I want you to evaluate me and my guys. I want you to interview the men protecting you. Ask them anything about their history and capabilities.”
“That works, Mr. Knight.” Bill was encouraged. And impressed.
LUCAS SPENT ONLY FIVE HOURS IN BLACK POINT. He noticed Bill’s eyes light up when he introduced W.C. Powell and Lorenzo Johnson, and knew it was a sealed deal. Lucas first perused the law office. Then they went to Bill’s mansion on the bay. Then back to the office for a meeting in the conference room. Lucas explained that both men would be with him entering the office in the morning and the home at night. One man would always accompany him. The premises would be searched any time they came in cold. The office and home would be swept daily for electronic surveillance. And Bill would have instant access to Lucas 24/7 via personal cell.
“Let’s do it,” said Bill.
Bill and Lucas Knight signed the contract, cancellable at any time with two-weeks-notice. Burnham wrote a check for $25,000 as a refundable deposit.
They shook hands. “Good luck, Mr. Burnham. Always remember, be vigilant. You never know when the enemy is in your own backyard.”
Lucas walked out of the conference room and stopped at the reception desk. “Ms. Liz, it was so nice to meet you.” She saw Theo watching from ten feet away. “Oh, Mr. Knight, I want you to meet my nephew and Bill’s stepson, Theo Fuller. He handles research for us. And let me tell you, this kid’s a crackerjack on a computer.”
Theo walked over and extended his hand. “Theo Fuller.”
“Lucas Knight.” Lucas maintained his grip as Theo attempted to let go. His eyes locked on Theo’s. “It’s always good to have a resourceful man that understands the digital world.”
Theo knew that Lucky was 100% sure he just shook Zeus’s hand.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Sunday, August 11, 2019
JAKE WALKED OFF THE GRASSY LAWN IN FRONT OF GEORGETOWN University’s Copley Hall at 5:10 p.m. on a scorching afternoon ruminating over something in his mind. Diversity. The hot new buzzword. He’d just played a few ultimate frisbee games with a motley crew of grad students. Male and female. Black, white, Asian, African, lesbian, straight, and maybe a few transgender Australian shepherds. It was fun because nobody gave a damn.
Ultimate frisbee had been a Sunday ritual for the last seven years. Followed by an hour of beer and bullshitting with a bunch of seriously smart, interesting kids. But no politics. One wrong word and it could turn into a pop-up angry liberal protest mob in five minutes.
On his languid stroll back to the Bradley estate he decided on the margherita pizza from 90 Second Pizza. He’d order the pie, hit the shower, and the delivery guy would arrive in time for 60 Minutes. Fifty yards from his cottage his phone vibrated in his pocket. He saw the caller and the day’s joy vanished. “Hello.”
“I’m ready for the fuckers, Jake. Got me two big-ass rent-a-warriors,” said Wild Bild.
“What are you talking about?”
“Green Berets. Ass kickers, man. I’ve got my own security team. So, I say bring it, motherfuckers.”
“Bill, that’s what Peter John Clemmons said out in Colorado. Remember how that turned out?”
“Uh, remind me.”
“Clemmons and his two guards caught .338 caliber rounds to the head and chest that may have been fired from five football fields away.”
“Well, I’ll still sleep better, anyway. Wish I'd had them when I got jumped at the office. These men can snap your neck like a matchstick.”
“How’d you find these guys? Are they local?”
“They found me. A company called Knight Force. They’re running security for five or six other big dog lawyers like me. I vetted them with those attorneys, and they are very satisfied. Knight Force is global, Jake, bigtime boys.”
“I’m coming down to Black Point soon. I’ll see you then. And I’d like to meet these fellas.”
In the shower Jake thought about it. Military. Special forces veterans. And they contacted Bill first. Interesting.
88
Black Point
Thursday, August 15, 2019
$72.1 MILLION DOLLARS STASHED in cold cryptocurrency wallets. Zeus thought about that number as he sat in a dark droll room in his stepfather’s law office scouring LexisNexis for information on contaminants in foreign-made generic ibuprofen tablets. All for fourteen bucks an hour.
The financial trend was promising, Green, $14.3 mil, Clemmons, $21.6 mil, Kimbrell, $36.2 mil. An unfortunate mishap to Mr. Draper Sims might just bounce that number to the $100 million goal.
Zeus grabbed his two laptops and told Liz he’d be back in a couple of hours. In twelve minutes, he had his coffee and was logged on to his Mr. Robot computer at Coffee Loft. Time to drill down for some intel for Lucky. He laughed at that, intel. Military lingo.
DRAPER SIMS WAS THE BRASH, OVER-CAFFEINATED PRESIDING PARTNER in an eight-office litigation firm. Everything about them looked to be a powerhouse. They even had a European headquarters in London. Sims’ home run ball was a four hundred-million-dollar judgment in an antitrust lawsuit a couple of years ago against a monster software firm.
Sims used four cell phones, all Samsung Galaxy models running Android. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the Apple iPhone, he did like them. It all stemmed from the fact he once represented Samsung after they’d been sued by Apple over a patent infringement case and he couldn’t be seen with an iPhone in his hand. He could change brands now but just couldn’t bear the techno-hassle of it.
One phone was explicitly for family contact. One Galaxy was for legal business. Two phones were for monkey business.
One was for Chelsea Stonington, a thirty-four-year old energetic natural blond fireball who double majored in cheerleading and fraternity boys at LSU. She was now a New York based flight attendant for Delta.
The other was for a thirty-five-year old tall, dark haired, clear-skinned ingenue that was the youngest daughter of one of Sims’ wealthiest clients. That meant wealthy wealthy. She was smart, holding an MBA from the Booth School of Business at the University of Chicago, but didn’t use it. She called herself a consultant. In her case, a rich, smart girl who didn’t do shit. She wintered in Aspen and summered in the Hamptons. Europe and Australia were available when boredom set in.
Draper Sims enjoyed the dichotomy of the ladies. He especially appreciated that neither were his wife. One was a dumb blond. Stupid can be oddly sexy at times. One was a deep-thinking intellectual brunette. The naughty antics that could come from the mind of an intellectual? You’d never think it. Even wilder than stupid.
Zeus hacked the texts of all four phones. He was encouraged by the fact that a dark-haired Mensa member could send the most salacious photos he’d ever seen to a fifty-four-year old lawyer carrying forty extra pounds and sporting a diagnosis of diabetes that required a daily insulin injection. Thought he might personally have a chance in the dating world. He liked smart girls.
It took him twelve hours to hack the office computers. This law firm wasn’t playing games IT-wise. Zeus didn’t waste time chasing info in the cloud because he was able to hit Sims’ schedule via his lead assistant’s computer and that’s all he really wanted.
Sims had a trial in Washington, D.C. approaching. Scanning through travel itineraries, it appeared that a two-week block of time was carved out for the trial. The wandering fish would jump into a barrel.
Zeus loaded all critical data on Sims up to DataCage. Pinged Lucky.
89
Pensacola, Florida
Monday, August 26, 2019
11:35 A.M. CENTRAL TIME. A wisp of a southerly breeze caught Jake’s hair as he exited the Pensacola terminal. He wore a pair of Wayfarers, had a canvas messenger bag over his shoulder, and a carryon in his hand. His mother was fifty yards away parked at the leading edge of the passenger drop off area. She was leaning on the tan Land Cruiser like a cabbie at LaGuardia. Jake waved and hustled t
owards her.
They took I-10 West headed to Black Point.
Washington D.C.
AT THE SAME MOMENT JAKE’S LAND CRUISER HIT SIXTY, Lucky arrived at the posh Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Washington, D.C. He paid the taxi driver cash.
Draper Sims’ flight from Atlanta was due to arrive at Reagan in fifteen minutes.
Lucky hadn’t shaved since he met Wild Bill. He wore black thick-rimmed non-prescription glasses under a Washington Nationals ball cap, a navy tee shirt with the name Soto and the number 22 under an unbuttoned, untucked men’s collared shirt, dark jeans, sneakers. A digital Canon hung over his neck, tourist style.
He parked himself on an empty bench under the portico of the loading zone, leaving him with an excellent view of the new arrivals. Lucky stretched his left arm outward over the top of the bench. His right ankle cocked up, rested over his left knee. Casual. He flipped through a glossy D.C. travel magazine rapidly glancing over ads for restaurants, guided tours, museums, and D.C what not, killing time.
Four high efficiency bellmen zipped around him tossing out five-star service. Impressive quality, he thought. Lucky ran an eagle eye over the top of the shiny magazine as taxis, Lyft, town cars, Uber, and micro shuttle buses continuously ejected new arrivals.
Despite all the commotion taking place in front of Lucky’s face, something nagged him back in his mind. The farther this mission went the more impressed Lucky was with Zeus’s abilities. The guy wasn’t just blowing smoke. Lucky knew he wasn’t in control here. Zeus knew all the dirt.
Ultimately, Lucky figured Zeus for a liability.
Thirty-eight minutes after Sims’ plane touched down, a glossy black Escalade arrived at the curb. The rear hatch popped the same moment it came to a stop. A tall, black gentleman, impeccably neat in dark suit, white shirt, black tie, exited from the driver’s door, walked around the front of the vehicle, and opened the rear passenger door.