Operation Mockingbird

by Linda Baletsa

  “You created this thing?” Matt asked.

  “Wait, hold on there.” Patrick said holding up his hand. “I didn’t create the entire program. I was involved in the development of one part, and I had no idea what the end product would do.”

  “How is that possible?” Matt asked.

  “This firm hired me and several other programmers to do some high-level work,” Patrick explained. “The company had all of us working on different parts of the project. That’s not so unusual, but what was unusual was the incredibly tight security. No one person in the group knew what the entire program, completely integrated, would do. We worked independently and we weren’t supposed to know who else was working on the project. I worked on a security piece of this software. It was pretty sophisticated and unique, and I can see my signature in those elements of this program. So that’s how I know which company is behind this.”

  “Why didn’t you or Stephen go to the authorities with this?” Matt asked.

  “And tell them what, Matt? A story about some rogue computer program?” Patrick shook his head. “Other than speculation, we can’t tie the bleedin’ program to the PR firm. I haven’t been able to get that close to the program, let alone inside it, since I did my initial work on it. Also, I signed a non-disclosure agreement. If I reveal anything about my work for this company, I’ll lose the money I earned plus I’ll have to pay some very serious penalties. I can’t afford to do that.”

  He then leaned in closer toward Matt and lowered his voice. Matt could barely hear him over the cheers from the crowd at Keg South.

  “What’s more important, Matt, is I’m not willing to cross these people — not after what happened to Stephen.” Patrick shook his head as he sat back. “Bloody hell! I have a family. I can’t end up the way Stephen did.”

  Matt understood. He didn’t have a family and he still didn’t want to end up like Stephen.

  “So, what was Stephen’s big plan?” Matt finally asked. “Last time I saw him, it sounded like he was working on one.”

  “Well, sort of,” Patrick admitted reluctantly. “He figured he’d expose the whole thing in a big way. This would force them to stop what they’re doing.”

  “And just how was he going to do this?”

  “I spent a couple of weeks developing a program that would get into their system, through the firewalls I was responsible for developing. This was my own bit of malware,” Patrick said smiling proudly. “It would do a couple of things. First, a virus would shut down their program. It would practically paralyze their entire system. Once that was done, the program would access all of their contacts and release some content Stephen had written describing the program and those behind it in great detail.”

  “That sounds great,” said Matt somewhat encouraged.

  “Well, hold the applause, mate,” Patrick cautioned. “There were a couple of challenges. First, my virus would shut down their program only temporarily, just long enough to allow my program to release the articles Stephen had written. Once their program figured out what was going on and went on the offensive, it would destroy my virus and go back to work and search and destroy all the files we’d have released. However, we expected that it would take some time for it to do that, and by then it would be too late. The secret would be exposed. And, once that happened, Stephen figured they would be forced to shut down the system themselves.”

  “Okay, so what were you guys waiting for?” Matt asked. “Why didn’t you just load the virus and shut down the system?”

  “Well, that’s the other challenge. Because I had built some really great firewalls for this company, the program would have to be loaded from the server. The firewalls would block anything foreign coming from the outside.”

  “Okay, so what’s the problem? Where’s the server?” Matt asked impatiently.

  “The servers that store all of this company’s technology and data are located at the headquarters of this company’s parent company.”

  “Okay,” Matt said slowly, still not understanding the challenge.

  “Matt, the PR company is owned by Protegere.”

  Matt groaned.

  Protegere was one of the largest defense contractors in the world. They had developed the type of sophisticated technology and weaponry that had enabled the United States military to be the finest and most advanced in the world. The defense contractor also had as one of its subsidiaries the most powerful private military company in the world. Its professionals were trained to guard diplomats all over the world. They also trained foreign militaries on how to fight wars and entire police forces on how to maintain the peace. Their state-of-the-art weaponry combined with highly skilled mercenaries was a deadly combination.

  Using their government connections, Protegere was able to build a military compound in a remote location in the Florida Everglades over the objections of several environmental groups. There, the company operated a military training camp, where the company’s operatives trained members of the U.S. special forces. Several environmental groups also said the company tested military-grade weapons on the Everglades wetlands. There were occasional complaints from people living in Everglades City of strange noises and lights late at night coming from the general vicinity of the compound. But no one had been able to confirm that and the local authorities were not sympathetic.

  “Jeez,” Matt said looking down and shaking his head. “What the hell was Stephen going to do? “How was he going to get in to load the program?”

  “You know Stephen.” Patrick chuckled. “He had balls larger than anyone I know. He was going to break into the compound.”

  “And you were going to help him?” asked Alex.

  “Oh, no,” Patrick said shaking his head firmly. “I couldn’t help him, even if I wanted to. The security system there is the best. I could get him into the computer system but I couldn’t get him into the facility.”

  “How was Stephen going to get into the facility?” Matt asked.

  “I don’t know,” Patrick said as he finished off his beer. “He took the disk with the virus I created, the one I couldn’t even guarantee would work, and he said he’d ‘take care of it.’”

  Informed now about what they were up against and without a game plan or even a leader, Matt was out of questions. Alex, too, was very quiet. She excused herself to go to the restroom while Matt paid the check. After counting out a generous tip for Dan, Matt turned toward the big Irishman. He sat there quietly now, neither watching the game nor drinking beer any more.

  “Patrick, about that program you developed for Stephen,” Matt began. “Did you by any chance keep a copy for yourself?”

  “Sure, it’s a compilation of some of my best work. I have the program at home.”

  “Can I get a copy of your greatest hits?” Matt asked. “Unsigned, of course.”

  “Aye. I could make you another copy of the disk,” he responded slowly as his eyes narrowed. “But, Matt, what are you going to do with it?”

  “I have no idea, my friend. No freakin’ idea.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BEFORE MATT AND ALEX could work through their next steps, there was something Matt had to do, a place he needed to go. Unfortunately, it was not a place or event Matt went to easily. On the contrary, it was the most difficult thing Matt had ever done. He needed to attend a memorial service for his college friend Yvonne Alfonso, a woman his own age and whose life had been cut tragically short in a white-water rafting accident in North Carolina.

  Yvonne was Cuban-American, born in the United States to parents of Cuban descent. In Miami, Cuban Americans represented more than a third of the local population. They were a strong force in the community, largely responsible for transforming Miami from a beach retirement town to a modern city with a distinct Caribbean flavor. Yvonne was a shining star in the growing Hispanic community. She was bright and articulate and, after only a couple of years of writing obituaries for another paper, had earned a top spot at The Sentinel. There, she began a
regular feature dealing with issues important to first-and second-generation Cuban Americans. Over the years, she had developed quite a loyal following of readers.

  Matt and Yvonne had been close friends during their time at the University of Miami. Both sports enthusiasts, they had started a fantasy football league on campus. While the league became quite successful and the prize for first place substantial, neither one of them really cared about the money. The league was just an excuse to trash talk each other’s players and team performance through the long football season and to give themselves a reason to get together periodically to watch a good game.

  Matt hated funerals, memorial services and any other reminders of lives tragically cut short. Yet here he was, driving back from Yvonne Alfonso’s wake. He hadn’t been looking forward to it, but when he had found out about Yvonne’s accident and called her parents to express his condolences, he had promised Yvonne’s mom he would be there. He and Alex talked about it before and, according to plan, had stayed just long enough to allow Matt to pay his respects. Now they were on their way back to meet Patrick at The Keg before it closed.

  Just as he was pulling out of the funeral home, Matt’s cell phone rang. He saw it was Dana and answered it quickly, hoping for some good news.

  “Matt, we need to talk,” she said without saying hello.

  “We’re talking,” Matt snapped back.

  “In person, Matt.”

  “I can’t right now, Dana. What’s going on?”

  “I got a call from Commissioner Suarez,” she said after a moment. “He asked me what you are doing back in Miami and what you are working on.”

  While Matt and Dana were dating and before Matt had made himself a pariah in the Miami social scene as a result of his encounter with Commissioner Suarez, Dana and Matt had run into the commissioner at many political fundraisers and charity events. Commissioner Suarez had always been kind to Dana, a fellow public servant, as the commissioner liked to say. Matt suspected his kindness had more to do with the fact that her parents were extremely large contributors to his campaigns.

  “What did you tell him?” Matt asked.

  “The truth. As far as I knew you were just getting settled back into town.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “He didn’t buy it. He thinks you’re up to something.”

  “We need to talk about this,” Dana persisted when Matt didn’t respond. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way back from Yvonne Alfonso’s memorial service.”

  “Oh, yeah. I heard about her accident. Matt, I’m sorry.” She paused before continuing. “Where was it held?”

  “In Marco Island. I’m just leaving there now,” Matt replied quickly changing subjects. “Did you find something out about Mo?”

  “I really don’t want to do this over the phone, Matt. Can’t we meet when you get back?”

  “Just tell me what you found out.” Matt looked over and saw Alex watching him. The phone conversation was hard to ignore in the confines of his Jeep.

  Dana didn’t respond.

  “Dana, in about five minutes I’m going to be going through the Everglades and cell phone service will be sketchy. Can you just tell me what you found out? Please.”

  She sighed deeply before beginning. “I heard it from a confidential source that Mo has been sent to Mogadishu for questioning.”

  Matt’s mouth dropped open and for several seconds he couldn’t find any words.

  “Dana, are you saying Mo was picked and shipped off as part of the extraordinary renditioning program?” He finally said.

  “Yes, Matt, that’s what I’m saying.”

  Matt’s stomach clenched. Since 9/11, potential terror suspects were regularly picked up and taken in for interrogation — without any type of trial or legal proceeding and usually to a place that had a higher tolerance for extreme interrogation techniques. Mogadishu, the capital city of Somalia, was one such example. The CIA had a huge operation there, with its own building, hangar and planes. They used the basement as a secret prison to get information out of suspected terrorists they had snatched up from all over the world.

  Taking them off U.S. soil and denying any activities of this kind left the agency free to use “extraordinary rendition,” otherwise known as torture, to get information out of the prisoners. Some said it was great way to get valuable information. Others noted that people would confess to just about anything to stop torture. Either way, President Obama had promised to shut down all the CIA “black sites,” but many of them were still open and running.

  “Dana, you’ve got to stop this.”

  “Are you kidding? I have no idea how to get him out of there — I’m not even supposed to know he’s there.”

  “We need to meet, Matt,” Dana continued when Matt didn’t respond. “We need to figure out how we’re going to handle this.”

  Matt paused and thought about his plans to meet Patrick at the Keg later than evening. “I have something I need to do first. I’ll call you afterwards.”

  “What do you have to do, Matt? What could possibly be more important than helping Mo?” Dana said harshly.

  “I’ll call you back and we’ll figure this out.”

  “Matt-”

  Matt punched the disconnect button and tossed the phone onto the center console. He looked over and saw Alex staring at him, eyebrows raised. Matt didn’t say anything as he turned his eyes back to the road. But his mind was whirring. He couldn’t help but think about Mo. And renditioning. And torture.

  Matt left Marco Island and headed back toward Miami. Marco Island is a large barrier island located off the coast of southwest Florida. In order to get back to Miami, which was almost directly due East, Matt needed to travel across the state of Florida through the Everglades, the subtropical wetlands that covers much of the southern portion of the Florida peninsula. Over the years, the boundary between the protected wetlands and the Miami suburbs had become blurred and Tamiami Trail, the road running through the Florida Everglades, was one example of that. Although the highway linked two major cities, the drive was about as rural as you could get. Nothing to see for miles but grassy wetlands and the alligators that frequented the waterways beside the road and often sunned themselves on the road.

  Running along Tamiami Trail and throughout the Everglades were canals constructed in the early part of the twentieth century to prevent flooding in lowlying areas, especially during the summer months of heavy rain and tropical storms. The system was working overtime this week. The canals were swollen from two days of heavy rain and the black-top was slick from the torrent which continued to beat down on it.

  Matt looked down at his watch and noticed they would need to hurry to catch Patrick. Fortunately, at this time of night and on this particularly lonely stretch of highway, the only other car on the street was the one behind them. Matt still didn’t know Patrick’s last name or telephone number and had no idea how he would reach him if he missed him at the bar. He pressed on the accelerator. The old Jeep responded immediately.

  “How are you holding up, Matt?” Alex asked.

  “I’m fine,” Matt said looking over. She was staring at him skeptically. So he gave her a tight smile. “Really,” Matt confirmed.

  Matt could feel Alex watching him, as if waiting for him to say something else. He continued to focus on the road ahead. After a few moments, she pulled out her cell phone and began thumbing away.

  Matt checked the rearview mirror. The car behind them hadn’t fallen back when he’d accelerated and was very close behind — too damn close. Judging from the position of the headlights, it was an SUV. He hated tailgaters, especially when it was raining. He shot another glance at the rearview mirror and noticed what looked like two male figures in the front seats. If the roads hadn’t been so wet, he would have tapped on the brakes to send a message.

  A moment later he had to slow down as they approached a sharp curve in the road, but he saw that the SUV didn’t follow suit. He look
ed away when high beams filled his rearview mirror.

  “Idiots,” he muttered.

  Just then, the SUV struck the car from behind. The impact pushed them against their shoulder restraints, but Matt held the wheel steady.

  “What the hell?” Alex said turning to look back.

  “Dammit!” Matt said as he slowed down, intending to pull over onto the muddy right shoulder of the road. “We don’t have time for this.”

  He briefly checked the rearview mirror and then did a double take as he saw the SUV right on his tail. They were not slowing down.

  “Oh, shit!” He braced himself just as the vehicle slammed into the back of the Jeep again.

  Alex screamed.

  “Alex, hang on!” He slammed the gearshift into second and stomped on the gas pedal. The Jeep slid on the slick shoulder. The tires spun uselessly as they failed to gain traction. Then finally, the tires connected with the pavement and the Jeep leapt forward. Back on the road, Matt struggled with the steering wheel, the Jeep slewing dangerously on the wet pavement.

  “What’s going on?” Alex shouted.

  Matt pulled away from the car behind them and raced around a curve.

  “Apparently the idiot behind us is not very happy with us,” Matt responded. He narrowed his eyes, alternating between the piss-poor view of the road ahead and the black monster behind them. Rain pelted the windshield as the wipers struggled to keep up.

  Matt braced himself as he saw the vehicle move in again. This time, he was prepared for the impact but he caught a glimpse of Alex being roughly thrown forward before the seatbelt jerked her back to the seat.

  A yellow sign indicated they were approaching another curve in the road. There was no slowing down. The SUV was right on his ass. Damn, Matt thought. We’re approaching too fast. He glanced over at Alex. With the fingers of one hand gripping the dashboard and the other clenched tightly around her seatbelt, she was staring straight ahead. As they took another hit and Alex flew forward again, Matt realized the Jeep wasn’t going to make the turn.

  He slammed on the brakes, felt pressure for a moment and then nothing. They were riding a swell of water along the slick asphalt. He downshifted and started pumping the brake pedal, but it was too late and there wasn’t enough road. The Jeep slid off the road, planed across the wet grass and crashed through the steel guardrail, continuing its wild ride through some high saw grass and down a slight embankment. Finally, the Jeep crashed into the canal. A thick stream of water sprayed over the windshield. The lights went out and they were plunged into darkness just as the driver’s side air bag exploded in Matt’s face, pushing his head back against the headrest and taking his breath away.