The Nano-Thief: A Lenny D. Novel (Lenny. D. Novels Book 1)

by Michael Lieberman

  NAFRA was funding the research. Nothing unusual there. NAFRA funded basic research at many universities that might be of interest to Defense. What interested Sammy, as his FDU friends called Samuel Anderson, and Biggie was not cancer therapy. Down a locked corridor and behind an IT firewall, secret research was being conducted at FDU. Scientists and biomedical engineers had all but perfected ways of delivering toxins to the neurons of the brain's prefrontal cortex.

  If the technology worked, assassins could impair the judgment of victims, and the degree of impairment could be titrated according to the goals of the attacker. It did not take a great deal of imagination to see the value of the technology to Defense—and to foreign governments and NGOs of a certain kind. When operational, it would make the polonium poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko, the former Russian security officer, look crude. Done correctly, a nanoattack would be all but untraceable and the victim could be dispatched or left in place with his impaired judgment.

  Navasota had been a good choice for a hideaway, Sammy thought, a sleepy town on the way to College Station with not much going on, picturesque with a small industrial sector, and, oh yes, several banks. Now he was fine for cash, but eventually Sean Abernathy—who thanks to the good care he received in the ER had pretty much recovered from his burns—would need access to his safety deposit box. Yes, Navasota was perfect—quiet and out of the way with good access to Houston when needed. He didn't anticipate any trips to FDU until he was ready, but proximity counted. Now he was shacked up alone with his laptop, but he could be in the action in Houston in an hour, an hour-thirty tops. Not to be overlooked: a strong gun culture. It was always open season on feral pigs, and the woods were alive with more than the sound of music.

  10.

  Lenny was not one to let grass grow under his feet. At breakfast, he convinced Barry, not that he needed much convincing, to call UVL and explain that he would work remotely this morning. "Let's go see what's what at the…" he searched for the right word, "crime scene."

  The charred ruins of the three apartments were now behind a temporary fence, fitted with canvas siding. The gates were locked, but loosely so, and the two had no trouble slipping through. They were shocked. So little was left of the place Barry had called home for two years: heaps of ash and masonry, twisted metal, and a macabre collection of charred furnishings and fixtures.

  Tears welled up in Barry: this was all that remained of his former life. He tried to suppress Edie and the baby's last terrible moments. The heat and the terror must have been unbearable. He hoped they didn't suffer. Then the guilt: if he had been there, it might have ended differently. He was correct. Three people instead of two would have died. It was hard to grasp that this part of his life was lost forever, not even her scent on a dress or a sweater remained. All of it, utterly lost.

  "Jesus, we know life is problematic, subject to change without notice, but when it happens to you…." He began crying and he turned away. Finally he got hold of himself. "Let's go to work. I owe Edie and my son."

  They weren't sure what they were looking for or what to collect. They walked the perimeter. Perhaps there was a scorched five-gallon can for gasoline or kerosene or even a drum for flammables. They looked for evidence of a crater that might mark the site of an explosion. Then eureka. Out back, they found a torched motor scooter. Barry wiped away the soot from the logo. "Vespa" was still visible.

  "Can you make out the license plate?"

  "Yeah, it's a Michigan plate," and Barry snapped a picture.

  "That's it. It's over. We can gather evidence for the chemical analysis, but I think we know what we're dealing with. My friend Snorri tracked the barista on a Vespa with Michigan plates from the Starbucks to the FDU Campus. Sammy A. is curly-haired and dark, just like the guy you described. Has to be the same guy. No amount of chemical analysis will change my mind one way or the other."

  They took scrapings and splinters from the charred wood and rubbings from the twisted metal and concrete. They cut small swatches of upholstery and bits of a dress, which, thank God, Barry did not recognize. Everything got put into small plastic bags for Snorri to send. There was no sign of the fire department. They must be done, they decided, and, if the FDU Campus Police had the place under surveillance, it was very sporadic.

  Almost as an afterthought, Barry wanted to have one last look. He climbed atop a pile of rubble, looking here and there, not seeing anything of interest. It seemed to be a waste of time. Then at the edge of it he saw what looked some sort of metal container. "Dad, come help me with this."

  Soon the two uncovered what must have been a metal cabinet. It was badly burned, but they could make out a some flecks of yellow paint on the underside and a few dabs of brown. Barry scraped what he could into two small plastic bags. "I have no idea what this thing is. Who keeps a metal cabinet in a house? A gun cabinet, perhaps, maybe some sort of safe or fireproof storage for important papers?" He took some pictures and was about to walk away. What's this? He saw a model number or a serial number stamped into the metal near the bottom. He snapped a picture. Then he spit on the number and wiped away the grime with his handkerchief. The new picture was clearer. Odd, he thought, I have a model number for something I don't recognize.

  They squeezed through the gates again without being observed. On the way back, Lenny repeated this thoughts, "The Vespa clinches it for me. Whatever the cause of the fire, to a first approximation, it's immaterial. We have what the British call a 'runner.' Sammy A. is a runner, and we have very little to go on. Maybe you as Edie's partner—and you were practically the tenant yourself—maybe you can wheedle out of FDU the names of the two guys. The university may think this is an open and shut affair, but we have to find this guy Sammy or whoever he is."

  "It's different for me," Barry said. "We'll get their names one way or another. The cabinet is the key. It's the only remote hope we have—unless we get very lucky with the samples—of figuring out that these guys were doing. The only hard, physical evidence we may ever get to make charges of any sort stick. I'm determined one way or another to see justice for the murder of Edie and Leon."

  Out of the blue, Lenny gets a text: hey hotshot how about a drink so i can figure out who you are em.

  He decides at once that em is Emma Meripol. He texts back, Sure, how about today at 5 at Corky's?

  u got it.

  He is curious. Who is the undersized redhead in the oversized Lexus? He knows he should let it pass, but something tells him to be open to new possibilities. Besides, he's free. Barry has gone back to San Francisco for yet one more meeting with the hedge fund guys. Who knew a hotel could be so interesting or require so much negotiation? Maybe the return was much greater than Lenny suspected. What, maybe the land? Portia is occupied with one of her endless string of sales meetings. Would she mind? Well, having a drink with someone, even a dynamite package, was not a betrayal. Yet it could lead to that. Careful, careful. He had Samantha, Wendy, Connie, and Rebecca to remind him of the dangers of the roving eye.

  Emma is already at a table near the bar when he walks in. One step ahead of me, he thinks, not realizing that this is a harbinger of their developing relationship. She will always be one step ahead and better at anticipating his needs than he is.

  He wastes no time. "You're a clever one, you are. Take a guy's card and slip away without leaving your own or a phone number. Is this your standard MO or was it a heat of the moment thing? Don't answer. I know it's number two."

  "As a matter of fact, as someone like you already knows, it's the MO. Girls can't be too careful even in a line at Starbucks. I mulled things over before deciding. I'd bite and see what an almost-long-in-the-tooth ex-securities trader does with his time."

  "Ouch, that hurt."

  "Sorry, I mean the dashing swashbuckler in jeans and a fleece who was ahead of me in line."

  "More like it. I had the same thought. I wanted to know more about the undersized woman with the oversized smile in the oversized Lexus. Red or white or somethin
g stronger?"

  "Bourbon neat, for a start."

  "Two Maker's Mark, neat," he told the waiter.

  "Lady gets to open. Give me the elevator speech and a little more."

  "Okay, I came here from Slovenia at four." She gave him a look that said, No really, where are you from? "I was raised here, in the Memorial area, went to UT where I was a math major. You heard a bit of this the other day. I started out as a broker, a customer's man, but I had a taste for risk and a good grasp of probability. I mean I'm no Nassim Taleb…"

  "Few of us are and lucky for that."

  "Anyway, I'm pretty good. Soon I was trading for the firm—securities, equities mostly, but some commodities too. I made enough money to quit, and like Taleb I took a bow and exited. After that, it's pretty much what you see is what you get." He took a long tug on the bourbon.

  "So what do you think about black swans and fat tails?"

  "Why is a software analyst, probably someone concerned with network security, lobbing me a meatball?"

  "Better to be lobbed one than to be one."

  "What do I think about fat tails—that improbable events are more probable than we realize? They exist and they're scary as hell unless you're alert for them. Then they can be a tremendous opportunity."

  "Just checking. So where do you think they come from?"

  "You get one more of these, and then I'm going to punch a pushy lady. Where do they come from? Look, many real life events are not described by Gaussian distributions—the standard bell shaped curve."

  "For example?"

  "Jesus, lady, give it up."

  "For example…." She drummed her fingers on the table. A Cheshire cat smile came over her face.

  "Consider plotting the distribution of the dwell time of the combined action of the hour and minute hands of a clock over a twelve-hour period, 720 minutes." He did not elaborate. He didn't have to. The distribution was a flat line. Each point occurred only once in 12 hours. He was enjoying the sparing. It felt like foreplay with a Mensa member. "Okay, little lady, put up."

  "That's pretty good, even for a young fogey. So, I hate Emma. It's a stupid generational thing—Emma Watson, Emma Stone, Emma Roberts. How my parents, two bright academic physicians, went with the herd is beyond me. So my friends have picked up on the Miracle Meripol bit—it's a long story. They call me MM, or sometimes M2. And the rest: I'm a genetic mongrel, an ex-Protestant, who went to fancy schools and did well."

  "You make it sound so appealing."

  She laughed. "I like a guy with a sense of humor. Anyway, I've got a Ph.D. in CS from Carnegie Mellon, and I'm head of security for a local firm with tentacles around the world."

  "So you keep the bad guys out and let the good guys in.

  "Something like that."

  He was intrigued. More than he wanted to be. He was sitting at Corky's drinking a second bourbon, talking probability and fighting a hard on. Young, much too young. Use, don't abuse, he told himself. "You in a relationship?"

  "Depends what you mean. Yes, if you mean do I have lots of local friends and a network around the world. No, if you mean do I have a boyfriend. I do have one solid bud from way back, but that's another story."

  "I hoped that would be the answer," Lenny said. She frowned. "No, not for me, but I have a son, who's a lot smarter than I am. He just lost his significant other and his infant son in a fire. Right now he's devastated. He's not ready. But…down the line, we'll see. Look, is this TMI, as the kids say?"

  "No, it's good. Tell me."

  He ordered two more bourbons and told her the whole story, omitting no detail—Sammy, the white powder, the fire, the uncomfortable scene with Naavah Ben David/Mrs. Babcock at Starbucks, and then later when he found Sammy there in bandages one day and gone the next.

  She listened, and to her credit did not once interrupt him. It was a sad story, she said. A deeply sad story, a shit story, a hurt that would never go away. "You have my deepest condolences. My heart goes out to you and your son. These out-of-the-blue, unexpected losses are the worst—they are truly black swans. No time for preparation. A step function. Your family's there and then it's not.

  "Thank you. I didn't mean to burden you, but I guess it is on my mind. Once I got started, it just poured out."

  "The universe is a shit place. We deal with probability as we can. But I might be able to help you change the odds." He raised his eyebrows. "Don't look surprised. People like me often have other lives. My day job is to keep bad guys out, but that means I know all their tricks. So sometimes…" She let her voice trail off. "So I'm actually pretty good at these things. That's what I meant earlier. The MM thing. I don't mean to be immodest, and I don't usually tell strangers, but MM or M2 is a tongue-in-cheek tribute—I'm wicked good at hacking."

  "I'll be damned. Scratch a beauty and unleash a beast."

  "But a friendly beast, which could be on your side."

  "What am I asking of you? How hard is all of this?"

  "Depends on what we find." she said. "I'm sure we can figure out who Sammy A is and where he is. The rest depends. Whether or not your family receives the justice it deserves, I can't say. FDU, the police, the fire department aren't going to be much help. They're busy with their own priorities, and when push comes to shove, they're vested in protecting their own interests. So don't be surprised. Still, it's worth a try."

  "Is there a downside?"

  She pushed back her chair and looked at him, this earnest, genial guy whom she had texted. And, oh yes, Let's not forget smart. She leveled her gaze as if to say, are you sure you want the answer? She tugged on her bourbon for courage and shifted her weight forward.

  "Good question. Yeah, of course. There's a good chance if this guy is a pro or working with pros or into something we don't yet understand that there will be retaliation, maybe only trivial but maybe severe. It could even get physical. I can do this, but I want to be clear up front: there may be, ah, unpleasant consequences."

  He nodded in agreement. "Okay, I probably don't really understand, but I'm in. I don't have to think any more about it. But I have to make sure Barry and Portia are in too."

  "Portia?"

  "My girlfriend."

  MM gave him a mock frown and put her tongue in her cheek. "Shucks, I was hoping to have you and your son all to myself…. Sorry, too much levity. You have all been through a lot. Sometimes I'm too quick for my good."

  "And sometimes the good quickens when the cause is just."

  "A bon juste and a bon mot."

  Instinct told Lenny that he should be glad to have her as an ally, or a potential ally. He would check with Barry. He figured she would not let them down, and beyond that, he knew he would never best her in an argument.

  11.

  Barry might have imagined that he would do a deal someday with Faraday and Klastan, but never one that skated so close to the edge. These guys were silk stocking hedge funds types. He had flown out to San Francisco one more time, an unnecessary trip in his estimation, to meet with them.

  Now he waited for them at a seafood restaurant on Fisherman's Wharf. The collaborative project was known simply as Amputation. The code name meant nothing to him initially. Not surprising, he thought: in his experience names often were opaque. They were teasers. If you were on the inside they made perfect sense, and if not, you scratched you head. He and UVL had a small, but lucrative piece: they were to transfer funds from Chinese investors to purchase a San Francisco office building only a few miles from where he sat. The routing was much more labyrinthine, but that was it in a nutshell.

  From the first the deal puzzled him. The assets being moved were at least four times what the comps said the hotel was worth. When he had raised it with Klastan the last time he was out—just before Edie and Leon were burned alive—Klastan had smiled and said, "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." A syndicate of Chinese investors wanted the property and was willing to pay top dollar. In order to avoid undo attention, Faraday and Klastan wanted UVL to tran
sfer money from accounts in Tbilisi—the capital of Georgia, he remembered—to a U.S. firm.

  Barry did his due diligence on the firm and turned up nothing. Only that it was known as WHV. It had no web presence. It was not listed on any stock exchange, and discrete inquiries revealed that no one he knew on Wall Street or in the VC world had heard of them. When the time was right, Faraday said, he would provide the proper account numbers for the transfer.

  "So WHV," he asked Klastan, "I can't find anything on them. You want to tell me more?"

  "There's nothing more to tell, but I will share one amusing bit. I don't think it will hurt. WHV stands for Warthog Ventures. But don't bother to look. There is nothing to find."

  When Barry checked with his boss at UVL, he told him not to worry. The project had clearance at the highest level. He should go forward. That's all he needed to know. His piece was substantial, his boss reminded him.

  Now Barry sat waiting for the two hedge fund guys and looking out over the waterfront that had been so romantic when he and Edie had visited. All of San Francisco seemed wonderful, even parts with mixed histories like Alcatraz, the Presidio, and Chinatown. His memories of Edie saddened him. He hoped this trip was an in-and-out affair. Get the details set and head home.

  Faraday and Klastan arrived looking more like Silicon Valley types than bankers. Open dress shirts, jeans, one in a pair of running shoes and one other wearing Gucci crocodile loafers. And two sport coats for warmth.

  "What will it be?" Klastan asked, motioning a waiter over.

  "I think I'm in for Perrier and lime tonight," which Klastan ordered for him along with a Primer Cru French red for Faraday and himself.