"Stranger things have happened. Something else. I don't know if this is company policy, but he's got a whole series of files and documents that are individually protected, like each one has its own firewall. We're not going to crack them. The passwords are long and they're set on exponential retry, maybe even with duel factor authentication."
"I agree that would be tough going."
"But the file titles are interesting. They are all short one or two word names, which feel like code names for different projects. So I think we have a list of Barry's portfolio, or an approximate list. They’re names like Window Dressing, Changer, Gungadin, and so on. Here's one that will interest you: Amputation."
Biggie strokes his chin and nods for Ari to go on.
"So besides college reunion stuff and so on, there is a file of recently read books and a few notes on what he's read. A lot of it is garbage, like a note on a book called The Fox in the Attic: 'who knew people still used words like arrant and palfrey when they wrote.' You know, erudite crap like that. And another is a note on Dostoyevsky…."
"So come to the point."
"He's also reading stuff on a potential conflict between China and Russian in Far East Asia." It's right here. Ari takes back the report he has prepared for Biggie. "Barry has a quote from a book The Coming Conflict in Far East Asia by one R.C. Andropov: 'Many people in China still believe Vladivostok is a Chinese city. With the size of their army and growing military strength in the region, there could be a deft AMPUTATION of the peninsula and Vladivostok with it.' He's got more notes about resources, populations, the potential effect of global warming, and so on."
"There has to be more to it than some quotes from one book."
"Yeah, some of it's in the document I prepared. More material from other books, and some papers that someone else seems to have prepared. But I'm guessing most of it is in the files we haven't hacked."
"Well, this is all very interesting. Good work."
"There's more, Biggie. He has notes, what appear to be his own and stuff from other people, on Russian naval bases in the Baltic. He seems especially interested in material on Crimea and the Russian naval base at Sevastopol."
"So put it all together as you see it."
Ari pauses and tries to read Biggie's face for clues. "So Barry is the operative for something. And what UVL does best is facilitate the deals of others. They are not basically boots-on-the-ground folks. I think what we found jives with other information we have been seeing from our other sources: UVL is brokering a transfer of money from one party to another, something that the parties want to fly under the radar. And whatever it is, it's called Amputation and best guess is it has something to do with the Russian Far East and maybe Crimea. That's my best guess."
Biggie plays his cards close to his vest. "Let's suppose you're correct. Most likely it means A is sending money to B to do something that they want to keep undercover. Maybe attack or disrupt the Russian fleet in the Far East or Mediterranean."
"Something like that," Ari says.
Biggie thinks Ari's deduction is on the money. In fact, he knows from other sources that he's more or less correct. He probes a little more: "Well, I'm not really so interested in who wants to do what to whom, except as it helps us. And we both smell dough-re-me. And you've got spyware and malware installed?"
"Yeah," Ari says.
"Seems simple enough to me," Biggie concludes. "So let me share a little more with you. Stuff I've been getting out of Tel Aviv. There's a real opportunity for us." After he has shared what he knows with Ari, he says, "We have to be sure that Amputation is the correct code name, figure out how much is being transferred and when and how to divert it. We need two things: that we get the money and the intended recipients don't get it. Those are two separate things, but related. So keep close tabs on Barry's electronic activity and let me know."
"One more thing." Ari says. "We can take a gamble. I can't crack all those files. No one has the time and expertise for that, but we might get lucky if we focus on Amputation. It will take time. I'll put Zev and Daniel on it."
25.
Sammy wakes up late, hung over a little from the Elijah Craig, but overall not feeling so bad. He's whistling as he scoots about the place and glad for another long shower and a shave. He's still a little shaky as he dresses, but he liked Ferndale's. It was comfortable and he liked the vibe and buzz from the bourbon.
He's got several problems, but if he can get a leg up solving them, why not visit with his good friend Elijah again tonight? And maybe he could turn the tables on the Icelandic bartender, put him in his place. He knows this is off script. He needs to lay low, but what's wrong with a little fun every now and then?
And he really does see solutions to his problems. Make a list and knock things off one at a time. The first is a little dicey. He's short of cash, and he's been locked out by Barry and his father. He decides to invoke Sutton's law: go where the money is. And like the famous bank robber, his money is in the bank.
It's a bit of a risk he knows. What if Barry and the geezer left his place in Navasota a mess and the cops are all over it? Then he thinks: forget them. He left a dead feral ping in the sink. He checks a regional news feed and the Houston and Navasota papers online. As best he can tell, it's quiet. He not sure why, but he'll take it. If the pig is rotting in the sink, no one can smell it. He dresses neatly and before noon Sean Abernathy and a large briefcase are in the Navasota branch of Angstrom National.
He would like to get into his safety deposit box, he tells the teller. Sean Abernathy shows his license and his bankcard and types in his password. He holds up his key. The teller looks up from his screen and explains there is a hold on his account. Abernathy says that he understands, but before he goes into Houston to the regional office downtown, he needs to take care of a few things. The teller's not sure. "Perhaps, I can talk with Mr. Hendricks."
Mr. Hendricks comes out and greets Mr. Abernathy. They've met a number of times. Sammy has been in and out every other week or so putting cash-filled envelopes in his box. At first Mr. Hendricks is reluctant to intervene. Still, Abernathy's argument is persuasive. There is a hold on his checking and savings accounts because someone may be trying to access them remotely, but the safety deposit box is another matter. "I'm here in person with my key, and you know me." The argument sounds reasonable to Hendricks, and he gives the okay. Abernathy is alone in the vault, and he loads the envelopes into his briefcase. He wonders if there is video surveillance, and he's glad that what he's removing is envelopes. In no time, he's out the door and on his way to Houston.
He calls Biggie. "Just checking in to see how things are." Biggie is not interested in sharing how things are with a potential fuckup who reports to him. He likes to compartmentalize his projects. No sense in sharing what doesn't need to be shared. When Biggie doesn't answer, Sammy asks how things went at Lenny's house.
"Tell me how I can help you," is all Sammy gets back.
"So I'm gearing up," Sammy says. "I left the girl yesterday morning at a motel in San Marcos. I'm sure she's been found by now."
"Is she okay or do we have problems?"
"She's fine. At least she was when I left her. I'm going to take the day to get organized, and tomorrow I'll go to work on the NAFRA stuff full time. Any problems with that?"
Just now, Biggie has other problems. "No problem at all as long as you deliver."
"One more thing," Sammy says, "I haven't seen Fareed and he doesn't pick up his cell. What's up?"
"Fareed is on extended leave…." The connection goes dead.
Sammy wonders if the length of his leave is three score years and ten. Biggie will come round when I get him the stuff, but I need a few days to reintegrate.
It's midafternoon by the time Samuel Anderson goes into the university and sits at his desk. He's passed a few fellow students on the way in, but no one asks him about the fire or where he's been. In the self-absorbed world of science and technology, nerds are like zombies passing in the night. People no
d—and every so often someone smiles—but they are in their own interior worlds. It's almost as if he's never left.
He sits down and looks around his cubicle: beyond the large monitor there is little. His lab notebooks, as is the custom, may not leave the lab and must be locked away at night. So the gray pushpin-friendly fabric holds only a series of bland notices: a flyer for a miniseries on how to write and prepare a master's thesis, another listing dates when industry recruiters will be visiting the campus, and menus for his favorite pizza and burger joints. And that's it. No family pictures, no sweetheart, no picture of Ultimate Frisbee players hoisting beers. It would be hard to conclude much about the occupant of this cubicle.
He logs in, and voilià he's set. And so is M2's friend Zoo in university net security. He sees the activity and texts her via T218: He's in and on.
She's incommunicado and doesn't see it in real time. It occurs to Sammy that Lenny and Barry don't know where his safe house is, but they can certainly find him in the BME building at the university. Change of plan. He uses the intranet to ask his advisor, Professor Bessnager, if he can stop by for a moment. That would be fine. Come now, Bessnager writes back. He has a meeting later on, but he's got a few minutes.
When Sammy arrives, Michael Bessnager follows standard procedure: he turns off his computer. He's been working on highly classified NAFRA material behind a firewall. The sixty-year-old with the steel-gray crew cut never takes chances. No sense in having his computer and his material beyond the last firewall open and unprotected. He doesn't know Sammy well. He is only one of his advisees, a guy from Fresno, he remembers, who wants to finish up a masters and find a job in private industry.
"So, how's it going, Sammy?" He is general. He's not sure what's going on in the young man's life.
"Fine, Dr. Bessnager, I wanted to come by for a second and say that I'm okay."
Bessnager's face says, Well, why wouldn't you be okay.
"I was away when the fire broke out at our place, and I lost personal stuff. But I'm squared away."
Now it comes back to Bessnager. He's the kid whose apartment burned down while he was away skiing. "I'm glad you're okay and back in the saddle."
Sammy can't place his aloofness. Is he distracted, indifferent, or clueless about him and his project? Distracted, he decides. He's not a multitasker. "Remember the last time we talked, I said that I was going to work on my thesis from home? I've got the data I think I need, and I'm going to get you a draft of the thesis soon and then maybe an article."
Bessnager smiles a generic smile. "Sounds good, Sammy. Is there anything else I can help you with this afternoon?"
"No, I just thought I should come by in person to chat since I've been gone. I wanted you to know that I'm hard at work."
"I'm sure you are.…"
"Thank you. I've got to run." Sammy stands in the uncluttered office. A place for everything and everything in its place, he thinks. "Bye-bye."
Once out the door and headed back to his desk, he remembers what a cool customer the professor is. He doesn't give much away. You'd never know that he's the brains behind the NAFRA project, the guy who figured out how to target cells in the prefrontal cortex with toxin-laden nanoparticles. If the technology works, you can kiss—executive decisions goodbye. The professor's discovery could put anyone out of business, and the poor slob would be none the wiser. Imagine world leaders or CEOs, or government secret agents or Russian agents subtlety compromised. Sammy gets off on the idea that he could deliver this game-changing technology to the right people. His people.
The secret to success, he knows, is stealth. He's got to remain invisible to the outside world. He's sure people—meaning Barry and Lenny—are on to him, but he doesn't know what they know. They closed the account at Angstrom National to taunt him, to get under his skin. So going online in the usual way is a problem, but one he can solve. The other problem is the internal NAFRA firewall and perhaps a third project-specific one behind that. He's got no idea how he's going to get in and out electronically without being caught.
What the hell. It's been a good day's work. He's got some money, he's checked things out in the BME building, and now he's going to follow through on his pledge to Elijah Craig and try Ferndale's again. He likes it as a place to unwind—out of the way, that's the important thing. And if he shows up a little later, the nosy bartender from Iceland will be occupied. And should he come by, he'll counterpunch.
When he arrives, Sammy's lucky. He gets the last empty stool.
"What can I get you?" Travis asks. Sammy hesitates, maybe not the Elijah Craig again. He looks at the list of beers on tap and then at the challenging array of bottles in front of the mirror. Travis drums his fingers. "Look, we're busy tonight. Out with it or I've got to come back."
"Elijah Craig, water, ice."
He's got a dollar in his pocket, and he's more or less square with biomedical engineering and the university. If he doesn't show at the Angstrom regional office downtown, well, that's Sean Abernathy's problem. And let Biggie deal with the aftermath of the dead pig. It's his place and his sink for Christ sake. And after he brings home the goods, whatever Biggie finds out about him and his manufacturing and sales venture will seem trivial. He takes a long tug on his drink. Keep a low profile, he reminds himself.
He orders some calamari to nibble and another Elijah Craig. It's Travis who takes his order. Damn where is that dude? He decides he'll grill the so-called Icelander. He doesn't believe anyone from Iceland would choose a climate like Houston's. He's an impostor, a German maybe. He'll rag him about not having a work visa. Get under his skin. He keeps looking for the guy, and eventually he motions Travis over. "Where's the other guy tonight, the one with the accent?"
This is Sammy's lucky day in a way he can't imagine: "Oh, Snorri's not here. It's his night off."
26.
Lenny and company are lying low in the UVL-secure site in Wentfalter Trace. It's tough. They're active people, not contemplative by nature. He has started The Canterbury Tales. It's something he's been meaning to read since he met Abigail Lubeck at Ferndale's a few years back. She was visiting from Boston with her granddaughter. The encounter led to two nights of rollicking storytelling among strangers. It was Abigail's idea to imagine the group as Chaucer's pilgrims. It's a modern English translation, and he's surprised he finds it so engaging. He begins to chuckle. He has come upon the fact that the wife of Bath rides a palfrey, a word he learned when a high school English teacher was prepping his class for the college boards. He hasn't thought of the word in a thousand years. "Hey, listen to this," he calls out to Barry and M2, and he explains his find.
Barry's been busy in an encrypted email exchange with his boss at UVL. He looks up and says, "Yeah, I recently came upon it when I was reading Richard Hughes' The Fox in the Attic." Thanks to Ari's thoroughness, Lenny, Barry and Biggie along with M2 now share a little common culture, though Lenny and Barry don't know about Biggie. For the moment, he's the guy with the black SUVs and the muscle.
Lenny isn't done. He insists on telling them that the wife of Bath thought women should have mastery over their husbands, "This in middle English six hundred years ago." Barry isn't sure what to make of this information. M2 ponders the idea.
Portia is not yet up. She has spent the morning in bed. When Lenny came in with coffee about eight, she waved him away. She's drained from the ordeal Sammy has put her though, but her mind is clear. Most likely, She's been spared the post-anesthetic effects of the ketamine. The red blotch is fading from her check.
Finally, she is out of bed and looks in the bathroom mirror. She emits a long soft oooohhh, by which she means that she doesn't look good, but it's nothing that time won't heal. She brushes her teeth, working her way carefully around her bruised lip, fixes her hair, and emerges in the powder blue turtleneck and black pants that M2 threw into a bag for her last night. Lenny and the others applaud.
Portia looks at father and son and gives them one of the mock dismissive looks that
women reserve for men bonding over football or hunting, but secretly she thinks it's nice. Lenny slips back into the fourteenth century as easily as a dolphin dips back into the sea.
Portia feels alert enough to read and picks up Jennifer Weiner's All Fall Down from the coffee table—again, it's something M2 has retrieved on her sweep through Lenny's place. She puts it back down. She's liking the book okay. She can do chick lit, and Weiner is widely acclaimed, but she's more of a heavy-duty reader. She has not heard the palfrey exchange, but she's intuitive, especially about Lenny, and she thinks he looks content.
Lenny may have plunged into the waves, but M2 is the one at sea. She is a ferocious competitor and her area is the net. It's too risky to try to monitor her company's cyber-security at a distance, and, besides, UVL won't permit it. She can't very well snoop or hack—she runs the risk of detection and counterattack. What she'd like to do is read her favorite sites like Hacker News and Hackaday online. She understands her predicament precisely: she feels like a hamster denied an exercise wheel.
Barry is moving the ball forward for the team and UVL. He's been cleaning up business on some of his old assignments and getting ready to tee up some new ones. They are some of the uncrackable folders Ari found on his laptop. Barry and his boss have spent their energy this afternoon on two in particular: Lemur Full Stop and Dry Creek. When M2 asks him what's he's so engaged in, he makes the tired joke that if he tells her, he'll have to kill her, but then he adds: "That's the last thing in the world I like to do right now." She feels the frisson. They both do.
Mostly the conversation is about Amputation. Both he and his boss know that the weakly protected material on his personal laptop is toast. Fortunately, there's not much there, other than the books he's reading, and those and his notes could be anybody's. Except they aren't. They are his. Biggie and Ari, his unknown assailants, are players and are well on the way to taking down Operation Amputation. Barry and the boss have not fully appreciated their deductive talent. What they've realized before, but not given sufficient weight to, is the tie between Sammy and his minder.
The Nano-Thief: A Lenny D. Novel (Lenny. D. Novels Book 1) Page 14