by Rick Mofina
“Veyda?” Seth was concerned.
Veyda was transfixed by her father’s video, staring at the monitor as she spoke to it.
“I have a right. What he did. What he took from me. I have a right.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? We have to get going to catch our flight.”
Another chime sounded on Seth’s laptop, followed by a second.
“People are tweeting links to the video, Veyda. This one says, ‘Hope this sad dad finds his daughter.’”
Veyda’s face hardened.
“I am not his daughter and he is not my father. My parents are dead to me. You know what to do, Seth. Do it. Then shut it all down and pack it up. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
Fifty-Two
Linthicum, Maryland
Down a labyrinth of corridors within the secured confines of the Defense Cyber Crime Center, Keith Dorling pursued his prey.
For the past few days he’d been struggling to identify the source of the potential threat arising from the Zarathustra emails.
The sophistication and artistry employed by the sender to cloak and preserve their anonymity was astounding. Dorling had followed the mazelike trail to servers around the globe.
His pulse raced when the path took a troubling turn to the Shanghai headquarters of the Chinese military’s infamous Unit 68416. Dorling had feared the sender would be linked to signals intelligence, that the origin was a hostile action by a foreign government.
But he kept digging and soon he’d discovered China was merely a decoy; the trail bounced off satellites to domains used to control malware in Iran and the United Arab Emirates.
Now he saw that the sender had become complacent.
Didn’t think anyone would last this long on your tail, did you?
His target’s attempt to keep their identity secret had unraveled. After the trail left Dubai, Dorling tracked it with ease to Libya, then Bermuda, and finally...
“Bingo!”
He reached for his phone and called FBI Special Agent Ron Sanchez with the Joint Terrorism Task Force, who answered on the first ring.
“Sanchez?”
“Ron, Dorling at DC3. I’ve got Zarathustra and an IP address. It’s here in the US. You better move fast to get warrants.”
Fifty-Three
California
The words “Kate Page, Newslead” were printed in block letters on the paper sign held by the giant waiting for Kate in Arrivals at LAX.
“I’m Kate.” She looked up.
“Devon Hill, Newslead shooter.” He reached out to greet her.
Holy cow, Kate thought, as her hand disappeared in his, Chuck hadn’t been kidding when he’d promised someone protective for the job from the LA bureau. Devon had to be six foot seven, with a muscular build.
“Let me take your bag, Kate. My car’s this way.”
Devon’s car was a Jeep Liberty and he navigated it expertly through the airport chaos. While driving they made small talk about her smooth flight and California’s weather until they stopped at the Holiday Inn where Kate had a reservation.
Devon waited in the lobby as she checked in and freshened up. She’d slept a bit on the plane and wanted to take advantage of the three-hour time difference and get to work.
“Good to go,” she said, and they immediately headed out to meet her source, who lived in San Dimas.
“It’s going to take us about fifty minutes or so,” Devon said as they traveled east on the 105. “You sure you’re up for this? I read all your stuff after Chuck Laneer assigned me to this job.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Chuck told me that you’ve had some strange experiences and that your guy could be critical, or he could be a dangerous nutcase.”
“We’ve come too far on this story. We’ve got to chase down this lead.”
Devon nodded.
“So how’d you get stuck with me? Why do you think Chuck picked you for this assignment, Devon?”
He shrugged, smiling.
“My talent, or my size.” He released a deep chuckle. “I was a second-team defensive tackle in college. But pro ball wasn’t in the cards. Besides, I didn’t like the concussion issues. So I followed my passion, photography. I worked on a few papers, like the LA Times, before I joined Newslead. Was a Pulitzer finalist for pictures of the wildfires up in Calaveras County.”
“Sounds like Chuck picked you for your talent.”
Devon smiled. As they left the 105 to go north on the 605, traffic was heavy, but it was moving. Eventually they got on the westbound 10 at West Covina, then north on State Route 57 to San Dimas, a small, pretty city, snuggled along the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.
“It used to be famous for oranges and lemons. Now the locals are big on horses. It’s also a very white town—” Devon grinned “—according to the Census Bureau. I did a quality-of-life feature for the Times here.”
They left the freeway for the Arrow Highway. Following his GPS, Devon made a number of turns until they were on a street that paralleled West Railway. It was a sleepy corner of San Dimas. He slowed to check address numbers along a stretch of modest, neat-as-a-pin houses with well-kept yards shaded by sycamore and oak trees. California fan palms towered over neighboring streets.
“Here we go,” Kate said.
They stopped in front of number 213.
Paint blistered and peeled on the picket fence bordering the yard. The fence leaned inward and outward in places where pickets were missing. The garden beds were overrun with weeds that had trapped faded flyers and discarded fast-food take-out bags. Shutters were closed in all the windows. The sedan in the driveway was rusted and filthy. The rear was crumpled and the cracked right taillight was secured with duct tape.
“You sure this is your guy?” Devon asked.
“Well, according to the records check I did, the property belongs to Mavis Carlson, aged seventy-eight.”
“She’s your source?”
“No, it’s a guy using the name ‘Malcolm Grady.’” Kate checked her phone and the information. “This is the address he gave me and I told him I’d be here today.”
Kate began typing on her phone.
“I’ll send a message to let New York know where we are. Chuck’s orders.” Then she and Devon approached the side entrance of the house. It had a flimsy door; the top half was screen mesh and the way the sun hit it, Kate couldn’t see inside.
She pressed her face to it, peering into the darkness.
She froze when they heard the soft electronic whizzing of a security camera that was tilted at them above the door. The lens turned to focus.
Kate knocked on the screen door.
“Hello, Malcolm! Malcolm Grady! It’s Kate Page with Newslead!”
A few seconds of silence passed before a man’s voice from the darkness said, “You were supposed to come alone.”
“I never said that, Malcolm. The man with me is Devon Hill. He’s a Newslead photographer. A reporter and photographer always travel together on significant assignments like this one. It’s our policy.”
“But I specifically said no names, which means no pictures. You assured me that you protect sources.”
“I know, but we can talk about that once you let us in and let me assess the documents on Project Overlord that you promised. If you’re changing your mind, or if this is some sort of hoax, I’ll fly back to New York.”
Silence followed.
“What’s it going to be?” Kate asked. “I kept up my end of the bargain. I came here on faith that you were the real deal.”
Nothing. More time passed and nothing.
“Was it all just talk or are you the real deal, Malcolm?”
Several seconds passed before a man appeared at the doo
r. He appeared to be in his late thirties. His curly hair shot, Medusa-like, from the sides of his balding head. He had a scraggly five-day beard, and his paunch strained his faded T-shirt, which bore stains and E=mc2 across his chest. He wore khaki shorts and sandals.
The hinge creaked as he opened the door.
“May I see your identification, please?”
After Kate and Devon held up their Newslead photo IDs, he nodded.
“Okay, come in,” he said. “Don’t mind the dark. My mother’s sensitive to the light. She’s ill, asleep in her room.”
The air smelled of muscle ointment, baby powder and onions. They passed through the kitchen, where empty pizza boxes were stacked neatly in the corner. Plates, utensils, glasses and mugs had dried on the dish rack near the sink.
“This way.” Malcolm led them into a living room, which was cluttered with a walker, a wheelchair and medical oxygen tanks. A flat-screen TV topped a shelf in front of two sofa chairs. A large desk with a computer filled one side of the room, and the other side held two large metal file cabinets and a credenza overflowing with files. Next to it was a bookcase, stuffed and overflowing with books stacked upon books.
Malcolm sat in the leather high-back chair behind his desk. Devon sat in a sofa chair, and Kate took another small cushioned chair near the desk and surveyed the bookcase. She saw books about conspiracies regarding Roswell, the Kennedy assassination, 9/11, and several titles questioning the lunar landing. When she spotted a ball cap lined with tinfoil she had to force herself not to groan.
Oh my God, he’s a lunatic!
Kate turned and saw that Malcolm had seen what she was looking at.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.
“No,” Kate said, “I just—”
“Your face doesn’t lie, Ms. Page.”
“Forgive me, I just—”
“It’s understandable, given my appearance, and the fact I’m living here, taking care of my ailing mother. I’m sure I fit the stereotype of a nut, by your definition.”
“I’m sorry, Malcolm. I mean, the hat and the books...”
He arranged the files on his desk.
“I have worked from time to time as a private subcontractor on classified government projects to help pay the bills. I’m not a nut job. I have a master’s degree in astrophysics. I don’t adhere to conspiracy theories, I debunk them. Much like you, I adhere to facts and use them to convey the truth. I lead a small group of investigators and we have a website.”
“I apologize. On the phone you’d called yourself an underground activist.”
“That’s right. We blow away myths and conspiracy theories with the goal of letting the public know the truth about what governments are up to.”
“Are those files—” Kate indicated the desk “—Overlord files?”
“They are. First, a primer. Yes, as your story correctly notes, shortly after 9/11, the president promised technology to land troubled planes safely by remote control.”
“And some airlines got patents for it?”
“Back things up. With Overlord, the government worked with defense and airline experts to develop the technology known as the Unhindered Autopilot System.”
“Right, so what happened?”
“Well most people know that variations of the technology exist. Drones can be operated remotely. Test flights in rocketry can be detonated remotely over the ocean. We’ve even seen the remote-control flight of jetliners by safety experts testing them for crash landings and other research.”
“So where does Overlord come into the picture?”
“It was developed and was set to be applied but a number of issues arose. You touched on them when you were on CTNB. Some experts were skeptical about how well it would work. Pilots were concerned, security officials were concerned, so it was never ever applied.”
“Then what? I know much of this.”
“Well, there were reports. A number of top secret reports that showed Overlord was flawed, that it was susceptible to outside attack, raising the real possibility of remote-control hijackings of commercial passenger jets.”
“Do you have copies of those reports?”
“I do. However, more recently, there have been rumors and theories flying around the contractor community about Overlord. Consequently, copies of classified documents have been coming to me from my sources.”
“What sort of rumors?”
“Well, first there was the fear that Overlord technology had been leaked, and had made its way to North Korea, which might work in concert with Middle East extremist groups to hijack and destroy airliners.”
“Damn,” Devon said.
“We’ve found nothing to substantiate that, and trust me, we looked hard into that one. But as we did, another new thread emerged. Turns out one of the experts who’d worked on Overlord was an engineer with Richlon-Titan who pioneered the fly-by-wire system used in its aircraft and airliners around the world.”
“The London and New York planes had RT systems.”
“Correct. According to the rumors, this engineer had issues with the vulnerability of RT’s systems. He had a profound disagreement with his corporation just before he suffered a terrible personal tragedy where his wife was killed, resulting in him having a breakdown, losing his position and dropping out of sight. We think he’s the primary suspect for what’s happened, that maybe he’s acting on a vendetta.”
“If that’s the case, why not inform the FBI?”
“I told you, some of my documentation is classified. I could face charges for simply possessing it.”
“What are your facts?” Kate asked.
“We’re still working on them, but I can show you this.”
“Munro!” A faint woman’s voice called, interrupting. “I’m thirsty.”
“Coming, Mother!” He looked at Kate. “I expect you did your homework on our address and know our family name is Carlson. Excuse me.” He went to the kitchen, and Kate heard him fill a glass and take it to another room, where he murmured soothing words before returning. “Now, here.” He positioned a number of files on the desk for Kate to look at.
Kate moved closer to see.
“Here you have a list of names of experts who worked on Overlord. Don’t ask how I got these records. And here are a number of photos of the various teams, including the man I noted from Richlon-Titan.”
“Who is he?”
He tapped a finger on the man identified as Robert Cole.
“This man, Robert Cole—he’s one of the world’s leading experts on flight systems. If I were looking into what happened to the New York and London planes, I’d consider Robert Cole a suspect.”
Fifty-Four
California
Ten minutes after they’d left the house, Kate still felt adrenaline pumping through her.
Munro Carlson, aka Malcolm Grady, had just given her what could be the biggest break in the story so far—Zarathustra’s identity.
Robert Cole.
Her challenge was to verify Cole’s identity and find him.
“That was wild, Kate. Even if half of what that supernerd told you is true, you’ve got a huge story,” Devon said, settling into a booth at the diner they’d driven to. He indicated the fat envelope of Overlord records Kate had set on the table. “It’s like the story with that NSA contractor who leaked stuff a few years ago.”
Kate fanned through the documents, stopping to study the stamps reading “Classified” and “Secret” on pages. They looked authentic to her but she needed confirmation. It had taken some doing but Carlson had agreed to give her copies of the records as promised, and had agreed to let Devon shoot him in shadow, obscuring his face, while Kate continually assured him his identity would be protected. In exchange, Carlson wanted Kate to say in h
er story that his anonymous blog, Exposita Veritate, Latin for “exposing the truth,” had been the first to raise the question of an Overlord and Robert Cole connection to the London and New York cases.
It struck her that Munro Carlson could’ve been the mystery friend Erich had referred to. She sent Erich a quick message, then called Chuck in New York, who listened intently to her update.
“Good work,” he said. “We need verification on all fronts. Can you scan the documents?”
“There are too many.”
“Okay, then photocopy them and Fed-Ex them overnight to me here, and to Tim Yardley in DC. Make sure you watch the copies being made so nothing goes astray.”
“Isn’t this risky?”
“Yes, but we don’t have many options. I’ll get Yardley to study the records, to push his national security sources on Overlord, Cole and this Munro Carlson. I’ll get Hugh Davidson to do the same here. Verification is critical on all fronts. You know what to do, Kate.”
She set out to search for Robert Cole when she got a message from Munro Carlson with a link.
This just went up on YouTube—check it out. This guy really looks like Robert Cole. You’ve got to look into it.
Kate couldn’t believe it.
What’s going on? Is this really Cole? What’s at stake here? I’ve got to find him.
She took a breath and worked with renewed urgency.
There were too many R. Coles in California, let alone the thousands across the country, for her to search for him alone. She studied Cole’s face in the group photos in the documents and estimated an age range, then called the legal documents and public records agency Newslead used and got them to search for property and court records. Given that Richlon-Titan’s headquarters was in Burbank, she reasoned that Robert Cole lived there and had asked for a search of the vicinity. If that failed, they could expand it to the surrounding communities of Glendale, North Hollywood, Toluca Lake and Griffith Park.
Their food came and they ate as Devon showed Kate the images he’d taken of Carlson. They looked good. By the time they’d finished eating, the records agency had called with an address in Burbank for Robert Cole, previously employed at Richlon-Titan.