Kalam sheathed his sword and raised his hands into the air as if in silent prayer. He was still for a moment before turning to his companions. He still appeared unsettled, but there was a glint of relief in his eye.
“This is it, my friends,” he said. “We’ve found it. We’ve found it.”
19
Bucharest, Romania.
“It seems the operation is going well,” said Yuri as he dumped a teaspoon of sugar into his teacup. “A nice stream of money and very, very profitable, yes?”
The Boss sat at a small round table on the private back deck of Bistro Atheneu, a trendy restaurant in Sector 5 to the west of downtown Bucharest. He often took his lunch here on Wednesdays, right after his weekly haircut at a barbershop where he had been a regular customer for thirty years. It was a slower vibe out here away from the city center. Even in his younger days, Yuri had preferred to stay away from the direct action and instead chose to be chauffeured around town under the pretense of being an affluent, law-abiding citizen while his henchmen did the dirtier work from the shadows. Not much had changed now that he was in his twilight years.
Well, maybe one thing was different now, Anton thought. Everybody pretty much accepted that Anton ran the show. The Boss might still toss out what he wanted done, but Anton was responsible for actually making it happen. And with that came power.
“Twenty-two thousand last month,” Anton confirmed, rattling off the latest production from Krystian’s scheme. “That little circle of geeks is hard at it.”
“Excellent. Simply excellent. That’s a lot of money, Anton.”
“Yes. Yes it is.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “Not a bad return on those credit card numbers, eh?”
“Indeed.” The Boss sipped his tea. “Tell me, Anton, how do we make the income grow faster? Can we add more people to get the rate to thirty thousand per month? Forty?”
“Looking for a new yacht?”
Yuri smiled. “I’m just greedy and impatient. Can we do it?”
Anton frowned. “Not without introducing more risk.”
“What risk would that be?”
“There are only a few people in Krystian’s circle that I approved to participate, and each of them is pretty maxed out. The whole idea here is to milk this stream of cash for a long time and remain undetected. So the last thing we need is for some untrustworthy punk to start buying big ticket items with the card numbers they’ve been assigned to use, instead of just plugging them into this online game of his.”
“Are there any signs yet that the authorities suspect anything unusual?”
“No,” said Anton.
Yuri thought for a few moments, staring quietly at the shrubs and flowers lining the edges of the patio.
“I’d like for Krystian to recruit some more help. I want to double the output. You need to help him be careful, of course. I understand your concerns about the risks. But my sense is that eventually someone will catch on about these small charges and everything will be shut down by the card issuers. We have a limited amount of time to get the return out of the investment I made. I want to make the most of this opportunity while we can.”
Anton fought to hide the scowl that started to form on his face. “I’ll... think about how to do it.”
The Boss turned sideways in his chair and studied Anton’s face for what seemed like a long time. Finally he spoke. “And how are you two getting along, I might ask?”
Anton took in a long, protracted breath before letting it slowly seep out. How was he going to answer that question?
“That well, eh?” said Yuri knowingly.
“He and I are... very different people.”
Yuri waited patiently.
Shit.
“He’s repulsive. I want to break his neck,” Anton confessed.
“Interesting,” commented Yuri. “A good thing he stays behind a computer screen, yes?”
Anton sighed.
The Boss studied him some more. “This is unlike you, my old friend. I’ve not seen you become disturbed over business arrangements that make so much profit before.”
“Can I ask a frank question?” said Anton.
“Of course.”
How did he ask what he wanted to ask?
“Does Krystian work for you, or for me?” he said finally.
It was a difficult topic to bring up. Anton ran the day to day. But the Boss was the Boss for a reason, and that was because he made such good decisions around where to scam and how not to get caught. Yuri set the strategy, Anton took care of the tactics, and the division of responsibilities worked. But every now and then there was the shade of conflict where those two worlds overlapped. This was one of those situations. Anton couldn’t help but feel that he was being somewhat marginalized in how much control he actually had over the execution of this scheme. Help Krystian find more help. Double the monthly output. Take on the extra risk. Weren’t those decisions that he should be making, not Yuri?
The Boss leaned back in his chair. A small knock on the door at the edge of the deck dispelled the momentary silence. Yuri nodded to one of his bodyguards and the burly Russian to open the door. A waiter came in carrying a large tray holding an array of plates and food. Yuri’s lunch. There was a moment of controlled chaos as the waiter set the tray on an adjacent table and quickly transferred the dishes over. Then, with a courteous bow and a refill of wine, the waiter ducked back into the restaurant.
Yuri began to eat in silence. From where Anton stood it looked like he was having some sort of cutlet, and it smelled good. His own stomach rumbled. After a few mouthfuls Yuri leaned back in his chair, took a sip of tea, and blotted his mouth with the cloth napkin in his lap. It was only at this point that he looked back over at Anton.
“I think I see the problem,” said Yuri, “why this arrangement is causing you trouble. You’re used to running your own crew and pulling money directly out of your own marks. If they stay on track, fine. If they fall behind, especially repeatedly, then you... make some meatballs. You dictate the tactics. But—you want to know where the lines are drawn in this agreement with Krystian. I lent him money. Does that make him a peer or an underling of yours? Are you collaborating with him as an equal, helping him set up the method to bring in cash, or are you dictating how he should go about and deliver on my demands as you normally do for our operation?”
Anton listened silently.
“You provide advice and security but your role is secondary,” Yuri continued. “And that arrangement limits your direct control and influence which are the tools that allow you to be effective. So you are left wondering: is this your scam, or his? Is that the nature of what bothers you?”
Hesitation. Anton pursed his lips. “Yes.”
“Ah.” The Boss ate a few more forkfuls. “So ultimately it sort of comes down to a question of what Krystian represents. This... brilliant, arrogant, repulsive creature with whom you must spend your time. You want to know if he represents me.”
Anton considered this cautiously, carefully.
“For,” Yuri continued, “if Krystian does in fact represent me, since I lent him the money, then you would give him unyielding assistance. Loyalty. Free access to your wise counsel. Support and aid to his colleagues that he chooses to pull into his work. You would run errands for him, protect him, and do his bidding. You would be at his beck and call. You would obey him as you would me because he is me—your boss, your liege, the person for which you have worked all these years, the man who made you what you are, the business giant who has helped you become wealthy and have means. Furthermore, you know that he is connected to me through family, by my niece Petra, with my direct referral, and that he is connected to my line in a way that is deeper than you would ever be as a mere person in my employ.”
Yuri stared at Anton like a predator hiding in the woods, ready to pounce on its next meal.
Anton didn’t answer. He watched Yuri’s face, which was locked on him with those burning eyes that had made him such a fe
ared crime lord all those years ago. A slight trickle of sweat formed down Anton’s back. The Boss was right—Anton owed him all of those things, and to project that loyalty onto such a fool as this punk Krystian was incredibly difficult.
The men stared hard at each other for what seemed like forever. Then, finally, Yuri’s eyes softened and he broke into a kindly smile.
“I see it all now. I can see the turmoil this is causing you. It is a hardship that only comes with such extreme devotion that loyalty is too painful to transfer to a person of lesser stature. Thank you, Anton. You are such a loyal friend. And as such, I will grant you mercy with this small piece of guidance.”
He took another sip of tea.
“This is my money. I made the investment, I take the loss or reap the gain. Therefore, it is not Krystian’s scam. It is not your scam. It is my scam.
“That makes Krystian a tool. You, too, are a tool that I have involved to protect my interests. You, who are my most trusted associate—something you have earned after twenty years, Anton. If I am the head, you are the heart of our organization.”
A hard edge came into Yuri’s voice.
“Protect my money.”
And then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone again.
A huge wave of relief flooded through Anton. There was no special consideration for Krystian, regardless of how much cash was coming in. He was still the guy that was to make things happen. This was something Anton could get his head around.
“Got it, Boss.”
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, dear friend, I must get back to my lunch while it is still hot.”
“Of course.”
Yuri took a bite of food. “Double output, Anton. Or more.”
“More.”
Anton nodded to The Boss and turned to leave. He got it. He was not a start-up advisor, nor a local crew boss responsible for weekly receipts. He was Yuri’s insurance policy. And that meant he was expected to execute anything and everything necessary to make the machine run.
Most of all, he had to keep Krystian focused, controlled, and make sure he didn’t do anything stupid.
* * *
The sun rose in the distance over the tops of the distant inland mountains. Slowly the daylight began to burn off the mist that clung to the green grass in the open field. Falcons or some other sort of predatory birds were circling in the distance near the edge of the forest off in the distance. The topography had a slight incline to it but was otherwise very manageable, and a cool breeze occasionally rolled through as a reminder that there would be some minimal relief to the day’s heat. Off in the distance, the rapids of a wide stream could be heard happily bubbling away.
Rendered in HD resolution on Krystian’s Gaming Glasses, it was a beautiful sight.
Krystian had named his character Gareth, after the barbarian hero of one of his favorite graphic novels, and he now monitored his warrior navigating a narrow trail from atop his warhorse. Behind him was his horde, ready to do battle. Well, it was a small horde. He now commanded two Kenzen—massive, black-skinned mythical beasts that walked upright but had the heads of jackals, each wearing ornamental bronze breastplates and loincloths. They loped obediently along like gorillas, with sidelong glances at Gareth’s horse as if they were contemplating a morning snack. Each had certainly cost a pretty penny for the wizard merchant to summon. But now that he had them, Krystian had found them to be indispensably horrific in the way that they would swarm an opponent and render him or her to shreds. His character Gareth was more refined; he wore a hardened leather cuirass with metal bands for reinforcement, and kept his shoulder-length blond head bare like the Nordic king that he envisioned himself to be. No—not a king, a Nordic god. He had a broadsword buckled at his waist and a short sword strapped to the side of his calf. Diagonally across his chest was a leather band prickling with throwing knives and daggers. Swords could be broken or lost, and in Armchair Safari one learned quickly to never, ever, fight without a weapon. You couldn’t defend and you couldn’t attack worth a fuck. In other words, you’d be dead meat. Redundancy was a good thing.
Krystian looked over Gareth’s shoulder on the monitor and followed the path into the forest. The tree canopy cut down the amount of light but the trail was still visible. Krystian could practically taste the conflict coming. He had a growing number of euros now in his account to fuel all of the important attributes: Hit Points, to absorb damage; Agility, to avoid damage; Speed to ensure that he struck first. Almost every one of his character’s traits was directly influenced by how much cash he kept in his treasure vault, and the more he invested and put into the game, the more physically powerful Gareth became. More importantly, the bot program that DarkZeus and Pr1mal had developed was coming along, and it wouldn’t be long before Gareth became an invincible torrent of death to all those who opposed him.
The forest parted into a clearing, and there it was—a log palisade, compact in its footprint and with tall walls topped in square corner towers, designed in a motte-and-bailey style. Krystian could see sentries along the ramparts. He smiled to himself. This stronghold was fortified enough to indicate that there was some cash in the vault, but not so elaborate that it presented a problem. It would be easy pickings for his character’s current level.
Gareth dismounted and tied his warhorse to a nearby tree. The Kenzen were pacing restlessly, anticipating a fight. Gareth was not about to disappoint them.
“Go.”
The black beasts shot forward like coiled springs released from tension. They bounded over to the base of the walls and began climbing straight up using their claws and immense strength. Too late, the sentries noticed that they were being attacked and tried in vain to ready their crossbows. The Kenzen savagely took out the defenders in quick, brutal strokes filled with snarling and screams.
The clearing was not so large that Gareth couldn’t cross it in under a minute. By the time he got to the massive doors of the front gate he could hear the crossbar being shuffled out of place. The doors parted and Gareth stepped into the courtyard alongside his trusty Kenzen henchmen, neither of which bore a scratch from the attack thus far.
The layout of the stronghold was shaped like a figure-eight, with the lower part of the eight much bigger in diameter and filled with the buildings, shops, and industry of a minor lord. Peasants and other computer-controlled denizens screamed and ran off in all directions at the sight of a hostile barbarian and his horde. Sigh. Small horde, Krystian thought again. But the servants didn’t matter. The object of this attack was the upper half of the figure-eight, the keep that sat atop the motte, or mound. It was a large, steep hill that offered a defensible position to its inhabitants now that they were aware they were under assault. This is where the fun would begin. Krystian began to grin again as he moved Gareth deeper into the stronghold, drawing his broadsword and looking for an occasional serf to hack down in a bloody, shooting gallery-like arcade.
Movement caught his eye, and Krystian watched as the portcullis of the keep raised in order to release a counterattack. A dozen men-at-arms wielding halberds and chainmail vests charged out.
Interesting, bringing the fight to me instead of waiting for me to break in further. Was there a reason for that?
Krystian used his keyboard to order the Kenzen to move wide while he loosened his sword arm up with great, circular swings. The platoon of soldiers closed on him rapidly, and as they lowered the blades of their pole arms Gareth signaled the Kenzen to strike from their flanks. The beasts’ immense speed caught the soldiers by surprise. The men attempted to form a defensive perimeter in the ensuing chaos and use their halberds to repel the Kenzens’ charge. Gareth found his opening to attack from the front and easily waded past the halberds to close with the distracted defenders. His sword stabbed one man through the heart with a thrust that chainmail had no hope of stopping, and with another slash he tore open the armor of a nearby soldier. The Kenzen ravaged the rest of the platoon, raking troops with their claws and in one case a
ctually decapitating a soldier with a vicious, lighting-fast bite attack to the victim’s neck.
It was all thanks to Krystian’s account balance.
The skirmish was over. The soil was stained red with blood, and piles of armored bodies lay scattered in the courtyard. Gareth once again turned his attention to the inner keep. Arrow slits were visible in the keep wall, and he was sure that there were archers behind every one ready to rain down poisoned arrows. The portcullis was closed again as well. But those things didn’t matter—he had other tricks up his sleeve.
Gareth reached into his waist pack and pulled out two round bombs the size of softballs. The first was dense and solid, comprised of a thin metal shell and bound with heavy twine to help hold its integrity. That was for the portcullis. The other bomb was much lighter and to form a diversion. Gareth lit the fuse on the second bomb and rolled it out into the courtyard between his position and the keep. Instantly, the round orb started sputtering and spewing out billows of purple smoke that quickly obscured visibility for fifty yards in any direction. Gareth seized the moment and rushed forward, whistling to his Kenzen to follow. He managed to make it up to the portcullis without any archer being able to sight him properly. Now came the other bomb, the heavy one packed with high explosives. It had cost a lot—a lot—but it was absolutely worth it for situations like this. Gareth jammed a rag into one of the openings in the portcullis grate and made a little sling for the bomb. Then he lit the fuse and darted to the side past the stone archway. The haze was starting to dissipate and the courtyard was almost visible again.
BAAM!
For a second, Gareth’s ears were ringing and the world around him was shifting uncontrollably, like he had drank too much bad vodka at an all-night rave. It took a moment for him to regain his senses. When he did, Gareth slinked along the keep wall back to the archway with the portcullis. As he had hoped, the portcullis was... well, it wasn’t damaged, it was gone, along with a number of stone blocks that had formed the slots for it to be raised and lowered. Another whistle and the Kenzen were loping ahead to look for more resistance. Gareth followed, ears still ringing, but with sword ready and his other hand ready to pull a throwing knife at the first indication of an opponent with a ranged weapon.
Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller) Page 19