“My point is this. A balance must be struck between participating on the world stage in matters of security and economics with the intent of our Founding Fathers to protect America’s independence as a nation—its sovereignty,” said Sarge.
“How do ordinary citizens have a realistic effect on an issue as important as this?” asked Riemer.
“My first suggestion is for people to educate themselves on the topic,” said Sarge, holding up his book for the camera. “May I suggest my book as a start?”
“That’s my boy,” said Steven.
“Next, contact your elected officials and ask them where they stand on the issue,” added Sarge.
“Professor Sargent, Sarge, this has been very enlightening for me and provocative for our viewers,” said Riemer. “Please let everyone know where they can find your book, the name of your website and your social media accounts.”
“Thank you for having me on, Emily,” said Sarge. “You may purchase my book in eBook format on Amazon. It is also available in paperback via Amazon and on my website ChooseFreedomBook.com. There you will find excerpts of the book, blog posts and links to my social media pages, including Twitter, which is @Choose__Freedom.”
Steven turned off the televisions and eyed Katie O’Shea. He had some time to kill before his flight.
Chapter 22
February 4, 2016
The Hack House
Antrim Street
East Cambridge, Massachusetts
Andrew Lau and his graduate assistants, Fakhri and Malvalaha, sat alone in the downstairs parlor of the Hack House. The Cambridge home was quiet as Lau confirmed their wire transfer for the TickStub payday. In the end, after speaking directly with the CEO of TickStub, Lau accepted $20 million on behalf of the Gamers. Lau kept half while Fakhri and Malvalaha received $2.5 million each. The rest was split between the students, who had been given the night off.
“We’re getting better at this,” said Lau. “But as the old saying goes, pigs get fat and hogs get slaughtered. Let me give you an analogy.”
Lau was about to remind his young associates that they were involved in a criminal enterprise, and their “game” came with very high, freedom-losing stakes. If the high payouts didn’t keep them loyal, the threat of going to jail would—Lau hoped.
“In the drug business, a dealer can make a decent, albeit dangerous, living. The dealer can become more successful by becoming a distributor to many dealers. He can become a kingpin by becoming an importer or manufacturer feeding the distributors. In that respect, the drug business is no different than any legitimate multilevel marketing scheme,” said Lau.
“The problem with the drug trade is the conspiracy law,” said Lau. “Benjamin Franklin once said three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.”
Fakhri and Malvalaha furtively glanced at each other. Good. The concept of jail was a little too obscure for two Ivy League graduate students, and prison sentences could be avoided—by making a deal with the feds. Lau wouldn’t push this any further. Message received.
“I’m not talking about killing anybody, especially you two.” Lau laughed, visibly easing their tension. “I’m simply making the point that in any criminal enterprise, the more people who know about it and the longer you do it, the more likely it is that you will be caught.”
“We grabbed a nice payday with TickStub, not to mention a lot of street cred within the hacker community,” said Lau.
Fakhri and Malvalaha started nodding, anticipating Lau’s words as the picture became clearer.
“I don’t think it’s necessary for us to spend hours on end upstairs looking for vulnerabilities in networks,” said Lau. “I propose that the Zero Day Gamers become hackers for hire. We have the track record, now let’s build a brand. The Zero Day Gamers—at your service.”
“I like it,” said Fakhri. “We can post to several open source lists until we land a regular client.”
“I’m in,” said Malvalaha. “I read about HackersList on the Hackers for Hire Review blog. Companies hire hackers to conduct pen tests, just like we’re doing when we search out zero-day vulnerabilities.”
Lau was glad the two were on board, though he wasn’t interested in doing the “legitimate” kind of work Malvalaha suggested. That’s not where they’d find the big money.
“I’m glad to hear you’re on board with this change,” said Lau. “We stand to make a lot more money, doing a lot less work. Plus, this will reduce our overall exposure. We can hit seven figures just working with Russian oligarchs, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” said Malvalaha. “The Russian hackers are just hacks compared to us. With the contacts we’ve established all over the world, we could build up a nice clientele. We have a nice setup here, but it might be in our best interest to relocate. If one of the kids talked, I don’t think any of us want to follow the advice of Ben Franklin. We could just go underground. I’d be willing to reinvest some of my money to upgrade our equipment and get a more secure location.”
Fakhri nodded enthusiastically. “This will work. Count me in.”
“Perfect. I suggest we retain a core group of students that we absolutely trust,” said Lau. “Walthaus paid his dues, so I would like him to come on board. Pick a couple more for consideration while I secure a new location. I’d like to be out of here sooner than later.”
Chapter 23
February 5, 2016
73 Tremont
Boston, Massachusetts
John Morgan was surprised that Walter Cabot hadn’t asked for this meeting sooner. The Secretary of Defense had recently proposed an enormous reduction in the defense budget, extending well beyond the traditional cuts via troop-level attrition and new program spending. The newest round of budget reductions included a substantial hit to the Department of the Navy, which would slash deeply into the fleet’s operational budget—and Cabot’s wallet.
“Mr. Cabot is here to see you, sir,” announced Lowe.
Morgan chose to receive Cabot in the penthouse rotunda, capped on the outside by a green patina copper dome, and decorated on the inside with a mosaic replica of the United States Capitol rotunda. The irony of meeting Cabot under the rotunda did not escape Morgan.
“Hello, Walter,” greeted Morgan. “Malcolm, pour us a glass of the sherry we just received from Luis María Linde, the chairman of the Spanish Central Bank. I believe you know Luis?”
“Indeed. We met years ago when he was with the Inter-American Development Bank. I encouraged him to finance the Panama Canal expansion project, which opens next month, barring any unforeseen circumstances. The third set of locks deepens and widens the Atlantic Ocean entrance, allowing our aircraft carriers to pass. We’re finishing up modifications to the USS Washington in Newport News now,” said Cabot.
“Sounds like a lucrative contract, with noble purposes,” said Morgan. “Can I tempt you with a Montecristo #2? I just received them from Cuba.”
Morgan was trying to relax his friend so they could have a reasonable conversation. Cabot had a tendency to get worked up when money was involved, despite the fact his family was worth billions.
“Thanks, John, I will have one,” said Cabot. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to get right to the point. I have followed your advice and tolerated this administration for close to eight years. Heretofore, they have not affected my interests one way or the other, but the most recent defense cut proposals baffle me. The world is pretty goddamn dangerous, John, doesn’t he realize that?”
Morgan didn’t sense that he was about to stop, which was fine. He’d let Cabot vent before interjecting his thoughts.
“I’m a military man, John. My family, like yours, built this country on military preparedness and action,” said Cabot. “I’m having a real hard time sitting idle while our military is weakened.”
“Walter, I agree with everything you just said,” said Morgan. “I have addressed this issue before, and the President will not budge in his approach. We knew that he would lead
the country in this direction, and we have tolerated it to an extent. He is very much aware of how we feel, trust me.”
“So what are we going to do about it?” asked Cabot.
Morgan relaxed in a Natuzzi Italian leather chair and sipped his sherry. Taking a draw from his cigar, he watched as Cabot mimicked his actions. Relax, Walter.
“Walter, sometimes the direct approach is neither feasible nor effective,” said Morgan. “We have been very successful in giving this President direction when necessary. Generally, he has been receptive. It requires give and take, does it not, my friend?”
“I am fully aware of what it costs us, but most of the time, he seems to take,” said Cabot.
“That’s right, Walter. There are costs when it comes to negotiations. You have always trusted my judgment in these matters, have you not?” asked Morgan.
“Yes, John, without fail,” replied Cabot.
“Good, Walter. I need you to trust me again. I have already addressed the issue in a way that will make you proud of your military heritage—not to mention make both of us a lot of money. Now let’s enjoy our sherry and these fine cigars. How’s your wife?”
Chapter 24
February 8, 2016
Lausanne, Switzerland
Steven Sargent eased the Range Rover right on Avenue des Acacias, watching the dashboard-mounted GPS screen out of the corner of his eye. The orange-yellow-painted four-story building on the corner of Acacias and Mon Loisir matched the destination on the screen.
“We’re in this puke-yellow building,” said Sargent.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” said Bugs.
Bugs shifted uneasily in the front passenger seat, fingering the lock/unlock button. A former Army Special Forces medic, Bugs, aka Paul Hittle, left the Green Berets for the lucrative overseas contract security field. Quickly building a solid reputation as a discreet and dependable operator, he was taken off the market by Steven’s employer and put on a generous retainer. He had a sixth sense they had learned to trust over the years.
“Take it easy, brother. The place has been vetted. Our shit’s waiting inside,” said Sargent.
“Looks like a hippie youth hostel,” muttered Bugs.
“It’ll be fine. The place comes with a private garage,” said Sargent, examining the building’s exterior.
He had to admit, it wasn’t exactly their usual digs for a job like this, but choices had been limited on short notice. With the peace talks kicking off tonight, the city was booked. A last minute Airbnb opening fit the bill, giving them two bedrooms in a quiet neighborhood. He booked the room and contacted his handlers, who verified the suitability of the location and delivered their gear.
“I don’t see a garage,” grumbled Slash from the backseat.
Slash, aka Drew Jackson, had been with the group as long as Steven, and was notorious for giving him shit. He’d left the SEAL Teams around the same time, bouncing around outfits like Blackwater until Steven rescued him from Iraqi convoy-security details and Omani-apartment-complex guard shifts. He was particularly handy in close-quarters combat, hence the nickname.
“It’s around back, where one usually finds a garage,” said Sargent.
“Fuck you,” said Slash.
“Hey, guys, sorry this isn’t the Ritz-Carlton. We can always shit-can the detail, and our paychecks.”
“Just busting your ass, man,” said Bugs. “I’m still a little irritable about ditching the family in Nevis. I’m going to catch endless shit from Claire when I get back.”
“Take her to Tiffany’s,” mouthed Sharpie. “That’ll shut her trap.”
“First time that motherfucker talks since we picked him up, and he’s gotta dig on my wife,” said Bugs.
“I’m not digging on her, Bugs. The light blue bag has a way of easing the pain of business trips,” said Sharpie.
Sharpie was still a bit of an enigma. He’d left Delta Force a few years ago to pursue a private equity fund venture with a few of his Harvard buddies, all business school grads except for Raymond Bower. He consistently showed up for European operations, suggesting that his ties to the equity fund may still be intact. It didn’t matter to Steven. They all ran separate lives outside of Aegis Corps. As long as they all reported for duty when requested and performed their jobs flawlessly, he didn’t care if they ran a bakery back home.
“Listen to Sharpie get all upscale and shit,” said Bugs.
“What can I say, I’m the crème brûlée of this backwater team,” said Sharpie, slapping Bugs on the shoulder through a gap in the front seats.
“Are you guys done?” said Sargent, pulling into the concrete alley behind the building.
The garage doors lined the back of the building, looking questionably tight for their SUV.
“Are you sure we’ll fit?” said Bugs.
“We’ll find out,” said Steven, pressing a black remote control.
The third door from the start of the alley lifted on a track, rapidly disappearing. Sargent edged the SUV forward, cringing as they passed under the top of the garage without scraping the roof.
“Aegis is thorough with their assessments,” said Steven.
“You didn’t look so sure,” said Bugs, opening his door and hitting the side of the garage. “Good thing I went on a diet.”
Steven shook his head and squeezed out of his side, joining the team at a locked door. He unlocked the deadbolt and the doorknob before testing the door—which wouldn’t budge.
“Try the code,” said Steven, making room for Bugs.
The lanky, fair-skinned operator punched a code into his smartphone and pressed send, shrugging his shoulders. He waited a few seconds before turning the knob and pushing the door inward.
“Open sesame. Aegis added a cell-phone-triggered locking mechanism to this door, which will serve as our only authorized egress-ingress point. The less the neighbors see of us, the better,” said Steven, pressing the button to close the garage door.
The foyer beyond the door led to a laundry room equipped with a matching set of stainless steel appliances and an empty closet. A stairwell rose above the closet space, taking them onto the second level, where he found a tasteful, yet inexpensively furnished common area and eat-in kitchen.
Slash swiped a brochure from the kitchen table, thumbing through it, as Steven made sure the sliding door to the balcony was locked.
“You weren’t kidding about this being a rental,” said the stocky, Scandinavian-looking operative.
“Air bed and breakfast. People around the world just rent rooms or their places to complete strangers, or in our case, government operatives,” said Steven.
“Weird name,” said Slash, tossing the brochure onto the table. “Where’s our shit?”
“Upstairs. Bedroom on the right,” said Steven.
They proceeded upstairs, taking a right at the top of the staircase. A quick search turned up a suitcase-sized, hardened-metal lockbox stuffed under the bed. Steven’s index finger triggered the biometric lock, giving them access to the tools of their trade.
“Not a lot of gear,” stated Bugs.
“We’re not officially here,” said Steven. “Aegis wants us to maintain a low profile. This package reflects that priority.”
“Looks like we’re low priority. No ballistic vests?” said Bugs.
“You know the deal,” said Steven.
“I know. Wishful thinking,” replied Bugs.
They all knew the deal. The team was here to rapidly and discreetly neutralize any previously undiscovered threats to the peace conference. If activated, they would hit the identified target and immediately leave Switzerland by way of a luxury yacht docked in the harbor—leaving nothing behind besides their rental SUV. The kit came with them wherever they traveled in Lausanne, including the container, which is why Aegis had gone light on the gear.
Sharpie reached into the opened case, removing an MP-7 submachine gun.
“These’ll work,” he said, unstrapping a long cylindrical suppre
ssor from the case.
“They always do,” said Bugs.
The MP-7 was their preferred primary weapon for these details. Compact and easily concealed, the MP-7 fired a unique 4.6X30mm hardened-steel bullet capable of penetrating soft body armor and some hardened vests at two hundred meters. In close combat on the streets or inside buildings, the bullets passed through car doors and walls, giving them a considerable edge over other compact weapons typically employed in tighter confines.
“And so do these,” said Steven, patting a series of small gray explosive charges used for door or wall breaching.
“Not very discreet,” said Sharpie.
“Only to be used as a last resort,” said Steven.
“Second to last resort,” replied Sharpie, digging deeper into the case.
He withdrew two plastic-wrapped bricks of orange-colored plastic explosives.
“Semtex? That’s a first,” said Steven, glancing at Bugs.
Without asking, he knew what Bugs was thinking. It was written all over his face. His “spider” sense was tingling.
Chapter 25
February 8, 2016
Harvard Kennedy School of Government
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Sarge was late for class. A massive pileup on the Mass Turnpike, near the Beacon Park rail yard, forced him to drive the long way, via Beacon Hill and East Cambridge. Ordinarily, he would enjoy the change of scenery, but he had already been running late. He and Julia had a sleepover—devoid of much sleep.
He entered the classroom to a round of throat clearing, followed by sarcastic applause. He gathered his thoughts and brought up the first slide on the screen:
The Loyal Nine Page 12