Ghosts in the Machine (A David and Martin Yerxa Thriller - Book 3)

by Ed Markham

  She looked at David, and he saw a new coolness had come into her eyes. “So now here you two are—both working for the government he was so fearful of—and you’re telling me my son is dead from his own hand. How would you feel if you were me?”

  David waited for a moment until he was sure she had said her piece. “Mrs. Newton, I won’t say I understand how you feel in this situation. I don’t. But I can tell you my father and I, as members of the FBI, have nothing to do with the NSA or the work your son was doing. I can also tell you that what you’re saying to us today is very distressing, but not unexpected.”

  He paused to consider how much he wanted to divulge to this grieving mother, and decided she deserved—had certainly paid for, and dearly—a look at the puzzle they were trying to assemble. He hoped she would be able to add a few missing pieces.

  “Have you heard about the deaths of Brad Ketchner and Garrison Pool?” he asked her.

  She nodded tentatively. “Sure. The billionaires.”

  He gestured toward his father. “We’re leading the FBI’s investigation into their deaths.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she adjusted herself in her chair. “Go on,” she said.

  “When your son spoke to me, he mentioned Ketchner and Pool. He seemed to think that what he was wrapped up in involved them and our investigation. Now, considering what you’ve told me about his state of mind, I need to know whether you believe Peter’s concerns about his work and his welfare could have been paranoia or delusion, or if you think they were legitimate?”

  Her expression tightened. “Well if he was feeling them, I’d consider them very legitimate.”

  “Of course. Excuse my poor choice of words.” He searched a moment for the right ones, recognizing again that his fatigue was muddling his thinking. “I don’t doubt that what your son was feeling was very troubling to him. What I’m wondering is, do you believe his concerns were based on reality, or was it possible he had fallen victim to stress or fatigue that might have caused him to think things that weren’t true.”

  “You’re asking if I think he’d lost touch with reality.”

  David nodded.

  She considered this. “If I’m honest, I think that’s possible.” Her eyes locked onto his. “But I don’t believe that’s what happened. My son was frightened, Agent Yerxa. I could see it clearly while he was here last month. He seemed frightened by what he knew, and frightened about what would happen to him if he did something about it.”

  “Did he mention Vince Beatrice while he was here visiting you?”

  “His old thesis advisor? No. Why would he?”

  “He did last night when he was speaking to me.”

  This gave her pause. “Peter idolizes that man. It always meant a lot to him that he got to study under Vince, and he still keeps track of his work and reads his books.” She began to gesture toward a bookcase that no doubt held some of Beatrice’s published works. But then she stopped, and her hand fell to her lap. She seemed to be fighting back emotion. “Well he did, anyway. Vince had a big impact on my son’s life.”

  Hoping to keep her from breaking down, David switched topics and said, “Can you remember any more about the NSA work that had Peter so frightened?”

  She thought hard about this.

  He added, “Try to remember where your son was sitting when he told you, and the expressions on his face. Focusing on these little details may help you.”

  She looked at him questioningly, but did as she was instructed. After a time she said, “It had something to do with the information people find on the Internet. He said that information was being distorted somehow. Manipulated. And he felt the effect was subtle but insidious—tricking people somehow without their knowing it.” She shook her head. “Everyone these days is always plugged into these boxes and gadgets, sucking up all this information and thinking it’s making them smarter or wiser or happier. But if you ask me, all those machines are pulling out more than they’re putting in.”

  .

  Chapter 31

  David sat in front of Andrea Dean’s desk and watched to see what effect his comments about the NSA would have on her. What he had said still seemed to be hanging in the room with them, like cigarette smoke.

  He could detect no change in her expression, and it troubled him. People react to things. To not react is unnatural—a sign a person is trying to conceal something and can’t figure out what to put in its place.

  When Dean finally spoke, her reply was calm and measured. “I realize it’s frustrating to have the NSA step in and restrict our access to information you deem relevant to this investigation. But let’s keep in mind we’re all on the same team. If they discover something we can use, I’m sure they’ll notify us.”

  “Unless they’re trying to keep a step ahead of us,” he said.

  Again, he could discern no reaction in her features. And again, it took her a moment to answer.

  “Why would they do that?” she asked.

  He knew the ground he stood on now was precarious, and he was not willing to venture farther out onto even shakier terrain. His goal had been to see how she would respond to his questioning the NSA’s involvement, and now he had his answer.

  In reply to her question, he said, “They grabbed the reins on the Ketchy breach, and now they’ve blocked our access to the Newton emails. Considering the friction between our two organizations and the visibility of this investigation, I’m worried they may see this as an opportunity to resolve this themselves and make the FBI look inept in the process.”

  Now Dean did react. “You’re worried the NSA might embarrass you on this?” She looked indignant, but also somehow relieved.

  “Embarrass me, you, and the FBI,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I have to say, David, I did not expect this given your reputation.” It was the first time she had called him “David,” and her posture likewise seemed to shed a layer of formality. “I think the FBI would be best served if we forgot about the NSA and focused on those aspects of this investigation that are within our sphere of control, which is substantial.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “Let’s talk about what you’re doing right now to find Mark Weissman.”

  After leaving Dean’s office, David met his father outside of the conference room their team occupied. They moved to an empty office, and spoke in low tones.

  “So you think she knows something she’s not spilling?” Martin said, summing up what his son had told him.

  David crossed his arms over his chest. “I do. I brought up the NSA, and she seemed uncomfortable. But then I made it seem like I was worried they were trying to steal our glory, and she relaxed.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I get the impression she knows a lot that we don’t.”

  “You think we’re getting played?”

  He looked at his father, but didn’t answer.

  When they rejoined their team, Megan Brandt informed them Vince Beatrice had been under surveillance, but the agents watching him hadn’t noticed anything peculiar.

  “He’s stayed on or around Stanford’s campus since returning from Carmel,” she told them. “He lives in $2-million house in Menlo Park, and rides a bike to work most days.”

  Martin looked dumbfounded. “College professors make that much dough?”

  “The childless ones who write best-selling books do,” Brandt said. “And for that neighborhood—or really any of the places near campus—$2 million wouldn’t even buy one of the bigger houses.”

  “Have we heard back from Stanford’s campus security?” David asked her.

  After speaking with Vince Beatrice the day before, he had noticed the surveillance cameras outside the computer science building and elsewhere on the university’s grounds. He’d asked his people to retrieve the footage.

  “I took that on,” Walker said. “They pushed back a bit—private university, no warrant, yada yada—but they agreed to compile the past month’s security footage for us. They promised it by end of day. Anything in
particular you want us to look for?”

  “A visit from any of our victims,” Martin said.

  “We checked each of their personal security records for visits to Beatrice,” Walker told him. “Nothing turned up.”

  “Check the video anyway,” David said. “And check for visits from Peter Newton.”

  After spending an hour coordinating with their team, David and Martin met with Wes Harris.

  “I’m telling you guys, this is kind of blowing my mind,” Harris said the moment they’d stepped into his cluttered workspace.

  “More gaps?” David asked him, referring to the holes Harris had discovered in Pool and Ketchner’s cellular records.

  “Gaps is too crude a word,” he said. “These are surgical cuts, man. I mean, whoever did the snipping here is a ninja.”

  “In Weissman’s records too?”

  Harris nodded.

  David closed the door to his office. He took a seat across from Harris, while Martin paced, sipping pensively from his coffee mug.

  Speaking to Harris, David said, “I need you to be candid with us. What do you think is going on?”

  For once, Harris stopped staring at his computer screens and gave them his full attention. He sat back and laced his fingers on top of his head. He regarded David and Martin silently for a moment. “You know that scene in Point Break where Gary Busey tells Keanu he thinks the Dead Presidents are surfers?”

  Martin looked at Harris as though he were speaking in Latin.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve watched Point Break,” David said. “Remind us.”

  “Keanu tells him he’s nuts—crazy,” Harris said. “We’re about to have that kind of moment.”

  “Just tell us what you’re thinking,” Martin said.

  Harris tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth for a moment before answering. “My mind keeps going back to what I saw in that Ketchy download before the NSA came in and yoinked it away from me. That trapdoor I told you about.”

  David nodded. “The one that would allow Ketchy to artificially manipulate the search data.”

  Harris nodded. “Exactly. You combine that with the gaps I’m seeing in the cell data for our victims, and the fact that the NSA was so eager to rip that away from us, and the fact that Newton was NSA . . .” He unlaced his fingers and opened his palms. “It’s going to sound ludicrous, but you know where my mind keeps going with this?” He sat forward, and looked from David to Martin. “China.”

  “China?” Martin repeated.

  Harris nodded, his eyes widening until they filled his spectacles. “Chinese cyber-terrorists have hit banks and credit card companies and big retailers. It was only a matter of time before they went hard after social media, which they hate because it allows their people to unify against their oppressive communist government. And who else would be capable of taking out men like Ketchner and Pool, but wouldn’t be trying for ransom? And who else would have the NSA so interested? It all makes too much sense.”

  David didn’t sigh, but he came close.

  “Yeah, we’ll keep China in mind, Wes,” Martin said.

  Noting their dismissive response to his theory, Harris’s mouth tightened and he turned his attention back to his computer screens.

  “Whoa,” he said, his eyes growing wide. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a second here.”

  “What is it?” Martin asked him.

  “Something’s up with Pithy,” Harris said.

  “What’s ‘something’?” David asked, stepping around to the other side of Harris’s monitors.

  “Hold on,” Harris said. “I’m reading.”

  Looking at his father, David said, “Pithy is Weissman’s social media site.”

  “I knew that,” Martin said. “What’s going on with it?”

  Looking over Harris’s shoulder, David saw what looked like a message board. It was updating itself furiously as new messages arrived every half-second.

  “Oh man,” Harris said. He turned to another monitor, and navigated to the Pithy homepage. David watched him type a name into the search function, and the site shifted to the official Pithy page for the White House.

  Harris tapped his monitor. “Look at this,” he said.

  David bent down and read the message that appeared front and center beneath the page’s header photo of the White House:

  UNTIL YOU’VE SEEN THE STRINGS, YOU’LL GO ON BELIEVING YOU ARE NOT A PUPPET. *FollowTheGhost*

  “What is it?” Martin asked him.

  David read him the message, and Harris said, “From what I’m hearing, this is popping up right now on a bunch of government Pithy accounts.” He paused to read more of the news coming in on his message board. “Looks like Defense Department, Veterans Affairs, NSA . . . even our account.”

  “All the same message?” Martin asked him.

  Harris nodded.

  “What does this mean?” David said, tapping his monitor on the part of the White House’s Pithy message that said *FollowTheGhost*.

  “Watch,” Harris said. He hovered his mouse over the word “Ghost,” and David saw the cursor shift to a small hand, indicating a hyperlink was embedded in that section of text.

  Harris clicked on it, and a new webpage appeared.

  David recognized the setting from the video of Brad Ketchner. In these new images, the bed and room had not changed. David saw the same white walls and gray flooring. But the man bound to the metal posts of the room’s bedframe was different. His hair was curly and blonde, and he lay motionless—his eyes closed and his mouth made oblong by what appeared to be a ball gag.

  Apart from the bed’s new occupant, the only other change from the Ketchner video was the addition of an analog clock, positioned on the wall just above the bed.

  “That’s Mark Weissman,” Harris said, his voice dry and tight. He leaned closer to his computer monitor just as Martin came around to see what they were examining.

  “God almighty,” Martin said. “Is that a video or a photograph?”

  As if in answer to his question, Mark Weissman’s body sprang to life. One of his shoulders jerked upward toward his ear, and he turned his head while moving his mouth slowly open and then closed, as though groaning.

  “Is there audio accompanying this?” David asked.

  Harris tapped a button on his keyboard. “Speakers are on and turned up. Must not be any sound.”

  Weissman’s movements ceased, and the three of them watched in silence, waiting for a burst of activity. Finally Harris said, “Not as unnerving as the Ketchner clip. I wonder if this is playing on some kind of loop.”

  Martin suddenly leaned forward, letting his hands fall heavily onto Harris’s desk. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Look at the clock on the wall.”

  As David and Harris realized what they were looking at, Martin added, “It’s live. It’s not a loop or a clip. This video is live.”

  .

  Chapter 32

  Mark Weissman regained consciousness suddenly and with the sensation that his skull had been pierced by a rod of light.

  The rod felt as though it entered somewhere near the curve where his neck became the back of his head, and travelled straight through to a point just above and directly between his eyes. From there it broke free of him and continued on.

  He could feel the heat of the light burning his brain as it passed through his skull, and he could see it plainly dancing on the ceiling above him. If he twitched his head, the circle of light twitched. If he tipped his forehead back, the circle shifted to the wall behind him.

  He’d been watching the light for weeks, he realized. Not just weeks, but months. Years. Decades. It was all he had ever done; his entire life had been composed of slight or significant movements of his head, and the corresponding actions of this light.

  Watching it twitch and shudder on the ceiling, he imagined its circumference slowly broadening as the rod cleaved his head apart. He wished the rod would get on with it.

  He tried to shout at th
e circle of light, but the sounds that escaped him were muffled and incoherent. Instead he thrashed and choked on his own spit and watched the light dance on the ceiling, his thoughts unmoored.

  .

  Chapter 33

  At first, after he had recovered from his initial shock, Harris had been confident.

  “We’ll track him down,” he’d told David and Martin. “You can’t broadcast live video without maintaining a line of communication with a host. It’ll take a little time, but not much. I’ll find the source.”

  “I thought you said this guy was a ninja?” Martin had asked him.

  Harris had shaken his head dismissively. “He is, but he still has to use the same framework as the rest of us. He must have gotten cocky.”

  But an hour later, when Harris had tracked the live video feed to Pithy’s own servers, he had become nonplussed.

  David hadn’t understood all the technical jargon Harris was using, but he picked up enough to understand that the video seemed to be jumping from place to place in the social media site’s servers, like the digital equivalent of whack-a-mole.

  He had suggested Harris put a call in to Omar Ghafari at the Bureau’s Communications and Information Technology Unit at Quantico, and Harris had agreed. The two had worked together for a time. But now, after several hours of digging, Harris looked downright flustered.

  “This is remarkable,” he said to David and Martin, his eyes wide. “I mean, I’m blown away by this.”

  “By what?” Martin said, his tone angry.

  David could tell his father didn’t appreciate Harris’s apparent appreciation for their perpetrator’s technological sleight-of-hand.

  Harris explained, “Pithy has some new functionality that allows users to broadcast live video to their friends and followers.”

  “So what?” Martin asked. “Whoever has Weissman is using it?”