The Palace

by Reich, Christopher

  Danni studied the calendar on the wall showing a photograph of the Galilee. She looked at pictures of Goldie’s family. She picked up an old action figure of Moshe Dayan. Where in the world had the woman found that?

  “So,” said Goldie, at length. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  Danni smiled as politely as she knew. “I need to check the billing for a client.”

  “Name?”

  “Borgia, Luca. It might be under a corporate name. Central Umbrian Enterprises, I think.”

  Goldie typed the name into her desktop. “Borgia, Luca M. Ten days left on the billing cycle.”

  “I need to close it out today.”

  “Bills go out at the end of the month.”

  “Humor me.”

  “I’ll have to add the remaining May days onto June. Messy.”

  “Goldie!”

  The accountant’s eyes opened wide.

  “Send a copy of Borgia’s bill through today’s date to my personal email. I’ll forward it to the client myself. I need to add a personal note. If it isn’t there by the time I get upstairs, I’m going to confiscate Moshe Dayan here.”

  Goldie froze. “You wouldn’t!”

  Danni left the question unanswered.

  She stopped in the lab on the way upstairs. Dov and Isaac stood at the whiteboard working out a problem. With a whistle, she motioned them to follow. The men dropped their markers then and there. Danni was already feeling better about her authority.

  Luca Borgia’s bill for the month of May was at the top of her inbox when she sat at her desk. She opened the attachment, noting that Borgia was paying her company a monthly retainer of twenty thousand euros, with add-ons for special projects. At least he was paying full freight. She closed the message, then sent Goldie a note thanking her.

  “We have a problem,” she began, after the engineers had shut the office door and taken up their spots opposite her desk. “Normally, we don’t look into our clients’ affairs; what they do with our software is their business. However, a situation has come to my attention where we can no longer turn a blind eye.”

  “Bangkok?” said Dov.

  “You saw?”

  “Who didn’t?” said Isaac.

  “Yes,” said Danni. “Bangkok. We were right to worry.”

  “Has he done something like this before?”

  “Borgia? Who knows?” said Danni. “Does it matter?”

  “And the other one,” said Isaac. “The journalist.”

  “London Li,” said Danni. “That’s my concern.”

  “And so?” asked Dov.

  “We are going to take a deep dive into Borgia’s affairs.”

  “For who?” asked Isaac, not yet grasping her intent. “I mean, who’s the client? MI6? CIA? Spanish intel? Thai police?”

  “We are the client,” said Danni. “SON. Me. You. Dov. All of us.”

  The engineers squirmed in their chairs. For once, they were faced with a concept of which they had little experience, one that no computational skills could solve.

  “Suggestions, gentlemen?”

  “Pegasus?” said Isaac.

  “Pegasus,” agreed Dov.

  “Pegasus,” stated Danni with the finality of an auctioneer’s hammer.

  Pegasus was the SON Group’s most powerful hacking tool, initially developed in conjunction with Unit 8200 and the United States National Security Agency. The first iteration had been stolen by the Shadowbrokers, an anonymous international hacking collective, and made available to one and all on the web. SON had built the second and third iterations themselves. It had quickly become their bestselling product.

  In short, Pegasus was a piece of spyware that, when installed on a phone, laptop, or desktop using the iOS operating system, gave them—the SON Group—total and complete control of the device. Pegasus tracked calls, collected passwords, reported the device’s location, read text messages, and allowed its user to gather information from every program installed on the device. WhatsApp, Viber, Facebook, Instagram, Skype—anything and everything, including taking control of the phone’s camera and microphone.

  All that was required was for the target to open a file with the spyware secretly attached to it. Pegasus did the rest. In this case, that “Trojan” file would be Luca Borgia’s May billing statement.

  There was one problem. All Borgia’s devices were equipped with software designed to search incoming mail for exactly such hidden attachments. Danni knew this because SON had sold him the software, and subsequently installed it.

  Danni laid out the dilemma they faced. “Can you get around it?”

  Isaac and Dov exchanged looks. “An hour?”

  “Forty-five minutes.”

  “Get me a hack in thirty and you boys can take the rest of the day off.”

  Dov made a face. “And do what?”

  Chapter 51

  Singapore

  Hadrian Lester left the elevator and walked unsteadily into the SKAI Bar. His hand throbbed beyond imagination. One eye was swollen shut. He suspected his nose was bleeding…who else’s blood could it be on his shirt?…and his ribs ached horribly.

  It was over.

  The words caromed around the inside of his battered skull like spiked pinballs.

  Over…over…over.

  The reporter had the files…a million of them, good God…Shaka was in custody. And Riske…whoever he was…the man was relentless.

  It was over. At least for Hadrian. He imagined the press, the harassment, the trials, the sheer pain of all that was to come. All of it would come out. Every sordid detail. There were too many people involved. One person would talk, then the next, then it would be a mad race to see who could save their skin first, who could cut the best deal, who could get the least prison time. But there would be no deal for him. Not for the man at the top. For the man at the top there was only the guillotine.

  Luca, of course, was insulated from the whole thing. Neither Riske nor the reporter, Li, would find his name anywhere. Not on an account, an email, a text, nowhere. He gave the orders. Hadrian followed them.

  Luca could take care of Riske. Of that, Hadrian was certain.

  “Christ, man, what’s happened to you?” It was Sir Ian, eyeing him not with sympathy but alarm. Can’t have the vice chairman wandering in here looking like this. It doesn’t do. What would they think in Edinburgh…or Glasgow…or wherever the fuck Sir Ian was from?

  Hadrian kept walking, the sky a shade of indigo, clouds lounging beneath the stars. On the equator, darkness came in a hurry. By now, his presence had been noted and commented upon, word spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Heads turned. Conversations stopped dead.

  “Hadrian, what is it? What has happened?” Beatrice hugged his side, trying to lead him away. He rebuffed her.

  “Not now, darling. Just one thing I have to do.” He smiled.

  “But…your face. Who hit you? Hadrian! Please. Talk to me. Darling.”

  “Please.” Italians. So emotional. Actually, it was one of the things he loved most about her.

  He pressed on, steadying himself against the bar, aware of all eyes on him. Drawing a breath, he continued past the seating area. If he looked carefully, far out on the horizon, past where the planes were taking off and landing, he could see Changi.

  He squinted and it came into view. All of it. The prison walls. The barbed wire. The rats with their long, sharp teeth.

  Never.

  With a nimbleness he didn’t know he possessed, he placed one hand on the rail, a foot on the bench next to it, and vaulted over the wall seventy stories and nine hundred feet above the earth.

  Never.

  Chapter 52

  Singapore

  Borgia,” said Simon. “Luca Borgia. That’s who we’re after.”

  “I can tell you all about Borgia. I interviewed him five years ago.”

  “Wait, you know him?”

  “As well as I know any of my subjects. He’s one of Italy’s wealthiest men. The Borg
ia family has holdings in industrial concerns all over the country—the world, really. They’re worth billions.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “They’re quiet, Simon. The epitome of old money. They like to control things from the shadows. He’s the principal landowner in the region of Umbria. We’re talking tens of thousands of acres. He lives in a castle there. It’s called the Castello dell’Aquila.”

  “Did you say ‘aquila’? As in ‘eagle’?”

  London nodded.

  “‘Luca the Eagle.’ I saw that handle on a few emails.”

  Waiting for the elevator, Simon handed her Hadrian Lester’s phone. “Look what I found.”

  “You took his phone?” said London. “That’s theft.”

  “He left it on the table.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “I may have lifted it.”

  “You do that? You pickpocket people?”

  “Handy skill, if you want to know. I’m going to give it back to him the next time we see each other. It’s what friends do.”

  “Do friends give friends their passcode?”

  “One-one-one-one.”

  “It isn’t!” She punched in the code, then looked at him, wide-eyed. “How?”

  “Parlor trick,” said Simon. “Actually, I caught him checking his phone when we were upstairs. Guys like him, who have to check it a thousand times a day, tend to keep it simple.”

  She ran through the apps. “It’s a gold mine.”

  “Admissible?”

  “For this, you need a warrant.”

  “I won’t tell the police if you won’t.”

  The elevator arrived. They entered and Simon punched the button for the ground floor. “Did you hear him? Something bad’s going down.”

  “What do you think? Another 9/11?”

  “With all the money that’s being shifted between accounts, I wouldn’t doubt it. And soon, this weekend.”

  They looked at each other, not sure how to handle the responsibility with which they’d been burdened.

  “Do you think Lester called the police?”

  The elevator slowed. The doors opened. “I don’t want to wait around to find out. Let’s move.”

  Simon scanned the open floor as they moved across the lobby. There was no sign of anything amiss, just the lazy ebb and flow of guests and business people and staff. They walked outside. A line of taxis was drawn up to their left.

  “And now?” asked London.

  “You write your story. Put those guys behind bars. The quicker the better.”

  “What about you? What next?”

  Simon took back Lester’s phone, bringing up the executive’s daily agenda. “Lester and his wife are booked on the Singapore Airlines 23:55 flight to Switzerland,” he said, showing London the screen. “Connecting flight to Nice. Room at the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Nothing but the best.”

  “Think he’s going to meet Borgia?”

  “That’s what I aim to find out.”

  “You’re going, too?”

  “Maybe I’ll get a seat next to Lester. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better. You know how it is when you’re flying. People say almost anything to another passenger.”

  “Don’t you think Lester is going to tell Borgia what happened?”

  “You mean about me breaking his fingers? I hope so. It might stop Borgia from doing whatever it is he has planned.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Simon laughed bitterly. “Not for a second.”

  The porter blew his whistle. A taxi pulled forward, a silver Mercedes.

  “Go ahead,” said Simon. “Take this one.”

  London looked at him askew. “I’m going with you.”

  “As much as I’d like the company, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “And I’m supposed to care?”

  “Pardon me? A few hours ago you came this close to lying on the pavement dead of cyanide poisoning. You’re staying here, where you’ll be safe.”

  “Pardon me? It was me Rafael de Bourbon contacted to look into PetroSaud in the first place. My involvement in all this predates yours. And by the way, who do you think you are to tell me anything about how I should live my life?”

  “Look Ms. Li…London…I don’t care what you do, one way or the other. I do care that you stay alive, if only to break this story. Rafa deserves that.”

  “Do you have any idea how patronizing you sound? As if I need a man to keep me safe.”

  “Man, woman, as long as it’s someone who can see a threat coming.”

  “The man who tried to kill me—”

  “Shaka. He’s a professional assassin. And yes, that’s for real.”

  “Shaka. He is in jail. We don’t have to worry about him any longer.”

  “We don’t know that for certain.”

  “He was handcuffed to the ground. There were witnesses. This is Singapore. Not Thailand or Malaysia or any of those places where laws can be bent to suit the richest party.”

  “And your point?”

  “Our officials are not corrupt. I thought about what you said earlier, about Lester having friends in high places. It doesn’t wash. Not here. The police will keep Shaka in custody until he stands trial.”

  The porter stepped forward and opened the rear door. “Please, madam, sir.”

  By now, there was a queue behind them.

  “Thank you,” said London.

  “After you.”

  Without warning, a thunderclap.

  Closer and louder than any Simon had ever heard. A shock wave passed through him. A blizzard of glass peppered his face. Metal shrieked. Tires exploded. Screams.

  Inexplicably, Simon was on his behind, half sitting, half lying on the pavement, London next to him, both of them dazed but unhurt. Slowly, he gathered himself, the tremendous boom fading, the very air itself vibrating.

  Hardly more than a foot away, a body lay on the crushed roof of the Mercedes taxicab. A man in a dark suit. He’d landed on his back. His head lolled to one side, eyes open, staring at Simon. But for a trail of blood running from his mouth, Hadrian Lester looked remarkably peaceful.

  Simon helped London to her feet. A moment to come to their senses, to fully realize what was before their eyes. London circled the ruined car, hurrying to help the driver pinned inside. With Simon’s help, and that of several bellmen and porters, they pulled the man free. By some miracle, he was unhurt except for some cuts on his forehead. He saw his car, the dead man on it, and collapsed.

  Simon approached London. “Come here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just come here.”

  She approached warily. With a handkerchief, he wiped away several flecks of blood on her cheek. She lifted her chin, eyes on his. “You sure you want to go?” he asked.

  London nodded, but a moment later, backed away, as if she’d gotten a shock. She walked to the next taxi. “My apartment is on the way to the airport. Am I allowed to get my passport?”

  Chapter 53

  Latina Air Base, Italy

  Caesar led his legions to victory at the Battle of Vosges.

  Mark Antony at the head of his cavalry routed the Gauls and their king, Vercingetorix, at Alesia.

  And Luca Borgia, no less a champion of his people, would expel the barbarian hordes from the shores of Europe.

  Borgia sat in the passenger seat of the van as it cleared security at Latina Air Base, an hour south of Rome, and drove onto the tarmac. A Piaggio turboprop sat on the runway, engines spooling, loading ramp lowered. Near it was parked a jeep. General Massimo Sabbatini, clad in his navy-blue utilities, beret cocked on his head, jumped down and started toward them. A squad of his men waited close by.

  Borgia left the van. The two men shook hands. It was not a day for pleasantries. They were preparing for war.

  Sabbatini ordered his soldiers to unload the van. In minutes, a stack of crates man-high stood next to the loading ramp. The parat
rooper read from a clipboard. “Four crates Semtex at ten kilos per crate. Two crates hand grenades at twenty grenades per. Two crates Beretta nine-millimeter pistols at ten pistols per. Two crates ammunition. All here.” He caught Borgia’s air of concern. “What is it?”

  “I don’t want them getting their hands on the materiel.”

  “No question of it. The plastique cannot be detonated without the proper equipment. We will defuse the grenades and remove the firing pins from the pistols.”

  “No mistakes,” said Borgia.

  Sabbatini placed a hand on his upper arm. One soldier’s word to another.

  It was a clear, pleasant afternoon. The air base, on the Lazio plain, looked east toward Cassino and south toward Pompeii. Borgia fancied himself a student of history. At such a place Pompey had fought Caesar and lost, signaling the end of the First Triumvirate. Borgia had no illusion. He was not the next Caesar. But like Caesar, he viewed himself as an expression of the people’s will, the vox populi. Through him, their voices would be heard. He was not the only one who had had enough.

  Turin. Milan. Lampedusa. Ingolstadt. Dijon. Copenhagen. Madrid.

  Equal shares of explosives and armaments purchased from Libya had been sent to each city. In each city, members of Prato Bornum would see that they were properly used. Police. Military. Intelligence agencies of one stripe or another. Bloodshed was necessary, but Borgia had instructed his colleagues to keep it to a minimum. Enough blood would be spilled come tomorrow night to spark his plan into action. The other cities were meant to be symbolic, to let the public know that no one was safe. Not in Italy. Not in Germany. Not in Denmark. Not in Spain. And not in France.

  Poor France, thought Borgia. Yet again she would suffer the most, but if it was any consolation, many of the victims would not be French.

  There had been one last shipment, and this was the most important. It had left his possession an hour after he had acquired the materiel from the gangsters Toto and Peppe, on the Naples docks, and had been placed aboard a private jet and flown to, of all places, Switzerland. Fifty kilos of plastic explosives packed in a lead-lined stainless-steel case, ensuring the plastique’s chemical signature remained invisible to even the most sophisticated scanner.