by Jack Bowie
“Goddamn pervert.”
“I hope you’re not referring to me, Sallie,” Singer added a smile just to piss her off.
She threw him a withering glare. “Tried to put his flippin’ greasy hand on me. He deserved it.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t break his hand.”
“Didn’t want to get too carried away.”
A heavy-chested blond waitress in a skin-tight t-shirt emblazoned with the symbols for Beryllium and Erbium stopped at the table. Singer ordered a Beck’s and his companion just nodded.
Salifeyeh Shahid was a woman of mysterious skills and even more mysterious background. Singer had met her while he was working as a conduit between a gang of skinhead radicals who needed money to take down the German government and a cabal of rich industrialists who needed the government to spend more money protecting its citizens from the same radicals. It had been a very profitable arrangement. Shahid had specialized in hacking the email accounts of prominent Bundestag members and exposing their most private liaisons.
According to Singer’s other contacts, Shahid, known to others only by her handle, Scheherazade, was one of the best hackers in the world. But she refused to become part of any hacker farm. She was a loner and fiercely independent. She did what she wanted, when she wanted. Always for obscene amounts of money.
There was a rumor she had developed her hacking skills working for ISIS, but he had never been able to verify it. For her part, Shahid was silent.
A few minutes later, the waitress deposited two pint glasses on the table. Shahid pushed hers to Singer and pulled a tall slim can from her backpack. She popped the top and took a long drink. Singer had never seen Shahid drink alcohol. Just an endless diet of poisonous high-caffeine energy drinks. He couldn’t remember if he had ever even seen her eat anything solid.
“Any problems getting the package?” she asked.
Singer thought back to the events in Cabo. ”Nope. A breeze. The information should be even more valuable than previously. Here’s a description for the auction.” Singer slipped a folded piece of paper across the table.
Shahid palmed the paper, took a quick look, then stuffed it in a pocket in her backpack. “I’ll post a notification later tonight. One week for the auction?”
“Let’s push them. Five days. Another thing. I want you to send this to one of your friends in the U.S.” He passed the document he had written on the plane across the table. “Spoofed from Braxton’s account. That should keep him busy for a while.”
“Who is this guy?” Shahid asked. If she had any guilt about not being able to break into the account herself, she didn’t show it.
“Someone who sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Why not just kill him?”
Singer took a sip of his beer and grimaced as the bitter liquid hit his stomach. “Not worth the trouble.”
“Bullshit. He’s part of your bitch with the CIA, right?”
Singer should have known better than to try to lie to Shahid. She knew him too well.
“Okay. He was the reason I ended up in Germany. And I just found out he helped take down Rockwell’s team in Geneva. That was a very profitable assignment. I want him to hurt first. Badly. And he may help me get to Slattery.”
Shahid took another swig of her drink. She set the can quietly on the table and stared back into Singer’s eyes. “Time for me to give you advice. Give up this obsession with the CIA. Someday it’s gonna drop a pile of shit on you and I don’t want to be around when it happens. We’ve got a good gig going here. Don’t mess it up with some stupid vendetta.”
Singer’s eyes lost their focus. “You must win by seizing upon the enemy’s disorder and derangement, and by not according him even a little hope of recovery,” he recited.
“That another piece of your precious oriental wisdom?”
He nodded. “A Book of Five Rings. Never underestimate the power of history, Sallie. It will be your downfall.”
Chapter 18
Simmering, Vienna, Austria
Wednesday, 11:00 a.m.
Singer walked down the broad access way between two rows of aging, nondescript industrial buildings. Located in the Simmering district of Vienna, they were casualties of Vienna’s ever-changing commercial landscape. Only about half were still occupied, the rest either deserted shells or burned remnants.
He walked up the concrete stairway of one seemingly empty building. To his left, a battered roll door secured the long-unused loading dock. He punched a code into the security box next to the steel entry door and heard the familiar clicks.
Singer entered a gaping space filled with discarded metalworking equipment. Rusty lathes, presses and grinders sat, abandoned and silent, on the building’s floor. The space stank from stale oil and refuse. He deftly negotiated the disarray of metal tables, bent shelving and broken shipping pallets and worked his way to the rear of the space. He climbed a short flight of steel steps on the rear wall and entered their “office”, a cramped raised room that had probably served as the business center of the previous owner. What little was left of the room’s walls was covered in graffiti. Rusty steel studs stuck out precariously; Singer had cut his arm twice by walking too close. Windows that had once looked out on the factory floor were now either absent or cracked and barely transparent, covered in years’ accumulation of grime.
They had needed a location for their operation, one that gave them privacy and had the requisite resources. This building had been inexpensive, was easy to secure and shared a wall with a successful commercial printer. Hacking into their Internet and power had been an easy task for Shahid. The only negative had been the incessant drone of the business’s presses.
The office’s physical state was in sharp contrast to the furnishings it now housed: three two-meter-tall racks of computers, ablaze with blinking lights, and Shahid’s sleek desk, which fronted a two by three array of over-sized LED monitors. Lines and graphs scrolled over the displays, more information than Singer could ever take in. How she managed this menagerie of electronics he’d never know.
When they had first evaluated the space, Singer had commented that they would have to buy heaters to keep the space habitable. Shahid had just laughed. He now understood why. The damned computers put off more heat than he could stand. He had had to buy fans to blow it away.
Singer had barely reached the top step when Shahid started in. “I hope you had a nice sleep. I’ve been here most of the night fighting off the barbarians.”
His eyes rose to the ceiling. Or at least the maze of steel girders that passed as a ceiling in this death-trap of a building. They hung precariously over his head, miraculously supporting the flat corrugated metal and tarpaper roof.
Shahid might be a world-class hacker, but she did get on his nerves at times. “Would you care to elaborate?”
“Your damn friends in D.C. are trying to break into our site.” She went back to staring at her monitors.
“D.C.? The CIA?
“Maybe. I can’t be that specific.”
“They started last night?”
“No. They’ve been at it since Sunday.”
“Sunday!” Singer smashed his hand on her desk. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Shahid turned her head. “I didn’t think it was important. It was just your feds for god’s sake.”
Singer closed his eyes. If the goddamn pain didn’t kill him, Shahid was going to. “So what changed?”
“Don’t know. I think someone new is in the mix. Someone with talent.”
“What do they want?”
“So far they’re just trying to hack in; see the content on the site. The new guy’s pretty good. I’ve been putting up challenges all night, but I can’t keep this going indefinitely. At some point, they’ll get in.”
Singer glanced over to the back wall. A cot had been set up, now piled with blankets. Next to the cot was a pile of empty cans, the remains of Shahid’s energy drink diet. He had an apartment a fe
w blocks away in a blue-collar residential district, but she had never revealed where she showered or kept a change of clothes. It was all part of her hacker mystique.
“I don’t care if they see it,” Singer replied. “We knew we couldn’t keep the site invisible forever. But how did they find us?”
“It must have been one of our clients. There’s no other way. You know anyone that has been compromised?”
“I haven’t heard of any arrests. But those kinds of things don’t usually make the nightly news. Can you see what you can find?”
Shahid looked as if she had been asked whether she could hack a cell phone. “Of course. It might take a couple of hours.”
Singer nodded. “Did my article go out?”
“Yes, I sent it to a reliable … distributor. It should be quite a morning in Washington.”
He turned and stared out to the factory floor. “Good. So the hunt has begun. I wonder who they’ll send to flush us out?”
* * *
“Roger? Peter is on the phone.” Lewis was standing in his doorway with an uncomfortable look on her face. And her voice had a tone that put him immediately on edge. Slattery hardly ever talked with his boss over the phone. It was always face-to-face. Unless it was really bad news.
“What does he want?”
“Ah, he wouldn’t say, but I think you better take it.” She quickly disappeared and shut the door to his office. Another bad sign.
Shit. Peter’s on a rampage. Maybe it’s something about the auction site. But hacking it was on S&T’s plate for now.
He gingerly picked up the handset.
“Peter?”
“What the hell is that consultant up to?” Markovsky’s voice boomed over the line. “I thought you told me you were done with him.”
“Ah, what consultant, sir?” Slattery feared he knew the name that was about to be dropped.
“Braxton, of course.” Slattery sighed. What had the man gotten into now? “Check your email. And don’t get back to me until this is fixed.” The connection died.
He pushed the button on the intercom. “Cassie. Peter just sent me an email. Can you check it out and get anything I need to see?”
Slattery sat in his chair drumming his fingers on the desktop. He couldn’t imagine what Lewis would find, but he knew it would not be good.
Two minutes later, she appeared in his doorway.
“Well?” he ordered.
Lewis looked even more uncomfortable than she had earlier.
“Um, I think you need to look at this yourself.”
She came behind his desk, opened a web browser and typed a URL. A web site appeared. It was a garish red, white and blue with a header that proclaimed “The Beltway Chronicle - The Real Truth About The Government.” He scanned down to the lead article: “Collusion Uncovered Between Spy Agencies and Private Companies.” The article quoted emails from a private investigator, named as Adam Braxton, and described an unending series of nefarious deeds involving the CIA and private contractors like Lockheed-Martin, Accenture, and a litany of other well-known beltway bandits. Also included were the names of two lesser-known organizations, Vision One and Omega Genomics. The latter two were part of clandestine CIA operations that had involved Braxton, both with Slattery’s support. No wonder Markovsky had blown his top.
Thankfully, the emails did not provide accurate depictions of the operations. The article was a classic example of inflammatory rhetoric with just enough truth to make it appear plausible. But it did paint a very ugly picture of CIA influence on private industry.
The good news was that much of the purported activities never occurred and there was no way Braxton would have described them in emails. But that would matter little to conservative-leaning conspiracy theorists; a group that included too many members of Congress. They would call for hearings, Markovsky would be dragged into the witch hunts, and Slattery would likely get a pink slip nailed to his butt.
“What can I do?” Lewis asked in her most sympathetic tone.
Slattery thought for a moment. “Get Braxton on the phone.”
* * *
Braxton sat at Chu’s desk, his head dropped into his hands. He pressed his fingertips as hard as he could into his temples, but the pounding pain did not subside. All he had done for the past hour was answer his phone and listen to his business crumble to ashes.
Accenture had been first, they had always been media savvy, and that call had led him to the first of a seemingly unending list of conspiracy sites that had picked up the article. The article that was now ablaze on his PC screen, a visual epitaph for Cerberus Consulting.
The phone rang again. He was about ready to stop answering, but didn’t want his customers to think he was hiding. He was going to stiff this out.
“Cerberus Consulting.”
“This is, ah, Mr. Smith.” Braxton knew immediately who it was. “Mr. Smith” was the inane alias Slattery always used with him. “I assume you have been reading the news?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we wanted to inform you that we expect this, uh, misunderstanding, to be resolved quickly and completely. I hope I am clear.”
“Absolutely,” Braxton replied immediately. “And we all appreciate your understanding and assistance.” He slammed the phone down.
Shit. What the hell did Slattery expect him to do?
He put the office phone on auto-answer and pulled out his cell.
Chapter 19
Gordon Biersch Restaurant, Tysons Corner, VA
Wednesday, 12:30 p.m.
Braxton had made reservations at the Gordon Biersch Brewery and Restaurant in Tysons Corner. It was his go-to place for comfort food when life threw him a curve. Walker and Fowler had arrived a few minutes earlier. He sat down and they ordered a round of drafts and three sandwiches.
“How is Karen?” Walker began. Well, at least she had her priorities right.
“Still improving,” Fowler replied. “I went over this morning. Her color is back, and she’s been complaining about the food. All good signs. And Russell has quit blaming all of us. At least verbally. Karen said she expected to be released in a day or so.”
“That’s great news,” Braxton said. “Does she know about the article?”
“She didn’t mention it. I didn’t know about it either then. And I doubt Russell will tell her. If he even knows. But when she hears, she’ll be blaming herself.”
“Did she say anything more about what happened?” Walker asked.
“Pretty much what we expected. Singer wanted background on Adam’s clients. Who are they, what did Adam do for them? She couldn’t tell him many technical details. That’s why the article is so light. Lots of innuendos, not many specifics.”
“But enough to have all my clients on the phone this morning,” Braxton added. “Including the CIA.”
“Roger?” Fowler asked.
“Yup. Told me I was on my own and better fix this.”
“Shit.” Fowler slammed his huge fist on the table. “No way he has any right to come off like that. I’ll tell him where the hell he can go.”
“Maybe later, Sam,” Braxton replied with a calm that surprised him. “He’s probably in almost as much trouble as I am.” He took a deep breath. “I hate to ask, but I really need your help. I’m not sure what to do.”
Not surprisingly, it was Walker that took the challenge. “Okay, no more whining. What do we know?”
“Once I got over my panic,” Braxton began, “I poked around the conspiracy sites. All the articles have the same source. The report originated on a local e-zine called The Beltway Chronicle. Owner’s name is Richard Corley. He operates out of a storefront on Wilson Boulevard in Arlington.”
“E-zeen?” Fowler asked.
“Electronic magazine, Sam,” Walker explained. “Kind of a blog on steroids. It sounds like this guy believes he’s a real journalist. I think we should disabuse this man of his delusions.”
“What do you have in mind?” Braxton asked.
<
br /> “Sam and I are going to pay a visit to Mr. Corley and see if we can find out how he got the article. Maybe something we can use to stop this trash from going any farther. You in, Sam?”
Fowler shrugged his massive shoulders. “Sure. I assume you’ll eventually tell me what we’re really up to?”
“Excellent,” Walker exclaimed. “I’ll meet you in Arlington at four. Now, I’ve got to get home, grab a few special items and also pack for Europe.” She flashed a gleaming smile. “No rest for the wicked.”
She hopped off the stool then turned back to Fowler. “Oh, and bring any law enforcement credentials you have hanging around.” She headed for the door.
Fowler looked completely confused. “Credentials? Europe? Is Sydney going on vacation?”
“I don’t know about the credentials, but Europe is definitely not a vacation. Donnelly is going to a conference in Budapest and Sydney is going to join him. It seemed like the best way to keep an eye on him.”
Fowler shook his head. “Geez. How come she gets all the good assignments? I think you need to buy another round.”
* * *
Walker and Fowler drove to Arlington and entered the offices of The Beltway Chronicle on Wilson Boulevard. It was actually more like a large room. Probably a space that had previously been used as a campaign headquarters or an H&R Block office at tax time.
Three young people sat at small tables—one male, two females—pecking away at laptops. They looked more like high-school interns than real reporters.
Walker approached the male.
“Excuse me. Could you direct me to Mr. Corley’s office?”
A pock-faced kid looked up, checked out the attractive female, then scowled at her over-sized escort. He pointed to the rear of the space.
“His office is back there.”
“Thank you so much,” she replied with a smile.
The pair walked to the back and found a small office with “Editor-in-Chief, Richard Corley” printed on a piece of paper and taped to the door.
Walker knocked.
“Yeah, what is it?” came the response. Walker nodded to Fowler and opened the door.