by Vince Milam
Thin ice. Krupp was a bona fide asshole, but there were two sides—always two sides—with matters of the heart.
“Can she tell me anything about Alaton? She’s bound to know a few things I don’t. Which is the reason for my meeting with her. No ulterior motives. Collect intel, file a report, go home.”
“Entertain no worries, Case Lee. You’ve passed muster, and I’ll arrange the gathering. It’s at her convenience, and she has her own troop of lawyers bothering her every waking hour. I’ll let you know. Now, where’s home?”
A strong urge appeared, a mission-oriented pull to end the night. Interim goal accomplished, a sit-down with Joanna Krupp set. Don’t know if it was the Mai Tais or my keen interest in Jess or simple loneliness. But I had no desire to leave the Lava Lava Beach Club.
“I live on a boat. A fine old wooden cruiser near your neck of the woods. If you still live in North Carolina. I cruise the Ditch. The Intracoastal Waterway.”
Dishes removed, we ordered another beer for me and a cognac for her with black coffee. We sat in silence while waitstaff cleaned things. Both of us shifted into off-the-job conversational tones. Business was taken care of. Soft music continued from the minuscule bandstand, the conversational buzz around us lowered in volume, and a Pacific island night vibe settled.
“I have a mild suggestion, if you don’t mind. It falls into the social life column,” she said and placed her sandaled feet on the now-empty small table.
We both stared into the vast Pacific, sipped drinks, and turned our heads toward the other at random intervals. Otherwise, we spoke toward the ocean.
“I don’t mind at all. Pearls of wisdom, I’m sure. Cast them before this all-ears swine.”
“You live on a boat. It may present an appeal to the wanderlust in all of us, but perhaps you should drop old and wooden from the descriptive. Call it a fine and comfortable cruiser. With an excellent remodeled bathroom and shower. It does have a bathroom and shower, right?”
“Bathroom. The shower facilities are on the upper deck. It involves a bucket.”
“You might consider skirting the tub’s plumbing, then. Focus on the exotic nature of boat life.”
“Tub? Really?”
“Ah. You’re sensitive about the boat. Do you call it ‘her’ and ‘she’?”
“Of course.”
“Of course. I take it you live alone.”
“Yep. And you?”
“The same. And I do still live in Charlotte. So how is it a man of mystery such as yourself doesn’t have a boat mate? A woman willing to lower her hygienic standards and traverse a body of water termed ‘The Ditch’? A question, I suppose, that almost answers itself.”
We both chuckled. But it was a legit question and filled with potential excuses and reasons. And draped with the memory of Rae. Rae Ellen, my wife. Murdered. Killed by a bounty hunter in pursuit of the million bucks on my head. I snapped the bastard’s neck while he stood over her body waiting for my return home. Not the lone reason I lived alone, and perhaps, these years later, not the major reason. Memories of Rae filled me with white-hot love, never fading, and a heartache I tried my level best to keep tamped down.
“It’s complicated.”
“That would fall firmly into the category of a social media answer.”
“I’m not on social media,” I said, taking a sip. “And there’s no one more than me on this good earth who wishes it wasn’t complicated.”
Palm fronds rattled overhead, the breeze cool and clean and filled to the brim with middle-of-the-Pacific. A waiter asked if we needed anything else, and Jess asked for the bill. We sat in silence for a minute.
“I was married. Rae. She was murdered.”
I glanced her way and found an unblinking stare returned. The flickering torches provided ample light to capture true sympathy and concern and a touch of what might have been empathy.
“I’m sorry. So sorry.”
I returned a tight smile, a tiny shoulder shrug, and a potent wish we hadn’t gone there. She sipped coffee and set the cup on top of her extended legs. The surf was minimal, and the subtle sound of light-breaking waves along a sandy beach provided backdrop.
“I was married,” she said. “Phil. He died of cancer.”
“Sorry. Truly.”
“It never leaves, does it? The ghost of good times past.”
“No. It never leaves.”
The waiter returned with the bill, and I asked for two more cognacs. We spent the next hour chatting in low tones. Simple affirmations, life as both good and bad, the desire for tranquility. Self-effacing humor and gentle laughter. Poignant pauses, relaxed, as large universal questions—unanswerable—floated through the night. It was one of the best hours I’d spent in a long, long time.
Chapter 8
Before dawn I parked at the remote road pull-over near Krupp’s data center and utilized a red-light headlamp—it provided sufficient illumination for the hike while keeping my eyes adjusted for the dark. I took my time as the lava rock made for treacherous footing. I’d practiced with the small drone the day before, testing flight controls and the release mechanism. Jury-rigged a drop net for the thumb drives from a sock. Anchored the sock’s toe end under the drone and ran a paper clip hook through the material on the sock’s open end. I experimented with it until happy. When I released the drone’s hook mechanism, the sock flopped down and the thumb drives fell out. Yeah, a jackleg solution. One that worked. So with drone underarm, binoculars and water bottle and Glock sheathed in a webbed belt, I was good to go.
Bunchgrass among the lava fields rustled with the sea breeze. No critters spooked from the vegetation, and there were no visible lights as I worked my way between small basalt hummocks and knee-high grass. The low glow of the data center parking lot and building entrance shone above the next rise. I kept hidden so I offered no profile against the night sky and nestled into an uncomfortable operational position overlooking Alaton’s data kingdom. I should have brought a pad or blanket or towel to sit on—the lava rock bit through my jeans.
It didn’t require binoculars to identify the lone vehicle under the parking area lights. A Rolls-Royce SUV—one I’d seen parked there before, although I hadn’t recognized it as a Rolls. Krupp had arrived at work early. Or worked at night. Either way it didn’t matter. He was ensconced inside the fortress-like data center, and his employees wouldn’t arrive for another hour, at least. I waited and contemplated imminent activity and my sit-down with Joanna Krupp. For the former, unease. I would be attempting to break into a private business. No way to sugarcoat it. If my plan worked—a big if—reliance on Hoolie obeying my minimal-collection directives helped tamp any personal angst over this breaking and entering endeavor. Well, no breaking but one large enter.
I planned on seeing Jess again. Not just with Joanna, but the two of us. Maybe dinner again, maybe a drive around the island, check the east side, visit the Kīlauea volcano. It was in an eruption cycle, and lava flowed. It would be cool to check out. And it would be cool knowing Jess better. One large question loomed: Was her demeanor, her character, part of an “on” switch for work? Or was she the type of person where what you saw was what you got? I’d have bet on the latter.
Dawn broke. Time for action. I unfolded the small drone and anchored the sock’s toe to its undercarriage. Slid the four thumb drives inside. The number of drives constituted a compromise between too many—evidence something was amiss—and too few so one wouldn’t be retrieved. I used the paper clip and secured the sock’s open end to the drone’s release mechanism. The handheld controls powered up, and I activated the four propellers. The drone took flight.
The key at this point was sufficient velocity while flying over the parking area and initiating release. I wanted those thumb drives scattered, avoiding close proximity with each other. I gave a directional and speed command, and the small toylike air platform zipped toward Alaton’s data center. Kept the speed high—the little bugger could zip—and the altitude at three hundred
meters. As the center of the parking lot approached, I hit the release button. It worked. In dawn’s low light, and with the help of binoculars, I could view the tiny thumb drives tumble toward the ground. The black sock flopped and waved underneath the drone. I guided it to a landing at my feet, shut it down, and packed it up. Then waited.
Rubbing elbows with spooks had taught me more than a few things. For an incursion such as this, reliance on others worked best. Not as allies or associates or clandestine operators, but as humans. Simple curiosity. Park your vehicle. Another day at work in the windowless bowels of servers and wiring and big data. Spot a thumb drive on the ground near your vehicle. Pocket it as an afterthought and later, out of simple curiosity, slide it into your office computer’s USB port. Family vacation photos appear, you glance through them, and pull the thumb drive out. Maybe toss it into the trash. Meanwhile, as you take an uninterested look at the vacationing happy family, the collection virus enters the data center network. It will spread and scurry like ravenous ferrets under electronic logs and around rocks of data, collecting and devouring what they’ve been instructed to hunt. Collection over, they’ll wait as if alongside a subway station’s tracks. Wait for a convenient train out of there and onto the World Wide Web. They’ll jump onto disparate train cars, break up the collection signature, then reassemble encrypted packages at home base—a buried Atlas missile silo under the Kansas prairie.
Vehicles began arriving. I pressed flat against the lava rock, binoculars raised. The first seven vehicles parked and their occupants, with badges on lanyards around their necks, headed toward the data center entrance. The next vehicle, a bright red coupe, disgorged a young man who stretched upon exit, closed the car door, took five steps, and stopped. He leaned over, plucked something from the ground, slid it into his pocket, and yawned again. Then strolled into work. Bingo.
I waited another thirty minutes and observed one other data scientist perform a stoop-and-pocket. Excellent. Two thumb drives were in. Our odds of success improved with the second unsuspecting employee’s participation. I kept a low profile, collected my things, and hustled back to the parked car. I scooted away and headed for the resort hotel, feeling pretty fine. Might have been the adrenaline rush of a tactical success. At the hotel, I sent Hoolie a dark web encrypted message.
Hounds unleashed. Maybe.
Even with two thumb drives pocketed, there was no guarantee they’d get plugged into a data center desktop or laptop computer. Still, it was the best shot I had. Hoolie wouldn’t reply; he’d wait for the packet to shoot his way. He’d contact me if it did.
No message from Jess about a Joanna Krupp meeting, so another dip in the Pacific made the schedule. Waialea Beach was nearby and offered snorkeling opportunities. I felt a twinge of guilt for playing while on the job, but the operational mode had switched to standby while I waited for the Joanna visit and anticipated a Hoolie message. Waialea offered a bounty of nooks and crannies underneath the wind-twisted kiawe trees that lined the beach. Perfect to perch under between snorkeling excursions and check phone messages. Humpback whales surfaced offshore, and the beach filled with tourists—each couple or family staking their private claim on a spot under the trees. Chatter and laughter and children’s squeals sounded from the small enclaves around me, the day warm, the sky cloudless. Good folks having a good time surrounded me. Regular folks.
It brought home my life’s lack of normalcy. Now, I rarely sat around morose and woe is me. I was blessed with family, a few friends, and good health. But I didn’t stride along a normal path. I sat on a beach with a pistol in my beach bag waiting to hear from a PI and a guy living deep within an abandoned missile silo. And the guy in the missile silo wouldn’t slide into any semblance of the normal column. Nor would Jules, by any stretch of the imagination. My three blood brothers—Bo, Marcus, Catch—each lived life on normal’s far edge. The bounty on our heads ensured it. Although Bo wouldn’t fall into the normal slot under any circumstances. Man, I missed him. And I lacked a partner, someone to share with. Pretty much guaranteed I was the only person sitting on the sand alone.
I could learn from Jess Rossi. Hone dull skills. The whole PI thing had several subgenres, and until now I’d occupied the high-danger column of spooks, mercenaries, hitters, and challenging physical environments. I excelled in that realm. No brag, just fact. But partnering, a life partner, pretty much mandated a step-away from those types of contracts. And a little voice whispered doubt toward the more traditional PI gigs. No doubt regarding my ability; I could learn, improve. No, the doubt triggered a weird internal switch. One that craved an adrenaline rush, a hang-it-on-the-edge activity from time to time. I wasn’t a thrill junkie—far from it—but the adage of “play to your strengths” whispered to me low and often.
I packed up and headed for the resort hotel. Showered and was met with a text message from Jess.
6pm at Joanna’s
She also provided the address. It matched the one Jules had sold me. I responded in the affirmative and was considering compiling a first pass of my client’s report when the phone rang.
“You son of a bitch!”
“Always a pleasure chatting with you, Elliot. You seem upset.”
“You are the one who will soon be upset, you bastard.”
His voice, tinged with frenetic breathing, came across loud and an octave higher than usual.
“That right?”
“You can bet your ass that’s right! We had a data breach this morning. We’ve discovered how. And it has your fingerprints all over it.”
He meant figuratively. I’d wiped any trace of prints off the thumb drives before delivery.
“Calm down, Elliot. Tell me what happened.”
“Oh, I’m calm alright. I’m plenty calm. But you’d better not be. I’m coming after you, Lee. Your little tough guy demonstration yesterday doesn’t mean shit now. You have messed with the wrong guy. And you will pay, asshole. You will pay!”
My hackles rose. Couldn’t help it.
“Listen up, Krupp. You’re on thin ice. I’ve gone over this with you.”
“You listen up. I’ll find everything there is about you. Everything. All the secrets, all the hidden data elements. It won’t take long. I’ve got a team working it now.” His voice lowered, became awash with evil menace. “And when I uncover your background, I’m coming after you. You have soft spots. Everyone does. You are screwed, Lee. Screwed. And the purpose of this call is to make sure you know who’s behind it when bad shit starts happening.”
Enough. Enough of this asshat spewing menacing threats.
“Pay attention, Krupp. I’m not going over this again.” He remained on the line. “You’ve never met anyone like me. Ever. Know that. And know if bad things start happening, I’m coming after you. All the money in the world, all the hired hands you muster, none of it will help you. You think about that, asshole.”
He hung up.
Chapter 9
Bent out of shape, I paced the room. First, this clown had made an automatic assumption that the data breach was my doing. Well, not a bad assumption. But it was the lashing out with overt threats that got to me. I could imagine some poor schmuck in the past who, although innocent, became the object of Krupp’s ire. Some blameless person whose life the MOTU ruined.
And yeah, I’d had a hand in plenty of literal and figurative buried bodies strewn across my past. Potential leverage against me lay hidden there. But I couldn’t imagine a world where such dark secrets, shadow-bound in their execution and never spoken of, were resurrected due to one person’s manipulation of information. Of data, big data. We hadn’t gotten there, yet.
While I seethed, the phone rang again. Hoolie.
“Alright, dude. This is going to be it. Nothing written, nothing sent into the deep and dark. No. This conversation is it.”
“Okay.”
An unusual hunker-down, even for Hoolie. We communicated on 256-bit encrypted phones. Not an absolute guarantee of privacy, but about as near
as you could get in the electronic communication world. Encrypted text or email lingered longer and presented a slight—and only slight—susceptibility to cracking.
“Offerings. Let’s start there.”
“Okay.”
“No. Let’s not. Start with data. Alaton has it all. Emails, text messages, online searches. Every keystroke people make on their computers. Who each person associates with—online or in person—and the connectivity of everyone to everyone else. Medical records, law enforcement records, credit card records, bank records. Where you drive or what buses and subways you take. How long you sleep. You name it, dude, they’ve got it.”
“Is that legal?”
“Good question. It depends. How’s that for an answer? People agree to stuff without ever reading the terms of service. No one reads that stuff.”
And I’d mightily pissed off Krupp. He’d be on a frantic excavation endeavor as Hoolie and I spoke. Mild alarms rang. Nothing to freak about, but he had said there were a team of his people on it. On me.
“Alright. Got it. Now offerings. What’re the services Alaton offers?”
“Alaton offers packages. One from column A, two from column B, three from column C. Each client then builds their own package of services. Not only data packs, but actions, switches thrown in response to those data packs. From what I can tell, the Chinese are the only ones, so far, with the full meal deal.”
“Good. Well done.”
Hence the visit from MSS. The Chicoms had invested a ton or two in Alaton. The largest client, no doubt.
“Well done? Dude! It’s obvious I’m not painting a clear picture. You should be at ‘holy crap!’ at this point.”
“Paint for me, Hoolie.”
“I’ll start with the most authoritarian. Let’s say you want the perspective package. That’s what this madman calls it. The perspective package. Alaton monitors what everyone reads and writes and views. Everyone. As well as who you physically hang with. They can do that. Then deliver, every single day, everyone’s responses for any event. Weather, a train wreck, a terrorist attack, politics, the Super Bowl. You name it, including personal events. Breakups, arguments, nasty social media posts.”