The Fourteenth Protocol_A Thriller

by Nathan Goodman

  Macy didn’t slow his stride but instead walked right by the desk and tapped it. He disappeared down the server rows and was gone.

  Cade stopped at the desk, box still in hand and mumbled, “What an asshole.”

  “I heard that,” bellowed Macy’s voice from somewhere down the server rows.

  “Good God,” said Cade very softly. “The guy can hear better than Jesus.”

  He unloaded the box and placed his coffee thermos on the desk along with his jar of pens and a few notepads. He hesitated to lay out his Snoopy mouse pad, but then thought, Screw them, Snoopy stays. His headphones went into the top drawer, but he wasn’t too sure what the policy would be up here about listening to music while you worked. Perhaps instead of listening to music, we have to listen to old speeches of Der Fuehrer.

  Rupert Johnston walked in, leaned over Cade’s desk, and said, “Gimme ten, then come into my office.”

  Johnston’s office was brighter than the rest of the dark interior space; the morning light poured in with a soft hue. Cade stood at the door, not sure if it was okay to just walk in or if there would be some Doberman that would pounce. Johnston was busy banging away on his laptop, using the hunt-and-peck method of typing. Long pointer fingers flew in angry succession across the keys as if they were trying to poke someone’s eye out. Cade gazed out the window and noticed a blurry Stone Mountain off in the distance. He squinted into the blur, but it seemed like everything out of Johnston’s windows was hazy and hard to focus on.

  Johnston stopped typing and extended his hand towards a chair. Cade spoke first. “Sir, are the windows dirty or something? Everything looks so blurry, like there’s something on the window.”

  Johnston blurted out, “Countermeasure film. Blocks eavesdroppers and other such assholes from pointin’ a laser mic at the winder and listen’n’ in to what we’re sayin’.”

  Cade stared at him like his head had just spun around 360 degrees.

  Johnston glared back. “Look, son, it’s like this. Up here on seventeen, this is what we call the federal zone. We have customers that are either govermints, like state, ceety, or even the fed’ral govermint, or, they’s big cumpnees like banks and such that want their data protected real special-like. You understan’, son?”

  “Yes, sir.” Cade was tiring of the apprehension that weighed upon his chest over the last three days. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Sir, what I don’t understand is, well . . . sir, what happened when I was up here last week? What was all of that?” There it was. He said it. It was out on the table now.

  It was clear as Johnston shifted in his seat and cleared his throat that he was uncomfortable being cornered. Guess somebody would rather I hadn’t asked.

  “Son, sometimes, it’s jest better ta know when it’s time to ask questions and when ya should jest git on with her and git her done.” He wasn’t angry as Cade had expected. The tone was more fatherly than anything else. Cade had a strong feeling that there was more Johnston wanted to say, but he wasn’t going to.

  Cade had pressed enough for one day and let the subject die. But he wanted to leave the room on a good footing with his new boss, asshole or not. There was a picture frame with Johnston holding a heavily antlered deer head. He was just about to comment on it when the set of framed diplomas beside it made him do a double take. He read and reread the text on each. The one on the left read Massachusetts Institute of Technology—the one on the right, HarvardUniversity.

  “Sir, you went to MIT and got an MBA at Harvard?” The diplomas were as clear as day. Cade couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Johnston glanced out the corner of his eye and let out a long sigh.

  “Yes, dammit. I went to MIT and Harvard. Me an’ my southern drawl went up to fancy-pants Harvard and showed them northern boys what a bunch of sissies they was. Jes cause a man’s got a drawl don’ make him a fool. Folks up there could hardly understan’ what I was sayin’.” He almost smiled.

  When Cade sat down at his desk, he thought about the last thing Kyle told him over their weekend together—you’ve got to find out what was going on during that e-mail job. He shuddered at the thought of being caught prying into anything he wasn’t supposed to. But under the pretense of being the new server guy, and since server guys were troubleshooters and always had to know what was going on during a problem, he took it as his ticket to start snooping.

  19

  Cade was curious to see what network access he’d been given in his new role. He logged into the administrative console and started by doing his normal duties. He checked server status, looked for any alerts that had been posted, and generally made sure things on the server floor were running on par. An hour later, however, he could wait no longer. He accessed the server log files, searching for the e-mail job that seemed to nearly cause the company to explode. Scanning through hundreds of lines of code, he began to see the code pattern he’d noticed earlier. There was a spike of server activity that occurred on a repeated, timed basis. It was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. Digging further, he noticed that during each interval, the server was calling for a set of code to execute. Cade looked up and down, but the code it was calling was nowhere to be found.

  “What in the hell are they calling?” he said. Then, he spotted it. It was a code snippet sending calls to an outside server. That was highly unusual. The servers never communicated outside of the Thoughtstorm building. That was a breach of security protocols.

  This code then received something in return, and that something was getting inserted into the body of the e-mails. But what? This was completely outside the scope of what an e-mail server was designed to do. No wonder the server nearly blew up. What kind of assholes try to execute code then inject it into an e-mail right before it sends? He’d have to find out what was being injected into the body of those e‑mails. But he also knew that the first thing Kyle would ask was where they were calling the code from. Cade heard footsteps and looked over his shoulder. He closed out of his computer screens and pretended to be reviewing server status. Someone was coming.

  20

  Baker sat motionless, her mouth hanging open, almost not wanting to believe what she had just heard. It would have been like staring at the series of numbers on a winning lottery ticket, reading them over and over. The men were wrapping up their conversation and would soon split up. She had to act. The question was, which one should she follow? The initial assignment was to follow Waseem Jarrah, but that was before the quiet game of intramural flag football turned into the Super Bowl. They would both be considered targets of the highest priority.

  Her hand dashed into the bag to grab her phone. “This would be so much quicker with a radio.” But she knew that typical one-man stakeout assignments had no need for instant communications.

  On the other end of the line, a male voice answered, “FBI, Agent Clemente.”

  Jana blurted out, “Clemente, this is Agent Baker.”

  “Give me the SAC.”

  “Baker, the Special Agent in Charge is on a call with Washington right now . . .”

  “Clemente, this is priority level 4! I don’t care who he’s talking to! Yank him out of there right now!”

  “Good Christ, Baker, hold the line.”

  A few moments later, SAC David Stark came on the line. “Priority level 4, my ass. What the hell is it, Baker? You better not have gotten me off that call to discuss knitting patterns.”

  “Sir, I just recorded a convo with Waseem Jarrah, the target level six you assigned me to. Jarrah and another man just discussed the funding of the terror cell that’s apparently responsible for the string of bombings. They just talked about Tucson! The targets are at my twelve o’clock right now!”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Stark. “Okay, calm down, Baker. You’re sure of what you heard?”

  “That’s an affirmative, sir. Sir, they’re about to split up. Who do I follow? Oh, shit, they’re separating!”

  “All right, all right. So you’re on top of Jarra
h’s current whereabouts? You know where he’s living, his daily habits, affirm?” replied Stark.

  “Yes, sir, I’ve been on him several days.” Jana was out of breath, still holding the camera’s zoom lens in focus, shutter banging away.

  “Follow the second target. We need full cover on him. We at least know where Jarrah lives. We can find him again. What’s your location? I’m sending a flash team to you right now.”

  Stark began yelling over his shoulder, “Clemente! Get your ass in here! Put Blue Team on a code 4 right now! Get them moving, we’ll send them a target package en route.”

  “Baker, give me your twenty.”

  He scribbled the address of the ball field on a pad as fast as he could.

  “All right, Baker, stay with target number two. Turn on the ping. And, Baker, don’t lose him.” His voice echoed in a firm directive, but Jana could hear the faint sound of hope. Jesus Christ, she thought, if I’m right, this will be the FBI’s highest priority, and the Atlanta field office will be right in the center of it.

  Jana forced the laser mic and camera back into the bag and flipped to the app on her phone that the bureau referred to as simply “the ping.” Once activated, all agents deployed to the scene would be able to track her exact location.

  Without looking too suspicious, she grabbed the blanket, not bothering to brush off the clippings of dead grass, and draped it across her shoulder bag. She slid her sunglasses on and watched as the Jamaican exited the first base side of the field. Bastian Mokolo was covering a lot of ground, and within moments, he would disappear into the shuffling streets of Little Five Points and be gone. She ducked behind a row of trees, hoping they would keep her just out of sight, and began to sprint. Her mind raced; her adrenaline surged. But Bastian dropped out of view.

  21

  Cade tried to ignore the approaching footsteps, not wanting to look suspicious. It was William Macy and his intimidating glare. Cade knew he was about to receive a speech.

  “Williams, you have one job here. And that’s to make sure my servers stay up. I want you monitoring things closely. This is the federal zone, and what we do here is important. Oh, and one other thing. Today at three p.m. I’ve got an e-mail job going out. It’s top priority. It’s to receive priority bandwidth across the system, you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir. Ah, sir, I just, ah, I don’t know, well”—Cade stumbled to find the words—“I don’t know what to call you, sir.”

  William Macy’s perfect Windsor knot looked like it would choke him.

  “I’m no one.” He began to walk off. “I’m a ghost, that’s all you need to know.”

  After Macy left, and Cade was certain he was out of earshot, he again muttered, “What an asshole.” Cade’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was his father.

  “Hey, Dad,” said Cade in a voice devoid of enthusiasm.

  “Cade! Hey, glad to catch you. So, how are things going at work?”

  Cade looked around to make sure no one was listening. The floor was deserted. It was like he no longer had coworkers, just the sound of server fans running in the background. “Well, Dad, it’s going okay, I guess.”

  “Hey, you don’t sound so good. Is anything wrong?” Cal winced, wondering if it was just his phone call that was upsetting Cade.

  “Well, no, not really. Things here have changed. I’ve moved upstairs.”

  “Isn’t that a promotion? That sounds great,” said Cal.

  “Yeah. Kind of. I’m not so sure it’s a promotion I want though. Kind of hard to talk about right now.”

  “Cade, listen. I know you’re busy. I need to see you. There’s . . . there’s some things we need to talk about.” There was silence on the phone. “And it can’t wait. Can I meet you for lunch?”

  Cade thought for a moment. “Sure, Dad.” He didn’t want to see his dad, but he had run out of excuses.

  An hour later, Cade crossed Peachtree in between red lights. It was another busy Monday in Buckhead. On the other side of the six-lane thoroughfare, Cade slowed his pace and glanced at the tall buildings to his left and at all the people. They were moving from place to place, just like any normal day, busying themselves with their various concerns. But Cade didn’t feel normal. There was a sick feeling in his gut. He was concerned something was dangerously wrong at work and that something was wrong with his dad.

  Cal Williams walked through the heavy wooden front doors of Fado and found Cade waiting in a booth. A waitress breezed by, heading for another table carrying a platter of four Guinness, their thick creamy heads holding firm. The heavy oak table was still wet from being wiped down after the last customer. Cal slid across the slick, fake-leather booth seat and smiled at his only son. The silence was awkward, and they both knew it.

  “Cade, I’m really glad to see you. Listen, I know you don’t want to be here, and I know we haven’t gotten on in the best way in recent years.”

  Cade didn’t speak; he just looked his father in the eye. That was one thing his father had instilled upon him—you look a man in the eyes.

  “I want you to know I love you.”

  The same sinking feeling that Cade had when his father was about to be deployed rushed back. “Dad, you don’t have to say that. I know that.” Cade had not wanted to toss an “I love you” back.

  Cal’s mouth hung open like words were trying to come out, but no breath would move them. His eyes darted back and forth; he was fidgety, strangely fidgety. Just before he spoke, Cade blurted, “Are you drinking again?”

  There it was. It was out like an eleven-hundred-pound elephant no one wanted to talk about.

  Cal’s eyes snapped to Cade’s, full of regret. They misted over, but he held his emotions in check. Then Cal uttered, “No, son, no. I’m not drinking again. I lost everything dear to me doing that . . .”

  Cade lashed out, “Except your goddamn flying.”

  Cal almost allowed irritation to gush out of him, but stopped himself, knowing Cade was right. He had lost his wife and the love of his son over his constant deployments and drinking, but he had not lost his military pilot’s wings.

  “Son, you’re right. You’re right about everything. I lost your mom, I lost you . . . I guess I ran away from you two. Ran away and just jumped into a plane and never came back. I know these are just words to you, but I’m sorry. I mean that, I’m sorry.” This time, Cal’s voice cracked.

  In his lifetime, Cade had never seen his father cry.

  “Is that what you came here to tell me? Well, you’ve said it.”

  A waitress stopped dead in her tracks. She could see this was no time to suggest an appetizer of jalapeño cheese poppers. As she retreated, Cal looked at Cade.

  “No, son, that’s not what I came here to say.” Silence was as thick as the head on a Guinness. “Cade, I have cancer.”

  22

  Jana broke into a sprint, rounded a corner, and accidentally smashed into a teenager, knocking him to the ground. She stumbled but didn’t fall. “Sorry!” She charged across the intersection, knowing that if she didn’t get a clear line of sight, the Jamaican subject would be lost forever. Baker cleared the next block and ducked behind the corner of a building, panting like the bulls of Pamplona. Jana was in excellent shape, but the enormous anxiety took its toll as adrenaline surged throughout her body. She glanced around the corner and saw nothing. He was nowhere. People milled about, walking in and out of shops and sitting at outdoor cafes where the bright sun melted into them. The Jamaican’s clothing and hair made it easy for him to disappear into the sea of body piercings and dreadlocks.

  Up at the next block, she looked across the street into the reflection in the store windows. A man with dreadlocks was moving down the sidewalk. The reflection was blurry. Was it him? She rounded the corner but kept her glance downward, not wanting him to turn and see her. As she closed in, it was still too hard to tell. The hair . . . his body size . . . the shirt! Shit, that’s him! She wasn’t sure if she was breathing so hard due to the sprinting or du
e to the adrenaline. The Jamaican was on a cellphone as he crossed the street and disappeared over the hill just outside an outdoor patio full of people at a Mexican restaurant.

  Baker had to close ground. She burst forward, knowing the hill would shield her from his vision. Losing sight of him again wasn’t an option. She glanced behind her, hoping to see a bureau car or van approaching.

  “Where the hell are those guys?” As she rounded the top of the sidewalk, a sizzling hot plate was being delivered to a table next to the sidewalk. Steam rose from the metal as it scorched the razor-thin fajita meat. The Jamaican was gone. It was like he had vanished. A white work van with a ladder on its roof drove down the street.

  “Where the hell did he go?” Baker looked left and right, focusing on anything she could see. Then she turned to a man sitting alone at the sidewalk table, his eyes wide at the sizzling fajitas he was about to lay into.

  “Excuse me, did you see a big black guy with dreadlocks just come by here?”

  “You mean a Jamaican-looking guy?” he said, rather interested in her athletic, trim build.

  “Yes!” She paused, trying to not sound as excited as a nine-year-old schoolgirl at a sleepover. “Yes, did you see where he went?” She reached in her jeans pocket to pull out her credentials wallet. “He, ah, he dropped his wallet, and I want to give it back to him.”

  “Oh, bummer, the dude got in a van right there, man,” he said, still chewing the fajitas. Baker’s eyes shot down the street. “Say, you wouldn’t want a bite to eat or anything, would you? You know, I mean, I got all this food and stuff and, you know, maybe you want to eat.”