Rogue Code

by Mark Russinovich

  “Ready?” Frank asked. Jeff nodded, feeling anything but.

  Outside, the temperature was pleasant, nearly eighty degrees. They left the cobblestone hotel parking area and turned right at the street. The sidewalks were constructed of small flat stones. The pressure of bodies over time gave them a curious undulating effect and made for cautious walking, but they were otherwise in good repair. There were mature trees and shrubbery masking houses, usually well trimmed, but not always. It was not a poor section of the city, but it wasn’t especially affluent either.

  They passed along narrow streets, then wide boulevards, moving up and down gentle hills. There were tracks laid on some streets they crossed, overhead wires for trolleys not operating at this time of night. Aging single-story buildings and houses were interspersed with five-story office buildings, graffiti marking walls everywhere. Though it was a worknight and in Jeff’s mind getting late, there were couples, young and elderly, strolling, chatting, holding hands. Not for the first time did Jeff realize how much his own country had changed in his lifetime.

  Traffic remained busy and aggressive, though a bit lighter than earlier. Auto pollution controls were lax, and when trucks roared by, Jeff and Frank were engulfed in the blue-tinged acrid smoke of diesel.

  Frank had memorized the route. The landscape slowly turned more commercial; then after they crossed one street, it became entirely industrial, so much so they were now conspicuous on foot. Frank continued walking at a steady pace for several minutes, until he finally slowed before ducking into the shadows created by the nearly constant walls that abutted the sidewalk. There was just a single distant streetlight. “That’s it there,” he said.

  Jeff looked. All he could make out was one more solid wall. “You’re sure?”

  “That’s it. Though this part of the warehouse faces the street, this is actually the rear. See the driveways on both sides? Those go to the back, which we’ll find open, covered by a security wall. That will be the entrance.”

  “Google Earth, right?”

  “That and images. I’m always amazed what’s available on the Internet. If only I’d had these resources back in the day. My main concern right now is finding an observation place.”

  “You’ve not forgotten this is very likely a setup,” Jeff reminded him.

  “I remember. We’re going to be very careful. This way.” He led them across the street, then up an access drive to an irregular paved expanse. Jeff concluded that it was an area for large trucks to maneuver in and to facilitate their movement between the various businesses away from the public street. It was lit only by ambient light.

  Frank walked with measured steps, keeping to the shadows. He slowed and then came to a stop when they could see into the facility. He reached into the bag, searched for something, then extracted the binoculars. Vague illumination glowed behind two windows at the far end of the buildings. Otherwise, the facility looked abandoned.

  There was movement in a shadow against the warehouse wall. Jeff searched for it, moved his line of sight slightly to the side, and saw what appeared to be a small animal, a cat most likely, perhaps a small dog.

  There was a restless wind, occasionally enough to move the gathered street trash a few inches. The area about them smelled of used oil, diesel, and gasoline. But every few minutes, the wind carried the pungent smells away briefly bringing a floral fragrance, sweet like jasmine.

  “What do you think?” Jeff asked a bit uneasily.

  Frank lowered the binoculars. “It’s not a fortress, but like everything here it was built with security in mind. We’re going to hang out for a while. Relax if you can. It could be a long night.”

  “Do you think it’s a setup?”

  “It’s sure got the look. We’re out here away from any interference. The beckoning light in the window appeals to a primeval instinct in us. Even those automatic gates look slightly ajar, inviting as hell.”

  “Maybe someone’s working late or it’s a night-light.”

  “There are no vehicles, so we’re supposed to assume no one’s working. I’d say it’s supposed to be a night-light.”

  “So you think it’s a trap.”

  “I don’t know. That’s the beauty of these things. You promise someone what they want, keep it plausible, make it alluring, and even against their better judgment people fall for it. And for all our suspicion this could be exactly what it appears to be. The bad guys could very well be working out of here; it’s sure as hell a good spot for it. The threat to us was just that, a threat, and whoever sent it didn’t know about the embedded GPS code. That’s all entirely likely. So either way, we’ll settle in and watch.”

  “I think this is broken glass I’m standing on.”

  “I never said we’d be comfortable.”

  59

  HOLIDAY INN

  LAFAYETTE STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  10:02 P.M.

  Back in her hotel room, Daryl took a shower and then ordered room service. After toweling herself dry, she wrapped herself into the soft hotel robe. She ate half of a club sandwich, then sat at her laptop and examined what she’d downloaded from the cell phone.

  Daryl vividly recalled identifying this vulnerability. She and Jeff had made it a game, each seeing if he or she could find more of them, faster. Hers had been the first coup, and she’d made a point to be a poor winner, reminding him repeatedly over the following days of the job that she was not only first, but also remained ahead of him in count.

  It had been fun, more a game than work. When they were together, she recalled almost everything had been fun. The problem was that they weren’t together often enough, or long enough.

  So now she had Campos’s digital world. She first checked his photos and found almost nothing, just three street scene shots: a juggler, a tree-lined lane that didn’t look like anywhere in Manhattan she knew about, a plate of food at a restaurant.

  Next his call history. It came as no surprise that he’d placed no calls to Portugal. There were calls to the same local number but far more to one in Brazil, often more than one a day. She noted that the frequency had dramatically increased recently.

  She called the number herself, using his phone. After several rings, a recorded man’s voice came on the line in Portuguese. “You have reached the offices of Grupo Técnico. We are not available. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  Grupo Técnico. That was not the name Frank had used in São Paulo. She opened her browser and typed in the name along with the word “Brazil.” There were a number of hits as the name was so generic, but nothing that looked right. There was no Web site for the company.

  Next she checked voice mail and found one pending, also in Portuguese. “Abílio,” a young man said, “I need you to get back to me. I know you are busy but so are we. Call as soon as you get this, regardless of the time.”

  Abílio. Could that be Marc Campos’s real name? Probably.

  So … just where was Grupo Técnico? Was it part of the company Jeff and Frank were going to in São Paulo, Companhia Cero? Or was it somewhere else altogether? The thought brought her up cold, because if it was somewhere else, then São Paulo was a trap.

  60

  COMPANHIA CERO

  MOOCA DISTRICT

  SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL

  11:14 P.M.

  Jorge César shifted in his seat and fought off boredom. He scanned the security screens again. Nothing.

  From time to time, he said something to Paulinho to confirm he was alert, but they both knew from long experience that real conversation was a distraction. The rooftop snipers—Didi, Zico, and Cafu—checked in every ten minutes, their familiar voices coming into César’s earpiece. He was out of cigarettes and Paulinho didn’t smoke. “I’m making coffee,” César said. Paulinho nodded, the fingers of his right hand caressing the IMBEL MD97, the Brazilian Army semiautomatic assault rifle.

  A few minutes later, with two cups of black coffee, César returned
from the small kitchen and handed one to Paulinho. He sat and scanned the screens again. Still nothing. Too late he’d realized he should have placed two cameras with infrared capability to cover the public street. He had considered the idea but dismissed it as risky, since they could be spotted. Now, though, he’d rather have taken the chance. He was blind out there.

  Anxious, the hot cup grasped in his hand, he stood where he knew he couldn’t be seen from outside. The loading and parking area was empty. He sighed and returned to his seat, bored as ever.

  * * *

  Frank lowered the binoculars. “Someone’s inside.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Reasonably. He didn’t go to the window, but there was a slight change in the light.”

  “Maybe they’ve got a watchdog.”

  Frank turned to face him. “Now, there’s a thought.” He resumed scanning the structure. “But I don’t think so. The change was from higher up in the room. The roof appears clear, or if someone’s up there they are very, very good.”

  “How long do you want to wait?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m going to keep an eye on that window for a while. I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about a security dog, but better a dog than a guard, especially one making such an effort not to be seen.”

  61

  HOLIDAY INN

  LAFAYETTE STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  11:22 P.M.

  Next were the e-mails, since it was possible Daryl would find a physical address in one of them.

  Nearly all she saw were from or were sent to P.Bandeira@grupotecnico.com.br. She quickly read through the messages with a growing sense of excitement. This was it. There was no doubt at all. This P. Bandeira was sending code to Campos in New York. Most of the messages were tied to a previous message and lacked a signature. She searched for an original message from P. Bandeira. Finally, taking longer than she’d thought, she finally found one with the company signature located just below the telephone number and e-mail address:

  Pedro Bandeira

  Presidente

  Grupo Técnico

  Rua Adolfo Mota, 108

  Tijuca – Rio de Janeiro – RJ

  Next she entered “Grupo Técnico” and “Companhia Cero” into her search engine, looking for a connection. She found none.

  Biting her lower lip she sent a message to Frank’s phone.

  62

  COMPANHIA CERO

  MOOCA DISTRICT

  SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL

  11:54 P.M.

  “Okay,” Frank said lightly. “The roof still looks clear, and there’s been no more change in the light. Maybe a window is open and the wind moved a curtain. Or, as you suggest, they’ve got a dog in there. We’re going to take this very carefully, though, Jeff. I just want you to cover me.” He reached into the bag and pulled out the revolver Jeff had seen earlier. “Take this.” He removed the automatic and slipped it into his waist.

  Jeff took the weapon. It was heavier than he expected, used but well oiled and maintained. He was not a novice with a handgun, having taken target practice with his grandfather growing up. In fact, one summer as a teenager, he’d become quite accurate. But he’d never hunted, he’d never killed anything in his life. He thought for an instant about asking if this was really necessary, but realized how foolish that would sound. Of course it was.

  “You know how to use it?” Jeff nodded. “Okay, then. We’re ignoring those inviting doors. If I’m wrong about this, that open area is a kill zone. Just stick with me but I want you to hold back ten to twenty feet, depending on how much distance you need. Now, here’s the hard part: Force yourself not to watch what I’m doing. It’s going to be much harder than it sounds. Your job is to be the lookout, to watch all the things I can’t because I’m busy. Keep an eye out around us but primarily scan the roofline. I haven’t spotted anyone up there but that could just mean they are good. If there’s a roof lookout, at some point I’ll make enough noise to attract him. He should quietly check me out, and when he does you should see him. If he’s really good, he won’t move. He’ll wait for when I’m on the rope or just coming over the wall on top. Either way, if he exists, he’s not alone. You understand?”

  Jeff’s mouth was suddenly dry. “You really think we need to do this?”

  “If this isn’t a setup, then what we need is inside that office. In ten minutes, we can be there, with unlimited access. Even if this just proves to be a transfer point, we could very well take away enough data to clear us, or at least to get the Feds to focus somewhere else. And if Daryl’s right, we’ll have the data to prevent a potential Wall Street meltdown. It’s worth the risk. You ready for this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  Frank moved out back the way they’d come until they were midpoint along the extended wall of the warehouse. He hesitated, listening and watching, then quietly moved across the access drive until he was at the base of the wall. There he set his black bag on the ground and reached in for the nylon rope with attached hooks.

  * * *

  César’s ear came alive. It was Zico.

  “Movimento abaixo,” he said quietly. “Olhê embaixo.” Movement below. Look down there.

  César scanned the cameras. Nothing. Whoever Zico heard was in a blind spot. “Alguém,” he told Paulinho quietly. Someone. The man nodded but didn’t move. His job was to cover the office. Zico could take care of his roof section by himself.

  César waited, no longer bored, that familiar excitement suddenly coursing through him. He notified the other two snipers, Didi and Cafu, to be vigilant.

  * * *

  Jeff scanned the area about them. A motorcycle sped by on the outside road. He glanced back where they’d been standing and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He looked to the skyline just visible against the ambient light of the city and sky. Nothing.

  Frank had the rope out and was skillfully looping it so when he tossed the grappling end onto the roof it would feed out cleanly.

  * * *

  Above them, Zico was intent on the slight motion he was sensing below. Not sure this was the moment he’d been on watch for, he moved his assault weapon to the ready. There was no need to work the slide. A bullet was already chambered. He slipped the safety off and placed his finger on the trigger, long experience telling him not to put pressure on it—yet. The weapon was on full automatic. At this range it would slice his target in half in under a second.

  * * *

  Below, Frank was poised for the toss. He looked back at Jeff, who was standing perhaps ten feet behind him, scanning the roofline. Jeff shook his head, certain he could make out the motion. Frank stepped back from the wall and started to twirl the rope. It moved slowly at first, almost touching the ground; then Frank increased the speed, creating a slight whirring sound. Just as it seemed to Jeff he was going to let fly, he slowed the motion, then without letting the metal hooks touch the ground and make a noise he stopped. He reached into his pocket and removed his cell phone. He placed it away, carefully put the rope and grappling hooks back into the bag, and approached Jeff.

  “We’re leaving. Now.”

  * * *

  On the roof, Zico waited. Then he detected a slight sound, almost like a wire vibrating in the wind, but very faint. Try as he might he couldn’t tell where it came from and it was so soft he wondered if he was imagining it. It faded. He listened intently. He thought he heard steps, but he had heard similar noises from time to time in the two nights he’d stood vigil. Cats, dogs probably, even the wind moving something.

  “Alarme falso,” he whispered into the mouthpiece as he moved his finger and reset the safety.

  In the office César looked to Paulinho and shook his head slightly. He relaxed back in his chair and scanned the security screens, utterly bored again.

  Frank and Jeff moved cautiously along the black shadows painting the wall, Frank leading the way. After covering a careful twenty feet, Frank flushed a cat that s
creeched at being disturbed, then shot across the access alley.

  On top Zico heard and spotted the cat as it raced out of darkness. Something else was moving below. He repositioned himself against the low roof wall and peered below. His eyes long accustomed to the dark, he spotted two men, crouched, moving cautiously away from the warehouse toward the street.

  “Eles estão aqui.” They are here, he whispered into his mouthpiece. He rose and fired in a single motion.

  The shot was not ideal, as Zico was right-handed, and though he leaned well out, it was difficult from this angle to get a direct line on his targets. He knew at once he’d missed and leaned even farther as he instinctively adjusted his aim.

  Below, the blast of the fully automatic assault rifle was like a cannon going off or lightning striking a few feet away. A line of bullets laced inches away just beside Jeff and Frank.

  “Run!” Frank shouted as he shot forward, pulling out his automatic as he did. Instinct took over, and he understood the shooter would quickly adjust his aim. Frank turned as they ran, slowing just an instant as he looked to the rooftop. He saw the flash and fired into it three times as trained, the shots coming so rapidly they sounded like one.

  Zico felt the IMBEL MD97 reel in his hands. At the same instant, a heavy blow struck his left arm and another his shoulder. The weapon fell away as he jerked back, pain suddenly spreading across his body. “Fui atingido!” he grunted. I’m hit. He slid to the rooftop, groaning.

  “Todo mundo atrás deles!” Everyone! After them! César shouted into his mic.

  Paulinho shot from his chair and raced out the door. On the roof Didi and Cafu ran to the street side of the structure. Didi was first and spotted two figures just crossing the street below, fleeing into the shadows. He fired.