by Eric Bernt
Stenson shook his head in disbelief that his protégé would once again ignore protocol and interrupted him quickly. “Not until we’re inside the building.” He glanced upward at the sky, then continued briskly toward the front entrance.
Greers struggled to bite his tongue until they were safely inside the foundation’s walls. “Sir, something’s happened.”
Stenson responded tersely. “I’m well aware that something has happened, Jason, but addressing it where others could become privy to our conversation might only make matters worse. Haven’t I taught you anything?”
Greers nodded, his cheeks slightly flushed with embarrassment. “You have, sir. My apologies.”
He remained alongside Stenson as he walked down the hallway to his office. “You get the mess in Philadelphia cleaned up yet?” Stenson asked.
“Cleanup is complete. Our office is as good as new. But I encountered a problem transmitting payment.”
“What kind of problem?”
Greers stammered, as if not quite certain how to deliver awkward news. “Insufficient funds.”
Stenson smirked. “Not possible.”
“That’s what I thought, too, until I tried to resend the payment from two other accounts at different institutions. Those wouldn’t go through, either.”
Arriving in his office, Stenson was determined to show his lieutenant just how incompetent he was. He entered the passwords to review the foundation’s primary accounts with Citibank, along with the six-digit random code generated by the small device affixed to his key chain. His eyes went wide when he saw the zero balances. This doesn’t make any sense. What the hell is going on? Collecting himself, he said, “Jason, will you excuse me for a second?”
Greers backed out of the office, clearly feeling vindicated.
Stenson dialed their Citi banker, Thomas Kincaid, who had occupied the role with the American Heritage Foundation for over a decade. He answered on the first ring, as he always did whenever his biggest client called. “How’s my favorite tennis partner doing today?”
“Well, Thomas, I was wondering if you could tell me where my money is.”
The banker chuckled, apparently thinking this must be some kind of practical joke. “Which money would that be?”
“The six hundred million and change I keep with you guys.”
Kincaid could be heard typing through the phone. There was then an uncomfortable pause. “What the hell?”
“I gather you’re now looking at the zero balances I’m looking at. Would you care to help me understand where it all went?”
Kincaid kept typing as he spoke. The words came out awkwardly. “It appears the money was transmitted by multiple wires to several different banks in the Bahamas, Cayman, and Bern.”
“I thought any transfer larger than a million required my direct authorization?”
“It does. When I said multiple wires, I meant multiple hundreds. Six hundred, in fact.”
Stenson snapped, “Who the hell authorized six hundred transfers?!”
It took the banker a moment to find the answer. “Your predecessor, Lawrence Walters.”
Stenson slumped in his chair. The threat of an Alpha Reset Protocol was now real. But it made no sense. “That’s not possible. He isn’t capable of it. He’s a goddamn vegetable in a nursing home.”
“Well, if it wasn’t him, somebody used his credentials to initiate the transfers.”
“Over what time frame?”
Kincaid double-checked the time stamps of the first and last transfers. “All occurred within the last hour.”
“That’s over ten per minute! Why the hell didn’t you stop it?”
“What our clients do with their money is strictly their business. As long as what they’re doing is legal, of course.”
Stenson was steaming. “Why the hell wasn’t I told Lawrence was still on the account?”
“I just assumed you wanted him to have access.”
“Why the hell would you assume that?!” Stenson exploded.
The banker answered calmly, “Because you could have had him removed at any time, but you didn’t. You know, it isn’t uncommon for accounts to have legacy owners remain as authorized users.”
Stenson rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. Leaving Lawrence on the account was a mistake. His mistake. An oversight that should have been rectified years ago. “Until I get this sorted out on my end, I’m going to need you to extend us a line of credit.”
“How much would you like?”
Stenson picked a number out of thin air. “A hundred million.”
Kincaid had to clear his throat. “And what will you be using for collateral?”
“I’ll send you a list of our real estate holdings. You can take your pick. Let me know when the funds are available.” He hung up the phone, doing his best not to slam it.
CHAPTER 24
CONFERENCE ROOM
AMERICAN HERITAGE FOUNDATION
June 1, 4:49 p.m.
Stenson stormed out of his office and down the hall to their conference room, where a lone man sat at the large mahogany table. His name was Carter Harwood, and he was the only computer scientist Stenson trusted to work on advancing Eddie Parks’s technology. Harwood had been employed in this capacity for over a decade, even though the American Heritage Foundation had little to show for his efforts. To date, his most significant contribution had been the discovery that Eddie had reverted his previous version of the device to nonworking status. It was this revelation that had led to today’s proceedings.
Stenson had taken out some additional insurance to guarantee their success. In advance of “convincing” Eddie to restore his device, Stenson had Harwood install a keylogger program on Eddie’s laptop supercomputer earlier that morning. Like most malware, it had been downloaded remotely. This type of software allowed access to a device, providing a record of every keystroke entered on its keyboard. That permitted Harwood to analyze every minute change Eddie had made to the control code of his echo box.
In the two hours since Eddie had demonstrated the restored functionality of his device, Harwood had carefully entered the same keystrokes into his duplicate supercomputer, which in turn controlled his duplicate echo box, which sat before him on the conference table.
“Well?” Stenson asked.
Harwood shook his head. “All I have to say is, I’ll be damned.”
Stenson did not attempt to hide his annoyance. “You’ll be damned, what?”
Harwood paused smugly. “Take a listen.” He then played a conversation the two of them had had earlier that day.
STENSON: Are you certain this program you downloaded into his machine will record every keystroke he makes?
HARWOOD: Yes, sir, every single one. Keyloggers are usually used to grab people’s passwords or credit card numbers, but it will work fine for this purpose as well. If you can get him to restore the device, I’ll be able to duplicate it exactly.
Stenson smiled. “It looks like you were correct. Well done, Harwood.”
The programmer nodded, appreciating the compliment. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now delete the file. If you can rebuild the echoes from earlier today, you could also rebuild them from last year or any date since this room was constructed decades ago. I’d hate for the wrong ears to hear some of those conversations.”
“Copy that.” Harwood dutifully deleted the files. He clearly understood the repercussions of deviating from any of Stenson’s instructions. The expression on his face was a combination of respect and utter fear. He knew enough about the man to know what happened to those who disobeyed him.
“Teach Trotter and Greers how to use the device. I’m sending them on a little recon mission.”
“I’d be happy to. The technology makes it surprisingly easy to record the echoes of a given space. Rebuilding the decayed energy waves into audible sound waves for proper playback gets quite a bit more complicated, but if all you need is for them to retrieve the raw files, I can teach them what they n
eed to know in fifteen minutes.”
Stenson walked down the hall to the office space that until today had been shared by his three lieutenants. As he poked his head in, one of the three desks inside the room was conspicuously empty: Caitlin McCloskey’s. He stared at it for a moment, still not quite believing what she had done. Stenson then turned toward the desks that were occupied by his two remaining lieutenants, Trotter and Greers, both of whom looked up attentively. “What can we do for you, sir?” Greers asked readily.
“Transmit payment to the cleaners for the job in Philadelphia. Our accounting irregularity has been rectified.”
“Will do, sir. Glad to hear it.” Greers sent the money with a few keystrokes.
Stenson positioned himself in front of the two younger men so that he could address them equally. “Gentlemen, how would you like to be the first ones to use the echo box in the field?”
“God, yes,” Trotter blurted out in disbelief. “You mean it’s working?”
Stenson couldn’t help but mock him. “How very astute of you.”
Greers was too excited to care. “How soon will Parks and his device arrive?”
“We are already in possession of a working machine.” Stenson grinned like a Cheshire cat.
Trotter could barely contain himself. “The duplicate works?”
Stenson nodded, still grinning. “It does.”
Greers was not about to be left out of the conversation. “Where are we taking it?”
Their superior paused for dramatic effect. “Where do you think?”
“Knowing you, I’d say wherever it can give us the biggest and most immediate strategic advantage.”
The director smiled. “And where would that be?”
“Well, I’d have to say the Oval Office,” he answered rather casually. It took Greers a moment to realize he was correct. “My God, we’re taking the echo box inside the Oval Office?”
“That’s one hell of an opening move, sir,” Trotter commented.
“I’m rather inclined to agree,” Stenson replied smugly.
Greers studied his boss. “There’s so much that we could use against him, but if I had to guess, I’d say first up will be proving the president made a deal to rig the next election.”
Stenson smiled slyly, which was all the answer his heir apparent needed.
Trotter remained unemotional. He was already thinking about process. “How will we get the echo box through White House security?”
“With a little imagination.” Stenson took out his phone and dialed the president of the United States. One of his three secretaries answered, “White House, Oval Office.”
“Sarah, it’s Bob Stenson. Is he in?”
“One moment, Mr. Stenson.”
The call was routed to an encrypted line on Air Force One, which was currently flying at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet toward Tempe, Arizona, where the president would be attending several $25,000-per-plate fund-raisers later that evening. He was in the middle of meeting with the two leaders of the House Freedom Caucus, which did not officially disclose its membership, when the incoming call was announced. One of the conservative torchbearers was from Arizona; the other was from South Carolina. The president apologized but explained that this was a call he needed to take. Both men nodded knowingly. It seemed that at the highest level of government, everyone in American politics either knew Bob Stenson or claimed that they did.
“Bob, it’s been too long. How the hell are you?”
“Fine, Mr. President. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nothing that can’t wait. What’s up?” The president glanced briefly at his colleagues to make sure they weren’t offended. They didn’t appear to be. Not by a long shot. In fact, they looked eager to listen in.
“I’ll get right to the point. You may have an undisclosed security issue at the White House.”
There was a pause on the line as the president considered what type of issue he might be dealing with. “How could that be possible?”
“A new technology we’ve just become aware of. It’s nothing that could have been prevented.”
This made the president feel better about the team tasked with protecting him, but anxious about what type of new threat might have landed on his doorstep. “What’s the technology?”
“The hostile’s system is satellite-based.”
Pressing the phone to his shoulder, the president held his palms up with absolute disbelief. “Somebody’s been listening to me inside the goddamn West Wing from space?” The two members of Congress sitting with him glanced at each other with the same expression: Holy shit!
“The Oval Office would be my primary concern, sir.” His understatement was chilling.
The president seemed to know exactly what Stenson was referring to. “Which hostiles are we talking about?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. With your permission, I’d like to send a two-man team to scan the office with a new device we’ve developed that should be able to tell us what we’re dealing with.”
“Yes, by all means, you have my permission. Let me know what they find as soon as you hear anything.”
“You’ll be the first to know.” Stenson paused briefly. “Rest assured, Mr. President, the matter will be handled.”
“I have no doubt.” The president clicked off the line.
Stenson pocketed his phone and turned to address Trotter. “That is how we get the echo box through White House security.”
CHAPTER 25
I-95 SOUTH
OUTSIDE HAVRE DE GRACE, MARYLAND
June 1, 5:01 p.m.
Butler took advantage of the fact that southbound traffic on I-95 was moving at speeds well over eighty miles per hour. It made the ninety-three miles per hour he was driving in the stolen Chevy Impala seem like he was barely traveling above the limit.
The interstate, also known as the John F. Kennedy Memorial Highway in the state of Maryland, was the longest north–south interstate in the US. It was part of the Dwight D. Eisenhower National System of Interstate and Defense Highways. With the advent of the nuclear age, the general-turned-president needed some way to be able to move our intercontinental ballistic missiles in the event of an attack. It seemed that regular roadways weren’t designed to handle loads in excess of seventy-five thousand pounds.
Butler glanced at the name of the bridge as they crossed over the Susquehanna River. “Who the hell was Millard E. Tydings?”
“Who?”
“Millard Tydings. This bridge was named after him.”
“If you had to be stuck with the name Millard your whole life, don’t you think it’s only fair you get a bridge named after you?”
He glanced at her, glad to see that she had recovered from her recent ordeal. “I gather you’re feeling better, then.”
“I feel a bit like I did back in high school after the first time I threw up from drinking too much. My brain is rattled, my skin hurts, my bones ache, and I wish I could go back in time a few hours to do things differently, but other than that, I’m peachy.” She paused to reflect, then added, “At least the ringing in my ears has stopped.”
Butler nodded. “I’m surprised you don’t wish you could go back a few weeks.” He was referring to the murder of her boyfriend, which had occurred only a week ago.
“What good would that do?” she asked earnestly.
“Not a thing. But if you’re telling me you haven’t had the thought, I’m calling bullshit.” His tone was both compassionate and direct.
“I didn’t say I hadn’t.”
“Then say it so you can get it off your chest, like you did about going back a few hours.”
She shook her head. “You’re helping me understand why people hate therapists.”
“Only right before they realize how much they’ve helped them.”
“Sounds like you’ve spent a fair amount of time on the couch.”
“I’ve single-handedly kept your profession in business.
”
She looked at him and then spoke with building intensity. “Yes, okay? I wish I’d never met Marcus Fenton and that I’d never gone to work at Harmony House, because Jacob would still be alive. You happy now?”
He glanced over at her. “It’s not your fault that he’s dead, you know.” Before she could respond, her demeanor changed suddenly when she noticed a particular vehicle ahead of them. She pointed to it. “White van.”
He had clocked it at almost the same time she had, and he accelerated alongside it, only to see the van was driven by an elderly Latino man in paint-spattered clothes. “Go fish.”
“What are you, prejudiced? How can you be sure it’s not them?”
Butler shook his head. “It’s the driver’s age, not his ethnicity. That guy look to you like he could carry Eddie?”
“Why would he have needed to carry him?”
“I don’t think me describing any of the scenarios I’m imagining will help anything. Just trust me when I tell you that’s not our guy, and that’s not our van. Eddie is not in it.”
She glanced at her watch. “How much longer until we get to Alexandria?”
“Twenty minutes less than the last time you asked me.”
“What did you say then?”
“Twenty minutes less than the last time you asked.”
“I didn’t appreciate the answer then, either.”
“So stop asking. I promise, I’ll tell you when we’re close.”
Skylar paused, stewing. “What if she doesn’t call?”
“She’ll call.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“The only reason she wouldn’t is because she’s dead or incapacitated. If either is the case, we’ll deal with it then.” He was reminded of the missions out of country that had gone completely FUBAR, where he and his team were left to improvise without any support whatsoever. He had managed to survive those, and he sure as hell was going to survive this.
“You sure your phone has enough battery left?”
“Yes.” He did not bother to look at it. The phone was brand-new and they had used less than one minute of talk time.
“How about we call her?”