Hacked

by Ray Daniel

  The CIA guy, Parks, blinked at me.

  “Am I right?” I asked him.

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  A picture of my Chinese assailant flashed on the wall.

  “Before we start,” said Caroline, “Lieutenant Lee, are you planning to accuse Tucker of any more crimes today?”

  “No,” Lee said. “Not today.”

  “Then my work is done,” said Caroline. She leaned back, began tapping on her phone.

  “You want to leave?” I asked her.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll stay here and make sure you don’t reincriminate yourself.”

  Agent Parks of the CIA pointed at the picture. “His name is Xiong Shoushan and he owns Xiong Distribution.”

  “What does Xiong distribute?” asked Mel.

  “They are Boston’s leading supplier of plastic Jesus statues. The ones people stick on their dashboard.”

  “Dashboard Jesuses?”

  I said, “The plural is dashboard Jesi.”

  Parks said, “No, I think it’s Jesuses.”

  Caroline looked up from her phone, “Definitely Jesuses.”

  I asked, “Any reason plastic Jesus guys would want to keep me from working with the FBI?”

  “He’s not only a small business owner,” said Parks. He flashed another picture up. A phalanx of Chinese guys in formal gray officer uniforms filled the screen.

  “He’s in this picture,” said Parks.

  “Where?”

  Lee said, “You cannot find him in the picture?”

  A mass of identical gray uniforms confronted me. All the guys wore the same black hat with golden seal, same gray jacket, white shirt, black tie, gold button. Same thousand-yard stare on all twenty faces.

  “No.”

  “We all look alike to you.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said. Looked back at the picture. They all looked alike to me.

  Jael said, “Second row, three from the left.”

  Lee said, “Yes. At least somebody is observant.”

  I said, “He’s in the Chinese army?”

  “He’s a Chinese army officer assigned to the Ministry of State Security.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Chinese CIA.”

  “Right. How do you know that?”

  “Classified.”

  “And you found him with facial-recognition software?” I asked.

  “Classified.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Xiong Distribution is in Everett.”

  “They distribute dashboard Jesi from Everett?”

  “It’s next to the ships,” said Parks.

  “Right. The Shanghai dashboard Jesi haulers.”

  Parks ignored me. “We called them. They wouldn’t talk to us, but they have a neighbor who runs constant video surveillance. We got this from him.”

  The next shot on the screen showed Xiong Shoushan getting out of a cab, walking toward the Xiong offices.

  “I had better get out there,” Mel said.

  Lee said, “We’ll get out there.”

  “Maybe it should be CIA,” Parks said.

  “No,” Mel said. “It should be the FBI.”

  Lee said, “I think it should be the Boston Police Department.”

  Mel said, “But it’s not in Boston.”

  Parks said, “I could head out there.”

  Mel said, “This is clearly my job.”

  Lee said, “It could be an unofficial visit.”

  It was time to change the dynamic. I tapped Jael on the elbow, motioned that we should go. We stood. Everyone looked at me.

  I shook Caroline’s hand. “Thanks, Counselor. I’m out of here.”

  Caroline asked, “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to check out Xiong Distribution with Mel.”

  Lee said, “We haven’t decided who’s going to Xiong.”

  Mel stood. “Yes, we have,” she said. “When you all figure it out, you call us and we’ll tell you what we found.”

  Thirty-Four

  The white cables of the Zakim Bridge flashed overhead as Special Agent Mel Hunter drove toward Everett. Jael had wanted to go back to her Fortress of Solitude to re-arm, but Mel had insisted on moving.

  “There’s no telling when he’ll run,” she’d said.

  “You are correct,” said Jael.

  “But you don’t have your gun,” I’d said.

  “Special Agent Hunter is armed,” said Jael. “That is enough.”

  We’d climbed into Hunter’s Ford Escape, Jael and I engaging in a no after you dance that resulted in my riding shotgun and her sitting in the back seat. I looked out the window as the bridge’s cables gave way to a view of Charlestown and the Bunker Hill Monument.

  It’s time for @Anonops to show we mean business and stop @TuckerInBoston #TuckerGate.

  The remembered tweet launched the hamster wheel in my head, its repetitive clatter driven by endless and circular speculation. I hadn’t had a chance to log on to the chat rooms under a fake nickname to monitor the proceedings, but the public nature of the tweet suggested that a small group of hacker leadership had decided upon a course of action and were now ready to rally their Anonymous minions.

  What could they do? I didn’t have a website to flood with spurious requests. I didn’t own a fax machine that could be sent millions of pages. I supposed they could all send me e-mail, but I don’t use e-mail for much. Maybe they’d just badger me on Twitter forever, but while I enjoy Twitter, I’ve always been meaning to take a break. I don’t have a Facebook account, so there’s no chance of a life ruin in that direction. They had to have a plan. The public nature of the tweet suggested that a small group of hackers … the hamster wheel spun again.

  Mel let me brood in silence until she reached the long curving exit.

  “Thanks,” she said, disrupting the hamster wheel.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For backing me up in that meeting. They were all ignoring me.”

  “No thanks needed. You would have handled them.”

  “I’ve got the double whammy.”

  “What double whammy?”

  “I’m young and I’m a woman.”

  “You forgot to mention that you’re pretty. That makes it a triple whammy.”

  “Yeah,” Mel said. “So thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  While Boston is no Pittsburgh, we do have three rivers converging on our city, and so we have our share of bridges. Mel swung off the Zakim Bridge and onto the Tobin Bridge. The Tobin towers above the Mystic River and connects Boston to Chelsea and other environs of the North. Mel angled the car down the first off-ramp over the river and turned left under the Tobin.

  I looked out the window down Second Street and across Arlington at the low-rise industrial buildings, so different from the tightly packed triple-deckers in the rest of the city.

  “It started right down this street,” I said to the car.

  “What started?” asked Mel.

  “A few years before I was born, actually. Almost twenty before you.”

  “What started?”

  “The Chelsea Fire. A perfect storm. High wind. Low water pressure.” I waved my hand at a passing strip mall. “All this burned in an afternoon. They say you could see the smoke for miles.”

  “It looks like it came back okay.”

  I pointed at a city block consisting of nothing but brown April grass ringed by leafless April saplings. “Not everywhere.”

  “It’s a park, right?”

  “More like a vacant lot.”

  “It’ll come back.”
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  We drove on down Second.

  “One spark. One flame. The right wind. The right conditions. The whole neighborhood was gone.”

  “This burned too?”

  “Have you crossed the railroad tracks?”

  A sign appeared warning of railroad tracks ahead. “No,” said Mel.

  “This burned too. All the way to the railroad tracks.” We bumped over the tracks. “Welcome to Everett.”

  “You’re in a cheery mood,” said Mel.

  Let us know when you plan to suicide … got to chill the champagne. #TuckerGate

  The hamster wheel started squeaking again.

  Sons of bitches. All of them.

  Jael said from the back, “We need a plan.”

  “Plan?” I said.

  Jael said, “I will watch the back door. Agent Hunter will go in the front.”

  “And what do I do?”

  “You stay in the car,” they both said.

  I looked from one to the other. “I’m not staying in the car.”

  “It is safer for you in the car,” said Jael.

  “It is safer for you both with more people.”

  Mel said, “I can’t watch out for you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Jael snorted.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means she doesn’t think you can take care of yourself,” said Mel.

  “I know what it means.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “I’m going in with you,” I said.

  Mel headed for the front door. “You are ridiculous”

  “It’s my funeral.” Maybe I should let Twitter know.

  Thirty-Five

  The stenciled-glass door at the top of the concrete walk read Xiong Distribution.

  “This must be the place,” I said.

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Mel said.

  We pushed through the glass door, stepped into The Room That Time Forgot. Brown wood paneling covered the walls, the swirls and patterns of its knotholes interrupted by parallel black notches simulating planks. Two particularly sinister knotholes over a doorway stared at us like the eyes of a sentry.

  “Eyes,” I said, pointing.

  “Those are not eyes. They’re simulated knotholes.”

  “They follow you around the room.”

  The room held a black steel desk with a linoleum top, an office chair behind the desk with a torn seat cushion, a computer, and two steel-and-black-vinyl armless guest chairs.

  Mel inhaled sharply, about to shout.

  I put my finger to my lips. “Let’s keep the element of surprise.”

  “I don’t have a warrant.”

  “Then don’t search for anything or arrest anyone.”

  Two hollow wooden doors led from the room. I tried the lightweight doorknob on the first—lavatory. We moved past the desk. I imagined the wooden eyes of the paneling crossing as they followed us to the second doorway. The door was locked, but I jiggled the knob a bit and the lock shook loose.

  “Not much of a security budget,” I said.

  “So far there’s nothing to steal.”

  I opened the door, peeked through. A broad office space presented itself. Three desks, two phones, water cooler. The phones had the kind of Lucite buttons that light up when you push them. I took a step into the room.

  Mel grabbed my arm. “You’re trespassing.”

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “There was no sign.”

  “That doesn’t matter. The law says it’s trespassing.”

  “Good thing I’m not a lawyer.”

  I stepped into the room, trying to be quiet on the threadbare carpets.

  Mel followed me. “I’m not sure this place is even open for business,” she said.

  “The front door was unlocked. They must be expecting someone.”

  We moved through the empty office. So far there had been no place that Xiong Shoushan could hide. A metal door provided an exit from the room, or an entrance to something important. This door had some heft. I tried the knob. It turned.

  I looked at Mel. She shrugged. “In for a penny.”

  I pushed the metal door open and we stepped into a large industrial space in which the floor switched to concrete. Dim fluorescent lights blinked over rows and rows of shelves. A warehouse.

  I tiptoed into the nearest row. Xiong Distribution serviced more than the dashboard Jesus industry. This row featured a variety of crosses on beads, their boxes showing them hanging from rearview mirrors. Other boxes contained St. Anthony statues, mezuzahs intended to adorn Jewish doorjambs, and commemorative plates featuring the Virgin Mary holding Jesus both as an infant and as a recently crucified adult.

  The fluorescents flickered and sputtered overhead as we turned a corner, found a row of soccer paraphernalia. More commemorative plates, this time featuring a green, white, and red crest adorned with the word Italia. Another plate advised Keep Calm and Call an Italian.

  Farther down the row we moved into the Irish neighborhood, featuring signs that warned Irish Parking Only; green-white-and-orange commemorative plates; and shirts that advised Keep Calm and Kiss an Irishman.

  The international pattern continued as we moved down the aisles with Brazil, followed by Spain, Argentina, and Greece.

  “Everybody but the Chinese,” Mel said.

  “The cobbler’s kids get no shoes.”

  Xiong Shoushan turned the corner at the end of the row, raising a gun. I spun and pushed Mel to the ground, covering her as Xiong fired. The bullet ricocheted off a shelf next to my ear. Xiong fired again.

  Mel shouted, “Get off me!”

  I rolled off. Mel produced a gun, sat up, and aimed down the row, but Xiong was gone, his footsteps echoing down the warehouse.

  Mel stood. “Stay here.” She started off down the row.

  I stood, followed.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Following you,” I said.

  “I said to stay.”

  We had reached the end of the row. Mel peeked around. Gunshots rang out, echoing across the concrete flooring. The bullets hit a box of commemorative Bruins plates, showering us with black and gold shards of ceramic.

  Mel squeezed off several shots and ran off to another row of tchotchkes, leaving me behind. More shots from Xiong and more plate shattering convinced me to move to a safer spot. I ran back down the row, away from the gunfire. Heard more shots from Mel, a pause, more shots from Xiong. The back doors rattled, Jael trying to get in. The doors held.

  I ran along the rows peeking down each one, looking for Mel. Saw her across the way, leaning out to fire at something. I continued to run down the warehouse, peeking into the rows. Saw what I had hoped to see: Xiong standing at the end of the row, looking toward Mel, firing his gun. I’d have only one chance.

  I looked around for a weapon. I’d moved from the international portion of the warehouse to the Boston Sports section, and had landed right in Red Sox Land. I saw the box I needed, slipped my hand inside, and pulled out my weapon of choice: a Red Sox baseball bat the size of a police baton.

  Xiong started firing another volley at Mel. I took the opportunity to attack while he was distracted by aiming his shots, came up behind him, and brought my tiny baseball bat down on his head.

  Turns out that physics matters. A tiny wooden baseball bat, no matter how fiercely wielded, is not going to knock a guy out. It pissed him off instead. The wood clacked off Xiong’s head, then bounced off his shoulder. He swore in Chinese, turned, and hit me across the face with his gun.

  Right in my stitches.

  Metal gun, one; wooden stick, zero.

  I reeled, saw him turning to shoot. The gun fired, but missed. I decided poking people with a wooden stick wou
ld be more effective than hitting them, so I poked at Xiong’s face. He dodged, grabbed the bat out of my hand, raised his gun, and crashed to the floor as Mel landed on his back.

  I sat on his head while Mel applied the handcuffs.

  Thirty-Six

  Despite being a visitor to our country, Xiong Shoushan had shown a firm grasp of our laws and customs.

  “Lawyer,” he had said as Mel hauled him to his feet, and then he spoke no more.

  Now, Mel, Jael, and I sat in an FBI conference room, the whiteboard a scribble of box-containing ideas and multicolored connections.

  Bobby walked in on us, looked at the whiteboard, and said, “No luck, eh?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Bobby pointed at one box labeled Xiong and the other box labeled Senator Video and then the whiteboard between them. “I don’t see any lines connecting these two.”

  Mel crossed her arms. “We’re working on that.”

  “There is one connection,” I said. I stood, picked up a purple marker, checked that it was actually erasable, and started drawing in the white space between the boxes.

  Bobby said, “Is that supposed to be you?”

  Mel said, “It looks like a constipated monkey.”

  Jael said, “No, it is definitely him. A monkey does not wear a Red Sox hat.”

  “Yes, it’s me!”

  “It’s always about you,” said Bobby.

  “I visit the senator and I immediately have Xiong threatening me? That’s the link.”

  “How did he know you were working for the senator?”

  “Surveillance,” said Jael. “It makes sense to be watching the lobby.”

  “And Pat greeted us in the lobby,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “What about Peter?” said Bobby. “He’s the one who stole the video.”

  Mel said, “We’re not so sure about that.”

  “What are you talking about? We traced the hack to his computer.”

  “Now that we’ve got access to Peter’s computer, we scanned it and—”

  “It didn’t have the video.”

  “If you would let me finish,” said Mel. “It had some pretty nasty malware on it.”

  “Nasty how?”