Love Hacked

by Penny Reid

  I nodded once and sat back in my chair, a cue that I was ready to listen.

  “When we became aware of him, it was after he’d hacked three of our four high-performance computing centers—how much do you know?”

  I blinked at her once. “Just that. Just what you’ve told me.”

  “Did he tell you what he was doing? Why he hacked into our systems?”

  “I can guess.” It was the first untrue thing I’d said. I had absolutely no idea.

  Her mouth hitched to the side. “Yes, well, we could guess too. Of course we found him, but only after he’d successfully mined thousands of bitcoins using our CPUs.”

  “So you seized the bitcoins.”

  “Is that what he told you?” She waited for me to respond. I shrugged because it was one of those gestures that people interpret however they want. “He lied,” she said. “There is no way for us to seize bitcoins. Well, there is no current way for the federal government to seize bitcoins at will; in order to do that we’d need one of the creators of the currency.” She paused and watched me very closely for a reaction.

  This was all still gibberish to me. This was something out of a science fiction novel, or a Stephen King movie with Tom Cruise where Tom Cruise has to run someplace from some people—because that’s what Tom Cruise does, he runs while looking concerned and futuristic.

  Therefore, I decided to look surprised and thoughtful.

  “Yes.” She nodded; she believed I was following her train of thought. I wasn’t following her train because mine had derailed on thoughts of a running Tom Cruise…weird little man.

  “I see you understand,” she said.

  “You’re wrong, Agent Bell.” I shook my head, hoped she’d think I was lying. “I don’t understand.”

  She looked disbelieving. “Then let me spell it out for you. The NSA believes—this country believes—that Alexander Greene knows at least one of the creators of bitcoins. He knows at least one of the original three or five developers and hackers who wrote the code, developed the algorithms, and promulgated bitcoins as a currency sometime between 2007 and 2009.”

  My disbelieving huff and laugh were genuine. “That’s completely preposterous. He would have been only fourteen or fifteen.”

  Her pretty mouth curved into a knowing smirk. “And how old do you think he was when he hacked into the NSA—the first time?”

  I blinked at her but didn’t respond. The first time?

  “Didn’t he tell you? He was twelve.”

  Um…what? Though it took all my superpowers to support the façade, I didn’t allow any of my confusion or alarm to seep through my expression. Instead, I frowned as though I were listening intently—because I was listening intently.

  She continued. “The first time we became aware of him he was twelve. That time we were pretty sure he did it for fun, because he could, and we were actually very thankful to him for pointing out the flaws in our systems. We were willing to bring him in as a consultant. He refused.”

  She pressed her lips together, waiting for my reaction to that piece of news, as though no one could comprehend someone who didn’t want to help the NSA.

  I said, “Then he did it again, this time to mine bitcoins.” I was careful to make my words a statement that merely repeated what she’d said earlier.

  “No.” She appeared rueful, and I recognized reluctant admiration in her words. “We have no idea how many times he’s done it, and….” Agent Bell took a deep breath then released it, and I knew she was getting to the crux of the discussion. “He’s still doing it.”

  I couldn’t help it. This time my surprise did show. I coughed to cover my urge to laugh. “That’s unbelievable!”

  She glanced at her hands. “We need your help.”

  “Well, you need someone’s help, that’s for sure,” I muttered, my reaction still honest.

  Still doing it? How the heckity heck could he still be doing it? I’d been to his apartment. He had no computers or electronics of any kind. I was sure the NSA kept him on a tight leash.

  However, we’d been able to go to Janie and Elizabeth’s apartment yesterday without them intervening. Apparently, Quinn’s building was also NSA-proof, and that had them rattled.

  Where else did Alex go? Maybe he had a secret lair, like Batman. But when did he go? He was always followed. Sundays were a possibility. By his own admission, Alex disappeared on Sundays, all day.

  I was lost in the possibilities when she interrupted my thoughts with her next statement.

  “It’s not the hacking that concerns us. I believe, I honestly believe, he thinks he’s doing a good thing.”

  “The hacking doesn’t concern you?”

  Gah! I asked a question. Strike one for Sandra.

  She ignored my question. “Don’t you see? If he knows the creators of the bitcoin, and I’m positive that he does, then he holds the key to all the bitcoins in circulation. Those initial algorithms can only be decoded by a creator. He can control billions of dollars; he can take, and he can give. We have a pretty good idea who the illegal holders of bitcoins are. We do; he doesn’t. If he gave us the key, then we could bankrupt criminal organizations around the world.”

  I stared at her. Admittedly, I still didn’t understand what in the feck she was talking about, how bitcoins worked, how Alex’s knowledge of the creators could help. But the gist of it seemed to be:

  1) Alex was a mastermind hacker of epic and global proportions.

  2) He may or may not know who developed bitcoins.

  3) He was somehow continuing to breach firewalls and all those other computery thingies that keep information safe. In fact, he was so good he could do it without access to—or with limited access to—a computer.

  4) The NSA and the US government desperately wanted him to give them some mysterious and magical key. I was guessing the key was like some sort of password. This key/password would mysteriously and magically allow them to bankrupt criminal organizations.

  After a protracted period of time with my thoughts. I decided I needed more time with my thoughts. This was too much. This was too much information for me to absorb without coffee, chocolate, clean hair, my fuzzy red slippers, and my situational T-shirt that read I’m thinking.

  “Right,” I said, and then I stood and looked around the basement landing.

  “Right?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “You’re going to help?”

  I bit the inside of my lip and considered her. Here was someone who drank the Kool-Aid. She was a “good citizen.” She believed that Uncle Sam hung the moon and stars.

  She also believed that she was entitled to listen in on everyone else’s moon-and-star discussions.

  My beliefs tended to be someplace in the center of everything, or not well-researched. I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid of patriotism, nor did I drink the moonshine of anarchy. I just wanted to pay my taxes, have roads that were drivable, have police who came when I called, and a school to send my bratty children to when the time came.

  Maybe, at some point, I was going to have to reevaluate my centrist ambivalence to conspiracies and the sacrifices of our public servants, but for now, I couldn’t think about that.

  I needed to find out what in the heckity-heck a bitcoin actually was; then, I’d figure out my next step.

  “Agent Bell,” I said, “I don’t know if I can help, and I need some time to think.”

  She nodded, her forehead wrinkled, but then she reached forward and grabbed the wrist of my lab coat, making me want to yank my arm out of her fingers, but instead I gave her a pointed look, and she let go. “You need to understand—this is a very serious.”

  “I do understand,” I said, using my most soothing voice. “I understand the severity. However, I need time to think. Again, I don’t even know what I can do. I have no idea if he’ll talk to me.”

  “Dr. Fielding, you are the first person he has ever talked to—that we know of—with any frequency. I’ve been assigned to Mr. Greene sinc
e he was arrested. We thought that if he felt like he had more freedom, he might be more cooperative, and he has been. He’s given us some valuable information.”

  “He has been cooperative.”

  “No. He’s mailed some coded letters to someone he thinks is a contact. We’ve intercepted them.”

  I nodded, found this hard to believe, but didn’t voice my opinion.

  She continued, “He doesn’t associate with anyone other than the Patels, and they have no influence. He barely talks to them. Early on there was a girl…one girl…one time…a single occurrence. We approached her, she tried to help, but he knew immediately something was up and cut her off. He wouldn’t see her again.”

  Gah….

  I swallowed and had to hide my grimace. “You’re obviously approaching me again because you think he’ll talk to me. You might be disappointed.”

  “I don’t think so. He brought you up to me during the weekly session. He specifically requested that we leave you alone. That tells me you’re important to him.”

  I seized on the words weekly session, but opted to ignore them rather than display pointed interest in one topic.

  Instead, because I needed time with my thoughts, I said, “Okay, well…like I said, I need to think about your request.”

  Her eyes searched mine. She then bent to pick up the recorder from the chair and turned it off.

  As she straightened, tucking the device in her pocket, she said, “I’m not threatening you.”

  I tensed. My eyes narrowed. I turned to face her completely and squared my shoulders. “That’s good to know.”

  “I’m not threatening you, yet. I believe you will do the right thing without the need for threats. But don’t doubt that we know everything about you. We even know where you worked in college.”

  I swallowed, my lips in a firm line, and controlled my urge to poke her in the eyes, Three Stooges style. “I’m sure you do. I’m sure you also know, then, that I meant what I said. I don’t know if I can help. I need time to think about it.”

  Agent Bell nodded. “Fine. I’ll be in touch.”

  ***

  AROUND 5:00 P.M., my brain started to sound like the adults in Charlie Brown—the squawking trombone, wah wuh wah wah wuh. I was tired of thinking.

  Agent Bell’s threats were concerning, but her actions were ultimately out of my control. I could only control my reactions—and subsequent actions—to her requests and threats. I would not be bullied into deserting or betraying Alex. As well, I was not going to allow stubbornness or my dislike of Agent Bell’s strong-arm tactics to blind me to the truth: my relationship with Alex, his past, and my growing feelings for him were potentially hazardous to my career.

  I wanted to do the right thing, for Alex, for my country, for my patients, for me. The way forward was unclear. A decision was going to have to be made at some point. But it wouldn’t be tonight.

  Therefore, I changed into jeans, black boots, and a black long-sleeve sweater, and meandered down to the hospital cafeteria a few minutes early. Once there, I grabbed a cup of hot chocolate and chose a table by the window.

  It was snowing.

  I cleared my mind; pushed all thoughts, worry, anxiety, and hopes to the side. Some would call it meditation. For me, it’s more like daydreaming. I allowed my mind and heart to hold hands for a bit and tell me what they wanted for Christmas next year, and every year after.

  An image of Alex flashed before my eyes. He was naked—no surprises there. But he was also beneath me, and I was fully clothed. We were in bed, holding hands, about to kiss.

  I blinked that image away, even though it was truly lovely, not wanting to frustrate myself.

  The next image was again of him and me. This time we were both naked, lounging on my couch, watching a baseball game. He was laughing at something I’d said. It was a charming dream, and my heart leapt at the thought of Alex in the role of my life partner, the life partner for whom I’d been searching.

  I sighed, closed my eyes, and pinched my nose to clear that picture away as well. No use getting ahead of myself.

  Again, I opened my eyes and let my mind drift. This time the image was of me—clothed—and Alex—also clothed. He was in handcuffs and I was visiting him in a jail.

  I quietly grunted with aggravation, annoyed with my brain and heart for showing me an image I feared rather than one that made me happy. I only had so much time to daydream, dammit.

  “Anything wrong?”

  I started, startled by the sound of Alex’s voice, and found him before me. He’d claimed the seat across from mine, and I hadn’t even heard his approach. I noted he’d been drinking from my hot chocolate cup and was now using it to warm his hands. His was wearing his glasses.

  When this man was twelve, he was hacking into NSA supercomputing centers.

  When I was twelve, I was counseling my stuffed animals on their relationship problems.

  When he was fifteen, he was sent to federal prison.

  When I was fifteen, I sought out a high school senior renowned for deflowering virgins, just so I could get the whole ordeal out of the way.

  For the first time in our acquaintance, his glasses seemed like a mask. Beneath his clothes, he might be wearing spandex and a cape. I tried not to be too distracted by the thought.

  People were, essentially, the secrets they kept.

  “Sandra? Are you okay?”

  “No, I mean—yes.” I blinked, shook my head, tried to reengage my brain. “I was just…daydreaming.”

  His mouth tugged upward on one side, and he considered me. “What about?”

  You—naked, and with baseball, and in jail.

  I mustered a bit of energy to return his smile. “An audience.”

  A flicker of understanding passed behind his eyes, and his expression turned sober. “An audience? Did you have to talk in front of an audience today?”

  “Yes. For a bit. It wasn’t so bad.”

  The soberness morphed into barely contained fury, and when he spoke, his tone was sharp. “What? They….” then he stopped himself, glared around the cafeteria as he made an admirable attempt to school his expression. He pulled stiff fingers through his hair, still visibly fuming.

  I reached under the table and placed my hand on his knee, hoping to calm him. “Don’t worry about it. The questions weren’t so bad. I’ll have my presentation better prepared next time.”

  He peered at me through the black frames of his glasses. He didn’t look convinced. “Don’t let the audience fluster you.”

  “I won’t. You don’t need to worry about that.”

  I could tell he had more to say, but refrained. His expression was taut and angry.

  “What are we doing tonight?” I tried for a change in subject and squeezed his knee.

  “I’m not happy about this.” Alex leaned back in his chair and glanced out the window. “This isn’t going to work.”

  I felt a small stab of panic and shifted in my chair. He must’ve seen or sensed my change in demeanor, because his eyes moved back to mine and softened. “I’m not referring to the three-month agreement. That’s binding, and it goes both ways.”

  His words appeased me, and I smirked. Our attempt at clandestine conversation was laughable. We might as well speak openly for all of our subtlety.

  “I have some questions,” I said.

  “Not here.”

  “We don’t have to talk about it tonight. In fact, I’m all talked out for the day.”

  His eyes narrowed as he considered me. “All I have planned for tonight is dinner and a movie. Does that sound good?”

  I nodded, slowly at first, but then with greater conviction as I considered the idea. “That sounds really nice.”

  ***

  WE WALKED TOWARD the movie theater and I assumed my usual position, tucked under Alex’s arm. After our discussion the previous evening, the revelation that he was without previous hot monkey sex partners, I’d assumed our touches would feel chaste and innocuous. Th
is assumption was based on the knowledge that no amount of touching would lead to the typical inevitable conclusion at the evening’s end.

  I was wrong.

  Everywhere he touched, as well as every place I touched him, felt strangely illicit, like we were breaking rules and crossing boundaries. His hand on my hip, over my clothes, sent tingles of awareness down my spine. He shifted, slipping his fingers into the back pocket of my jeans. It was lovely torture.

  Alex was a fast walker, but tonight—for whatever reason—he didn’t seem to feel a sense of urgency. I caught him watching me more than once, a small smile in his eyes and gracing his mouth even though he also seemed apprehensive. Every few blocks he would stop, turn me toward him, gather me in his arms, and kiss me—as though he were thirsty for my lips.

  We stopped on the way for a bite to eat at a small pizza place. When we entered and as we settled into the booth—him facing the door—he glanced around, his eyes sizing the place up, searching for cameras, exits, and the faces of the patrons.

  I wondered if this—this searching—was why his gaze had felt so strange to me before I knew him. Perhaps he looked a little too long because everyone, everything, everywhere was a potential threat. The thought made my stomach hurt.

  I glanced at the menu and said, “Is big sister watching?” I tried to keep my tone light.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “I see. We can talk freely then?” I peered at him through my lashes.

  He didn’t meet my eyes. “Uh, well, more or less. I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I’m pretty sure. Just to be safe we should avoid discussions related to audiences.”

  “So, what kind of questions am I allowed to ask you?”

  He was saved from answering by the approach of our server. We ordered quickly—telling the waitress our drinks and dinner preferences in one go—and I could sense that Alex wasn’t comfortable talking in the restaurant. As evidence of my suspicion, he was silent, his eyes still on the door. The waitress returned with two bottles of water and garlic bread.

  Alex took a large bite of bread, which served as a plausible reason for not answering. I watched the way his jaw worked, and noted the masculine sinews that defined his neck. I was momentarily mesmerized by it; had to blink and shake my head when he sipped his water.