Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  “Arnold,” she said, placing her hand on his thigh, “be practical. What’s done is done. He’s sorry. He didn’t plan that to happen. It’s what your military refers to as collateral damage. Exactly the same thing that happens when a drone murders innocent children and defenseless women. Besides, Karim pulled the trigger, not Firouz.”

  “So that’s an important distinction?” He gave a sarcastic laugh and started to remove her hand from his leg but reconsidered. Go on, let her believe she’s getting to you through your dick. Stay focused on the final goal. Your best revenge is to take them down. Never lose sight of that. He’d make a lousy spy, he realized.

  A car in the rearview mirror caught his attention, causing him to do a double take. Have I seen it before? Yeah. Twice now. He reached up to adjust the mirror slightly for a better view, maybe distinguish whether the driver is Middle Eastern. “That supposed to make everything wonderful?”

  Stop it! You’re supposed to be malleable.

  “For someone who’s supposed to be very smart, you don’t sound so smart to me. We’re willing to pay you extremely well for your work. But I guess if you don’t want to be involved, we can always have Karim kill you, too. After all, we have little to lose other than your help, which isn’t all that essential. Your choice. Think about it.”

  She cupped his crotch. “And, to sweeten the offer, you can have sex with me anytime you wish.”

  The car stayed behind him, always one or two cars back, hanging in there. Who was it? Fisher? Firouz? His gut started killing him again, and he fought to keep from pressing against his abdomen and reveal how much stress this was causing. He wondered if they’d bugged the car and put a GPS device on it, like you see in spy movies. Or was his mind playing tricks on him?

  “I must warn you,” she continued. “Mention any of this to the authorities and we’ll know. Just like we know you said nothing to the police. We have many sympathizers, so we know more than you might think. Try to double-cross us, we’ll kill you. Straightforward. I know you think you’re a smart man, but don’t kid yourself into believing you can outsmart us. Do you doubt we have sympathizers? Would it convince you to know, for example, that you didn’t give the police our names?”

  Boom!

  Jesus! She isn’t kidding. A chill slithered down his spine. The gut pain throbbed. What about the FBI and Davidson? Do they know about them also? I need to let Davidson know ASAP.

  “This surprise you? It shouldn’t. If it does, you underestimated us.”

  She fondled his crotch again. “Relax, Arnold. Be smart and realistic and you can become rich. Besides, you really don’t have other options. Not anymore, you don’t. You will work with us.”

  “Or?”

  “I don’t think I need to answer that.”

  Enough for one day. He moved his hand. “Where should I drop you?”

  She resisted long enough for one last gentle squeeze. “Macy’s is good.”

  He turned onto First Avenue, heading toward the business district and, in the process, checked the rearview mirror again, but the car was now gone. Replaced by someone else? Was he being overly paranoid? Or were they—whoever they were—using two cars? He couldn’t leave things on a negative note, so asked encouragingly, “What exactly do you have in mind for me?”

  “Firouz will give you the specifics, but essentially you would do pretty much the same as before. We supply a target, and you provide an analysis of what is necessary to complete a mission.”

  Arnold realized his hands were clamping the steering wheel too tightly again and worked his fingers some more to relax them. I’d rather die than help you assholes. But knew he must do differently.

  A small black handgun suddenly appeared from her purse. “Really? Careful what you wish for because I could kill you right now if this is what you want,”

  She read his mind, or had he actually uttered the words?

  He cut across two lanes of traffic, ignoring a honking horn, curbed the Jetta at a bus zone, threw the transmission into park, and turned to her. “Go ahead. Do it.” And for a moment wished she would. At least then he’d be at peace.

  He tensed for the blast, but several seconds ticked past before she slipped the gun back into her purse. “You haven’t answered my question. Will you meet with Firouz?”

  Realizing he’d been holding his breath, he took a deep breath. “Let me think about it.”

  “Do that. You have twenty-four hours. I’ll arrange for you to meet Firouz tomorrow. I’ll call, let you know where.” She opened the door to step out.

  “This isn’t Macy’s.”

  She shrugged and continued out of the car. “Talk to anyone about this, we’ll know. Believe me, we will.” She tossed his cell phone on the passenger seat, slammed the door, and was gone.

  24.

  Unbelievable! Arnold blinked and did a double take. A parking spot. Only two blocks away from where he needed to be. Arnold crept the Jetta slowly past the space, sizing it up. Yeah, might be too good to be true, decidedly tight, but ultimately doable. He loved parallel parking—which he knew seemed totally weird to other people—and considered challengingly small spaces especially fun to conquer. He shifted into reverse and jockeyed back and forth until the car was wedged in an acceptable distance from the curb. Took three minutes with his credit card before the parking meter coughed-up a two-hour sticker that he dutifully pasted to the inside of the passenger window for the benefit of the meter patrols that notoriously prowled this area. More than enough time, but you never knew. And considering the excessive charge for overtime parking, purchasing a tad more time than estimated seemed to be a very cheap form of insurance, considering the Draconian overtime penalties.

  He cut down Marion Street, walked past the old Maritime Building, caught a break in traffic, so jogged across Alaskan Way to the sidewalk bordering the harbor. The tangy smells of saltwater, car exhaust, and maritime diesel spiced the air. Then, across the street to Ivar’s Acres of Clams—an iconic waterfront fish and chips tourist trap just north of the ferry terminal, offering both inside and outside dinning. Arnold found Karim at a small plastic table at the far end of the pier. On the table next to him was a grease-stained discarded cardboard boat of partially eaten fish and chips and several balled napkins to either side of a red plastic catsup dispenser. A fat seagull perched on the nearby railing begged for fries or any other food scraps anyone might wish to donate to The Seagull Welfare League.

  Approaching Firouz, Arnold realized it’d be difficult for the FBI, or anyone else intent on surveillance, to monitor a conversation out here even with a good directional microphone. Not impossible, just difficult. Was he being followed?

  Smiling, Firouz waved him over to a molded plastic chair at the table. Arnold dumped himself into the one directly across from the terrorist, his back to the street, facing the harbor with a view of the islands and Olympics in the distance.

  Firouz said, “Good. You came. Want some lunch? Their tartar sauce is excellent. Haven’t had chips this good since London.” He broke the end off a fry and tossed it to the waiting gull. The gull caught it without so much as fluttering a feather.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “What a shame. These are excellent, you know. Karim and I both think they’re better than any in Vegas, and Karim considers himself a fish and chips connoisseur.” He smiled, as if this were an inside joke he was now sharing with one of the family.

  He screwing with me?

  “I’m not here to eat. Naseem gave me your message,” deciding it would be best to use her real name if he intended to collaborate with them. “She said you wanted to talk. What about?”

  Firouz dabbed the corner of his lips with a paper towel, an almost effeminate motion, Arnold thought, way too precise for eating damn French fries. Trying to impress someone?

  “I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. And the chance to become a very rich man in the process.”

  Arnold made a point to glance around, looking for anyo
ne who might be listening, or perhaps spot whoever was supposed to be his tail. “Why don’t you be a bit more specific about what that would entail?”

  Firouz pushed the half-full boat of chips a few inches away and wiped his fingers on the one remaining unsoiled napkin. “This is quite simple, really. Your computer was of no help to us, but I think you already knew that.” His face reflected mild irritation, which, Arnold hoped, was only the tip of an emotional iceberg. Hard as he was trying, the terrorist seemed to be incapable of suppressing all of it. “Since we still don’t have what we want, we’re offering to buy your system from you.”

  “My system?” He shook his head. “Not for sale.”

  “You misunderstand. We don’t want your computer or your system—we probably wouldn’t know how to use it if you donated it to us. No, we’re more interested in what you can do with it for us, your analysis capabilities. And we’re willing to pay quite handsomely for your work. Your assignments would be very similar to the work you so graciously did with us previously.”

  Now, if anyone were monitoring the conversation, Arnold’s complicity would be a matter of record. Again, Arnold felt comfort in knowing this was already in the FBI file.

  Arnold began scratching away a glob of old dried catsup stuck to the white enamel table top with his thumbnail. “What sort of price you offering?”

  Firouz didn’t hesitate. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

  “For?”

  “Six months’ work.”

  “Naw, not worth it.”

  Firouz rubbed his chin a moment. “Three hundred, then.”

  Laughing, Arnold shook his head. “You kidding? With the risks I’m taking?”

  “That’s a shitload of money, Arnold. If not three hundred, then what price is fair?”

  This was the tricky part: making them buy into really being contractible, yet not exceeding a figure they would think ridiculous. Everyone had a limit, and regardless of who was funding their activity, there was a point at which to decline.

  “Let’s not make it time dependent, because as Einstein pointed out, time is relevant only when comparing to other things. Let’s say a half-million for each problem I analyze. Furthermore, I want the money transferred to my offshore account within twenty-four hours from the time you assign me the problem. Here,” he handed Firouz a folded yellow Post-It with the name of a Grand Cayman account under the name Toby Taylor.

  Firouz unfolded it, held it up to view from a better angle, smiled. “No problem.”

  No hesitation at all, which told Arnold he was being played, sure as hell. The moment they had pirated his system he would be killed.

  “But,” Firouz said, refolding the paper and slipping it into his breast pocket. “The duration of your employment is performance driven. You understand what this means?”

  Yeah, soon as you screw me, you’ll kill me.

  “I get it.”

  The gull on the railing watching the negotiation leaned forward and screamed at Firouz. This time Firouz threw an entire fry over the rail, away from the gull so he’d have to at least fly to catch it.

  After carefully cleaning his greasy fingers on a fresh paper napkin, he returned to Arnold. “Then we are agreed?”

  Arnold nodded yes and realized he was applying counter-pressure to his stomach again. Did Firouz notice? He fished a roll of Tums from his jeans pocket in a stupid attempt to disguise the pain as simple indigestion instead of anxiety.

  “There are differences from the way we operated last time,” Firouz said, “because I assume you prefer to remain in Seattle at your home. However, our activities will be elsewhere. Vegas, for example, where we presently work.”

  Arnold asked, “How will I communicate with you?” And here it comes, he thought: the door to his system they would surely try to exploit. He caught another hint of a smile and thought the guy had to be a doormat at poker.

  Firouz opened his wallet, removed a small piece of paper to hand him.

  “This is how you contact my computer specialist. His name is Nawzer Singh. The two of you can work out the particulars of how to pass information, but from what I understand—and I don’t know much about computers—he’ll give you remote access to one of ours. You transfer our information there. For obvious security reasons, it’s isolated from the general internet. Nawzer emphasized to me you must keep your activities restricted to that drop-box only. Nothing else. He says it will be impossible for you to explore anything but what is contained in that one folder. And if you do try to access any other areas in the system you will face extreme consequences. I can’t emphasize this strongly enough, Arnold. Is this clear?”

  Arnold nodded agreement, thinking they’d provide him access to a directory for only one reason: to provide themselves with an access link into his system. And once they had that, they’d start robbing him blind. He now faced a simple, straightforward strategy, pitting his skills against some geek named Nawzer. How good was he, and how good was Nawzer? Well, I’ll find out. Let the games begin.

  “Okay, then. We done here?” Arnold asked.

  Firouz leaned across the table to him and lowered his voice. “Not yet. One more thing. Try to fuck me on this and there are no words to describe the hell you will endure before you die.”

  They got ready to stand, the meeting now over with, until Arnold remembered…

  He held up a finger. “One more thing. Almost forgot. I need to talk now and then to my lawyer in person.”

  Firouz’s eyebrows arched. “Oh? Why?”

  Good thing he’d rehearsed this line. Not missing a beat, he said, “Surprised you have to ask, especially with a spy in the police department. Howard’s murder is still under active investigation and I remain a prime suspect. Until it’s closed…” holding both palms up in a gesture of innocence.

  Firouz made no attempt to mask a smile. “Oh, and I almost forgot,” mimicking Arnold’s innocent tone and gesture. “You have a roommate.”

  Arnold waited.

  “Karim will live with you for the foreseeable future.”

  Yeah, until he tries to kill me. “Shoot. Was hoping for Naseem.”

  With a smirk, Firouz said, “Wouldn’t want to waste her talents. She makes too much money.”

  25.

  Arnold tilted back his chair and massaged the rock-hard cords of muscle on the right side of his neck. They were especially knotted tonight, sore from sitting with his head cocked to the right, a bad postural habit acquired during childhood, before his astigmatism had been diagnosed and corrected with glasses. He listened to the familiar 2 AM house sounds: the soft hum of the air-exchange fan, the cooling unit down in the computer room, Karim’s guttural ragged snoring from the upstairs guest room, a distant siren. He could smell the now-cold slice of pepperoni pizza to the right of his mouse, a can of warm Diet Coke just beyond that. Dinner from hours ago. He used to be able to devour an entire medium-size pizza, but not lately, not since Howie’s….

  The gut-pain had first appeared the night the police interrogated him about the murder and had waxed and waned ever since, depending on his level of stress, causing him to chew Tums like candy. Now, as he worked on a strategy to access the Jahandars’ computer, the pain seemed more intense. It would stay with him forever, he believed, and become one of those chronic ailments older people complain of, just another dysfunction accumulated as a result of coping with life’s ravages.

  The problem needing a solution went like this: the FBI wanted access to the terrorists’ method of communication but had been thus far unable to determine what that mode might be. Could be digital, courier, or even FedEx shipments, for all anyone knew. That had been their biggest stated concern. Now, at least, he knew that some of their communication was digital. But, in spite of Fisher’s reassurances, he knew the FBI wouldn’t be satisfied with one link into one isolated computer because that would not yield a method to locate them. What they really wanted was access to—and the location of—the mother organization. In contrast to terror
ists groups such as al-Qaeda, these jokers hated publicity, believing they could operate more effectively by remaining anonymous. Although some members might occasionally use a disposable cell-phone for limited communication, the ears of the NSA and other intelligence agencies have proven so effective over the years that terrorists had to assume all cellular conversations were monitored. Routine email was equally vulnerable. Bin Laden had solved the issue by using a trusted courier to hand-deliver messages, in spite of the method being slow and cumbersome, and, in the end, knowing how easily it could be broken if the courier was fingered.

  This is why so many terrorists had recently migrated to the Deep Net.

  Although anyone could download the Tor browser, finding desired websites was problematic because, unlike normal websites such as eBay, Facebook, or Amazon, Deep Net web sites did not have user-friendly “dot-com” URLs or addresses. Instead, addresses were made up of a seemingly random string of characters followed by “.onion.” Sophisticated users knew where to find online directories—such as The Hidden Wiki—that provide addresses to some Deep Net sites.

  The really scary part was that these directories only scratched the surface of the illegal activity and content available within the Deep Net. The deepest dot-onion addresses were known only to a select group of people, and it was these sites that contained the darkest contents.

  Recently, there had been speculation as to just how good Tor actually was at keeping online activities anonymous. Some claimed it provided absolute anonymity whereas others disputed this. One Tor-hidden online narcotics store, Silk Road, was brought down by authorities in March 2013, but the authorities had difficulties prosecuting the online narcotics sellers because they had been operating in disparate jurisdictions, so most still remained free. In contrast, an FBI investigation into child abuse and porn was completely frustrated by Tor.

  The time and effort needed for law enforcement agents to track Tor users—even when possible—was not feasible. Tor “end nodes”—the computers supporting Tor traffic—could reside in any country having Internet available, which nowadays was pretty much everywhere. In addition, it wasn’t uncommon for unsuspecting computer owners to be completely unaware of the criminal traffic passing through their machines.