Josh wiped his feet, replaced the poker, and tiptoed back toward the office. Helen had him running around like a fool, chasing shadows. He didn’t like it. But fear mingled with the anger and he felt helpless.
From the hallway he could hear his home office line ring. Three thirty in the morning. It was on the other side of the house from the guest bedroom and Allison wouldn’t be woken, but he raced down the corridor with his heart pounding, bare feet slapping on the wooden floor. It had to be Helen at this ridiculous hour. All his fears came to the surface, yet indistinct because he had no idea what he was facing. As he bolted into the office, Josh backhanded the door without slowing down. Before it snicked shut, he had the receiver in his hand.
“Yes! Who is this?”
Silence for a few seconds, except for a slight hum. Then a high-pitched whine. He was confused. Then he realized what it was: a fax. The machine whirred and a piece of paper was pulled down and inside the machine and the printing began. Still holding the receiver, Josh stared at the page as it slowly began to edge out the bottom of the fax machine. This must be the information, the reason why this woman had picked him out of all the people at the hotel, on the airplane, to torment. The words began to emerge on the page. Josh squinted, with just the light from the computer screen on his desk for illumination. He read them: Earn Thousands of Dollars Working From Home!!!
It was junk; some marketing crap sent out to a hundred thousand uninterested recipients across the country by an anonymous fleet of fax machines. Goddamnit. He ripped the page out before it was finished and tore it into shreds, balling them up and throwing them at his computer screen. It took all his control not to pick up the monitor and hurl it into the wall. His muscles strained, neck taut. It had been barely more than twenty-four hours since he’d shared a sip of martini with Helen and it was like he was a different person. Josh sat down on the hard wooden chair behind his desk and put his face in his hands.
* * *
By eight o’clock Thursday morning Allison was up and out of the house, doing a little faux job hunting. She left wearing a smart looking black skirt and suit jacket that gave her more of an hourglass figure than she really had, and the heels gave her an extra inch or two to bring her up to just shy of several inches short of five feet. Perfect interview outfit, though it was just a ruse. They both knew she was going to move back to Washington when she was ready, but it made her feel good to act like she might make a location change to match the huge emotional changes she had undergone. Josh wanted her to stick around the house, but couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse. Besides, if Helen was going to carry out her threat without giving Josh a chance to do whatever it was she wanted, she could have done it by now. He went to his office in the back of the house, still wearing boxers with an added T-shirt that was his standard at-home working uniform.
Sitting at his desk, Josh fingered a paperweight shaped like a flattened egg. It was less than half an inch thick and the metallic surface shined brightly except in the spots where his fingerprints marred the finish from much handling. It was a replica of an implantable defibrillator, a device a surgeon puts under the skin just below your shoulder. Wires connected it to your heart. A tiny computer in the defibrillator recognized when your heart was out of whack and delivered a precise but bone-jarring jolt to keep you from keeling over dead. Josh was the Vice President of Technology for a company that made these things. It was amazing how many variations there were on this one idea. Even more surprising was what a huge business it was – all those baby boomers getting older and demanding their hearts keep working properly until they conked out from something else like cancer or stress. The company did about four billion dollars in business last year. Josh thought about it – he didn’t personally get to keep much of that. Despite the size of the business, it was very competitive. His company was in the middle of a race to develop a new device. If they got there first, it would add a couple billion dollars to their bottom line over the next two years. If they didn’t, the stock would tank. Josh tossed the device back onto the desk and blew out a breath. He didn’t think he could keep up the charade another day, even though his job let him work out of the house whenever he wasn’t on the road. Yesterday’s calls to the people who worked for Josh were a little rough around the edges. They weren’t used to him snapping at them or being distracted.
Josh picked up a letter opener sitting on a stack of mail and put it back down. Same thing with a technical journal he was behind on. Ditto with a pack of gum, the clock shaped like a sailing yacht at the edge of his desk, a small MP3 player, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down. He noticed his right foot was tapping, getting faster and faster. He felt the blood rising and a flush coming to his face. He saw himself jumping up and smashing his fist through the wall next to him, but didn’t.
The computer was already on like it usually was so he turned to it and thought about answering some email. His teams were used to getting email from Josh at all hours of the day or night. He had a DSL connection at home, so he didn’t have to do anything to connect to the Internet. Always on – great technology. Any mail he got came right in, sitting there waiting for him. He hit a random button on the keyboard to make disappear the image of big wedges of chocolate cake flying across the screen and being attacked by scoops of thirty-one different flavors of ice cream – not a company-issued screensaver, admittedly – and checked his in-box. Twenty-seven new messages. He had a rule: never more than fifty messages in his main in-box folder. That’s the place you keep the most active messages, the ones you know you need to respond to. It’s like your To-Do list and if it gets too big, you’re screwed. Everything else gets immediate attention, deleted, or moved elsewhere for safekeeping. He scanned the new messages to see which ones might require only mindless activity to get rid of, which was usually most of them. Except for a couple of items about projects his teams were responsible for, the rest held no interest. Except one. The subject was: Chocolate Martinis. It was addressed directly to Josh, using his name and address. The return address was what caught his eye: [email protected]. Twenty years using computers and being a technology expert, but his hand could barely navigate to put the cursor on this email. He steadied his hand and clicked the email so it popped up to fill the screen. The message was brief:
Jerry’s deli, Encino. 2:30 today.
Be smart, sweetie. Stay calm, stay quiet. Just you.
H.
Six hours to kill before he found out what this was about. That seemed a very long time. Josh got up and walked through the empty house, knowing there was no echo as he passed through carpeted rooms but hearing one anyway. He planned on taking a hot shower until the water ran cold.
Chapter Nine
It was Spring, 1983, and the sun poured through the high arched windows of the lecture hall. Every student rustled in their seat, anxious to finish the week’s last class and get to the weekend activities. Spring Quarter at Stanford traditionally meant skipping Friday lectures, but they stayed because Josh Barnes kept things lively. He was also the only undergraduate in recent memory permitted to deliver lectures; that privilege was typically reserved for graduate students and faculty. The topic was the emerging field of network-based security algorithms and their remarkable similarity to recent research showing how the brain stored information, based on a study with CIA agents trained to withstand intense interrogation. Barnes was studying cognitive science, a new field combining computer modeling, neuroscience, and traditional cognitive psychology. As a senior, he had already completed most of the coursework done by second-year doctoral candidates. The only one of the 300 students not fidgeting and looking at the clock was Daniel Murello.
Fifteen minutes later the clock tower in the quad signaled the hour. The room emptied before the last chime sounded. Josh gathered his papers and looked up in time to see the course instructor give him a thumbs-up just as the door at the back of the hall closed behind him. Josh almost overlooked the student standing right in front of him,
a foot lower because of the stage Josh was standing on, but still almost eye to eye since it was one of the football players who was taking the class and Stanford tended to recruit the biggest smart guys they could find. He didn’t know this fellow, but he recalled seeing the intensity with which he sat in class, taking notes, and periodically asking questions that Josh had himself asked when taking this course three years earlier – questions that had gotten him noticed by the professor.
“Hey. I have a question. I’m interested in these security networks. There isn’t really any computer system out there to test this on. But if there were, do you really think it would work? I mean, how secure could it be?”
Josh stopped and stuck out his hand. “I’m Josh.” The big kid covered Josh’s hand with his own and said “Daniel Murello.”
“Daniel, it’s a beautiful day and you should be out enjoying it. Stop by my office Monday and we can talk about it. I’ll take you over to the Computer Center and show you what a really big network looks like. You’d be amazed at what kind of things we’re going to be able to do when the Internet gets rolling in a few years.”
Daniel gave Josh a long look, and he could see the football player was thinking beyond the confines of the room.
“I’ll be there. Thanks.”
Over the next few weeks, Josh tutored the intense young man on security and computer networks, trying to excite him about the connection to brain research. But Daniel, absorbing everything he heard and asking questions that went beyond Josh’s knowledge, was intent on the potential for information to be moved around the world almost instantly. Total knowledge and total anonymity captivated him.
Their first session had been almost an attack; Murello bombarded Josh with theoretical and practical questions at such a rapid pace there barely was time to answer. Unlike most grad students (though Josh was technically still an undergrad) who were intimidated when they met someone who might be as smart as they were – or, god forbid, smarter – Josh was excited. He could see the young man’s mind working, trying to understand the big picture then diving down into details. Josh saw a pattern to Murello’s questions, but couldn’t put his finger on exactly what he was shooting for. Having been exposed briefly to the CIA during the study on lie-detection, Josh knew when he was being quizzed for a purpose he didn’t fully understand. But Murello’s direction, while strongly focused on privacy and how information could be moved and manipulated across data networks, still seemed unformed. Josh tried to use this to influence Murello, maybe toward research or maybe to the high-tech industry which was just starting to emerge. But the sophomore brushed these attempts off as he plumbed the depth of Josh’s knowledge. Over the course of several weeks, Josh sensed his student had gained respect for him. Oddly, while picking Josh’s brain, Murello never seemed to make the exchanges personal. Josh was just a repository of information. By the end of the quarter, despite the mutual respect, Josh never quite felt like he connected with the young man. No doubt he’d make an excellent CIA guy, Josh thought, or maybe politician.
The tutorials came to an end when Spring quarter culminated in graduation. Josh peripherally followed Daniel’s remaining career as a college football player and brief stint in the NFL, eventually losing track. The only time he heard from him was a cryptic email the year after Murello quit pro football, after just one season. He had quizzed Josh about his interest in the world of finance and getting involved in a hedge fund that had some interesting technical aspects to it. Josh replied he was pretty heavily into the research and wished him luck. He didn’t hear from Murello again.
* * *
Murello’s plan formed slowly, over a number of years. Power was the only thing that gave him a rush, made him feel alive. And controlling money meant having power. For seed money, he used his share of his mother’s life insurance policy and a Harvard MBA to make a series of smart investments. The MBA was his fallback source for funding his venture after a shortened career in the NFL due to a vicious tackle that had blown out his knee during his rookie season. The linebacker who made the semi-legal hit in order to earn a bonus for being the top tackler on his own team was found dead three weeks after the season ended. It has been ruled a burglary and no one was ever caught.
Murello’s first efforts were modest. He identified solid players in an industry, starting with those he understood best, and used his considerable social skills to extract inside information from key employees. He was able to buy and sell stock based on this insider information. Murello learned early to cover his tracks when he made illegal trades by setting up a variety of shell companies, then moving his assets around and shutting down the shells before the money from the transactions could be traced. Extraordinary technical skills helped ensure his anonymity. His knowledge of information networks and how to exploit them grew exponentially. A turning point came when he noticed several instances where he used information to make a profitable stock trade but then saw the entire market for that stock move as a result of his actions. His transactions had become a self-fulfilling prophecy; his activities had moved markets. Watching the stock price dropping, he felt the surge. He wanted more of this.
Over the course of several years, Murello refined his technique and expanded his skills. This required a larger and larger playing field. His ability to cover his actions through the use of financial and interpersonal subterfuge became uncanny. His willingness to let nothing stand in his way grew. And his taste for power exceeded even what he had anticipated. Hiring people like Helen allowed him to expand his reach and remove any restrictions on what he could or would do. He allowed them to operate independently, but according to strict – very strict – rules. His only concerns were results and privacy. Murello did not get involved in the details. He did not know Josh Barnes was Helen’s contact at Cardient.
Chapter Ten
Helen thought about the meeting this afternoon. She had set up the email to go out automatically from her hotmail account at 8:30 this morning. She knew she had gotten Josh hot at the hotel bar two days earlier, and banging him gave her a huge edge. Josh would start to doubt himself, feeling manipulated and probably ashamed, just like any other man. With this one, though, she sensed she also needed to instill some old-fashioned fear. Barnes may have been shaken, but he kept his cool. He didn’t have a chance against her and Crawford, but better to avoid any minor blips. That was the reason for the delay in contacting him and why Crawford would come along to the meeting. He had been in the photo with the sister, plus Josh was smart enough to figure out Crawford had taken the picture at the grocery store. In person, the threat would grow and become tangible. There would probably be no need for Crawford to do anything other than sit quietly. She’d have to remind him of that. Sit quietly, for now.
Helen stretched like a cat, feeling her back pop just a little. It was good to sleep in. She luxuriated in the 1500-threadcount sheets that cost more than most people spent on their entire bedroom set and pictured what she must look like had someone been there to see her. The silk nightie rode over her hips as her arms reached up to the headboard. The white panties, with a fine red lace embroidered along the triangle covering the patch of hairless, tan skin that started well below her belly button and ended where her inner thighs met her hips, were her favorite. She had worn something black and lacey the night she seduced Josh, knowing that men preferred that slutty look. She had thrown off the sheet during the few hours of deep sleep she ritualistically found in the hours just before dawn and it lay tangled around her knees. Helen looked down and could see her nipples taut against the rose-colored material. It always excited her to awaken to evidence of an erotic dream that must have flitted through her mind just before sun-up. She was a little surprised that, upon reflection, Josh had been one of the figures in her dream. However, it was equally likely she was aroused by what the day before her held. She loved the excitement of her work almost as much as the financial reward. If all went well, she would clear $2 million for a few more hours work. The nightstand held
a stack of the business books she had been reading, the top one a text on financial management. Helen’s day-to-day life may be exhilarating, but she was conservative about her money. Another year or so and she could retire, which meant something entirely different to her than most people. She had a goal in mind - $20 million – and at the rate she and Crawford were going it was just around the corner. The one point six mil she’d paid for the house a year and a half ago had already appreciated twenty percent and her stock holdings, diversified among conservative value funds and a small percentage of high-risk international currencies was growing nicely.
Pulling out of the driveway in the Maserati today instead of the Lexus before the garage door had fully risen, Helen backed into the circular apron and shifted into drive without coming to a full stop. She spun onto the road in front of her house and forced the heavy, black BMW heading the same direction to veer sharply left to avoid hitting her. A pissed off yuppie with an anger-twisted face flipped her the bird and mouthed, “fuck you” even as his expression changed to admiration and forgiveness as he got a glimpse at her profile going by. Helen took the series of curves and turns at a sharp pace as she descended from her mountain home to the floor of the San Fernando Valley. Crawford would be waiting for her at a bus stop on Ventura Blvd. in Studio City. She didn’t know where he lived and didn’t care, though she was pretty sure he didn’t actually take the bus. He made enough money with her to live wherever he wanted, but he barely seemed to notice. Helen set up an offshore account for him when they had become partners and made sure his share was wired to him after every job. Two weeks ago she had deposited $250,000, bringing his net to $2.5 million. She had no idea whether or how he spent any of it or if he cared. If he had a plan or a larger purpose, she was not privy to it. He always got her voicemails immediately and was where he said he would be, on time. He must check his messages constantly, or maybe he had a service page him. Or maybe a carrier pigeon dropped a slip of paper with a transcript of her message into his hand. She didn’t know and it didn’t matter. Before Crawford, she had been the brains and the brawn. Now she could concentrate on what she was good at.
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