Firestorm

by Rachel Grant

  That meant a hundred and fifty million had already been dispersed, laundered, or exchanged for bitcoin. This guy had been busy while she and Cal stargazed and traversed the tunnels.

  But where had the money come from? She looked over the document with instructions—thankfully written in French—and found the source, the same as she’d seen in the document she’d found two days ago that led them here: A Fitzsimmons and N Drugov. Drugov’s accounts had held more than five hundred million at the time of his death. This was Bratva—Russian organized crime—money.

  She felt queasy as the pieces came together. She’d found his money when combing through his data and had filed a report with Seth. He’d authorized her to move a hundred grand to finance the op and support Mani Kalenga’s cover as a successful mercenary looking to move up. It wasn’t standard procedure, but not unheard of either. And it was a quick way to fund an op with little lead time. She’d filled out at least a dozen forms explaining where the money had come from, where it was going, and how it would be used.

  In the meantime, she’d moved the rest of Drugov’s money into a holding account—before Drugov’s Bratva friends could find and reclaim it. She’d bet anything that if she looked up the transactions of that account, every penny would be gone, and her fingerprints would be all over it.

  She took a deep breath. It was too late to recapture all of Drugov’s cash assets, but at least she could stop the hemorrhage and try to save her name.

  She looked at the list of those who were to receive large deposits. Among them were JJ Prime, Senator Jackson, Senator Ravissant, the US Attorney General, and DRC soldiers stationed in Gbadolite and elsewhere. That was where the bulk of the money was going—to undermine Congo’s military.

  Lubanga was using Drugov’s money—which he must’ve gotten from Seth Olsen—to fund his coup. Worse, Gorev had Lubanga in his pocket. If Lubanga managed to seize Congo, Russia would control DRC’s mineral wealth. They’d have diamonds, cobalt, coltan, and lots of untapped uranium. Yellowcake would find its way into Syria and Iran.

  And it would be too late for the US government to do anything about it.

  What the hell was Seth doing? Most traitors did it for the money. Benedict Arnold. Aldrich Ames.

  But this… If Russia controlled Congo, the power shift would be massive. The Congo wars had already embroiled much of Africa and claimed millions of lives. Bring Syria and Iran into the mix, and it would quickly escalate. This cash infusion to back Lubanga’s coup could quite literally be the first step toward World War III.

  21

  Freya closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn’t too late. World War III wasn’t inevitable. Because no one had predicted Freya wouldn’t blindly follow orders. No, she’d enlisted a badass Green Beret to help her, and together, they could put a stop to this.

  She cracked her knuckles. It was go time. “Guard the tunnel,” she said to Cal, her focus on the screen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Investing in bitcoin.” She’d moved some of Drugov’s money into bitcoin before the op, so the accounts were set up and the USB key to access her wallet was in her pack.

  She grabbed the key and plugged it in. She would scatter the money into dozens of transactions, all for different amounts, so no one could find the money by searching for a single matching transaction.

  Multiple transactions as she was doing would drive up the price and value of existing coin. No one already invested would complain about that. She was making everyone richer. In spite of the air-conditioning, sweat dripped down her neck. She pulled off the hood that covered her hair and kept working.

  Dozens of bitcoin addresses were generated and stored in her wallet. The wallet lived on the key. Once the transactions entered the blockchain, the only way the money could be accessed was with the USB drive. A three-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar memory stick.

  It would take time for the transactions to process—ideally, she’d do this over the course of days—but she wasn’t about to be picky. At least the files could upload to the cloud as the transactions processed. This computer was likely the financial heart of Lubanga’s operation. This was where he moved his money around. She could have the mother lode of financial data for Lubanga’s entire organization. Even better than what she’d gotten from his laptop in Dar.

  Lubanga’s extreme caution with online communication and financial transactions explained this remote outpost. For the center of his operations, he needed a computer with reliable and unlimited power, a very good satellite connection—Mobutu provided those with his dam and satellite dish array—and people with the technical skills to maneuver in the financial world, the dark web, cryptocurrency, and cryptosecurity.

  CIA monitored this region for SIGINT but the area was something of a black hole for radio and satellite signals. Given this set up, there had to be some highly effective signal blockers in place—provided by Russia, if she were to guess.

  A courier with the USB drive containing the money and these instructions must’ve been on that afternoon flight today. This wasn’t the sort of thing one trusted to email.

  She searched the desk for a portable storage device, finding several in a drawer. She slipped all the drives into the pocket that concealed her passport, then took a screen shot of the instructions and included the image in the file upload. She’d do everything she could to avoid taking the fall for this bullshit thievery. The US Attorney General would be interested to see his name on the list of payouts. That right there could be her saving grace—or her downfall if he was corrupt and wanted to bury this.

  Next, she searched the unconscious man’s pockets, finding another USB drive. His private drive? Maybe, but it was fair game. This guy was in league with a man who could further destabilize Africa and the Middle East. Lubanga was no rebel leader, no liberator. He was greed, avarice, and rotten to the core.

  Goddamn Seth. What the hell could possibly be his motive? She had no doubt he’d destroyed the paper trail that showed she’d reported the money and turned it over to the CIA. She was recovering the money, but would anyone believe she hadn’t taken it in the first place?

  The data on this computer could be crucial to proving her innocence. Seth could be the owner of one of the numbered accounts on the distribution list. What was the payout for treason? What made a man who’d devoted his life to the CIA turn to the dark side?

  As these thoughts buzzed through her brain, she set up the final transfers. She took money earmarked for soldiers and a coup and turned the dollars into bitcoin. She watched the progress bar as it slowly processed the movement of money from one cyber home to another, recording it all on her bitcoin key.

  Cal stepped back into the room. “We need to hurry. I heard something in the tunnel to the north. Could be someone coming.”

  She nodded. “Almost done here.”

  He returned to the tunnel.

  The upload progress indicator was at eighty-five percent. The speed at which the files transferred proved the internet connection was faster than anything they had at Camp Citron.

  The progress bar reached a hundred percent, and she pocketed the USB upload device. They had what they’d come here for as far as intel, but now she could strike a blow. She plugged in another of her USB drives and initiated the program that would find this computer’s online backup and corrupt the files.

  While the virus attacked Lubanga’s cloud storage, she quickly calculated the amounts for the last bitcoin purchases and launched the transactions. They were still processing, but they could complete without her being logged in. Same for the virus, now that it was activated it would destroy the files even after the computer was shut down. She had the bitcoin addresses in her wallet, which was all she needed. She pulled the virus from the first USB port and her key from the second and tucked both into her backpack with the other drives. It was a shame the bitcoin key was too big to swallow.

  Cal stepped back into the doorway. “Someone’s definitely coming.”
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  She stood and paused, staring at the CPU. A hacker as good as the unconscious guy must be could trace what she’d done. He might even have a keystroke recorder running on this computer.

  She needed to destroy it. This would make noise, but people were coming anyway, and this was the only way to ensure no one could immediately trace what she’d done.

  She pulled a knife from her pack and stabbed through the case, ripping off the front. She yanked out the hard disk, then pulled her pistol and shot into the disk six times, evenly spaced.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Cal’s words were shouted, but then, there was no need for quiet after the sound of gunshots.

  This wasn’t good enough. The CIA could still retrieve data from a shot-up drive. Lubanga might have his own team who were just as skilled. It would take time—days, maybe weeks—but still, it could be done. She needed to burn it. “I need aerosol. And a lighter.”

  He grabbed her arm. “We’ve got to go.”

  She scooped up the drive and crammed it into her pack. She’d burn it later.

  She stumbled as she followed Cal down the tracks heading south, into the darkness of the tunnel, blind without her NVGs.

  He cursed as he pulled her deeper into the darkness. He wasn’t wearing his goggles either. She heard him fumble with his pack in the dark, then he grabbed her hand, his steps becoming surer.

  Shouts sounded behind them. It was hard to guess how many men, given the echoing of the tunnel.

  “Of all the stupid bullshit.” His whisper was concealed by the shouting behind them. “Jesus. I knew you’d sacrifice anyone, but I didn’t think you’d do it like that. Motherfucker. What were you thinking?”

  “Without the drive, Lubanga is crippled. Gorev is crippled. It might contain all their financial data. I toasted the computer’s backup with a virus. They might be able to recover some of the data, but it will take time. It’s possible we just wiped them out financially.” She managed to dig her NVGs from the side pocket as she ran.

  “Couldn’t you have waited to shoot it?”

  Able to see now, she quickened her pace, and they sprinted along the tracks. There had to be an out up the line somewhere. She didn’t want to believe this was a dead end, but it was that fear that forced her to take action and shoot the hard disk. “No. Not if they catch us. If the drive were intact, they’d get it back and be up and running in a matter of hours.” Plus they’d have her bitcoin key.

  “They’re more likely to catch us thanks to the shots.” His words were low and punctuated by panting breaths as they ran.

  “If they do catch us”—she took a shallow breath, the need for speed making it hard to talk—“the disk is damaged. It would take time to restore the data—and that’s only if they have the required skills.”

  They ran past alcoves and piles of debris, and she wondered if they should tuck down and hide or keep moving. But stopping could mean capture; only moving offered hope of escape.

  The sound of a motorbike behind them triggered alarm. Shit. She’d sort of counted on their pursuers being stuck on foot as they were. She hadn’t seen a bike in the tunnel, but there was a lot of mining debris lining the walls. The bike—or bikes, from the sound of it—could have been in the piles by the broken mine cart and she wouldn’t have noticed.

  Cal swore and ducked into a deep alcove. He pulled her back against the wall, tucking her into the darkness just as light reached the opening to the tunnel. The bike’s headlight would have caught them had they remained on the tracks.

  The engine sound roared near, and Cal launched himself into the tunnel. Her NVGs glowed with the added light from the bike as he clotheslined the rider. The bike toppled and slid while Cal fought the man. Another bike skidded to a stop just short of running over both men. The rider from the second bike leapt from the vehicle and charged her, pulling his gun as he did so.

  She had two bullets left in the magazine. Better make them count. She squeezed off one shot. The man dropped. Center mass.

  She stepped into the main tunnel to see Cal had the first rider in a chokehold, the man’s gun-filled hand pinned to the ground under Cal’s knee. She turned to the second bike and used her last bullet to fire at the tank, causing gas to leak. The old bike seat was torn, revealing ancient foam rubber inside. With her knife, she cut out a thick chunk of foam and slit the side. She plucked the hard disk from her pack and placed it under the flowing stream of fuel, soaking it, making sure gas showered the bullet holes and saturated the disk inside, then she tucked the drive in the slit in the foam and placed the bundle under the leaking tank.

  She really should have matches. Why didn’t she have matches? Cal had them in his pack, but he was busy.

  She turned to the body of the man she’d shot and checked his pockets. The computer room had smelled of cigarette smoke, giving her hope these men were smokers.

  Cal released the man he’d been fighting. The man slumped over, unconscious or dead.

  As she laid fingers on a lighter, Cal righted the first bike and climbed on. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “One second.” She grabbed a cigarette from the man’s pocket and lit it, coughing and feeling slightly dizzy as she inhaled. She hated cigarettes, but it would burn longer and ensure the gas caught, thoroughly destroying the disk.

  She climbed on the motorbike behind Cal, then tossed the cigarette. It landed in the pool of liquid. A heartbeat later, the stream lit and the vapor ignited with a satisfying foomp.

  Cal twisted the throttle, and they shot down the corridor, heat from the blaze caressing her cheek as she looked over her shoulder to ensure the disk burned. Her NVGs flared bright, and she lifted them, settling the goggles along her hairline as she watched the flame.

  The flash disappeared, but the foam remained, engulfed in orange-and-blue flame.

  She tightened her grip on Cal as they sped down the dark tunnel. A gradual curve and there was only darkness behind them. She faced forward. Cal had turned off the headlight, navigating with his NVGs. With her goggles seated above her eyes, there was nothing for her to see in the unrelenting darkness. She’d put them back on in a moment, but for now, she rested her forehead against Cal’s pack and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath.

  The first salvo in the battle to prevent Lubanga from seizing power had been fired. Now they were off, racing down a dark tunnel that might not have an exit.

  22

  Cal gunned the engine and hoped the tank was full. The gauge was broken, not a surprise given how hammered the bike was. Transportation in Congo was never pristine or pretty.

  Second to having gas, he hoped there was an exit ahead that the bike could maneuver. Well, he’d take any exit, but given that they couldn’t return to Gbadolite, having a vehicle would be nice. His final hope was that if there were only one exit, it would be at the end of this tunnel and not behind them.

  This op had gone from having a spy-movie feel to more of an Indiana Jones-and-horror vibe. Would they find an underground chamber filled with child slaves and a villain who ripped out hearts?

  One thing was certain, Freya was no damsel in distress. She’d taken a brief pause to catch her breath after seeing her name attached to massive theft, and then she’d dived in and fixed it.

  Shooting the hard disk had been a shock, but he had to admit, the idea that she might’ve destroyed all Lubanga’s financial records—maybe even access to his money—had Cal grinning from ear to ear. And she’d left the charred remains of the disk behind for Lubanga’s men to find, so they’d know exactly how screwed they were.

  It had been brilliant of her to turn dollars into bitcoin. He didn’t know much about the cryptocurrency except that it required a key—usually in the form of a USB drive. He’d seen her take all the drives from the computer room. Each one could hold bitcoin or another cryptocurrency. In taking the drives, had she just bankrupted Lubanga?

  Cal had stared in Jean Paul Lubanga’s eyes and negotiated paying kickbacks for a mining claim in which starv
ing women and children would do the work, all while sex-trafficking victims put on a show in the background. Lubanga was soulless. He ran on greed and a thirst for power and could reignite the Congo Wars.

  That Freya might’ve destroyed his finances made everything that had transpired to bring them here worth it.

  Destroying Lubanga’s finances would be crippling in a way that was more devastating than assassination. Assassination assumed there wasn’t someone worse waiting to step in. But would-be dictators needed to pay their armies. They needed to pay the guards who beat the slaves. If Lubanga had been cleaned out, Team Democracy had just won a major battle—with only eight shots being fired.

  Any lingering doubts he might have harbored about Freya had been wiped away. The woman was a crazy, all-in soldier, willing to risk anything.

  They’d gone at least five miles when he noticed a subtle shift in the pitch of the tracks. They were ascending. He’d guess they’d been at least three or four stories deep at the nadir, they had a ways to go to get to ground level, but this was a good sign.

  He glanced at his compass. As expected, they were going south. Was there an escape route into the Central African Republic behind them, at the opposite end of the tracks? Before the gunshots, he’d heard the men on the tracks. They’d been coming from the north, the direction of the CAR.

  Given the infrastructure and tunnel, Gbadolite was the best staging ground for a coup. None of the factions fighting in the east had been able to take Gbadolite with its garrison of soldiers stationed in the other palace, so Lubanga had opted to buy the soldiers’ allegiance.

  But Freya had nixed that.

  The tunnel narrowed as the grade increased. Freya’s grip on his hips tightened. Ahead of them, there was nothing but black, no definition to the path. Were they nearing a dead end?

  He slowed the bike. “Going to turn on the headlight. NVGs aren’t cutting it for distance.” He flipped up the goggles as he flicked on the light, able to see now the long, deep curve ahead.