Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected

by Vikki Kestell

  When eyes skittered away from him and no one answered, he turned to his team leader—and was struck by the decline in her appearance. Patrice Seraphim was not the woman she’d been only two months ago. The lingering injuries from the car bomb, Bella’s abduction, and the task force’s inability to prevent the impending terrorist attack had beaten her down. She appeared mentally and emotionally demoralized.

  I shouldn’t have asked Seraphim to return before she was fully recovered—just as I should never have sent Bella to Tbilisi. These ill-advised decisions fall on me and me alone.

  Jaz, the de facto team lead, reluctantly replied for Seraphim. “Director, knowing that ten cities are at risk, we’ve run the variables we believe would compel AGFA’s target selection—a given city’s population density, the popularity of its public New Year’s Eve celebrations, the venue and its security’s strengths and vulnerabilities. With a moderate degree of confidence, we can list twenty cities that fit the criteria. We believe the ten cities AGFA has targeted will be among those twenty.”

  “That’s it? Ten cities out of twenty you ‘believe’ are the targets—with only a moderate degree of confidence?”

  “We also know their chosen weapon, fentanyl. What we don’t know is the delivery mechanism—although the most likely scenario tells us that street drugs will be laced with lethal doses of fentanyl.”

  Wolfe’s voice rose. “And, therefore, FBI strike teams should just descend en masse on these public celebrations, guns at the ready? To what? Spread the word about the likelihood of deadly street drugs?”

  “No, sir.” Jaz took a breath. “However, with our deductions in hand and the high probability of mass casualties, someone could issue a public alert. Maybe the president?”

  “Issue an imminent terrorist alert based on dodgy, piecemeal intel? Not bloody happening,” Seraphim said quietly from where she sat.

  Wolfe sighed. “Seraphim’s right on that count. The President of the United States may be many things, but the poster child for political suicide he is not.”

  Jaz slogged on with dogged determination. “But we do know people are going to die from fentanyl overdoses—we have intel to back that up. We could call on the CDC to issue a repeating public health alert, a warning against buying drugs at these celebrations. It might not stop every overdose, but it could save hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives!”

  “Stop wasting your breath,” Rusty growled. “Don’t you get it? As far as the bureaucrats are concerned, the task force and all our work has produced a big, fat nothingburger. Sure, we’ve got bits and pieces, but when stacked up, they don’t prove a thing.”

  He snorted. “It’s like a bad Western, us standing on a plateau and watching through binoculars while the innocent heroine is tied to the train tracks—and hearing the whistle of an approaching train grow louder and louder as it bears down on her. We’re too far away to mount a rescue and there isn’t a blessed thing we can do to stop or even slow the momentum of the oncoming locomotive.”

  Grumbles ran through the team, attesting to Rusty’s morbid outlook. With a jerk of his head, Wolfe called Seraphim to him and they left the gym together.

  There isn’t a blessed thing we can do to stop or even slow the momentum of the oncoming locomotive.

  Jaz swallowed hard and ground her knuckles into her eyes.

  “Has to be something we can do. Has to be.”

  Chapter 28

  BY MORNING, TASK FORCE morale had sunk even lower. The team gathered in the bullpen at the usual time, but no one had the will to work. They sat in knots of two or three, slamming down coffee, eying the various lines of inquiry on the boards, and halfheartedly discussing the unresolved questions posed in Vincent’s orderly handwriting.

  Faking it.

  As they talked among themselves, they carefully avoided bringing up the possibility—the very real probability—that the task force was officially “done.” Finished. After an unproductive morning, they gave up even the pretense of working.

  In a corner of the gym, Tobin and Rusty let Bo run them through a demanding workout, a workout intended to make them forget everything except surviving Bo’s demands.

  The rest of the team—Brian, Vincent, Gwyneth, Jubaila, and Soraya—retired to the cabin’s library to dull their pain on a Die Hard video trifecta.

  Jaz alone remained in the bullpen, thinking, scheming, planning.

  That evening, Bo brought a TV down from the dormitory above the gym and wired it to the dorm’s antenna. He added a VCR and showed Vincent how to record from TV to VHS tape. Then Bo, Harris, Tobin, and Rusty hauled in a couple of sofas and some beanbag chairs.

  “Why all the fuss?” Soraya asked. “You think we’re in the mood for a party? Or that we want to witness what’s coming?”

  Tobin replied, “For no other purpose than to document the actual events and learn from them? Yes. We should watch and record what happens. Might need it later—you know, working on AGFA’s next attack.”

  Brian snorted. “Riiiight. ’Cause the task force will still be around, and we’ll all still have jobs after tonight.”

  “Shut the *blank* up, Brian,” Vincent shot back.

  In an attempt to lift the task force out of their morbid, leaderless funk, Richard laid a table of finger foods, snacks, and sodas, to which he added a half-dozen bottles of champagne.

  The team largely ignored them. The idea of a New Year’s Eve party was a joke—and a bad one. Brian’s acid wit again best captured the team’s mood.

  “It’s not actually a New Year’s watch party. It’s more of a death watch party, kind of a ‘wake waiting to happen.’”

  “Way to call it, Brian,” Rusty whispered. “We’re not counting down to the ball drop in Times Square. We’re counting down to a people drop—people dropping like flies in the streets. And what are we doing about it? Why, we’re kicking back like nothing’s wrong—and y’know what that makes us? Officially disgusting.”

  Throughout the day, the team had seen little of Jaz. Even now, as the evening grew later, she kept plinking away at her laptop.

  “What are you doing?”

  She flicked one eyebrow at Rusty. Returned her attention to her screen.

  “Seriously, what are you doing, Jaz?”

  “Seriously, leave me alone. I’m busy.”

  Instead, Rusty rolled his chair to her.

  “Is this your version of leaving me alone, Rust Bucket?”

  “I’m going to ignore that undeserved barb—for now—because I know you’re up to something. Might as well tell me. I’m not going away until you do.”

  Jaz huffed her exasperation. “Fine. We’d all like to stop the worst one-night mass murder in the history of the world, but since stopping it altogether isn’t feasible, I’m hoping to limit the carnage.”

  “Yeah? Can I help?”

  “Thanks, but not necessary. I already have an army at work.”

  Rusty frowned and leaned toward her screen. “An army? Show me what’s going on.”

  Jaz tipped her head down, inviting Rusty to lean closer. “Spent a couple hours early this morning establishing the route for my posts.”

  “You’re using anonymizers?”

  “Duh. Fifteen of them—from Romania to Rajasthan, Belarus to Bolivia, Egypt to Ecuador, and nine places in between. The upshot is that anyone attempting to trace me will run smack into an inglorious dead end, a public computer sitting in a lowly Internet café in Jersey City.”

  “You hacked the Internet café’s computer, then established a route through fifteen anonymizer sites?”

  “Actually, I hacked the Harbor branch of Fleet Bank first, then hacked the Internet café’s network from there. After that, on through the anonymizer sites.”

  She snickered. “Should an exceptionally good hacker—a miracle worker—manage to trace my posts back to that café and that particular computer? He will encounter the little gift I’ve left for him—my own special brew of malware—the cash cow of all computer contam
inants, a cornucopia of caustic crimeware. After my pretty little viruses and worms chew through his system, there won’t be enough of his hard drive left to even boot up.”

  “Brilliant, as always. So, what’s your plan?”

  “Already in motion.”

  Jaz scrolled down and pointed to her screen. On the public page of a popular bulletin board Rusty spied a call to arms.

  WARNING | DANGER

  Terrorist attack

  New Year’s Eve.

  Terrorists will release

  street drugs cut with deadly

  FENTANYL

  at NYE celebrations,

  US east coast states.

  STOP TERRORISTS

  SAVE LIVES

  FORWARD THIS WARNING

  Rusty appropriated Jaz’s mouse and clicked on the word FENTANYL. It took him to an article on the lethality of fentanyl. He clicked back. Re-read the warning. Studied the profile of the individual who had posted the warning. Noted the profile’s tiny icon.

  A fanged serpent’s head.

  He gaped at the 486 comments and exchanges below the post. Make that 489. The number of comments ticked up as he watched. He scanned the first comment, saw that its profile icon sported a trident, and the reply bore the fanged serpent’s head icon.

  Vyper, that you? Where you been?

  Yes, me, Poseidon. Spread warning please.

  Hear Ukrain. mob looking for you.

  Those losers? What a joke. Spread warning please.

  Done. Posted to seventeen boards and texted to rave organizers in NYC, Atlanta, and Miami. Forwarded to friends who will do same.

  Good work, Poseidon.

  Anything for the Venom Queen.

  “Venom Queen? Holy moly!”

  Jaz grabbed her mouse from Rusty and toggled to another screen, another message board. The same warning posted there boasted 542 comments or replies.

  Jaz sighed. “Like I said, Rusty, already in motion. I hope it will be enough.”

  Almost as an afterthought, she muttered, “I’d pray it will be enough, but I don’t do prayer.”

  THE DROPPING OF THE ball at the stroke of midnight in Times Square went uncelebrated at Broadsword. Instead, it served as the final bell in what seemed like a twelve-round match. An unsuccessful fight. The team collapsed in on itself, beaten to a collective pulp.

  Tensions rose higher as Seraphim, Tobin, Richard, Bo, and all off-duty guards gathered around the television to watch the wild celebration in the streets of New York following the countdown. Jaz sat cross-legged off to one side of the TV, her nose practically pressed up against its screen.

  The cameras panned across the crowds of kissing couples and screaming partiers. Streamers, confetti, and fireworks filled the air.

  The team, frustrated with her, began to pelt Jaz with popcorn. She didn’t even notice.

  “Down in front!” Brian shouted.

  “Hey! Did you see that?” Jaz pointed, but the camera had already moved on.

  “No! All we can see is your oversized head—or is that your bloated ego?” Brian heckled.

  “Did we see what?” Tobin asked.

  “That tube thing, that confetti-throwing gizmo. It—”

  “Confetti cannon?” Rusty asked.

  “Whatever. It lobbed more than confetti. Looked like candy raining down with the confetti.”

  “So? People like candy.”

  “Not if it kills you or your kids they don’t.”

  All eyes shifted back to the TV, trying to spot what Jaz had seen.

  “We can play it back later, if we need to,” Tobin reminded the team.

  “There!” Brian shouted. “That guy dressed like a stuffed bear. He is tossing candy into the crowd.”

  “I saw him. For maybe half a second,” Jubaila said.

  “I wonder . . .” Jaz got up, paced up and down, stepping in front of the television with each pass. She halted. Addressed anyone who cared to listen. “Do you suppose the terrorists might have devised multiple delivery mechanisms? Drugs from a confetti cannon, Fentanyl-laced candy from a man in a cartoon bear costume?”

  Harris spoke up. “Smart military tacticians never rely on only one weapon or strategy.”

  “Right.” Jaz frowned in concentration. “It’s just that I was thinking it’s great if you catch candy while it’s still in the air, but not everyone is going to pick up something edible once it hits the ground. I mean, tossing it in the air isn’t the most foolproof way to delivering candy, is it?”

  She thought for a moment. “Where do people go when they leave the ball drop?”

  “That’s easy,” Gwyneth said. “Dancing. Pretty soon all these channels will switch to the ‘after parties.’ But you knew that, right?”

  Chewing the inside of her cheek, Jaz muttered, “I don’t do dancing.”

  “Good grief, Jaz. Do you live under a rock?”

  But Jaz didn’t hear her. She ran to her laptop, entered a web-to-text site, pasted a long list of recipients into the “To” fields, and began furiously pounding out a message to the network of hackers with whom she’d been messaging most of the day.

  Second FENTANYL warning

  fwd to parties, raves, clubs

  BEWARE FREE DRUGS

  For emphasis, Jaz tacked on the word LETHAL at the end of the message and sent it. Almost immediately, the web-to-text site began receiving short, pithy responses—OK, roger, yes, NP, on it, and a plethora of ASCII characters affirming that Jaz’s message had reached its intended audience and was being forwarded to nearby phones.

  After that, there was nothing to do but wait for the media to announce the first deaths.

  Seraphim stated she was going to bed. Everyone said goodnight. No one doubted she needed the rest. The guards left for their shift. Richard returned to the house. Tobin, Bo, and Harris retreated to the other side of the gym to talk.

  The remainder of the team didn’t say much. They sipped beverages. Nibbled on the snacks Richard had laid out. Watched the muted television. Nervously anticipated the appearance of a Breaking News banner crawling across the bottom of the screen.

  The first inklings of trouble, however, came through Jaz’s web-to-text message, a reply from a fellow hacker.

  Warehouse rave Phila

  9 down

  near simultaneous

  Suspect OD

  “It’s started,” Jaz announced, her voice low and emotionless. She hadn’t shared her last-ditch efforts with anyone on the team but Rusty. He nodded and sat down next to her to watch her screen.

  Another text from the same hacker arrived.

  23 now down,

  blaming bad x

  big panic

  “This guy in Philly says they figure the fentanyl is in ecstasy tabs.”

  Rusty shook his head. “Party drugs? Not the hardcore stuff like heroin? Strange we didn’t think of that possibility and put more emphasis on it, considering New Year’s Eve is the biggest party of the year.”

  When the “Breaking News” finally hit the television, the time was approaching 2:00 a.m. The anchor, her expression professionally concerned, reported that 911 call centers were experiencing an overwhelming amount of traffic and that overtaxed emergency services were slow to respond. Other accounts trickling into the newsroom stated that paramedics were arriving only to find victims already dead or unresponsive. They also stated that no aid they rendered to the unconscious victims seemed to help them. The death toll, from multiple cities, was estimated at 273.

  While still speaking, the anchor received a sheet of paper. She scanned it quickly, went back to the top, and read aloud, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is an emergency notification to the public at large from the director of the FBI, Dillon Patterson. Again, this is an emergency notification to the public at large from the director of the FBI.”

  Reading from the sheet, she announced, “The cities of Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Atlantic City, Newport News, Baltimore, Charlotte, Atlanta, Tampa, and Miami are reporting unus
ually high numbers of New Year’s Eve fatalities, cause of death unknown at this time. However, accounts of these fatalities began shortly after midnight among New Year’s Eve revelers attending public celebrations and at New Year’s ‘after parties.’

  “Police and paramedics on the scene report that the afflicted partygoers collapsed then died within ten to fifteen minutes, often before medical help arrived. While the specific cause of death cannot be immediately confirmed, first responders suggest tainted recreational drugs may be at the heart of the outbreak.

  “First responders also report that the use of Narcan—known by its generic name naloxone—is initially effective in treating victims on scene. However, the treatment’s effect is temporary and does not halt the deterioration of the patient’s condition for long. Patients who are guardedly stable when transported to the hospital are dying before receiving further medical treatment.

  “The FBI Director has, therefore, issued a strong warning to the public at large, and I quote, ‘Until the source of these deaths can be determined, the FBI urges citizens to trust no food or drink they have not personally prepared and avoid recreational drugs at all costs.’”

  The news anchor looked straight into the camera’s eye to deliver her last lines. “The FBI states that, at last count, the combined death toll across these cities stands at 617. The agency expects that number to increase. We will keep you updated as new information comes in.”

  When someone turned the volume down, the task force members began to throw out comments.

  “No mention of a terrorist connection yet.”

  “Ten cities simultaneously? The feds have to know it’s an attack.”

  “Right. They just haven’t found the nerve to say so publicly yet.”

  “Too soon after 9/11. Think of the panic . . .”

  “It’s gonna get bad.”

  Another hour passed. At 3:15 a.m., the anchor updated the number of deaths to 753.

  Vincent stepped in front of the team. “Uh, guys, I have something to say. See, I did some online research the other day. Afterward, I ran some numbers.”