by Leslie Jones
Callie Wang in China went on the Ratfink list. She’d developed a sophisticated Trojan that encrypted the patient databases of hospitals around the world, demanding a ransom to decrypt the information. She was a criminal, pure and simple. Theft of millions of dollars might seem like an easy target for her. Ditto for IcedRailroadTr4ck, a group of cybercriminals operating mostly in Siberia. They’d stolen half a billion dollars over the course of three years by penetrating scores of banks in a dozen countries.
She didn’t know where to put Asylum 40-bit. No one knew much about them, though they’d taken credit for a number of hacking coups over the past five years. They could be legit white hats, who just enjoyed the intellectual challenge of, and bragging rights for, exploiting functional vulnerabilities. More often than not, these types of hackers, including herself in her youth, informed the company or agency about the security flaws so they could be fixed. On the other hand, the group might have executed malicious hacks they did not make public, including virtual bank heists.
Sighing, she returned to the work at hand.
“You’re glaring at the screen.”
Lark looked up at Jocelyn. “It’s being dumb. Or I am.”
“I doubt that. Lots of speculation on the news about your sister’s wedding being canceled. Either she got left at the altar, or he did. What happened?”
Lark hadn’t even thought about the news crews. Fortunately, extra foundation and concealer hid her bruise. “They were both abducted by aliens and married on Mars.”
The other woman pulled over a chair and sat down. “Fine, don’t tell me. Family secrets, right?”
Lark gave a noncommittal shrug. “How come you’re here on a Sunday?”
“We got tipped off about an active cyberattack . . .” Lark tuned her out as the older woman described the attack, still trying to figure out who might have framed her for the theft. When Jocelyn fell silent, Lark looked up to find her staring.
“You didn’t hear a word I said.”
Lark sighed. “Just have a lot on my mind. Sorry about that.”
Jocelyn linked her hands together and inverted them as she arched her back and stretched her arms toward the ceiling. “Share.”
“I really don’t want to rehash it all right now, okay? Please?”
“Sure. Let’s get some coffee.”
“Let’s go!” Lark retrieved her cell phone from the lockbox as they left and checked her messages. Her heart leaped when she saw a text from Mace.
Last night was amazing.
She couldn’t stop the sappy smile spreading across her face. Jocelyn pounced on it at once.
“Aha! A text from a man. I recognize that look. Spill.”
Lark hugged the phone to her chest, afraid Jocelyn might snatch it out of her hands. “Just someone I met Friday night at a nightclub, if you must know.”
“Oho! And spent the night with. You have no poker face, Lark. None at all.”
She shook her head, not ready to talk about anything that had happened this weekend. Let Jocelyn think the obvious. The truth was stranger by far.
“So who is he? Damn it all, if I’d been there Friday night, I could have met him.”
Lark power-walked to the other end of the building, forcing Jocelyn to stretch her legs to keep up. Her body still hummed from the potency of Mace’s touch. One night with him wasn’t enough. She wanted more of his magic.
Once they reached the break room, poured their coffee, and sat down, the other woman started up again.
“What’s his name? What does he do? Is he cute?”
Lark slanted her an exasperated look. “You’re like a dog with a bone. His name is Thomas. He’s a soldier in the Army. And yes, he’s drop-dead movie star cute.”
Jocelyn’s eyes sparkled. “And you like him.”
“I don’t even know him very well.” But that wasn’t strictly true. They’d shared a connection, one she couldn’t deny even if she wanted to. She thumbed her phone on.
Conceited much?
“Well, your night sounds like much more fun than mine.”
Lark set her phone on the table next to her coffee. “Anyone claim responsibility for the cyberattack?”
Jocelyn slouched back in her chair, one hand idly turning her cup around and around. “Not yet. The attack failed, so maybe no one will. But they got as far as they did because of freaking unpatched servers.”
“We’ll always get to be the heroes because IT departments fail to patch their servers.”
Jocelyn shot her a sly, knowing look. “But we both know you used to be on the other side of the fence, don’t we?”
Lark’s smile faded as she examined Jocelyn’s face. “What would even make you say that?”
“Don’t worry, sunshine. You’re not the only white hat hacker the FBI has snatched up. Hermitage is here, too. And maybe a few others.”
Lark tapped her nails against the table, uneasy with the conversation. “Who else? You?”
Jocelyn rose, graceful as ever. “Maybe.”
Lark drained her coffee cup. “I don’t have time for games, Joss. I have some stuff I need to take care of. I have to find someone. I need to try, anyway.”
The other woman examined Lark with shrewd eyes. “A blast from your past?”
Lark shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “An old friend. Gotta go.”
Sometimes Jocelyn’s questions made her uncomfortable. The older woman always seemed to know more about Lark than she should.
Admit it. You want to see me again.
Maybe. If I have time.
He sent her back a frowny face. She laughed out loud. Flirting with Mace was fun.
She made it back to her cubicle without seeing anyone else. Logging into her account, she brought up a terminal window and started typing. Within moments, she had special software running that allowed her into a dark network. She ran her authorization credentials, tapping her fingernails against the dove gray surface until a cursor appeared.
During her month-long incarceration after the jockey riding incident, her only contact with the outside world had been her computer. Restless and bored, she lurked in chatrooms, eventually finding a discussion board about hacking. Her interest piqued, she followed a trail of forums deeper and deeper into the dark web, learning as she went. Turned out she was a natural at it. She visualized programming languages like they were pictures. Finding a community where she fit in lit a fire inside her. She threw herself into learning everything she could about computer hardware, software, and exploitations of systems, loving the exhilaration of code exploitation. Eventually, she discovered a mentor in ChaosCowboy.
Following one of her established circuits, she activated a rendezvous point and typed in an encrypted message to ChaosCowboy. She did the same in several other places. Anxiety roiled inside her. She didn’t even know if he still lived in that world, or still connected to this dark network. She also didn’t know how, or even if, he could help her. But he’d been there in her time of need as a child, guiding her and teaching her the skills the FBI now wanted, and she itched for his advice. There was little else she could do, though.
He would either contact her, or he wouldn’t.
Chapter 24
Sunday, February 19. 12:00 p.m.
Otis Fitch’s Property. Ducard, Massachusetts.
“We’re meeting Fitch at noon,” Fyodor said. “Could you stop primping so we can go?”
Fatianova set down her finishing brush, checking her reflection carefully. “I need to look my best for this meeting. I have a bad feeling about this place.”
Fyodor laughed. “You’re just a snob.”
They’d driven out together to the Berkshires, following increasingly smaller roads until they reached Otis Fitch’s farm, turning in past a guard shack sporting a sign declaring the property to be the home of Citizens for a Free America. White folks only.
Snow blanketed the trees and buildings, which focused the property in a better light, she thought, covering the corrugated meta
l roof and aging wooden siding of the first building they passed, the function of which she couldn’t even guess. Other structures seemed to be homes, but it all seemed haphazard to her. They drove past two flagpoles, one flying the American flag, the other hoisting a Confederate flag.
A very pregnant woman greeted them as they pulled up to the only proper-looking house on the lot. Instead of entering it, though, they’d crunched across hard-packed snow to a wooden-slatted structure nearby, with a garage door on one end and stacks and stacks of firewood tucked under an overhang. The interior smelled musty and consisted of shabby living room furniture and a tiny room with a bed and dresser. A naked bulb was the only source of lighting.
She rose from the vanity, smoothing her blouse into her flared trousers and slipping on her fur coat. “Let’s go.”
“You look very nice.” Fyodor slipped an arm around her waist and moved in to kiss her. At the last moment, she tilted her head so his wet lips landed on her cheek instead. He didn’t seem to notice. He stroked her cheek with one cold finger and winked. “After we close this deal, we can celebrate.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
The path to the main house had been cleared, so she didn’t slip in her stylish suede boots. Fyodor knocked on the door. The same pregnant woman opened it and ushered them inside, pointing toward the office and vanishing without a word.
Fatianova stepped into the room and almost gasped aloud.
Otis Fitch sat behind a desk that looked like it belonged in a kitchen decorated with chickens, dressed in plain denim shirt and pants. He held himself ramrod-straight. His sharp face and narrow eyes sat below buzz-cut hair; a stubbly mustache and beard didn’t hide his thin lips. Add sloping shoulders and a crooked nose, and he appeared rough and uncouth to her. She could tell he was not a tall man, but imagined his whipcord physique made up for his lack of height.
All of that paled in comparison to the tattoos.
Two SS bolts directly under his chin ran from the top of his neck to his collarbone. A hand grenade on one side and a skull wearing a red, white, and blue bandana surrounded the Nazi symbols. She could see some sort of spider web crawling up just above the opening of his shirt. A small 88 had been inked in at the outer corner of his left eye.
He was a horror.
She swallowed and approached the desk. He eyed her coolly, but didn’t rise.
“Good evening, Mr. Fitch,” she said, removing her coat and sitting uninvited in one of the folding metal chairs in front of the desk. Fyodor took the other. “I’m Fatianova Uvarov, and this is my colleague, Fyodor Petrov. I will be translating for him.”
A sneer curled one corner of his nose. “So you made it here.”
He hadn’t even looked at her body. She frowned, confused. “You have a . . . lovely farmstead here. Very private.”
His direct stare was unnerving. “It’s been in my family for five generations.”
“What’s he saying?” Fyodor snapped.
She switched to Russian. “We’re just making small talk.”
“Well, get on with it. He brought our package into the States. He has it here. Tell him we want it.”
She kept her expression neutral. Fyodor had the finesse of a wild Ukrainian pig. On the other hand, if something went wrong with these people, he made a good patsy. “Fyodor says it’s nice to finally meet you in person, and expresses his thanks for transporting our medical equipment from the Yukon.”
Otis Fitch scratched the stubble on his cheek. “Yeah, no problem. I sent my best men.”
“Are you sure you can trust them?”
He laughed, a harsh, unamused sound. “Lady, if I don’t trust ’em, they sure as hell ain’t part of my crew.”
“I apologize. I meant no disrespect, Mr. Fitch.”
“Chrissakes, lady, call me Otis. Ain’t no Mr. Fitch here.”
Fyodor tapped her arm to get her attention. “What’s he saying? What’s going on?”
This conversation would go much more quickly without the constant interruptions, but Fatianova reminded herself that she needed her colleague, however temporarily. “The bomb is here.”
“Maybe he’s dumb enough to give it to us without getting his final payment.”
“I seriously doubt that. Anyway, I’m not going to risk it.” She switched back to English. “Fyodor says we’re ready to give you your final payment of eighteen thousand dollars, as agreed.”
Otis gave another humorless laugh. “Tell Foo-dor that won’t even cover gas. We’ll be renegotiating my fee.”
The blood drained from her face. “Excuse me?”
“You hired me to bring some experimental science thing in from Canada. Stolen, obviously. Tell me what it really is.”
“What . . . what makes you think it’s anything but what Fyodor said?”
“Tell me anyway.”
She’d been afraid of this. Clearly the man wasn’t as stupid as he looked. She glanced across at Fyodor and switched to Russian.
“He thinks we stole an experimental scientific device from the Canadians. What should I tell him?”
He tapped his fingertips against his leg. To Fatianova, his anxiety felt palpable. Surely the separatist could see it, as well. “Tell him he’s right. Tell him it has to be installed in a controlled lab in order to work. That way, he won’t be tempted to open it.”
Well, that was a surprise. He’d actually come up with a good answer. She tried to remember a recent scientific breakthrough that could help her now. Certainly this man would not have read current scientific journals.
“Fyodor says there’s an international research facility in Whitehorse, Canada,” she said to Otis. “Very hush-hush. Fyodor worked in a lab there for the past three years. His team is experimenting with—”
She stopped, unable to find the right words in English to explain nanoelectric scaffolds. Raising both hands in the international sign for “I don’t know,” she thought about how to explain it so it sounded exotic and mysterious. It didn’t even matter if she got the details wrong.
“Erm, the scientists there developed a very advanced device that can be injected directly into the brain with a special needle. Fyodor says the new device will revolutionize the way scientists study the brain. He says it can be used to treat heart conditions and even possibly brain disorders.”
When she finished her fabrication, Otis’s eyes had glazed over.
“So what? You had my men go fetch a needle?”
This man had no interest in science. He epitomized the naïvely arrogant American assumption that the world revolved around them and their needs. Keeping a tight grip on her patience, she took a breath and kept lying.
“Not just the needle. The entire device, and all the research associated with it. Fyodor says American companies will be falling over themselves to buy it.”
Interest finally sparked in those wily eyes. “So Foo-dor stole it right out from under their noses, huh? Clever bastard.”
Fyodor rapped on her arm. “What’s going on? You’re here to translate. So translate.”
She patted his hand. The constant switching of languages started an ache in her head. “I’m just telling him what you told me to say. English takes twice as many words to convey a simple idea.”
Otis scratched his nose. “So how much is this thing worth? I’m guessing ten times what you agreed to pay me.”
Much more than that, but she would keep that information to herself. He was fishing around to see how valuable the device was, guessing at what she could get for it on the black market.
“Perhaps that much, but I doubt it. I don’t really know yet. But you must understand that this equipment is very delicate. It can only operate in a special laboratory called a clean room. No dust, no dirt. Do you understand? It can’t be opened out here. Everything would be ruined.”
“Yeah, I get it. So it stays in its crate. And I get an additional thirty thou, or you don’t ever see it.”
She felt her eyes harden. “Fyodor doesn’t
have that much. You agreed to thirty-five thousand total, half up front. He paid you that. We kept our end of the bargain. I’d strongly suggest you do the same.”
He glanced at Fyodor and back at her, eyes amused. “Or what? You don’t get your shit until I get my dough.”
“Very well, then. After he sells it—”
“Nuh-uh. Cash on the barrelhead, or it don’t happen. What, you think I’m some dumb redneck dope you can clown?”
Fatianova’s brows wrinkled as she tried and failed to follow his colloquialisms. “I’m sorry. What does this mean? Dope . . . a clown? I assure you, we’re not transporting illegal drugs.”
“No, I . . .” Otis finally smiled, baring yellow-stained teeth. “I mean your science machine is worth a hell of a lot more than you’re saying. So my price just went up to thirty thou.”
She thought it over. How greedy would the man be? Fatianova couldn’t blame him for wanting cash up front. He had no idea how rich her device would make her. She could afford a measly few million rubles. The entry fees alone would cover his payment and more. “Twenty-five. Otherwise, there’s no profit in it for me. Erm, Fyodor.”
“Sure, all right. I’ll settle for twenty-five.” Otis smiled, the smug, self-satisfied look of a man who thought he’d bested her. She hated that expression. It made her want to carve him into small pieces. “When do I get my money?”
“I’ll arrange it tomorrow. Then your men will help us load it onto our truck, and we’ll part ways. Agreed?”
“Sure thing. Nice doing business with . . . Foo-dor.”
As they left the house to return to their hovel, she exhaled in relief. This would all work out. Her auction would still go forward.
“Did you see those tattoos?”
How could anyone miss them? “He’s a dangerous man.”
“I agree.” Fyodor fidgeted. “Can we trust him?”