Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome

by Russell Blake

  “Take care of yourself,” she said.

  And then she was gone.

  * * * *

  Chapter 14

  Steven felt disoriented. The day’s events had already overloaded his system, and it was only mid-afternoon. He had to take some time and calm down, to think. Everything seemed like it was coming apart at once, and it took every ounce of control he had to keep from panicking. He went into the kitchen and picked up the Homeland Security card, looked at it, put it into his pocket. He absently stared at the stain on the carpeting – the lingering evidence of the reality of Avalon’s death, and realized he was spacing out. Snap out of it and think, a voice in his head commanded. Focus. He couldn’t help himself if he zoned out. He needed a plan of action.

  He sat down at the computer that had gotten him into all the current trouble and logged into his Group. Described the morning’s events.

  A few minutes later a post popped up from one of the gang:

  [Consider your physical location and your lodging compromised. Stow all your CCs, don’t use them. Use only cash. Leave now with any high value items that can be converted into $. Pull your hard drive, take the CPU and discard elsewhere, take laptop and any CDs. Create a new Hotmail account from a remote location, use alias for info, log on here and give us the address. I’ll set up a new private chat room. Leave soonest, time probably critical. G-luck. Spyder]

  Wow. The lads were taking this seriously. Then another post came up:

  [Do it. Now. Gordo]

  He’d been involved with them long enough to recognize when they were right. He also realized he hadn’t been thinking clearly, had already spent too much time as a sitting duck. He powered down, disconnected the computer and took it out to the car. Back inside, he grabbed the laptop and his CD-ROMs, then went upstairs and packed a small duffel with a few days’ clothes, the seven grand in hundred dollar bills from Vegas, and his three most valuable watches; a yellow gold Patek Philippe 3970, a platinum Patek 3940, and a platinum men’s Rolex President. Everything fit in the bag, along with some socks and underwear, and a rudimentary shaving kit. He looked at his watch. Seven minutes since he’d disconnected.

  He stuffed his gear into the front seat of the car, started the engine and raised the garage door. No black helicopters circling. He backed out, again nearly taking out the same skateboarder who offered the same watch what you’re doing, asshole look, then pulled down the street.

  So far, nothing suspicious.

  No sedans with men on headsets, no sirens, no SWAT truck.

  He realized he had no idea where he was going or what he should really do next. He called Stan, but got his voice-mail.

  “Stan, it’s Steven, there’s been a situation at the house. Some gentlemen had been by looking for me, gentlemen I think you’d be better at talking to. I’m on my cell. Please call as soon as you get this.” That started the ball rolling on the lawyer front. There was little Stan couldn’t deal with. Short of being caught with a body in the trunk, Stan would know how to respond.

  He drove around for a while, paying special attention to ensure he wasn’t being followed. As far as he could tell, he had no tail. He ran a couple of yellow lights at the last possible second, confirmed no one made it through after him, and then gunned it around a series of corners into the back bay side streets. From there he made his way to a frontage road, and then onto the freeway and out to Irvine.

  He didn’t want to be anywhere near Newport Beach until he knew what the hell was going on. Irvine was big enough so he’d be invisible for the time being. He felt a little sheepish, wondering if he was over-reacting, but then considered the Group’s response. They weren’t hotheads or alarmists yet they seemed pretty agitated by the day’s events. Best to trust that collective judgment, especially when he was in uncharted territory.

  Once he’d gotten into the heart of the town he pulled off the freeway and spotted an office supply superstore that featured web access. He parked in the back and threw his computer into a dumpster. In the superstore he rented twenty dollars of computer time from a spike-haired kid with an attitude and halitosis. Steven was the only one in the computer section.

  He logged on. Went to Hotmail, created a new ID, confirmed it was set up, then logged onto the Group site and posted his new e-mail: [ArcherX@Hotmail.com]. Logged out, went back to Hotmail and saw a message had arrived. It contained a chat-room address he committed to memory before deleting the message and signing out. He logged into the new chat-room address and found yet another chat-room address with the instruction to go to the new one.

  The Group loved their cloak-and-dagger stuff.

  He did as advised, and logged into that final address. Posted a message:

  [It’s Bowman. I’m on]

  Instantly a message responded:

  [Give me a second, I’m destroying the other chat room - Spyder]

  Thirty seconds went by, and then,

  [Are you clean?]

  Steven advised them he was in a public computer area and hadn’t been followed.

  A different poster, Pogo, popped in:

  [Lose your cell phone – they can trace them – do it now and come back in a few minutes. Destroy the phone. Pogo]

  What? How was he supposed to communicate? Shit. What about his address book?

  [Is that really necessary?]

  Immediate feedback:

  [Do it]

  What a pain in the ass. He logged off, went out to the car, and drove a block away to another parking lot. Wrote down the ten or so numbers he didn’t know by heart. He got out, put the phone under his back tire, and reversed over it, and then pulled forward again for good measure. He looked at the flattened lump of plastic and metal and wondered whether he’d finally lost his mind.

  Avalon’s dead, you’ve got no access to your cash, and Homeland wants to chat.

  Maybe these precautions were prudent. He did the same thing with the hard drive he'd removed before tossing his desktop system to eliminate any chance of data ever being recovered. Mission accomplished. He drove back to the store and logged on.

  [It’s done, crushed it, now what?]

  Spyder responded:

  [You didn’t really think we were serious…did you?]

  Steven fired back,

  [Ratfuck]

  To which Spyder replied:

  [Just kidding. You need to be ultra careful. Cells can be tracked. When you’re done here, get a calling card with 2000 minutes, pay cash. Use that for all calls. Go buy a disposable cell phone with a time card in it, and use that to call the 800 number on the calling card. Never use the ArcherX account again. That was a one-time deal. Spyder]

  Steven appreciated the instant access to such unusual expertise, and took it seriously. Phone card, disposable cell, got it.

  Another post popped up:

  [It’s Gordo. Did some checking, and Griffen’s Barbados fund is only a PO box. It’s actually registered and domiciled in Anguilla. Unusual.]

  He wasn’t sure what to make of that. These guys had amazing access, though. He remembered his friend had told him there were some ‘ex-spooks’ in the Group. Gordo looked good for one of them. Spyder too.

  Another post:

  [My buddy on the trading desk at one of the big brokers says a lot of the trades that came in over the last few attacks were done via Canadian brokers and haven’t cleared yet. Stinks. Pogo]

  This went on for half an hour or so.

  Spyder introduced the topic of IP addresses:

  [Every time you post on Yahoo or anywhere else they tag your IP. That may be how they tracked you. Use an IP mask when accessing e-mail or posting or uploading to the Web. Here’s the best site – www.Be-invisible.com – use it from now on]

  Seemed like a prudent plan. God he’d been sloppy; of course, an IP mask was ideal, he should have been using one all the time. Dumb. Wouldn’t happen again.

  He smiled at the irony that a cyber-contact thousands of miles away could help him remain anonymous five m
iles from home. No wonder governments hated the web.

  When he advised them he was signing off, Pogo popped in and recommended he use the WiFi areas in Starbucks whenever possible; it was convenient and anonymous. And Pogo owned Starbucks stock. Ha-ha.

  Steven purchased a calling card, then went over to the mall cell phone store and bought a prepaid cell phone with 250 minutes of time; forty bucks for the phone, and twenty cents a minute for the airtime card. The kid behind the counter activated the phone in the name of John Smith. No one seemed at all interested in having him sign anything.

  He went outside and called Stan, who answered on the first ring.

  “Steven. I tried calling earlier and your number just rings. What’s the problem?”

  “Cell phone’s on the blink. Just bought a temporary one. Convenient… Stan, we need to talk.” That was the understatement of the year.

  “I see. Yes, they are convenient, aren’t they...?” Stan answered cautiously

  “I had some folks stop in from Homeland Security while we were meeting this morning. They left a card. Wanted to talk to me in the worst way. I haven’t called yet. Been occupied,” Steven explained.

  “In light of this morning’s problem with your bank, I think perhaps I should field that call for you, or rather an associate of mine who’s also an attorney specializing in criminal matters should field it.” Stan was quick on his feet. Attorney client privilege twice removed, creating an honest ability for the attorney in question to say he had no idea where Steven was, or even what he looked like. “I’ll sign a retainer agreement with him on your behalf. I still have one of your powers of attorney around here somewhere.”

  “Any movement on the bank issue?” Steven asked.

  “The Justice department froze it, most likely at the request of Homeland Security. It can be unfrozen in time, I’m sure, given you aren’t guilty of anything and aren’t involved with anything Homeland Security has purview over. But for now we have a problem with that.”

  “I’ll touch base with you tomorrow with the Homeland Security phone number. I want to take care of a few things today.”

  “It’s your call, Steven. The sooner the better, in my opinion. We need to get this cleared up.”

  His next call was to Peter Valentine.

  “Peter, it’s Steven. What’s the word?”

  “Some funky stuff down in the islands. Did you know Griffen’s partner died in the Caribbean?”

  “Let me guess. Anguilla?” Steven asked.

  “What, are you psychic? Do you already know all this?”

  “No.” Steven went on to explain about the Barbados fund actually originating in Anguilla. “It was an educated guess, is all.”

  “Well, it’s pretty weird. I can’t get much out of the locals. It was billed as an accident. I called down there and talked to the folks running the paper, and they vaguely remembered some kind of boating thing, but couldn’t do much for me. There’s no microfiche, and the file has been misplaced, so nothing to reference.” Peter sounded annoyed at the Island inefficiency. “And when I called the police there to ask about it, no one had anything to say; it felt like I was getting stonewalled. I’ll keep digging, though. Something’s definitely up.”

  “I gotta say this, even though you already know it. Be careful,” Steven warned.

  “I’m not completely defenseless, Steven. Appreciate the concern, but you’d do well to follow your own advice. I’m not the one giving them the middle finger with a Fuck Allied website. And I do have experience with bad guys...”

  “Sorry, Dad. Hey, I have to run, but I’ll call in a day or two. E-mail if anything comes up. My cell’s broken.”

  “Sure. I’ll do that. You be careful too. I mean it,” Peter said.

  Steven went to the nearest Starbucks to give the wireless network a try. He’s never used it, as he typically did all his online work from home.

  He sat in a corner in a surprisingly comfortable overstuffed chair and updated his website real-time, creating a page devoted to the information he’d uncovered. He started with the fact that the Barbados fund was Barbados in PO box form only, with the trading likely going through Canada in order to circumvent U.S. rules. He closed the page with the tidbit that Griffen’s ex-partner had died in Anguilla several years earlier under a shroud of mystery, which was also the true home of the fund. He saved the page and uploaded it, even as his mind returned to his present, real-world problems.

  It had been a long day. Now he needed to contend with the open question of where it was safe to stay while he waited for Stan to deal with the Government wonks. The boat made the most sense. It was in a gated, locked marina, and he could move it at will. There was a lot to be said for a home that could be in international waters in a few hours’ time.

  He ate in Mission Viejo, and considered his situation. He’d been relieved of most of his worldly attachments in little more than thirty-six hours. Avalon, gone. Jennifer also gone, barring a miracle.

  That got him thinking.

  Did he really dislike the idea of them parting ways that much? It wasn’t as though he’d clung to her, begging her not to go, swearing it was all going to be different. In fact, he was strangely ambivalent about the end of the almost-two-year relationship.

  Perhaps it had been more convenient than impassioned lately. She’d seemed almost too ready to call things quits, as if it had been on her mind for a while. He couldn’t say he blamed her. He was a lousy pick for a nesting partner at present, and circumstances hadn’t improved his odds for papa of the year.

  In the end, whatever was meant to be would be. That had been his philosophy for years, strengthened by his meditation and his martial arts involvement. There was a definite pattern to the way energy flowed, and events were simply singularities of energy; snapshots, if you will, of a greater energy.

  The same awareness that enabled him to catch a rod thrown his way while blindfolded or block an unseen but intuited strike from behind was nothing more than a harnessing of that same energy. The Chinese called it Chi, and other philosophies called it many other names: Holy Spirit, cosmic consciousness, super string theory; all explanations for the same inter-connected fabric of underlying energy.

  Still, it helped if you were not just aware but also proactive, so Steven solidified tomorrow’s plan of action in his mind, paid the bill, and drove down to Dana Point Marina, where ‘Serendipity’ floated in peaceful solitude.

  * * * *

  Chapter 15

  The next morning Steven awoke to the gentle rocking of the incoming tide. He slipped his running gear on and went above-board to survey the marina, which was silent except for the faint creaking of dock lines and the low drone of a small dinghy approaching the bait dock at the mouth of the harbor. After carefully closing the main hatch, he hopped onto the dock and made his way up to terra firma to begin his daily run.

  Dana Point Marina was surrounded by a verdant, park-like setting, deserted in the early morning except for the odd gull nosing around for scraps of edible litter and the ubiquitous, strutting pigeons congregating for their daily social. Steven’s footfalls marked time and distance through the park and up the hill to the main drag, where he noted the French bakery was open for business, as usual.

  For fifteen minutes, his run took him south along the streets paralleling Pacific Coast Highway, then he circled back around to finish the route with a morning cup of coffee. He realized this was the first weekday morning in months he hadn’t been watching the market open, and that realization produced both a sense of anxiety at having missed the open, tempered by a feeling of calm acceptance at not being agitated with concern over the daily price movements. Conflicting forces at work.

  He returned to the dock area and climbed back onto the boat. The decks were slick with beady condensation so he had to be cautious as he balanced on the sideboard, admiring the other vessels bobbing in the water. Some of the larger boats sold for over three million bucks and cost fifteen percent of their purchase price
to maintain and operate every year. The boating thing wasn’t a poor man’s game, that was for sure, and other than a heroin habit or a jet, or both, he couldn’t think of a more impractical way to burn money. Still, mornings like this on the water made it almost worth it.

  Steven went below and rinsed off in the onboard shower, which was an intimate-sized affair, to put it charitably. Finished, he called Stan, who was also an early riser.

  “Stan. How’s it going? You up for breakfast?” Steven inquired.

  “Have you ever known an attorney to turn down a free meal?” Stan joked.

  “I figured I knew how to get your attention. Let’s hook up in your neck of the woods, maybe Carlsbad – someplace by the water. How about that place we met last year?” Steven asked.

  “Perfect. Give me an hour.”

  It was a date.

  He tidied up the interior of the boat and packed his duffel. After making the bed, he began packing his laptop, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the dock – and approaching the boat. He froze at the unmistakable sounds of someone climbing aboard and moving about on deck. Steven scanned the cabin for anything he could use as a weapon. There was nothing obvious.

  Shit.

  Although he was adept at close quarter combat, if the intruder carried a gun the odds of his walking away from this diminished if absent a weapon.

  Footsteps creaked overhead. He slowed his breathing, reduced his heart rate, and felt his focus narrow to just the immediate area around him, time slowing as he prepared to engage. Strange, he didn’t sense danger or any kind of tension, which he always had when he’d been in combat, and in competitive fighting. Still, the adrenaline heightened his awareness and he moved soundlessly to the rear side of the small companionway immediately aft of the entryway stairs.

  Someone fumbled with the latch. He readied himself to deliver a rapid series of brutal strikes.

  The hatch opened. Light flooded in.

  “Mr. Archer? You onboard? Anyone here?” It was Todd, his boat washer.