Never Forget

by Richard Davis

  He knew that the road ahead which curved sharply to the right, went over Beaverton Creek, then hit a T-junction in 500 yards. If he could get that far, he could then turn right and enter Beaverton Park, where there were no street lamps. Then he could switch off his lights and disappear…

  At the back of his brain he registered that fleeing was wildly irrational, would only make his situation worse; but the rest of his brain – the part currently in charge – wasn’t feeling very goddamn rational.

  The Crown Vic flashed a third time. Devin again glanced in the mirror, saw the frustration on the woman’s face, then with a sharp intake of breath, smashed the gas.

  His car surged forward, curving with the road. He knew the bridge was about to appear any moment. He glanced again in the mirror. He’d already put distance between them. Then he glanced at the speedo. Forty-four mph.

  His eyes flicked back to the road.The bridge materialized, and he passed onto it, continuing to curve with the road. But then, unexpectedly, something appeared directly before him – a white van, parked side-on, blocking the exit of the bridge.

  With a jolt of panic,Devin pounded the brakes. The tires screeched. The van loomed large in the windscreen. Then five yards from the van, Devin jolted to a whiplash halt, flecks of his sweat spattering his steering-wheel.

  Devin bowed his head, and drank deep breaths. When he looked up again, a man – surely the guy who’d been in the back of the Crown Vic first time round – was walking calmly towards him from the direction of the van, and the Crown Vic had come to a halt behind.

  Devin glanced left and right. Beyond the bridge just icy water.

  The guy tapped a knuckle against Devin’s windscreen; then he drew a gun – not a standard issue FBI Glock, but a menacing pistol Devin didn’t recognize – and motioned for Devin to get out of the car.

  Devin carefully opened the door; then with his arms raised in surrender, he got out.

  ‘Face your car,’ the guy said. ‘Hands against the door frame, legs spread.’

  Devin complied. And as the guy frisked him, he wished to hell he’d been a Special Service field agent as opposed to just a techie – wished he had the skills to fight back. But as it was, he was at their mercy.

  The guy finished frisking. He pulled Devin’s hands behind his back, and cuffed them.

  ‘Is he clear?’ came a female voice, now very close. It was intense, hard, serious – and made Devin’s throat close up tight.

  ‘He’s clear.’

  ‘March to the van, Mannford,’ said the woman. ‘Get in the back. Any trouble, and we’ll put a bullet in you. Understood?’

  Devin chanced a look at her. She was also holding a pistol, and looked all the more terrifying up close: ghostly and severe. The guy who’d been in the Crown Vic’s passenger seat was now behind its wheel.

  ‘Understood.’

  The guy behind him gave him a shove, and Devin led the three of them towards the van. Again, as he did so, the mad thought of making a break for it went through his head, but he quashed it – it’d be suicide. Seven seconds later, they reached the van. The guy opened the door, and Devin climbed in, and sat down.

  The door closed behind him. After a few moments, the engine started, and the driver started maneuvering the vehicle. Devin imagined one of them was driving the van, while the other had gotten his car, so as to remove all the vehicles from the bridge. But what he wanted to know was, where the hell were they taking him?

  But he didn’t have to wait long to find out. Because, after the van moved forward for all of fifteen seconds, it pulled over, and the engine disengaged. Whatever was gonna happen next was gonna happen right here – on this deserted, scantily lit stretch of country road.

  Devin sat in tense silence, ears pounding, head swimming. Survival was his priority.

  Scarcely had he thought this when the door opened again, and his three captors entered. They crouched opposite him: the woman in the middle, the two men either side. The man from the Crown Vic was holding a metal flight case as well as a pistol.

  Devin noticed that all three were of East-Asian descent, and wondered if that was a coincidence. Their voices sounded neutral, American.

  ‘So we’re not bothering with Mirandas?’ Devin said, as calmly as he could. ‘Can I at least see your IDs?’

  The woman said nothing – just regarded him with her menacing black eyes. Then she gestured to the guy with the flight case, who handed it over. She opened it. Then she removed a small black box, which she also opened to reveal a compartment containing black, inky powder next to a smooth, white plastic surface.

  Without prompting, the man who’d cuffed him went over and undid them. The woman said:

  ‘Place your index finger in the powder, then press it against the white surface.’

  Devin hesitated a moment: he knew his rights, and this wasn’t being done by the book. But at the same time, he knew this was an unconventional team, with no intention of operating by the book – so he was better off playing ball.

  Besides, the government had his fingerprints already, so there was little harm.

  He followed the woman’s instructions. The woman returned the box to the flight case, and went back to looking at him. At last she said:

  ‘That was a reckless move. Could’ve got yourself killed.’

  The tone was unsympathetic, matter-of-fact.

  Devin said nothing.

  ‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ she went on. ‘I’m not here to interrogate you. I’m here to inform you of some cold, hard facts.’

  Devin broke in. ‘The only fact I care about is that it’s not illegal to offer any American legal representation.’

  The woman raised a silencing hand. ‘This has nothing to do with that. Listen very carefully. In June of this year, we know that you made contact with an individual in Syria affiliated with Islamic State over the internet, and sent him funds.’

  Devin’s eyes rounded and his mouth went lax. He was beyond incredulous. It was simply impossible anyone could know that information. He’d used the most sophisticated software possible to cover his tracks. Not even the contact himself had known who he was.

  But then, after a few long seconds, Devin took himself in hand:

  ‘Look, you might not’ve given me Mirandas, but I know my rights,’ he spat. ‘I’m not saying a damn thing without a lawyer.’

  The woman nodded; then she said simply:

  ‘We haven’t given you Mirandas because we’re not with law enforcement.’

  Devin’s mind continued to boggle. ‘So, who are you? NSA? CIA?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘We’re not affiliated with the American government.’

  Devin absorbed this slowly. But once it sunk in, the panic exploded afresh. This was a rogue team, a completely unknown quantity. And before he registered what he was doing, he was rising to his feet, and shouting: ‘Who the hell are you people?’

  Both the men cocked their guns.

  The woman said: ‘I’d suggest you calm down, Mannford.’

  Devin held her gaze a moment, then sat slowly. His mouth was cotton-dry with fear.

  The woman waited a long moment. Then:

  ‘The less you know about us, the safer you’ll be. But here’s what you do need to know. We’re a ruthless team, and we’ll do whatever it takes – and I mean whatever it takes – to see our project through. However, we’re also reasonable people.’ She paused. ‘There’s a task we need you to do. If you complete it, all evidence we have against you will be destroyed. But if you fail, we’ll not only leak the information – which should earn you at least twenty-five years in the big-house – but we’ll also kill your wife and son: we’ve been watching their every move for a while now.’

  A burst of anger shot through Devin – but it quickly gave way to an intense, fatalistic sadness. His actions had put the people he loved most in the firing line.

  ‘It was a terrible mistake,’ he said softly, the tears now streaming down his cheeks. ‘I was
mixing with the wrong people. It’s not what I believe in.’

  A heavy pause. The woman watched him indifferently.

  Devin let go a big sigh. Sure, he could make promises then attempt to go into hiding with his family. But given their awful threats, it was lunacy not to cooperate.

  He gave a slow nod. ‘I’ll play ball.’

  For the first time, the woman gave a proper, full-faced smile. But the next instant, it was gone, and she was back to business. She reopened the flight case, extracted a military-grade short-wave walkie-talkie, and handed it to Devin.

  ‘The task in question needs to be carried out in just two days’ time – so I need you to listen very carefully…’

  Chapter 4

  Friday, December 11, 8:44 p.m. – I-5, California.

  ‘So I take it this isn’t how you usually spend your Fridays?’

  We’d been on the Interstate nearly half an hour, and though Ellen had, at the start of the journey, helped me figure out a route – Springville was a 175 mile slog up the I-5 – she’d been silently brooding ever since. So, since I had to get her talking sooner or later, I’d decided to bite the bullet.

  She glared at me.

  ‘No, usually I just have to roofie myself,’ she replied sardonically. ‘Is eighty miles per hour the fastest you can go?’

  I stared out the windscreen. Clearly the chummy approach wasn’t gonna fly. But I had to persist. And if she was going to dodge questions about herself, I reckoned starting with her brother could be the way to go.

  ‘As I told you, my license isn’t entirely on the up-and-up. So, if we get pulled over, there’s a real chance I land myself in a cell, and you land yourself with a long walk.’ I looked at her seriously. ‘Right, this brother of yours. Who the hell is he? And how the hell’s he gotten his hands on a hit-list?’

  ‘I already told you what his text said – do you think he’s telepathically told me more?’

  I shot her a look that said I wasn’t in the mood.

  She shook her head despairingly. She was about to spill, but wanted me to know she wasn’t happy about it.

  ‘His name’s Lawrence Kelden, he’s an ex-NSA man,’ she said resignedly. ‘I really don’t know much about what he’s been doing this past year or so. All I know is that he’s been living in San Francisco – though I don’t know where – and working on some secretive project with a bunch of cypherpunks.’ She paused. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’

  She’d started at the end, and that was natural enough: what her brother had been doing the last twelve months was almost certainly crucial. But I wanted the full picture – enough context, for example, to know what a cypherpunk was.

  What’s more, I only wanted her discussing the past year once she’d warmed up.

  ‘Start at the beginning. How old is he? Where’d he go to university?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s thirty-five. Studied Computer Science at Carnegie Mellon. Graduated in 2001.’ Ellen stretched her neck side to side. She’d accepted she was going to talk, and was settling in. ‘Ever heard of Dennis Baum?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Basically, he was one of the original cypherpunks—’

  Another head shake. ‘I’ve heard of cyberpunk – it’s a genre of futuristic fiction – but never of cypherpunks.’

  She knitted her brow. Then, with a newfound patience:

  ‘In the early 1990s, a group of radical libertarian computer whizzes in California started working on projects that used ciphers – that is, codes, encryption – to limit the powers of government surveillance on the internet. Hence, cypherpunks: a reference not only to the cyberpunk fiction that inspired these guys, but also their penchant for ciphers.

  ‘Anyway, Dennis Baum, perhaps their most influential member, also happened to be a professor at Carnegie, and took my brother under his wing. And while I’ve no doubt my brother’s abilities caught Baum’s eye, I’m certain Lawrence also sought him out: he’d internalized our father’s libertarianism, and was looking for a mentor.’

  She paused, then: ‘Baum came up with the concept of internet-based currency.’

  I nodded. I’d never heard the term cypherpunk before, but I knew the sort.

  ‘So descendants of the cypherpunk movement include the likes of Edward Snowden? Folk using technology to kick government in the balls?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And let me guess: despite his rabid libertarianism, Lawrence joined the NSA after graduating without batting an eyelid?’

  She shot me a knowing look. ‘Right again.’

  With that exchange, we both revealed we knew something of the NSA’s unique culture. The NSA – far more than the CIA or FBI – needs computer experts. However, many have anti-government leanings, and the result is an uneasy coexistence between the old guard who run the show and their techie underlings who disdain their superiors’ lack of knowledge and, in some cases, even the NSA itself.

  Yet, despite this culture clash, the techies keep signing up; because the NSA is one of the few places that’ll pay them a healthy salary while they cut their teeth.

  Snowden was precisely one of these creatures. But whereas the other NSA guys with similar views found it relatively easy to ignore the increasing surveillance post-9/11, Snowden struggled. And eventually, in 2013, he cracked, and leaked a million classified documents, thereby revealing more US secrets than anyone in history.

  ‘So Lawrence joined the NSA – then what?’

  ‘Then, for many years, he was happy. He didn’t really let his libertarian ideals bother him – he seemed to suppress them – and as a result, he excelled. By 2007, he’d been promoted twice.’

  Ellen eyed me interrogatively. ‘Then, shortly after, he won widespread acclaim – with the Buckshot Yankee incident.’

  Ellen paused deliberately, and continued her interrogative stare. I understood the look. Although I’d said nothing top-secret, I’d demonstrated more knowledge than the layman – and she was curious as to the extent of it. By bringing up Buckshot Yankee – an event not publicly known – she was sounding me out.

  But since she was opening up, I figured it was only fair I did, too.

  ‘I know a little about Buckshot Yankee. In 2008, the NSA found a virus on its computers. That was a big deal, because their computers weren’t connected to the internet – in technical terms, they were air-gapped – meaning a foreign spy agency managed to trick or coerce someone into plugging an infected USB stick into one of their computers. The consensus was, Russia was behind it. The attack was known officially as Buckshot Yankee.’

  Her face softened considerably. Clearly, she was most concerned about whether I was being upfront.

  ‘That tallies with what Lawrence told me. He was the one who spotted the virus – though by the time he did, it’d already spread like wildfire to every US institution using air-gapped computers: the military, FBI, CIA, Secret Service. The way it worked was simple: it sent out a message via radio waves, asking for instructions.

  ‘Fortunately, however, the virus hadn’t yet received any, so my brother came up with a simple yet ingenious solution. He set up a computer to communicate with the virus via radio, which told the virus to go to sleep, and to accept instructions from no other computer. He rendered the virus dormant and harmless. Some powerful people were very thankful.’

  ‘I bet.’

  Ellen nodded and fixed her gaze straight ahead. I was now making progress – she was laying cards on the table.

  I gave Ellen a moment to regroup, then:

  ‘I’m guessing things didn’t stay rosy?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ she said, with an ironic grin. ‘The truth is, he always loathed the NSA’s expansion of powers since 9/11 – the expansion that saw them attempt to monitor the entirety of the internet, all telecommunications, and which was kept in the dark until Snowden blew the whistle.’

  She said this with venom. Evidently she, too, hadn’t been impervious to her father’s libertarianism
. She continued:

  ‘Yet, he put up with it… Looking back, I think he’d naïvely convinced himself it was temporary; that it’d change once the Republicans lost power. But when the Democrats won in ’08, and things didn’t change, he really began to grow jaded. And though he stuck it out for another two years, he threw in the towel in early 2011.’

  I hummed. None of this remotely shocked me.

  Ellen continued: ‘But at that point he didn’t do a Snowden: he simply shoved the NSA’s excesses to the back of his mind and moved to the private sector.

  ‘But then, in 2013, the Snowden revelations hit, and suddenly Lawrence was riddled with guilt. While he’d hid his head in the sand, Snowden had stood up. And so he once again changed course: he returned to the West Coast, and began work on a number of cypherpunk projects in squats and collectives. And ironically, though he was now nearer me, I heard from him less. The occasional text.

  ‘Then, at the end of 2014, he got involved in a new project – a project so secret he barely told me any details. All I could glean was that he was living with a small team somewhere in the Bay Area, though he wouldn’t give me an address.’

  ‘Wait, that’s it?’ I replied incredulously. ‘That’s all he told you about his past year? Yet he gave you insights into the NSA’s secretive inner-workings?’

  Ellen shrugged. ‘Maybe he takes libertarian projects more seriously.’ A contemplative pause. ‘I don’t think it’s because he stopped trusting me. He made it seem like his secretiveness was for my own good.’ She let loose a sharp laugh. ‘Fat load of good it did.’

  With that, she grabbed the Dunhills I’d left in the change holder and lit one.

  I sighed inwardly. I felt sure Ellen hadn’t held back about her brother. But that was the problem: she’d spilled, and I was still none the wiser as to what this was all about – what awaited in Springville. But while her brother’s back-story had failed to give me bearings, there was a chance hers would.

  But then, when I looked at her again, I knew I had to give her a moment, because suddenly she didn’t look fearless and defiant; suddenly she’d let her guard down, and she looked how she felt: tired, worried, uncertain. And as I took in her appearance – took in her deep brown eyes, small angular nose, shoulder-length hair with sweeping fringe, slightly oversized, protruding ears – it felt like I was seeing her for the first time.