Never Forget

by Richard Davis

  She wasn’t pretty. She was drop-dead.

  And with this glimpse beyond her fiery demeanor, it hit home – this woman had been through hell.

  I knew she wanted neither my friendship nor pity. But before I continued grilling, I owed her some more information about myself.

  I put a Dunhill on my lip, lit it, took a deep drag. ‘As I’m sure you’ve already inferred, I spent time at a federal agency. Fifteen years at the FBI. During that time, I worked for a number of departments: Criminal Investigative Division, Hostage Rescue Team, Office of Intelligence. But insofar as Lawrence’s warning to avoid law enforcement is concerned, I wouldn’t sweat it: I parted ways with the FBI two years ago – acrimoniously.’

  I took another drag, then shot her a look that said: any questions?

  She took the hint. ‘How’d you find yourself in that line of work?’

  I smiled. She could’ve asked about the acrimony, but she’d let me off.

  ‘Not the usual career path. In fact, before the FBI, I was in prison…’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Basically, during my late teens and early twenties, I was a con-artist. Damn good one, too. Falsified documents, impersonated a doctor, dabbled in organized crime – to name a few exploits. But then, after four years of fun, the law caught up, and bam, I was in the big house. But before long, the FBI realized they could use my talents…’

  I waved a hand as if to say, the rest is history.

  ‘So up until recently, this was how you’d usually spend a Friday?’ she said dryly.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  I glanced at her. Again, she looked hardened; but I could tell she appreciated my opening up.

  I decided to capitalize.

  ‘So Ellen,’ I said a minute later. ‘I now know plenty about Lawrence. But all I know about you is what’s on your university card. I’d like to know more. And I’d like to know if you have any theories as to what the hell’s going on?’

  Her reaction to this question – which she surely knew was coming – was more severe than I’d expected. She groaned, and threw back her head.

  ‘Fine, fuck it. I’ve kept my mouth shut for so long. But if this is what I fear it is, the cat’s out the bag, anyway.’

  She paused, thinking how to proceed. It seemed she was about to hit me with something big.

  ‘As you know, I’m a lecturer in mathematical physics, and though my work may seem less exciting than my brother’s, I believe it’s important, and it’s always been a priority for me that I do nothing to jeopardize it…’ She trailed off. Then, changing tack, she said: ‘When my brother was at the NSA, he told me that to avoid being monitored on the internet, you should use The Onion Router, or TOR – you heard of it?’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve used it a couple of times.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  I couldn’t see where she was going, but I bit:

  ‘It’s a tool you download that lets you browse the internet anonymously: nobody can trace which websites you visit. It also lets you run websites anonymously: it’s impossible to see who’s running which website. As a result, it’s known colloquially as the Dark Net.’ I racked my brain. ‘I don’t know the science behind it, but I know it was invented by the US Naval Research Lab in 2002 to allow people living in dictatorships to use the internet without reprisal; that criminals – terrorists, child pornographers, drug dealers – have adopted it since; and that, though invented by the US, the folk at the NSA regard it a dangerous blind-spot.’

  ‘Correct,’ she said. ‘The science is simple enough. Instead of connecting you directly to a website, TOR patches you through a number of intermediary computers first, so your IP address – the thing that uniquely identifies your device and location – is hidden.

  ‘However, the privacy TOR provides is more sophisticated still. All dialogue conducted over TOR is encrypted with Public Key Encryption. A way of scrambling text, invented in the 1970s, which the authorities still struggle with – it takes an NSA supercomputer days to crack a Public Key encrypted message.’

  Again, this was technology I’d heard of. In fact, I knew that the guys behind 9/11 used a combination of TOR and Public Key to coordinate and communicate.

  ‘So in short: if you’re using both TOR and Public Key, it’s near-impossible to see who you are or what you’re saying?’

  ‘Bingo. And when I heard about it, I got ideas.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘You see, my parents were Tibetan, and fled to the US due to Chinese persecution. As a result, I’ve always closely followed the horrendous human rights abuses that go on in occupied Tibet. But if you speak out against China, even from here, they’ll make your life hell: they’ll hack you, smear you, try to destroy your career… You won’t believe the lengths they’ll go to. In 2009 they hacked Google just to target a nineteen-year-old student.

  ‘Call it cowardice, but I didn’t want the trouble. So I didn’t speak out.

  ‘But then, three years ago, I discovered TOR, and it changed everything. I realized I could fight the cause online – promote discussion, encourage dissent, fund projects – while remaining anonymous. So that’s what I did – in a big way.

  ‘So my theory is: a team of Chinese nationalists are hunting Americans who have protested against China anonymously online – and somehow they’ve managed to identify me as just such a protestor. And that’s why neither I nor the press recognize the other victims as anti-China dissidents – because clearly they, too, had been agitating anonymously online.’

  She paused. ‘I figured at worst I might lose my job if I was ever exposed. But in fact, my life’s at stake.’

  I absorbed this slowly. Then:

  ‘Couldn’t your brother have let slip your secret?’

  She shook her head emphatically. ‘You’re not getting it. I’ve never told a soul about this. You’re the first.’

  She looked at me meaningfully. I was beginning to realize just how much she was laying bare. And since I was clearly dealing with a fiercely intelligent individual, I couldn’t take it lightly.

  I nodded at her seriously. ‘But it can’t possibly be state-sponsored actors. I’m aware China commit some monstrous atrocities at home, but they’d never be so foolish as to use lethal force on US soil. The fall out’d be cataclysmic… We must be looking at a rogue group.’

  ‘Agreed. But what I want to know is: how on earth did they find me?’

  I nodded slowly. This was an unsettling question: I knew enough about TOR to know that unveiling even the slightest details about its users was no joke. But in fact, the whole situation was deeply unsettling. And as we fell into contemplative silence, I felt the misgivings creeping in.

  I was getting drawn in. That was something I couldn’t afford to do.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, we started discussing how we’d approach things when we arrived. According to my road-map, Springville consisted of a main drag of a mile and a half, running south-west to north-east; a modest nexus of residential roads to either side; and a small river bordering the east. And I reckoned – given its location and set-up – we were dealing with one of your quiet, well-to-do, Californian towns, with a population of maybe 1,000.

  But, crucially, there was a central landmark: a gazebo, located midway along the main drag.This seemed as good a stage as any on which to carry out the sort of killings these guys had favored the past two days.

  We decided that, when we got to Springville, we’d drive along the main drag – because we knew the stretch could be populated by any number of hostiles, and it seemed that approaching in a car they wouldn’t recognize under the cover of night (the sun had already set) was the most efficient way to safely reach the center of town. Then, when we neared the gazebo, we’d find somewhere off the main drag to pull over – which would hopefully put us out of the line of fire of any hostiles – then investigate the area on foot. First, any buildings that looked onto the gazebo, then the gazebo itself.

&
nbsp; And we knew that we’d have to act with extreme caution. After all, it seemed the previous killings had involved not just a sniper rifle, but a silenced sniper rifle, given that nobody appeared to have heard a gunshot on both previous occasions. And the last thing we needed was a sniper bullet to the head.

  Chapter 5

  Friday, December 11, 10:33 p.m. – Springville, California.

  It was 10:33 when we hit a road-sign that said we were three miles from Springville.

  I pulled over on an innocuous dirt-track, reached into the back seat, and grabbed the small flashlight the rental company had thrown in along with the car – which I handed to Ellen – then the backpack I’d taken from the guys in LA. I opened the bag, pocketed one of the Walthers, then began to re-zip it.

  ‘What about me?’ hissed Ellen.

  I turned to her.

  ‘You know your way around a handgun?’

  She nodded. ‘I told you: my dad was a libertarian. He took me to the shooting range countless times. It’s been a while, and I only ever used a Glock, but I remember the basics.’

  I grunted, and handed her the other Walther. It was unusual for a civilian living in a big city like LA to have experience with a handgun. But while she perhaps knew the basics, I wasn’t ready to put too much faith in her as a wingman quite yet: there’s a big difference between using a weapon at a range and in real life.

  But still, some basic backup was better than a kick in the teeth.

  ‘The magazine’s got ten rounds – .22 bullets – and there’s a suppressor,’ I said. ‘If you’ve ever handled a suppressed Glock, this isn’t worlds away, though it’s actually silent.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ellen replied confidently.

  Ellen pocketed it. Then I feathered the gas, and rejoined the road leading into Springville. A few minutes later, we hit the southernmost point of its main drag, signified by a closed Mexican eatery on our left-hand side, and I continued north at a steady clip of twenty-five mph. And though the streetlights were few and far between, and the shops had their lights off, my headlights illuminated the town’s geography: Springville Fishing Company; Springville Hardware Store; C.F. Smith Realty; The Cowpuncher’s Café.

  But though the drag seemed devoid of people, I didn’t take anything for granted. I knew hostiles could conceivably be lurking anywhere.

  After a short while, we passed Ward Avenue on our left, which I knew indicated we were only 200 yards from the gazebo, and so – after a further 100 yards – I slowed to a crawl. And as we continued at a pace that meant we were now very much a hittable target, I quickly took in the geography unfolding before me.

  Coming up, on the right-hand side, was a two-story red and white building, with a sign out front reading Springville Inn, a kitsch old Wells Fargo wagon affixed to the roof, and eight windows on its front façade – four up, four down. And while I could see that all the windows on the bottom were shuttered,the ones on the top were not, though it was impossible to make out from my angle if there was anyone in the rooms beyond. Directly opposite this, on the left-hand side, was a small supermarket which, unlike the other shops in town, was still very much open: the lights beyond the big glass front window were on, and I could make out an old-timer at the till, reading a magazine.

  Because the road-map said it was on the left-hand side, I reckoned the gazebo had to be just beyond the supermarket, and just far enough back from the road to avoid the reach of both my headlights and the nearest streetlamp. But since, if there was a sharpshooter, he’d almost certainly be stationed within the inn, I knew pulling up to the gazebo right away wasn’t an option: we’d be sitting-ducks. So first we needed to investigate the inn.

  No sooner had I thought this than I noticed a right turning just before the inn that led to its parking lot at the back of the building. I took the turning, and started rolling along the side of the inn.

  ‘Right. I think the gazebo’s opposite this inn – meaning, unless we want a hole in the head, we have to make sure the inn’s clear before charging across. So here’s the plan. You’re gonna stay by the car, while I head inside, and check the rooms facing the road. Then we’ll head to the gazebo. Capeesh?’

  Ellen nodded.

  A few moments later, we were in the parking lot – which was no more than a glorified asphalt square, populated by two other innocuous cars – and I killed the engine. We got out, and both moved through the thick evening darkness to the nose of the car.

  ‘You got the flashlight and Walther?’ I whispered.

  I made out a nod.

  ‘Keep your wits about you. I’ll be back soon.’

  As I made for the building, where there was a small back entrance, I looked up at the back windows – I could see nothing untoward. Then I hit the building, touched my pocket to make sure the Walther was still there, and cracked the door open.

  Beyond was an empty hallway. And though I could hear voices emanating from the front of the building, they were far away.

  I wiped down the door-handle with my sleeve, and – with my heart going like a jackhammer – began moving quickly into the building: I needed to find the stairs. And after passing through a small arch, I got lucky, they appeared on my left-hand side, and I immediately started up them.

  But then, halfway up, I suddenly heard a noise above – like somebody closing a bedroom door – followed by footsteps moving in my direction.

  If it was someone hostile, I thought, I’d reach for my weapon. If a civilian, I’d improvise. Those were my options.

  I continued moving, involuntarily holding my breath. The footsteps continued. Then a figure appeared at the top of the stairs…

  It was a middle-aged woman in a pink blouse. And my gut instinct said: this was a guest. And sure enough, she smiled at me politely, and I responded in kind – and a moment later, we’d passed each other without a word.

  But though I knew this was the best case scenario, that this was a damn sight better than if it’d been even a member of staff, I knew the pressure was still on. After all, there was a decent chance the guest would mention my presence to a member of staff, and then questions would be asked.

  So I needed to act fast.

  Next thing I knew, I was in the wide hallway at the top of the stairs, with two doors on my left, two on my right. And I knew it was the rooms on my left that I wanted – those were the ones that looked onto the gazebo. Both had their lights off.

  I approached the first door on the left,and put my ear to it – could hear nothing. Then I checked the gap between the door and jamb: the door was unlocked.

  Feeling confident it was an empty room – after all, folk routinely neglect to lock doors in small towns – I eased open the door, and flicked the light. Sure enough, the room – whose two windows gave a perfect view out onto the supermarket, and the expanse to its right where the gazebo resided – was empty, and in pristine condition.

  I didn’t have time to ransack the place. But I felt pretty certain there was no threat; that if hostiles had used this room, they were no longer here.

  I wiped the light-switch with my sleeve. I then retreated to the corridor, wiped the door handle, and bounded softly to the second door. Again, I could hear nothing beyond, and the door was unlocked – so I eased it open.

  But this time, before I could flick the switch, I got a surprise. There was a boy in the bed who groaned – as though suddenly awoken – and said groggily: ‘Mom? Is that you?’

  There was nothing suspicious here. Just a child sleeping.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. Then I closed the door, wiped the handle, and promptly began pacing back towards the stairs.The need to move quickly was even greater now. Because though there didn’t appear to be any hostiles, the chances that questions would be raised about my presence had now gone from good to pretty damn certain. And I knew that such questions could even result in a call to the local Sheriff’s office.

  I pounded down the stairs – which were, thankfully, empty – then back the way I came. In no time, I wa
s back in the parking lot.

  Ellen appeared from the shadows.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘The coast’s clear, though we need to move quickly, because I didn’t go completely unnoticed by civilians inside. Let’s get in the car, pull up by the gazebo, proceed on foot.’

  We got in the car, I fired the engine, and hustled the Saab back down the side of the inn, then right onto the main drag. And hardly had I done so when I pulled over on the left-hand side of the road – just past the supermarket, and just beyond the reach of the nearest streetlight, so that nobody looking out would be able to see the Saab’s license plate.

  I could see the outline of the gazebo in the light cast by the headlights – though the interior remained hidden.

  I turned off the headlights, but kept the engine running.

  ‘Right, let’s go – you got the torch?’

  ‘Here, you take it.’ She held it out, and I was momentarily taken aback: given her my-way-or-the-highway attitude up to this point, I was surprised she didn’t want to take an active role. But at the same time, it made sense. There was a chance we were about to uncover something horrifying. And there was something unnerving about illuminating such a thing – as if, in doing so, you could somehow become implicated in having caused it.

  I studied her stern, unreadable face, then took the torch, and exited the car. Five seconds later, Ellen was by my side. Without a word, we set off towards the gazebo. And suddenly I felt sick with the thought of what we might find. And yet, at the same time, oddly convinced we’d find nothing; that somehow we’d misconstrued the whole thing.

  Abruptly, we reached the outline of the gazebo, and stopped in our tracks. Its interior was still shrouded in darkness.

  ‘Ready?’ I said.

  ‘Ready.’

  I pointed the flashlight and flicked it on. Immediately, my heart sank.