Never Forget

by Richard Davis

  Ellen stared at the glove-compartment.

  ‘What do you mean by “us”?’

  I set my jaw. While I could pretend as though I was still just taking things one step at a time, and could extricate myself with impunity at any point, I knew this was a delusion. And yet, I still couldn’t bring myself to walk away. And I knew why – I’d allowed myself to start caring about Ellen.

  But it was more than that: I wanted retribution for the horrors I’d seen. Wanted to prevent more of the same. Wanted a piece of the action.

  ‘I mean us,’ I replied resolutely.

  She gave a small nod. ‘Let’s turn the tables on these motherfuckers.’

  I strummed my fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Now, what we need is a location that’s isolated enough that they’d definitely come for us, but not so isolated that it’s clearly a trap.’

  ‘How about a holiday home?’

  ‘Perfect. Let’s head to, say, Joshua Tree. Then let’s break into a house – that way, there’ll be no possibility they could infer our location through other means – and use their residential internet connection.’

  ‘Then what? Capture the lot of them?’

  ‘Depends how many show up. But if there’s more than two, I think there’s only so many prisoners we can take.’

  Ellen shot me a solemn look. She understood what I was driving at.

  ‘While ideally we’d want to put these guys to the sword as soon as possible, I think we should hold off a few hours, and fly in Vannevar Yeung. Yes, another attack may be imminent, but a third man will massively increase our chances of actually pulling this off.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Ellen. ‘If you trust this guy, I do too.’

  I reached over, and rummaged through the glove compartment – where I’d left the cell. But when I pulled it out and examined the screen, I found something unexpected: Vann’d tried to call thirty minutes ago, just after we’d left the car.

  I showed Ellen.

  ‘No text message or voicemail?’ Ellen inquired.

  I shook my head: ‘He wouldn’t have wanted to leave a trail.’

  I dialed Vann back. But then, once more, I met the unexpected: voicemail.

  ‘That’s not good,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t get through. It may mean his phone’s out of battery, or dead – or countless other innocent things. But there’s also a chance it’s something more sinister. There’s a chance that, because of his links with me, the authorities have been surreptitiously watching him in the hope I’ll make contact – and perhaps he was calling to warn me we’ve been caught out.

  ‘Worst case, it could even mean his phone – and therefore my number – have fallen into the wrong hands.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Best to play it safe. Let’s remove the battery, so the phone can’t give our location away. In two hours, I’ll replace the battery, and try him again.’

  ‘Does that mean we put the plan on ice?’

  ‘No,’ I said decisively. ‘If, in two hours, Vann picks up, we can delay. But for now, we have to work on the basis that Vann’s out of the equation, and push on alone.’

  ‘Fine by me. And I think fine by Arjun, too.’ Ellen gestured towards a window of The Hive. Arjun was peering into the darkness.

  I fired up the engine and headlights – which caused Arjun to move skittishly out of sight – and powered back onto the main road.

  Then I thumbed on the radio. It was the news:

  ‘…has been confirmed that there has, indeed, been another double murder – this time, in Springville, California. We’ll have more details as they emerge…’

  Chapter 10

  Saturday, December 12, 5:46 a.m. – Joshua Tree, California.

  After a two-hour drive east, we arrived in Joshua Tree – a small settlement, popular with summer vacationers, to the north of Joshua Tree National Park. And after a half hour of navigating its terrain of sand dunes, boulders, and cacti, we found what we were looking for: a string of large, detached vacation homes, seventy feet apart, with no lights on, no cars, no signs of life of any kind. They lined either side of the street.

  I parked outside one on the south-side: 61035 Prescott Trail. A large, two-story affair, with a small gate blocking the drive, and oversized glass windows that revealed a good deal of the house’s innards.

  ‘How about this one?’ I said.

  Ellen stared it down. ‘Looks good.’ She turned to me. ‘You sure you don’t want to give your friend a third try?’

  I’d tried Vann again about fifty minutes ago – while we were passing through Palm Springs. Again, I’d gotten voicemail. And this had frustrated Ellen as much as me – because as the magnitude of the task had sunk in, she’d come to see the value of backup, too.

  ‘I’m sure. Not least because I don’t want to put the battery back in the cell now we’re here. Don’t want to do anything else that might give away our location.’

  Ellen gave a nervous sniff. ‘At least it forces us to get this show on the road.’ She paused. ‘So, this is the easy part: we break in. Then, I suppose, we play the waiting game… And assuming the nearest they’ll be is LA, that’ll be at least two hours.’

  ‘Well, breaking in may be relatively easy. But we mustn’t take anything for granted.’ I glanced back at the house. ‘Let’s break the front door’s locks. Then before the alarm’s triggered, I’ll disable the control panel, okay?’

  ‘You know how to do that?’

  ‘I did black-bag jobs at the FBI. This stuff’s par for the course.’

  We got out of the car. Then, after quickly ensuring the coast was clear, we scaled the hip-height gate, and approached the front door.

  There was a single deadbolt lock below a spring bolt lock.

  ‘I can shoot this lock off,’ I said, pointing to the dead bolt. ‘And can force the other one with my shoulder. You ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  I produced the Walther, leveled it at the deadbolt, unloaded a single slug, and it made contact with the metal with a dim crack. Then I pocketed the gun, drove my shoulder into the door, and it sprung open. All the persuasion it needed.

  We were met by the beep-beep-beep of the burglar alarm. I made for where the sound was emanating – the cupboard under the stairs – and found the control panel. Smashed off the plastic, found the wire that’d disable it, and snapped it.

  Silence.

  ‘That’s all it takes?’ said Ellen. ‘So much for safe as houses, eh?’

  ‘Don’t believe everything the pro-house lobby tells you.’

  We began exploring. It was a large house, with seven rooms on the first floor. And not only did we find three other entrances besides the frontdoor – one side door, two backdoors – but in one of the living rooms, we also found the all-important object: a five-year-old Dell desktop, still in good shape. And, when we turned it on, it loaded without a hitch, and instantly connected to the house’s wifi.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Let’s nose around upstairs.’

  The second floor was just as spacious: four bedrooms, two of which were en-suite; a separate bathroom; a linen closet.

  Soon enough, we were back by the Dell.

  Ellen said: ‘Pull up a second chair, and we’ll get cracking.’

  A moment later, I was sitting at Ellen’s side as she got to work. First, she downloaded all the software we needed – TOR, Bitcoin, GhostWallet – all of which was easy to find, free, and entirely legal to obtain. Then she opened TOR. Just as I remembered, it looked no different from any other web-browser.

  Ellen looked at me.

  ‘So here’s what I’m thinking. I head to this TOR website I frequently visit – a members’ only community of pro-Tibet activists – and donate money to a team of Western activists. And obviously I’ll use Bitcoin and GhostWallet.’

  I nodded.

  Ellen clicked on the URL bar. Then, because there’s no search engine for TOR websites, and they don’t have conv
entional website names, she typed what seemed like a random set of letters and numbers: fh232kr934e4fp92.onion.

  ‘This particular website’s not listed anywhere,’ said Ellen. ‘So the only way you can find it is if an existing member tells you about it.’

  Again, I nodded. I knew this was the case for most Dark Net websites – be they hit-man marketplaces, child porn communities, or terrorist hangouts.

  Ellen hit enter, and the page loaded. It was a well-put-together forum, with the words “The Free Tibet Family” across the top.

  Ellen clicked on the log-in page, and entered her username and password.

  ‘Need to sign in to gain proper access to the site,’ she said.

  ‘I assume your details are encrypted with Public Key?’

  Ellen nodded. Then she clicked on a tab entitled “Initiatives,” and, on the list that popped up, clicked on “Citizen Lab.” This took her to a page describing Citizen Lab, accompanied by a “Donate Now” icon.

  ‘Citizen Lab’s a Canadian group that opposes state internet surveillance, and has done good work for the pro-Tibet cause,’ Ellen explained. ‘Just the sort of folk I’d donate to.’

  Ellen then opened up the Bitcoin software; and though I’d never seen it in action, the interface was easy to understand – and soon enough, Ellen, using her bank card, had purchased $500 worth of Bitcoin. It was simple as any online purchase I’d ever seen.

  ‘Basically, pre-GhostWallet, I’d now transfer these Bitcoin to Citizen Lab, and someone who knew what they were doing would be able to see not only the IP address – and thus geographical location – of the computer it came from, but also that these Bitcoin had been purchased by Ellen Kelden. But GhostWallet supposedly hides all that.’

  Ellen opened GhostWallet – another easy-to-use interface.

  ‘Ready to make the transfer?’ asked Ellen.

  ‘No time like the present.’

  Ellen took a deep breath. Then, after transferring the money from the Bitcoin software to GhostWallet, she returned to TOR, clicked “Donate Now,” and sent the money – all in the blink of an eye. She said:

  ‘If there’s a trapdoor in GhostWallet, we’ve now announced our whereabouts.’

  I nodded calmly, but could feel the adrenaline coursing through my neck.

  ‘We’ve got to get our asses in gear,’ I said. ‘The best tactic, I reckon, is to wait in a concealed location out front. If I were them, given what happened last time, I’d send at least four men. From outside, we’ll be able to see how they attack the house.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ replied Ellen. Her eyes contained both resolution and fear.

  I was silent a beat; then: ‘El, you need to ready yourself for if things go wrong; for if we get captured – or worse. It’s a real possibility.’

  Ellen chewed her cheek. ‘I’m prepared.’

  I gave a slow nod. Then we fell into action: we headed out front, and began searching for a hiding place. Soon enough, we settled on a line of bushes next to the gate. They didn’t provide great cover – like most desert flora, they were scrawny – but they were the best we had. And, on the plus side, they gave a good view of both the road and driveway.

  Ellen climbed into the bushes, while I went back to the Saab.

  The vehicle itself I was happy to leave in plain sight – if the nationalists hadn’t heard from Manek, and didn’t know this may be an ambush, our seeming obliviousness to any threat would make them complacent. But I wanted the rucksack and valise with us in the bushes; so I grabbed both, then joined Ellen in the bushes.

  As I’d expected, Ellen queried my decision.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to hide those somewhere the nationalists won’t find them if we’re caught?’

  ‘That crossed my mind. But if we get captured and survive, I reckon we’ll be taken elsewhere; in which case, it’ll probably be best for them to bring our gear. And with our bags in the bushes, they won’t find them when they turn up, but they will find them later.’

  Ellen gave a half-convinced grunt.

  ‘But there’s a hard bottom to the valise, and an opening in the lining that lets me conceal things between the bottom and lining.’ I showed Ellen. ‘My defunct FBI ID’s in there. But I’ll put the iPad and GPS reader in, too. They may find them anyway. But it may stop them figuring out: a) we’ve got tabs on Manek; and b) I have an FBI modified iPad.’

  Ellen shrugged – like it was a minor point – but I did it anyway.

  ‘When they arrive,’ I continued seriously, ‘not only do we need to be stealthy, but we’ve also got to be ready to kill: we can only afford to capture two. You prepared for that?’

  Ellen unconsciously patted the Walther in her pocket. ‘I’m prepared.’

  * * *

  Sometimes in the field, nature throws a curveball. And, half an hour into our stake-out, that’s exactly what happened: out of nowhere, a thick fog descended on Prescott Trail. And quickly the visibility went from perfect to five feet.

  It was tule fog. Named after the tule bulrushes in the Californian Valley, it was a common enough occurrence this time of year; but this particular bout was of uncommon thickness. And I knew it was the sort that sticks around until dispersed by heavy winds.

  But while this fog was entirely unexpected, and forced us to now depend on our ears to pick up on their approach, we recognized it could in fact help us. For one thing, it vastly improved our hiding place. For another, it lent itself to the stealth attack we had planned.

  And so we continued waiting in the milky blindness – a blindness made all the more striking by the deathly silence of the deserted road beyond.

  And, curiously, though we quietly exchanged words, neither of us at any point suggested they might not be coming. We were both convinced they were.

  Then, about two hours later, they did.

  We could hear a vehicle humming in the distance. Then it drew nearer. Then, suddenly, it’d stopped a few hundred yards away, and a door opened and closed. A few seconds later, it started crawling closer again – they’d gotten the wrong house at first, I reckoned – till finally it pulled up behind the Saab, maybe four yards from us. And judging by the sound of it, it was a largish vehicle. Perhaps another van, like they’d used in LA.

  My stomach lurched with fear and righteous anger.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ I whispered.

  Ellen nodded. She looked nervous yet composed.

  There were doors opening. Then footsteps towards the driveway gate. I shifted over, and watched the tarmac beyond the gate which was just in sight. In the next ten seconds, four pairs of feet moved across my line of vision.

  I turned to Ellen and raised four fingers. Then I signaled for her to stay put.

  Next instant, I was out of the bushes. I could see neither the front door, nor the vehicles. But the first task was to inspect their vehicle: there could be a driver.

  I scaled the gate. Then I quickly reached the Saab and could see the nose of a van just behind it.

  Crouching low, I moved in an arc towards the back of the van, so I remained out of sight of anyone in the driver’s seat. Once I hit the back, I withdrew my Walther, glanced inside the open panel door (the hold was empty), then did a repeat performance of my maneuver in LA – I moved towards the front of the van on the passenger’s side. But this time, when I reached the passenger door, and saw a small, suited, East Asian man in the driver’s seat, I didn’t mess about.

  I opened the door and, before he could react, I aimed and jerked the trigger.

  His brain was on the window.

  I jumped onto the passenger seat, and frisked the body. No gun, but a walkie-talkie. This time, not only switched on, but set to a particular frequency.

  This wasn’t a frequency to communicate with comrades elsewhere, I reckoned. It was a frequency to communicate among themselves as they carried out this operation.

  I got out of the van. It’d been no more than fifteen seconds since I’d left the bushes. But I knew I already had
to play catch up. The four men would almost certainly have split up: perhaps two entering via the front, and two heading round back. And, ideally, I wanted to catch at least two before they got inside: I reckoned the fog was in my favor.

  I jumped the gate and beckoned Ellen out. A moment later, she was at my side.

  ‘Killed the driver,’ I whispered. ‘I reckon the four will’ve split up. The ones who took the front door are likely already inside; so let’s head round back and eliminate the others.’

  Ellen nodded, and I led the way down the left-hand side of the house. Then, as we neared the side-door, I slowed to a creep. But when we hit the door three seconds later, I let myself relax a bit: it was unguarded.

  I took a second to examine the door – it was untouched; then I took another step towards the garden…

  Barely had I done so when suddenly a man strode out of the fog before us. A big guy – 6’2”, solid build – with a Walther in his right, and moving fast. All at once, before I could react, he let out a muted yelp of surprise, and his left arm – which had already been raised with the natural rhythm of his walk – shot up, and smashed my Walther out of my right-hand.

  I took a half-step forward; then I grabbed his right-arm as he went to raise it, directed his gun at the wall, and a bullet bit the brickwork. Then, swinging my free left-arm, I smashed an elbow into his temple. And this time, it was his head that hit the brickwork.

  There was a gut-wrenching thud, and the guy hit the deck. But I left nothing to chance: I drove my toe into the back of his neck.

  Dead. No doubt about it.

  I took a couple of deep breaths. Although I couldn’t be sure, I reckoned this guy had been returning to this side-door, and had left a comrade in the garden who was intending to use one of the back doors. But though I knew I had to act quickly to catch the second guy before he got inside, this last kill hadn’t been silent. And so I had to be extremely cautious, because the other guy’s suspicions could be aroused.

  I bent down, and fumbled till I’d found both Walthers. Then, after tucking one into my pocket, we continued forward.