Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  Does d4rkn!te know who Zeke is watching? He may not. We don’t have anything on this laptop that would give us away. But what if he were able to see the messages that Zeke sent us? He could easily figure out from those who Zeke’s been talking to. Thus the picture of the houseboat. He knows we can see it.

  ‘Whoever it is, he’s right outside.’ The photo has been taken at night, and the lights are on in the windows. ‘Do you think he knows Ellen has left? Does he know that we’re here now?’

  Not knowing who’s out there watching us – me – is too frightening. I’m sure that it really was Zeke who had sent us those messages earlier, but now I begin to worry. Maybe we should have left with Ellen rather than be sitting ducks here on the boat. Or maybe whoever took that picture is following her and she’s in danger and we’re actually safer here. We have no way of knowing which.

  Spencer is busy on the laptop. He’s trying to locate d4rkn!te’s IP address. But d4rkn!te isn’t stupid and must be using Tor, a VPN, because it’s going in circles. ‘Talk to him,’ he instructs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Talk to him.’ He cocks his head toward my laptop. ‘He’s in there. He’s waiting for something. For you.’

  My heart pounds and my hands shake. I’m having serious doubts about this. ‘No. There are two of them. I’ll be talking to Zeke and d4rkn!te.’ I don’t know if I can be clever enough to keep my identity at bay for d4rkn!te but have Zeke know who I am. If I weren’t so anxious, maybe. But my head is spinning and all I can think about is escape. ‘We have to get out of here,’ I tell Spencer. ‘I’ll send a message when d4rkn!te doesn’t know where we are.’ But is there such a place? He knew I was in Charleston, in Folly Beach, on the train, and now here. Is there any escape at all?

  Spencer is oblivious to my fear. He’s still trying to find the IP address. ‘You’re not going to find him,’ I say. Still, I watch him work, unable to do anything else, my thoughts about escape bouncing around in my head, but I’m not able to think of a way to get off this boat other than the way we fled earlier when the two men showed up. Is that an option?

  ‘Tina.’ Spencer’s voice is low as he indicates his screen. ‘Check it out.’

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing, until I look at my laptop screen. It’s in both places. It’s real.

  Zeke. He’s staring right at us.

  The video chat program is open, and I can hear a muffled voice saying something but I can’t make it out.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask Spencer.

  He fiddles with the volume, but it doesn’t help.

  I watch Zeke’s face for signs that he sees us, too, but I know he can’t. The little piece of tape that I put over the camera when I bought the laptop keeps anyone from seeing what’s on this side of the screen.

  ‘What’s going on?’ My body is tingling with fear. Spencer’s face is paler than usual, and he’s breathing hard. I want to leave, get out of here. But the idea that someone is outside lying in wait for me to emerge from the houseboat is claustrophobic.

  I’ve had enough time to study Zeke’s face. He’s thinner than I remember, with a thick growth of beard that indicates he hasn’t seen a razor for a while. Is it by choice or has he not had the opportunity to shave? I don’t want to think about the latter.

  ‘I’ve done everything you wanted.’

  His voice startles me. It’s familiar but also strange because it’s muffled. The microphone isn’t working properly.

  His words confuse me. I lean toward Spencer and whisper in his ear. ‘He can’t see us, but can he hear us?’

  Spencer shakes his head. He puts his finger to his lips. He’s right. We shouldn’t say anything. They may have found us through the RAT in the laptop, but Zeke probably hasn’t told them who we are. Whom he’s watching.

  ‘I did everything you asked me to do,’ he says again.

  ‘No. You didn’t.’

  I can’t tell if this other voice is male or female. It sounds far away and has an echo-y effect. Whoever it is, he’s being careful not to be visible.

  Now that the shock of seeing Zeke has worn off, I study his surroundings, as though that will tell me what’s going on. But there’s nothing distinguishable. In fact, the lighting is throwing off a glare on the wall behind him, so I can’t make out any details at all.

  I turn my attention to the laptops we’ve got open, d4rkn!te inside one of them. Who is he? For a moment, I wonder if it’s Adriana, but then dismiss that idea. While I have no idea whether she knows how to hack, I know how Tony DeMarco works and I have no reason to think his daughter is any different. Tony doesn’t like to get his own hands dirty. If he’s truly grooming his daughter to take over for him, then he will teach her that. No, Adriana is not d4rkn!te, but every instinct tells me that she does know who he is and he is likely working for her.

  ‘Do you think it’s Ryan Whittier?’ I whisper to Spencer.

  He chews on his lip as he considers that possibility. We still don’t know exactly who Ryan Whittier is. However, I do think that Zeke might know. I peer more closely at the screen, studying his face for any clues he might manage to give me, but he is a blank slate. No, if there’s going to be a clue, it’s going to be in something he says. He may know that we’re watching.

  Spencer is sitting at the edge of the couch, as mesmerized by the scene as I am. I don’t know what we’re waiting for, but we both seem to know it’s coming. As long as we’re patient.

  ‘We have to shut the thing down until it all dies down,’ Zeke says. ‘We can start it up again, create a different site. I told you the base was too big. The FBI is going to be all over it. They’ll be able to find anyone with that GPS in the phone.’

  As I try to puzzle out what he’s saying, Spencer’s head pops up. He grabs his second laptop out of the backpack. I’d forgotten he has both of them. When it boots up, he begins typing.

  I read over his shoulder and see what caught his attention. A ‘base’ is a collection of dumps all skimmed from the same source. Spencer’s jabbing his finger at the screen, but I see what’s going on now.

  This isn’t just about ATM skimmers. Whoever Zeke is working for hacked into one of the largest banks in the world and millions of people have had their accounts compromised.

  FORTY

  ‘And you thought ten million was a lot,’ Spencer mutters under his breath, referring to my crime.

  ‘How do we know this is real?’ I whisper.

  Spencer narrows his eyes at me, incredulous that I would question. He’s messaging with someone called Charade, who’s telling him about the hack and how no one knows who pulled it off.

  No amateurs could do this, it’s too much. Word is that the FBI did it themselves, to see if it could be done, to see how to do it.

  I think about it for a second. Zeke – as Tracker – helped me with my hack. Seems that he may have taken a little trip down memory lane, but on a much larger scale. The number of credit cards is staggering. All of that information, everything that should be secure, is suddenly out there, being sold online to whoever wants to buy it.

  If the FBI is behind the theft, it really can’t put all that information out there. When Zeke helped me as Tracker, he circumvented the accounts and made sure that most of the money was recovered.

  And then I realize what the cellphone app was for. Without it, the ATM information doesn’t move directly into whatever server the hackers set up. Zeke created a sort of two-step verification for the ATM hacks. While it seems as though millions of credit cards were compromised, what if they really weren’t? What if he’d anticipated this and the app was a way to keep it from happening?

  I reread Charade’s comment. It would make sense that Zeke would do this undercover. Maybe not for the FBI, but for someone else.

  It has to be Tony DeMarco – or, by extension, Adriana. He got into a car owned by DeMarco. He met with Adriana at the Chinese restaurant.

  ‘It’s Adriana,’ I whisper. Spencer nods. He’s on the same page. Adriana
knows who Zeke is. She knows he’s FBI, and she knows he’s a hacker. She’s also got the resources to have me followed. She could hold him hostage with the knowledge that she can get to me at any moment if she wants to. She could have forced him by threatening my safety. My life. Yet Zeke being Zeke, he might have only made it seem as though he was doing her bidding to save me. At the same time, he’s a hacker. And hackers are like magicians with a little sleight of hand: one minute you see it, the next you don’t. Adriana wouldn’t know what was happening underneath her own nose if he was feeding information to his people at the FBI at the same time.

  Sorting this all out makes me realize that the houseboat photograph must be about me. None of those other pictures indicated that Adriana had any clue about Ellen Chapman. Adriana knows I’m here. She knows I’m here.

  I think about the video chat. We wouldn’t be seeing anything if Zeke hadn’t set it up that way. He wants us to see what’s going on. He wants us to hear the conversation.

  Zeke knows that I might be watching.

  I go over his words in my head and it finally hits me. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure it out. ‘They’ll be able to find anyone with that GPS in the phone,’ he’d said. I fumble for the backpack and unzip the front pocket. The cellphone is in here – not the one Zeke gave us with the skimmer, but the phone I’ve had on me ever since I left Miami. The one with the GPS inside. The GPS that I did not disable because I wanted Zeke to know where I was.

  What I have not realized until right now is that, by not disabling it, I gave myself away to whoever’s been following me. And this compromised phone has pinpointed all of my locations.

  I scan the room. The windows are all covered by curtains, and while Ellen dimmed some lights, they are still on. I remember how when we approached the houseboat we could see the shadows inside. We’re exposed here.

  I lean over and across Spencer and turn off the light on the table next to the sofa. I hadn’t realized how bright it was until it’s off, but we’re still not sitting in the dark. The light over the kitchen sink is on, casting a warm glow. In better times, it might be nice, the boat gently moving with the river, a cup of hot tea, a good book. It reminds me a little of Block Island.

  But this houseboat was never really home, just a stopping point. And now it’s a prison.

  We need to get rid of the phone.

  As I take stock of our surroundings, I’m distracted by the laptop, by Zeke. He’s still there. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear him. Something’s wrong with the video chat. The sound has cut out. Whoever is with him might not know about the remote access Trojan, but he is clever, staying out of sight, only a shadow against the wall indicating that there is someone else there. As much as I try, I can’t make out the exact shape, either. Man, woman, it’s still anyone’s guess.

  And then, all of a sudden, the screen goes blank. Zeke’s gone in a split second. I hadn’t realized how relieved I’ve been to see him, even if I don’t know exactly where he is. Maybe the laptop’s merely gone to sleep. I hit a couple of keys and realize that it’s run out of juice. The power cord is in the backpack, but do we have enough time? How long can we stay here? I still half expect the door to swing open and the bad guys – whoever they may be – to come in and take us at gunpoint. Or worse.

  I want to shut off the kitchen light but I don’t dare get up. Spencer is oblivious as he chats with Charade. I assume they know each other from Incognito, but can either of them really tip his hand and reveal anything of any substance? I check the third laptop, the one where we’re watching d4rkn!te, and, by extension, Zeke. But that screen is dark, too, although not because of the battery. D4rkn!te has shut down. I’m not quite sure what to do now. How are we going to help Zeke? We don’t even know where he is. We don’t know who’s holding him, who d4rkn!te is. And we have no way off this boat without being seen.

  ‘Spence,’ I whisper.

  He doesn’t respond. He must be deep in conversation with Charade. I look at his screen, and see that I am wrong. He’s no longer chatting, but he’s inside a program I don’t recognize – until I do.

  ‘Is that the app?’ I ask.

  He puts his finger to his lips and nods. I cock my head toward my laptop to indicate that complete silence isn’t necessary anymore.

  ‘What happened?’ he asks.

  ‘Have to power up,’ I explain, leaning over to take the cord out of the pack. I plug it in and look around for an outlet, but remember that I don’t have the adapters. They’re back at the hotel. I sigh before I can stop myself, but Spencer doesn’t react. He’s checking out source code. He’s so intent on it that I’m curious. When I look a little more closely at his screen and scan the code, I try to see what’s got him mesmerized, but I can’t figure it out.

  He sees me frowning. ‘Look,’ he says, pointing at the code. ‘It’s the information from the Spencer Cross debit card.’

  We’ve already seen this and determined that it’s the same card number used to make the hotel reservation. I am about to remind him that this is old news, but then he toggles to another window and pulls up a similar program to the one I used to search for the bank that issued the Spencer Cross card. It really is too easy; even a novice could do this.

  But then I see it. Spencer Cross’s account number also belongs to Ryan Whittier.

  ‘How did you find this?’ I ask.

  ‘I just looked for the account number. Not the name. Ryan Whittier came up.’ He sounds as surprised as I am.

  This card, however, isn’t issued through the same bank as Spencer Cross’s. Ryan Whittier’s debit card is actually issued through a bank in Charleston. I puzzle over that for a few seconds. So there is a Charleston connection. And it gets even more interesting because the address associated with the card is listed at Charleston College.

  So Ryan Whittier is a Charleston College student after all?

  I’ve been convinced that the story was fake, but if the police had tracked this card, it’s no wonder it was reported the way it was. But the college spokesman told me they’d never had a student there by that name. He’d practically hung up on me. The only explanation is that Ryan Whittier is a fake name with a fake address. Not to mention sharing an account number with a fake Spencer Cross.

  Spencer has gone deeper into the card information. Unlike Spencer Cross, whose card balance is paid off through mysterious means, Ryan Whittier’s card is paid through his debit account at the bank where he got the card. His account information suddenly pops up on the screen. A list of charges and ATM withdrawals indicate that Ryan is still in Paris.

  And he last made a withdrawal at an ATM machine half an hour ago.

  ‘Can we find out which ATM?’ I ask Spencer. ‘Is it the same one as before?’ We should have stayed there. At the Chinese restaurant, or somewhere else in the vicinity, to see if he came back. ‘Check the phone. See if he had another transaction there.’

  But there’s no record of any new transaction at the ATM where we installed the skimmer, except the last one made by Ryan when we were still in the neighborhood. I’m disappointed, but a little surprised. It’s a busy corner. I can’t help but think that someone would want to get some cash. I’m still uncertain why Zeke wanted us to put the skimmer on that particular ATM. There has to be a reason. And a reason why he was hanging out at that Chinese restaurant. He’s been watching someone – or watching for someone. Is it Ryan Whittier?

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I almost miss it. The sound of voices outside, getting closer.

  Spencer’s not quite so oblivious, though. In one swift second, he’s got his laptops back in the backpack and indicates I need to do the same. When I’m done, he gets up and indicates that I should follow him into the bedroom. We step inside, and he shuts the door, but not all the way. We listen through the crack.

  Someone is pounding on the door and shouting something in French, but it’s muffled. I can’t make it out right away. And then I do.

  It�
��s the police.

  FORTY-ONE

  The door is unlocked. At least, we didn’t lock it after Ellen left, and I don’t remember her locking it, either. All they have to do is turn the knob, and they’re inside. I am frozen, uncertain what to do, but Spencer doesn’t seem to have my paralysis. He’s shoved the backpacks into a small closet and pulls his T-shirt off, exposing his torso.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask when he starts taking off his jeans.

  ‘Get undressed,’ he hisses.

  I stand, frozen. I don’t understand.

  He’s stripped down now to a pair of red-and-white striped boxers. I still haven’t moved.

  Spencer moves closer to me as the pounding continues. It’s only a matter of time before they realize they can come in without any trouble.

  ‘At least take your shirt off and get into bed,’ Spencer whispers, and then he does just that, looking at me expectantly as he holds open the covers for me to climb in next to him. I get it now. I take off my shirt and toss it on the floor, slip off my sneakers and shimmy out of my jeans. I crawl into the bed beside him, and he wraps the blankets around me.

  They’re inside now; I can feel the vibration of their heavy footsteps against the wooden floorboards. Spencer climbs on top of me. ‘We have to make it look good,’ he whispers, his breath hot against my neck. I’m not keen on this, but he’s right, now that I understand what he’s up to.

  Because when they burst into the bedroom, it certainly looks as though something very intimate is going on, with the clothing scattered on the floor and a clear view of Spencer’s bare back. He twists around a little and scowls.

  ‘What the fuck!’ he says loudly.

  I peer over his shoulder to see two police officers staring at us, uncertain what to do. I’m relieved that Agent Tilman is not with them; he would most certainly remember me from our encounter six months ago.

  ‘We are looking for two Americans,’ one of the officers says in a thickly accented English.