Neither of us has a passport to prove who we are, or any other type of identification.
‘I found this one in the bar up the street,’ I say in French, ‘but I didn’t know he had a friend, or I would have asked him to join us.’
Spencer’s hand tightens around my waist. I don’t think he understands what I’ve said, and I hope to keep it that way. I don’t dare look at his face, fearing that I might somehow give us away. I pray that they don’t pry, that they don’t ask which bar because I don’t know of any in the area, or even how close we are to a bar.
However, the officers look a little flummoxed, and one of them actually blushes.
‘Sorry,’ says the one who’s blushing, cocking his head to indicate that he and his partner should leave. The other one hesitates, and I stop breathing for a moment, worried that he is going to argue, but then he gives a shake of his head and they disappear around the corner.
Spencer doesn’t move.
‘Get off,’ I whisper.
‘They haven’t left yet,’ he whispers back. ‘Have to make it look good.’
He’s right. The officers are talking, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Finally, I hear the door shut. Spencer rolls off and settles into the bed next to me. We both stare at the ceiling, holding our breaths as if waiting for them to burst back in and shout ‘Surprise!’ or worse.
‘Do you think they’re really gone?’ I ask.
Spencer shakes his head as he pulls out a joint. His hands shake, indicating that he’s been rattled, or maybe he’s having a delayed reaction. He leans over and takes a lighter out of his jeans pocket, lights the joint and takes a drag before offering it to me. It doesn’t feel like a time to say no. Maybe it will settle the butterflies in my stomach and my pounding heart.
‘I’m not going to tell Tracker about this,’ Spencer says, and I can hear the question in his tone: Are you?
‘I don’t think he needs to know. And I don’t think we speak of this ever again.’
‘Never happened.’
I can’t help it, though. ‘It was actually pretty brilliant.’
Spencer grins. ‘What did you say to them?’
‘You’ll never know.’
‘He turned all red.’
‘Yeah, he did.’
Spencer swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets up, circling around to the window. He’s still only got his boxers on. He pulls back the curtain slightly and looks out.
‘I don’t see them,’ he says, then comes back and picks his jeans and T-shirt up off the floor, going into the other room.
I take that as my cue to get out of bed. I reach over, grab my shirt and tug it over my head. I sit for a moment to catch my breath. I hear him moving around in the other room, so I quickly put on my jeans and sneakers. The backpacks are still in the closet, so I fetch them and go out to meet him.
‘We have to get out of here while we can.’ I realize I haven’t told him about the phone, so I do. ‘We can throw it in the Seine on the way out. No one will be able to find us without it.’
‘We should have thought about that sooner,’ Spencer says. ‘I can’t believe we didn’t.’
‘Yeah, it was pretty stupid. I should’ve disabled the GPS right away.’ Neither of us says what we’re thinking: that we never thought Zeke would be able to be compromised like this. I realize now, too, that if someone had been following me through the GPS, then he must have had access to Zeke’s phone all along. Either physically or he hacked into it. Is it d4rkn!te?
I can’t get the image of him on the screen out of my head. He gave us a clue to save ourselves, but he’s still being held somewhere and we don’t know where. It’s possible that he was giving us more clues when the sound kicked off. Technology can be so fickle.
I notice now that Spencer is circling the room, looking in cabinets and under sofas. ‘What, are you casing the place?’ I joke.
He stops for a moment and faces me. ‘I think this is a drop address.’ And then he goes back to his search.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Jesus, Tina. Do you not know anything?’
I guess I don’t. I wait for him to explain. Instead, he exclaims, ‘Aha!’ and leans over behind the kitchen island, coming back up with a pile of boxes. He stacks them on the counter. They’re full of brand-name electronic devices. ‘Still don’t get it?’ Spencer asks.
I shrug.
‘OK, here’s the deal. When people go on a carding forum, they’re buying dumps, which means they’re buying a shitload of credit card information.’ He pauses. I think I know where he’s going now, but I let him have his moment. ‘They’ve only got a short time to use that card information, so they go online and order shit.’ He does a game-show model wave over the boxes. ‘This shit. But they have to have it delivered somewhere, preferably not their own residences where they could get caught.’
‘And you think that this is a drop address.’
‘Could be why the cops showed up.’
He’s got a point. ‘So then why didn’t they stay? They could have forced us out of bed. Searched the place.’
‘What did you say to them?’
OK. Maybe I embarrassed them to leave, which means that perhaps they’ll be back – and sooner, rather than later. But then I have another thought. What about Ellen Chapman? Is she part of the scam? The more I think about it, about her and the way she acted with us, it might not be too far from the truth. She might be undercover, too. ‘Do you think Ellen Chapman is FBI?’
He doesn’t seem fazed by the question. ‘She could have been here just for us. Dude told her to give us that envelope.’ He busies himself by checking out the boxes. ‘This is some good shit. Too bad we’re traveling light.’ It’s the way he dismisses it so lightly that makes me pretty sure that he might know far more about Ellen than he’s saying. I let it go for now. It’s time to leave.
‘Put that stuff back. Even if those cops weren’t here for us, we need to make tracks. Someone posted that picture of the houseboat. We’re not safe here.’
I barely give the room another glance as we let ourselves out. I drop the cellphone off the gangplank as we leave. It hits the water with a soft ‘plop.’ We glance around, hoping that will be the end of it. The coast seems clear, but things are rarely the way they seem these days.
FORTY-TWO
We’re waiting for the train in the metro station, on our way to the hotel where Spencer made the reservations with his fake credit card. A train rumbles to a stop in front of us, and I step forward and pull up on the handle to open the doors. I sit, but on the edge of the seat, watching the platform. I thought I saw Zeke that one time, but not now. The train begins to move, and while Spencer relaxes back into his seat, I am still too tense.
Spencer’s fingers tap nervously against the zipper on his backpack. His addiction is worse than mine; I can wait until wherever we’re going to go online. I’m tense for other reasons, despite the weed.
We need to get off at Cardinal Lemoine, and I almost miss the stop. Spencer is nodding off, so I shake his shoulder and we disembark. The hotel isn’t too far from here, just a walk up the hill. We are not far from the Panthéon and Jardin du Luxembourg, and since it is a touristy neighborhood, we may be able to blend in.
The hotel is behind two large wooden doors that I push open to reveal a cobblestone driveway. We walk into a lush courtyard with buildings on both sides. The lobby is to our left. ‘Let me talk,’ I say as we go inside.
It’s ironic, really, that we’ve used Spencer Cross’s credit card for the room. When the desk clerk asks if we want to keep it on the card we used to make the reservation, I say OK, hoping they don’t want to see it. Our luck continues as she just hands me a key and says our room is in the building opposite; do we need help with bags? I don’t point out that the backpacks are all we have; I merely tell her that we can find our way.
When we’re finally in the room – the wallpaper is covered with small pink flowers
and the bed has an old-fashioned white bedspread on it – Spencer plops down on the mattress, the backpack landing with a thud on the floor. I shrug mine off and sit in a plush armchair across the room.
‘I hope no one is tracking Spencer Cross tonight,’ I say.
He stares at the ceiling. ‘Fucking weird day, Tina. And we still don’t know what’s going on.’
He’s right. We’re going in circles. He lights a joint, takes a drag and hands it to me. After a few minutes, I lean my head back on the chair and close my eyes, letting the weed do its magic.
Sometime in the night, I wake up and move to the bed. I ignore Spencer’s soft snores and go back to sleep.
‘Wake up, Tina.’ Spencer is hovering over me, waving a coffee cup. His hair is wet, and he’s cleanly shaved.
The scent of coffee hits my nose, and I scoot up and take the cup, noticing the tray with a French press and some baguettes and jam. I indicate that I want some as I drink, and Spencer hands me a plate.
‘I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I doubt anyone’s followed us here since we dumped the phone,’ I say between bites and sips of coffee.
Spencer has opened one of the laptops. ‘Let’s see what d4rkn!te is up to,’ he says. ‘He’s got to give himself up sometime.’
Hacking can take time. A lot of time. We’re used to being patient, but do we really have that much time now?
‘What about your friend Charade? Can you reach out again? See if you can’t find out more about the base.’ I’m not sure that has anything to do with all of this, but it might. I’m grabbing at straws. Anything I can.
Spencer has already opened his second laptop and is doing what I’ve suggested. We’ve got three laptops, which means we’re not restricted to just one search at a time. I reach for my backpack and pull out mine. Oh, that’s right. It needs to be powered up. I sigh loudly, and Spencer tosses something at me. It lands next to my feet. An adapter.
He shrugs. ‘I got it from the concierge. Dude spoke English.’
I pull out the power cord and plug it into the wall, connecting it to the laptop, which springs to life when I hit the power button. I don’t know why I’m surprised when the message pops up on the screen. It’s not as though I don’t know that Zeke has access to my laptop, but it’s the question that throws me a little.
Did you get rid of the phone?
From what we witnessed last night, I wasn’t sure that Zeke would have access to his laptop again. But this question makes it clear that he’s at the helm. At least, that’s what I’m supposed to think.
I still can’t trust this completely.
‘Spencer.’
He’s sitting in the armchair across from the bed, engrossed in something on his own screen, and doesn’t even look up when I speak.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before typing, Yes.
Good.
My heart does a little leap. He’s online. He’s OK. No, it’s too easy. I remind myself that I still can’t completely believe this is really him. I toggle to the bookmarked poem. Where did we leave off? I can’t remember, so I just pick a line: Any man’s death diminishes me.
Because I am involved in mankind.
It’s the next line, but before I can respond, he adds: Not very romantic, is it?
I don’t want to admit that I have no idea what this poem means. Where are you?
If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.
I want to remind him that this isn’t exactly time for teasing, but I am relieved to know he’s OK.
What do you know?
Do I dare say anything? It still might not be him.
‘Spencer,’ I say, more loudly this time.
His head shoots up, a frown on his face. ‘What?’ he snaps.
I point at my screen.
He comes over and reads the messages. ‘Hold off for a second.’ He grabs the laptop he was working on. ‘If it’s really him, he doesn’t know about d4rkn!te’s RAT, otherwise he wouldn’t be asking you anything. He wouldn’t even engage.’
He’s got a point. I’d forgotten about the RAT because I was too happy to have contact. ‘We need to warn him.’ But I’m not exactly sure how to do that without completely tipping our hand. I want to make sure he stays safe, wherever he is.
Are you there?
Spencer and I exchange a look, neither of us certain what we should do. And then I have an idea.
Remember why I had to leave Quebec? It’s the only thing I can think of. If it is Zeke, this will remind him about the shadow in my laptop, the one that forced me to leave my sanctuary and return to the States despite the price on my head. I’m taking a chance that d4rkn!te does not know about my time in Canada or why I had to return.
Let me look into it.
He understands.
‘He’ll find it,’ I tell Spencer. ‘Right?’
Spencer nods.
‘What are you so focused on?’
He pulls his laptop over and shows me. D4rkn!te is in the chat room. He’s not engaging with anyone.
‘If he’s here, do you think he’s not watching Zeke?’ I ask.
‘I think he’s probably watching him.’ He doesn’t have to say any more. D4rkn!te most likely has a setup like Spencer did in Charleston and Miami. He’s savvy enough to post pictures of me, installing a RAT in Zeke’s computer without him knowing. Savvy enough that we can get into his laptop but find precious little about who he actually is – or where he is.
‘Maybe we can test it.’
I’m not sure I like that idea, but before I can say anything, he pulls out his second laptop and, with a few keystrokes, is signing into the same chat room that d4rkn!te’s navigating. To my surprise, he uses the screen name Tracker.
Now, this could be a huge mistake. ‘What are you doing? If he’s watching Zeke, then he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Trust me.’
I’ve trusted him for days, months, but I’m still uncertain about this. We don’t know how volatile d4rkn!te is, and this could be putting Zeke in even more trouble. But Spencer doesn’t seem concerned. He’s got one eye on this laptop and the other on the one that’s inside d4rkn!te’s computer.
I’m a little surprised that d4rkn!te hasn’t discovered the RAT yet in his own computer. Unless he’s so confident in his own skills that he thinks no one could ever hack him. His arrogance might be his Achilles heel.
I say as much, but Spencer is distracted as he watches d4rkn!te in the chat room. ‘Interesting that I’m here as Tracker, and he knows it, but hasn’t tried to communicate. He’s getting involved in some of the threads, but it’s like he’s deliberately ignoring me.’
I reach over and pat his arm. ‘Don’t feel rejected. He doesn’t know it’s you.’
He doesn’t have time to respond before a message pops up on my screen. It’s Zeke.
How did you know?
We’ve got a RAT in his computer, I type.
You managed that?
Yes, and never mind how. But we can’t get through his firewalls to find his IP address. Where are you?
What’s he doing?
Why is he so focused on d4rkn!te? He’s in the chat room. Spencer’s in there as Tracker.
Tell Spencer to get out of there NOW.
Spencer’s focused on his screen. ‘Spence?’ I indicate Zeke’s message. He frowns, but in a second, signs out of the forum.
He’s out, I type.
Do you know who he is?
No. Except he’s been stalking me. His screen name is d4rkn!te.
He’s a terrorist.
FORTY-THREE
I stare at the screen, my head spinning with questions. Terrorist? I have visions of 9/11, planes crashing into buildings, mass shootings. But involvement in a carding forum doesn’t seem quite at that level. It’s a crime, but non-violent. Maybe the stalking puts d4rkn!te on the edge, but even that isn’t terrorism. However, Zeke – the FBI – is involved, so perhaps my definition of terrorism isn’t quite as black a
nd white as I’ve thought.
Are you in danger? I write.
Nothing online. He might not have been the only one watching.
I hadn’t thought about that. Can we meet?
No.
Why not?
I can’t manage it right now. Stay put. It shouldn’t be much longer.
I want to ask if I’m in danger, if d4rkn!te is still following me. I give an involuntary shiver just thinking about it. And then my thoughts stray to the cellphone. To the app. As I consider the information that’s been transferred from the ATM, it’s clear that it’s extremely valuable – and possibly could bankroll terrorist activities.
Does Zeke have access to the information we have in the phone or are we the only ones who have it? But before I can ask, his next message pops up.
Just remember, I love you. And then he’s gone.
I stare at the screen.
‘I don’t know who he is, but he’s good,’ Spencer’s saying. He’s still trying to track d4rkn!te. ‘No matter what I try, it doesn’t work.’ He realizes I’m not paying attention. ‘What’s wrong?’
I don’t say anything. He peers at the screen over my shoulder and reads the exchange with Zeke.
‘What the fuck,’ he mutters. ‘A terrorist?’ His reaction is more disbelief than the shock I felt. ‘I mean, he’s obviously not one of the good guys, but a terrorist?’
‘Zeke’s in trouble.’
Spencer rolls his eyes at me. ‘Dude is FBI, Tina. How many times do I have to remind you? This is what he’s trained to do. He’s supposed to go after terrorists.’
‘He’s never said that before. He’s never told me he loves me.’ A chill runs through me. Under normal circumstances, I would be elated, but this is not normal. It’s almost like he’s saying goodbye. For good.
Spencer is frowning.
‘We have to find him,’ I say.
‘He says it shouldn’t be much longer, whatever it is he’s doing.’ Spencer chews on the corner of his lip. ‘We should trust him.’ But I can tell that even he is having a hard time with this. So much for ‘dude is FBI.’
I’m at a loss. I don’t know where to turn. The only thing we’ve got is the phone with the card information, but we don’t know what to do with it. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe no one is supposed to know where the information went. I don’t like the idea of that, though, either, since now we’re in possession of information that is extremely valuable to the wrong people.
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