Cyber Warfare (INTERCEPT: A Jack Coyote Thriller Book 2)

by J. S. Chapman

  Coyote shrugged wearily. “That moral high ground you’re always so proud to stand on? — my country, do or die. Whether I like it or not, I’ve been forced to take my own stand. But what about you? How has it been working out for you so far?”

  “I still believe in our mission.” The words came out robotically, the well-rehearsed response of a government bureaucrat.

  “Woe unto the idealists. I guess we’ll never see eye to eye. We’re the good guys, is that it? Except the other side thinks they’re the good guys. Funny, how that works out. People die because of tribalism and inflexible dogmas. Milly, for instance.”

  “We should never forget Milly.”

  “I thought you would have written her off by now. Just another casualty of an undeclared war.”

  “I want her killer brought to justice, even if it turns out to be you.”

  “Sweet of you to offer your condolences prior to the main event.”

  “I ask again,” John said, ignoring his sarcasm, “what did you find out?”

  “Come on, John, don’t play dumb with me. Hell, I’ll even make it easy for you. The Cold War has warmed up.”

  A breath of silence passed between them, each man playing a war of wills, each outstaring the other.

  “Political alliances change,” John said.

  “Does patriotism? Integrity? Honor?”

  “How did you find out?”

  “An intercept. Someone slipped up.”

  John stared into Coyote’s cheerfully sardonic eyes. “At our end?”

  “Theirs.” Jack tossed out his hand in a condescending gesture. “And here I thought Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia.”

  John took a girding breath, his eyes staring blankly through the windshield. Outside, a passing parade of pedestrians strolled beneath brilliant blue skies while inside the car, the atmosphere was gloomy. “I have always believed in HID and what we do, but let me be straight with you. What happened to you and Milly has made me question everything. I’ve been arguing with myself. Is Coyote a homicidal maniac? If so, why couldn’t we see the signs? If not, what the hell happened?”

  “A puzzlement, isn’t it?” Coyote said lightly.

  John angled his head, trying to figure the man out. He was a glib son of a bitch with a cocky grin. He was also a lone wolf. Probably always had been. “Were you ever on our side?”

  “Was I supposed to be?” Coyote let that sink in. “Hell, don’t get me wrong. I’m not laughing because it’s funny. I’m laughing because it’s ironic. They had to shut me up.”

  “They?”

  “Milly was the collateral damage.”

  “You killed her. Because she knew what you were up to.”

  “You’re playing dumb again. But to answer your question in an indirect way … I don’t think anybody inside HID is … quote-unquote … on our side. Everyone is on their own side, protecting private little kingdoms of power. Howden, Browne, Cameron. And let’s not forget Brandon.”

  “But not me?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Well,” he said, flourishing his hand, “someone ought to have a conscience about what goes on there.”

  “And you’re nominating me?” Coyote stared at him. Him. John Sessions. The mild-mannered bureaucrat who derided the way the Firm worked but more times than not went along to get along.

  “You know what I mean, don’t you? You’ve known all along.”

  The men continued to stare each other down, neither blinking but both coming to a tacit understanding.

  “Because you see,” Coyote said, “I can’t do anything. I’ve already been written off. I’m a nonperson. But you can.” Unceremoniously he got out of the car and strolled away.

  35

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  Wednesday, July 30

  IT WAS THE dead of night in a foggy-bottomed area not far from Chevy Chase. Two cars drove up to the deserted picnic area, one a convertible with the top up and the other ready for the junkyard. Each driver had come alone. For a while the cars sat idling, the occupants listening to night sounds and watching for unexpected guests. Except for swarming mosquitoes and fireflies, the campground was deserted.

  A good-looking though beaten man climbed out of the clunker and slid into the passenger side of the sports car.

  The interior light revealed a woman descended from the mythological heroines of times past … when Arachne, half-spider, half-female, and the mother of all spiders … and Chimera, the fire-breathing monster with the heads of lion, snake, and goat … walked the earth. Their daughter, descended from countless generations, was considerably tamer but just as driven. Careless about her appearance, this singular woman was layered in mismatched clothing—simultaneously garish and drab, magnificent and plain, flashy and homely—but brought out the best of a lady who knew her own mind and celebrated her strengths as well as her flaws.

  The man pulled the door closed and sealed himself within the symbolic mouth of the dragon. The cramped foreign make smelled of leather and plastic. The dashboard glowed with an array of electronic diodes. The air conditioning blew a steady stream of cool air, a welcome relief to the bug-infested humidity outside. “Sorry to chase you out here.”

  “I’m not complaining,” Vikki said. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve had better days. Then again, I’ve had worse. Much worse.”

  “I’ve been calling in favors,” she said. “Twisting arms. Making veiled threats. Initially, everyone was reluctant to talk. Eventually, they seemed relieved to get things off their chest.”

  “Learn anything interesting?”

  “Mostly unsubstantiated rumors and hearsay, but with a central theme.”

  “About?”

  “The dirty war of state terrorism. Shutting down dissent. Going after political enemies. Activists, journalists, and scientists. Using Nazi tactics including wholesale arrests, raids, roadblocks, and roundups. Often shoving the accused into jails without access to counsel. Everything done with the close cooperation of the FBI, ICE, and local law enforcement. And the usual suicides, traffic accidents, overdoses, afflictions, and deaths by misadventure. There’s also talk about a network of black sites—Gulag Archipelagos, Auschwitzes, Guantánamos, call them what you will—located inside the good ol’ USA, often on remote properties conveniently abandoned by the Bureau of Land Management, the facilities surrounded by barbed wire, locked down with electronic surveillance, and patrolled with a shoot-first, ask-questions-later mentality. It rather explains everyone’s skittishness against data breaches, wouldn’t you say?”

  They sat side by side in silence as the darkness closed around them. Not only the darkness of night but the darkness of outside forces with all the power, leaving none for everyone else.

  “Important people have known about their activities for quite some time, ever since the Iran invasion, but turned a blind eye for political reasons. When security breaches appeared in all the wrong places, they feared heads would roll. You were nominated to set things right. Until you became the loose end. Pull just one thread, and it could unravel the entire cloth. They had to do something about it. And you.”

  “I’m tired,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Tired of thinking. Tired of living.”

  She placed an arm around his shoulders and drew him against her, the warm, soft blanket of her body nestling him like a mother hen nestles her chick.

  “There’s another reason I brought you out here,” he said, drawing away. “The hacker I mentioned before? I tracked him down. He’s dead.”

  “Oh my. Dare I venture to guess the cause of death?”

  “Asphyxiation from a makeshift noose strung to a light fixture in his bedroom. I also wanted to give you this.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a jump drive. “You’ll find a list of names, phone numbers, and emails. Acquired from … a friend. I broke into her cell phone,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “Her associations with powerful people inside and outsi
de HID run deep. You might find them useful.”

  “I’ll keep it safe.” She held onto it, rubbing it with the pad of her thumb like a talisman. “The first installment of our story should hit the sidewalks next week.”

  “Why the delay?”

  “They’re giving it the once-over. Not to worry. It’s a good thing. The paper doesn’t want any legal entanglements. Where will you be when the shit hits the fan?”

  “Anywhere but here. What do you know about Senator Reed? Other than him having his eyes on the Oval Office.”

  She inquisitively raised her eyebrows. “Why especially do you ask?”

  “I met him once. The night when everything came down. It could’ve been a coincidence. Or maybe not. So … scandals … rumors … affiliations?”

  She thought for a moment before saying, “Ever hear of the Fellowship?”

  He gave her a curious look, remembering what Rupert told him about it. “In passing.”

  “Also known as the Fraternal Order of Clairvaux, or simply the Clairvaux Society.” She took a calming breath before going on. “In the twelfth century, Bernard Clairvaux founded the Cistercian brotherhood and went on to rally the faithful for the Second Crusade. Race forward a thousand years to a new crusade, this time against the infidels of egalitarianism and socialism, specifically the New Deal promulgated by FDR. Founded in the 1930s, the Fellowship launched a systematic political agenda to fight Roosevelt, whom they considered a traitor to the only god they ever worshipped: The Almighty Dollar. Giving unto the poor instead of the elite was anathema to them, even if Christly. By the 1940s, they successfully rolled back some of FDR’s greatest achievements. Then they moved onto foreign policy, setting up dictatorships to attain influence abroad. General Suharto of Indonesia ordered the executions of a half million of his own people while America complacently watched. General Siad Barre of Somalia reduced his nation to lawlessness, bringing the people to their knees. Other madmen preceded and followed. Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia. Papa Doc Duvalier of Haiti. President Rodrigo Duterte in the Philippines. And the list goes on. The gallery of monsters as the Fellowship calls their putrid allies. Simply put, the society has helped steer our foreign policy for decades. They’re backed by the military-industrial complex and the worshipers of laissez-faire economic neoliberalism. Their ultimate goal is to consolidate power through a series of laws and powerplays that would transform America into a one-party dictatorship. History has shown them the way. Mussolini. Hitler. Mao Tse-Tung. Pit citizen against citizen, vilify the intelligentsia, silence the press, spread lies, and imprison dissenters. Engaging in perpetual wars always helps. The Fellowship thought it would take five short years. It’s taken much longer. But they’re patient since the ultimate prize is everything. Once America falls, world domination and unlimited wealth is within their grasp. If you’re going to tell me they’re insane … or that I am for telling you this … you couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

  “Are you saying Senator Reed is a Manchurian candidate?”

  “Or Siberian.” She shrugged noncommittally. “But yes, I think so.”

  “Can Reed get elected?”

  “Sure, he can. By feeding pabulum to an uneducated, mystified, and angry electorate, and making them believe up is down and down is up. It’s easy to take everything away from them and then build them up with propaganda and empty promises. They’ll happily digest breakfast with a spoon, spit it out like venom at lunch, and ask for a second helping by dinner. A leader doesn’t have to be smart. Only ruthless. The fish, as they say, rots from the head down.”

  “And the current President?”

  “The jury is still out. In any event, her two terms will soon draw nigh.”

  When he reached for the door handle, she stopped him with her voice. “You will keep in touch.”

  Hers was more of a demand than a question. She was worried about him. It was nice to know but not very comforting, considering the odds. “I’ll try to check in.”

  “If you don’t?” she asked.

  “You’ll know I’ve been neutralized. Like Harry.”

  36

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Thursday, July 31

  ON THE LAST day of July, Jack drove to a bank in downtown Annapolis, emptied his checking account, and walked out with almost nine-thousand dollars in cash after wiring the balance to a Cayman Islands bank account under the name of John Jackson Finlay. The money represented everything he had in the world, not counting two retirement accounts and the hundred thousand dollars waiting for him in a different Cayman Islands bank, provided the money was still there.

  He stepped outside. Reconnoitered the street. And sensed something off. Vibes he could feel rather than see or hear or smell. A seismic shift.

  From all appearances, it was a typical summer day. The domed State House provided a picturesque backdrop against bakeries, ice cream shops, oyster bars, minimarts, boutiques, and coffee shops. Parked cars jammed both sides of the street. Bumper-to-bumper traffic cruised at a crawl. Carefree tourists lined the sidewalks, licking ice cream cones and sipping bottled water. Lovers walked hand-in-hand. Teenagers goofed off. Laughter and conversation hummed. Water-laden breezes whipped off the bay. And an unoccupied black sedan hogged two parking spots.

  Patting his pants pockets as if he had forgotten something, Jack turned back toward the bank entrance. Two patrons emerged, one following the other, a man holding the door open for a woman, the woman thanking him kindly. Jack stepped alongside them, mingling with the sidewalk crowd. A hundred yards along, he burst into a dash, shoving pedestrians out of the way, pointing back, and shouting, “He’s got a gun!”

  People reacted, some screaming and shrieking, others scrambling for cover, still others paralyzed. The smart ones complained about the damned inconvenience. The few who had no clue of what was going on glanced around, bewildered.

  In the mêlée, Jack sneaked up behind Sergeant Jaime Benedicto and rammed the barrel of his semiautomatic snugly against the cop’s side. “Did you really think it was going to be that easy?”

  Benedicto instinctively reached for his belt.

  “Easy now.”

  He followed Jack’s implicit instructions and pushed hands away from his weapons.

  “Wave to the people,” Jack said, smiling broadly. “Let them know everything is just fine.”

  He obeyed.

  The panic blew over. Everyone went about their business as if nothing had happened. Conversations resumed. Two women laughed. A man shrugged at his companion. Teens ran zigzagging patterns around strangers, laughing hilariously. A mom disciplined her two youngsters, one with a pat to her behind.

  With a metallic thrust, Jack urged the big man back toward the sedan, grinning and slinging a friendly arm around his neck to make everything appear normal, merely the chance meeting of two old friends. The sergeant’s formidable presence pacified everyone in the vicinity. “Get in. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I will if I have to.”

  “Odd thing to say, considering.”

  Jack prodded the barrel more forcefully against his side. “I mean it. Climb over to the passenger seat. That’s it. And watch where you put your hands.”

  Benedicto obeyed, limber for his bulky size, and clambered effortlessly over the center console.

  Jack stayed close, sliding into the driver’s seat while pressing the muzzle of the automatic against the cop’s ribs. “Handcuffs,” he said, nodding toward his utility belt.

  Benedicto held up his hands in a capitulatory gesture, reached one hand slowly back, and released the cuffs from his belt.

  Jack indicated the steering wheel. “Both wrists.”

  Keeping his eyes peeled on Jack’s trigger finger, Benedicto moved deliberately, secured one cuff to his right wrist, slid the chain through the steering wheel, and secured the other cuff to his left wrist, the metallic clicks audible. The position was an awkward one, his body dragged forward and slightly leftward.

  Jack started the eng
ine and cranked up the air conditioning.

  Benedicto studied Jack’s face. “You’ve been in a fight.”

  “All my life.” Jack relieved him of his firearm, stun gun, and two-way radio, and tossed them into the back seat. “Keys for the handcuffs?”

  Benedicto indicated his utility belt.

  Jack tossed them with the rest. “How did you find me?”

  “You needed money to make a run for it.”

  “You’ve been staking out the bank this entire time?”

  The detective chuckled without humor. “Taking shifts.”

  “I have a name for you,” Jack said, leaning against the door while keeping the semiautomatic low and trained on the sheriff’s midsection. “Let’s see if you recognize it.”

  Benedicto stared past him and out the window, his breaths even, his nose pinched, his lips scowling. “I’m listening.”

  “Simon Brodey.”

  He reacted the way Jack hoped he would.

  “I’m only going to say everything once, so listen up. Brodey was one of the operatives who set me up. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. Type O was waiting for him, holding his wife hostage. He killed her and left me for dead. Not quite dead. Just incapacitated enough so I could take the blame like the last time. I managed to get out of there. He’s five-ten, five-eleven. French like the girl. Dark hair, dark eyes.”

  “You said operatives.”

  “I’m guessing four or five altogether. I don’t know who they are, but I do know who hired them.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Benedicto smiled as if he had swallowed something nasty. “The Homeland Intelligence Division.”

  “No one would ever accuse you of stupidity, Detective. It’s nice to know our men in uniform are up to the task.”

  And the woman in the Metro station?”

  “I take it you viewed the security videos.”

  A smile rose on the detective’s lips. “Proves nothing.”