Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Exactly, dude, which means it was probably spoofed. Made to look like it came from Washington.”

  Lucas leaned back in his chair. “Whoa.”

  Isabelle gave Salinger a look, her eyes rolling slightly. “Whoa what?”

  “Somebody just hacked into the system.”

  “Who?”

  “I dunno, but they’re pulling everything. Fast.”

  “Can you stop them?” asked Salinger, leaning forward.

  “Yeah, I guess. Easiest way is to cut the hardline.”

  “No cutting, can’t you just turn it off?” asked Isabelle.

  “That’s what I mean.” Randy reached for one of the nearby racks. “Want me to?”

  “Can you trace them?”

  “Oh yeah, dude, sure we can.”

  “Then do it. There’s nothing on here that we care about. And there’s no way this is a coincidence.”

  The conversation quickly devolved into acronyms and insults as the two “men” attacked their keyboards, each either in a race with the other, or somehow collaborating, she not sure which, to trace the origin of whoever was trying to tap the system.

  “Whoa.”

  It was said in unison, all typing stopping at once.

  “What?”

  Randy and Lucas both pointed.

  Isabelle was getting frustrated. “What the hell am I looking at? Who’s hacking the system?”

  “The CIA.”

  “What? Another spoof?”

  They both shook their heads in synch, as if sharing a single brain.

  “No, for real this time.”

  Isabelle turned to Salinger. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Suddenly something changed on the screens that had the boys excited again.

  “What’s going on?”

  “They’re gone,” explained Lucas. “They’ve disconnected.”

  “What did they get?”

  “Everything.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I mean everything. They tapped every pipe coming into the building and just copied it all.” Lucas shook his head, awe written all over his face. “These guys are good.”

  “The best,” agreed Randy as he tentatively typed something, almost as if he were afraid to touch anything. “And they cleaned up after themselves. If we weren’t here when it happened, no one would have ever known.”

  “And you’re sure it’s CIA?”

  “Yes.” Randy paused. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless they’ve got a mole.”

  “Huh?”

  “Someone on the inside, using their hardware.” Randy shrugged. “I don’t know, I doubt it, though you never know nowadays.”

  Isabelle frowned. “Well, that’s above my paygrade. I’ll mention it to the LT when we get back to the station.” She nodded toward the screens. “Now you were going to show us some security footage?”

  “Oh yeah! Almost forgot!” Randy hammered at the keyboard. “This is going to be so mundane compared to what just happened.”

  Sorry, “dude”, but what just happened wasn’t exciting to most of us.

  A video appeared of the parking garage. “So they wiped all the cameras for the elevators and the conference room floor for the entire time they were here, which was less than half an hour apparently, but they forgot one.”

  “Which one?”

  “Parking garage, third level,” replied Lucas. He pointed at the screen. “See the angle? You can actually see part of the second level through those concrete columns. I’m guessing they figured they didn’t need to wipe anything below the second level since they were never there.”

  Five men suddenly came into view.

  “Do we have audio?”

  Randy shook his head. “No, dude, this is all The Artist like.”

  “Just without the music!” laughed Lucas.

  “Dude!” laughed Randy, fist bumps exchanged.

  Society is doomed.

  The men left the frame. “Play it back.” Randy complied and Isabelle leaned forward, peering at the screen. “The one in the middle is the kidnap victim that the Secret Service rescued in the shootout. Mr. Quaid.”

  “Yup,” agreed Salinger.

  “Play it again.”

  Keys were hit.

  Isabelle stood up straight. “What does it look like he’s doing?”

  Salinger pursed his lips for a moment, then his eyebrows popped. “He’s arguing.”

  Lucas shook his head. “Dude’s got Hulk-sized cajones, man! And look at them, it’s like they’re scared of him.”

  Isabelle wasn’t sure she agreed with that assessment, though she did agree with one thing.

  It took massive balls to argue with four gunmen.

  And why did he seem completely unafraid?

  JW Marriott Hotel, New Orleans

  “One last time, what’s the password for the phone?”

  Once again Saunders refused to answer, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest, as they had been for most of the half hour Special Agent in Charge McCarthy had been interrogating him.

  “This is going to a lab as soon as we get back,” said McCarthy. “We’ll get into your phone. All you’re doing is delaying things. And making things worse for yourself.”

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Dawson turned to see Detective Isabelle Laprise in the doorway to the hall, her partner behind her. She didn’t look pleased.

  McCarthy rose from his perch on the edge of a couch. “I’m interrogating a suspect. And you are?”

  “Detective Laprise, NOPD.” She flashed her badge. “And you are?”

  “Special Agent in Charge McCarthy.”

  “Has this man been read his rights?”

  “He’s not under arrest.”

  “Then why are you interrogating him?”

  “Because he had an unauthorized cellphone and refuses to give us access to it.”

  Isabelle frowned. “I wasn’t aware he’s required to.”

  Jones stepped into the room. “As a member of my staff, he’s bound by his employment contract, which includes a clause that requires him to cooperate fully with any security protocols deemed necessary.”

  “And I deemed it necessary,” said Dawson, pointing to the next room, pushing the conversation out of earshot of their suspect. “He’s involved, that much is clear.”

  Isabelle lowered her voice. “I don’t doubt it. This was an inside job if there ever was one.”

  Jones suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I don’t believe it. I mean, Russ, he’s been with me for years. He’s the best. He’s been in the business for twenty years.” Jones shook his head. “No, I refuse to believe he’s behind my kidnapping.”

  “Two of you were kidnapped today, Mr. Jones.” Isabelle looked at him, hard, Dawson getting the distinct impression she had her suspicions about Jones himself.

  This could be interesting.

  “How well do you know Mr. Quaid?”

  Jones shrugged his shoulders. “I’d call him an acquaintance rather than a friend. He’s done a lot for my campaign, not just from donating his own money, but in gathering others to the cause. Outside of formal functions, though, I don’t really know much about the man.”

  “So you’re willing to take millions from a man you barely know, who will then have the ear of the President of the United States should you win.”

  Jones blushed, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “It’s just the way the game is played. If I win, I’ll fight to bring in campaign finance reform, but until then, I can’t even mention it. If the moneymen thought they’d lose their ability to buy their government, they’d pull their support in a heartbeat, and I’d never win.”

  Isabelle didn’t seem impressed with his subdued campaign promise. “What exactly was said to you when you were held captive?”

  Jones again seemed uncomfortable, Dawson an expert at reading body language.

  And this man’s holding something back.<
br />
  “They wanted me to stop talking about Russian sanctions. To tone down my speeches about the Russians.” He looked at the floor then away from them. “I don’t know, maybe I’ve been a little harsh. Perhaps the best way to peace is appeasement at this point rather than sabre rattling that could lead to an all-out war.”

  Now I know something’s wrong.

  “Uh huh.” Isabelle didn’t seem to be buying it either. “That’s quite the turnaround from the speech you gave earlier today.”

  Jones flushed bright red, but said nothing.

  “And what happened to your acquaintance, Mr. Quaid, while all this was going on?”

  Jones shook his head. “I don’t know. I mean, we were taken from here together, but when we got to wherever it was they took us, we were separated. I didn’t see him again until you guys showed up at the building.” He looked around. “Where is he?”

  “Being held down the hall,” replied Dawson. Something had stunk about this entire situation from the get go and there was no way he was going to allow Quaid access to Jones until he knew the complete story. “He’s being debriefed by one of my men.”

  Jones looked at Dawson. “You need to take it easy on him. He-he could walk with his money, then I’m ruined.”

  Isabelle snapped her fingers and her partner produced a laptop. “I think there’s something you need to see.” With a few swipes and clicks a video from a security camera began to play. He placed it on the table for everyone to see. “Tell me what you see there, Mr. Jones.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s Pete by the looks of it, with some of the guys who took us.”

  “What else?” pressed Isabelle.

  Jones shrugged, looking at her. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  He sighed then suddenly snapped. “No, I don’t know! Why don’t you tell me, Detective? It’s been a long night and I just want to get on a plane and go home, sleep in my own bed, and put tonight behind me! So why don’t you tell me what you see?”

  The tirade didn’t seem to faze Isabelle at all.

  This one has her shit together.

  “I’ll tell you what I see, Mr. Jones. I see a man who has no fear.”

  The wind seemed to be taken from Jones’ sails as his voice dropped. “What are you trying to say?”

  Isabelle pointed at the looping video. “I say this man Quaid knew his captors. I say he was in on it.” She leaned closer to Jones. “And I say you know it.”

  Leaving St. Paul, Maryland

  Nadja Katz looked at the two terrified people in the backseat, sandwiched between her men. They were young, definitely not her original targets, but her employers had ordered total rapid containment, there apparently a serious issue in New Orleans that she might be sent in to clean up once the Titanic infection had been put to bed.

  She had to admit she was curious about this entire affair. The Titanic had sunk over a century ago. No one from that time was alive anymore, so why the concern? She wasn’t privy to any details, except that she was to contain any references to a Captain Wainwright and a painting. Anyone who had been exposed to that information was to be tracked and eliminated along with anyone they may have had contact with that could have contracted the disease.

  The disease being information.

  Knowledge is power, she had always believed, but she also knew knowledge could sometimes mean death. In this case it was unfortunate, as these people weren’t involved in actively seeking out state or industrial secrets, they had just stumbled upon something they were never supposed to know about. And even then, they didn’t really know much.

  But if they continue to pry…

  And that was what her employers were terrified of, though she was attributing the emotion to them. Though she had never felt fear before, she assumed her reaction would be to do whatever it took to remove the cause of the fear, and with the leeway she had been given on this assignment, it was as if her employers were doing everything possible to remove their own fear.

  The Asian woman was young, judging from her facial structure she’d guess Southeast Asian, possibly Vietnamese, most likely Mai Lien Trinh, one of Professor Acton’s grad students. The other one was nobody to her, though clearly somebody to this young girl, she cradling his head, blood caking one side of his face where he had sustained some sort of injury.

  “Your name?”

  The young woman looked startled, terrified. And said nothing.

  “Your name, now.” She didn’t raise her voice, simply changed the tone. There was no emotion, no impatience, it was simply a tone she had seen others use that elicited the response she needed.

  “M-Mai Trinh.”

  Thought so.

  “And him?”

  “T-Tommy Granger.”

  “Who is he to you?”

  “M-my friend.”

  “Not boyfriend?”

  The young woman flushed.

  Not her boyfriend. Yet.

  “You are one of Professor Acton’s grad students?”

  Mai’s eyes widened and she nodded.

  “And him?”

  “He’s a student, but not one of Professor Acton’s.”

  Nadja pulled out her cellphone and selected Professor Acton’s cellphone number from the list. The bug planted at Steve Wainwright’s house had paid off quickly, they returning home from their dinner full of conversation about the two professors who were helping determine if the painting was real, and about how they believed Captain Wainwright and his ship must have been at the scene of the sinking.

  It was information her employers hadn’t told her, and she would make certain they never knew what she knew, otherwise she herself could become a target. What her employers’ involvement was with this she didn’t know, but if it were true, that there was a US Navy ship on the scene that didn’t render assistance, and her employers were behind it, she could see why they would want that kept secret.

  What was more interesting to her was what the original mission of the ship was. It couldn’t have been there by coincidence, it’s too big an ocean. And if people had indeed gone on board like the Wainwrights were discussing, it certainly wasn’t to steal a painting.

  What could be so important that you would let so many die?

  Especially a US Navy ship.

  That simply didn’t make sense to her. She couldn’t imagine it happening today, though perhaps back then it was possible. The world was a different place, yet even so, it was just unfathomable to think military personnel of a modern democracy would allow innocent civilians, many from their own country, to die while they sat idly by, stealing something.

  There was definitely something much bigger going on.

  And you don’t want to know what it is.

  She tapped the number.

  A man’s voice answered after several rings. “Hello?”

  “If you want to see your friends alive, Professor Acton, you will bring us the painting.”

  “Who’s this? Who are you?”

  “Who I am is unimportant. What I have, and what you have, is.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you have? Are you the people who just shot that young woman and took Mai and Tommy?”

  “Yes. And you, Professor Acton, can save their young lives by telling the authorities nothing. If the police become involved, they die.”

  “But they’re already involved. They arrested Jim and Laura just a few minutes ago!”

  Katz’s eyes narrowed. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “I’m not sure if I should tell you.”

  She shook her head. She had read the extensive file on Acton on her way to his house, her employers providing an impressive dossier on the man, his travels, his exploits.

  And his friends.

  “This is Dean Gregory Milton, isn’t it?”

  Somebody gasped.

  A woman.

  “Yes.”

  “And your wife, I presume.”

  “Yes.”

&nb
sp; “You will tell the police nothing about this conversation or not only will these two young students of yours die, so will your wife and daughter.”

  She ended the call, looking back at her two hostages.

  They’ll die soon enough.

  Though not before the trap was set for much bigger prey.

  JW Marriott Hotel, New Orleans

  Christopher Jones sank into a nearby chair, his head dropping between his knees as he grabbed at his hair, unsure of what to do. They know! And if they know, then everyone he cared about would die. If his own aide was in on this, and his primary financial donor as well, then there was no one he could trust.

  Or is there?

  These people were new. Could this cabal that had threatened him earlier have brought in a New Orleans police detective so quickly? He doubted it, but then again, they had somehow managed to kidnap him and take him to a location that from what he had overheard was pre-booked. That meant the contingency of him not agreeing to Quaid’s demands had been anticipated.

  Which meant they could have also anticipated something else going wrong.

  And that meant they might have had a detective ready.

  No, he couldn’t trust her.

  His thoughts turned to Agent White, a name he knew wasn’t real, the team of four he was with on special assignment. They could have been brought in by this organization as well.

  But why would they have killed four of their own men?

  That didn’t fit, though he had read enough news stories and briefings to know that organized crime, especially mafias like the Russians, treated their muscle as commodities. Sacrificing four foot soldiers would mean nothing to them, especially if it were to make him trust them.

  But the phone?

  That made no sense. Why would this man White reveal Saunders involvement? Surely that wouldn’t be of any benefit. Then again, it certainly would make him trust these men even more. Wouldn’t it?

  He wasn’t so sure.

  He liked to think he was a good judge of character. Quaid he had never trusted but needed his money. He had never thought he was a criminal working for the Russians, yet he was definitely someone he never trusted. Saunders was cutthroat when he had to be, and had crushed more than a few people in his path over the years. He was someone he would never consider a friend, would probably not associate with if he weren’t the best at what he did.