Vertigo

by Wesley Cross

  “Why did you say you needed help?”

  “There might be an easier way to do this,” she said. “There was a rumor about a year ago that when IBM was hacked, someone lifted the specs for traders’ handhelds.”

  “What are those?”

  “It’s a small computer that the floor brokers use. You might’ve seen them on TV. A small, black, rugged-looking rectangular box. They produce only a limited number of them, custom hardware internals and special adaptors for the high-speed wireless within the exchange floor. Those are impossible to hack. They have what’s called a trusted protection module inside, a tamper-proof key storage for sensitive crypto operations. You won’t break those in a million years even if you had a supercomputer.”

  “But you said someone stole the specs?”

  “Well, officially, they weren’t stolen,” she said, “but I know for a fact that they were. And if I had them, I’m certain I could get into the network.”

  “How do you know it was?”

  “I’ve seen a part of it. Whoever stole it was fishing for buyers, but it was like trying to sell a highjacked space shuttle. It’s surely worth a lot of money, but who the hell is going to buy it?”

  “And do you know who that person was?”

  “No,” she shrugged almost apologetically, “but I know how to find him. I thought about reporting him to the feds at the time but didn’t do it in the end. Out of solidarity, I guess. He—at least, I’m reasonably certain it’s a he—lives right here in New York. Chinatown, to be exact.”

  “So, let’s say we find him,” Vic said. “Then what? Ask him nicely?”

  “Pretty much,” Chen said. “And if that doesn’t work, I’d have to break into his place and try to hack him from the inside. I don’t think I’d be able to hack him remotely.”

  They sat in silence for a few a minutes, digesting what was said.

  “I don’t like this,” Vic said. “Think about it. He’s not going to help you if we contact him anonymously. I mean—why would he? He would need some kind of incentive, which I’m guessing you don’t have. And if you would want to make an appeal to his human side and tell him the entire story of why you need this, you would put your entire life at risk. He’ll know your identity. You’ll be at his mercy and would have to hope for the best that he doesn’t sell you to the feds or worse, blackmail you for the rest of your life.”

  “I understand that. But what are my options? I don’t think I can steal it from him in time. If I had a month or two to prepare, then maybe, but I’m afraid it’ll be too late, and the merger will go through. But I can’t sit on my hands and do nothing. This is my only shot.”

  “Listen,” he said and looked up at her with an expression she’d never seen before, “is there any chance I can talk you out of this?”

  “No.” She shook her head and looked at him with stubborn determination. “I have to do this. I have to talk to that guy.”

  “Okay then. But I have a better idea,” Vic said, standing up. “Tell me how to find him.”

  19

  September 2007

  Washington, DC

  The suite, as all other rooms in the hotel, presented sweeping views of the Potomac River and historic Georgetown neighborhood. The Ritz-Carlton Georgetown wasn’t the closest hotel to the White House. If someone were to set out on foot to the most well-known address in the country, it would take them at least forty minutes as they would have to go north first, across the canal and then turn west onto M Street and then merge on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  But what it lacked in proximity, the hotel made up in privacy as it was well known for an exceptionally high standard of discretion to all of its guests. From behind the wide panels of bulletproof glass, that was installed to entice important diplomatic guests and dignitaries, Audrey Hunt looked on as the setting sun shone through the trees of Theodore Roosevelt Island. She watched the river make a gentle turn around the island, past the white rectangle of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and under the Roosevelt Bridge.

  It was too early for the leaves to start changing from green to red and gold, but perhaps because the sun was so low, Audrey felt as if the autumn was already here. Usually, this time of the year brought her some gentle sadness. She thought that fall was nature’s way to remind humans of their mortality. To show them that everything was bound to end, no matter how vigorously they tried to fight the passage of time.

  But now, as she watched the river running its course, she felt strangely alive. Fall wasn’t the harbinger of death and winter wasn’t the end of things. It was a time of cleansing, a rebirth, after which the strongest would emerge like a butterfly from the chrysalis toward the brightly shining summer sun.

  They’d arrived at the hotel the night before, and an hour after they checked in, Jim Rovinsky knocked on the door. They had been brainstorming the upcoming meeting with the president for the entire week, and yet they ended up discussing it into the wee hours in the morning, drinking coffee after coffee and trying to cover every angle, every rebuttal, every possibility.

  Now, while the two men were trying to convince the most powerful person in the world that there was a global conspiracy—a threat not just to the presidency, or even to their country, but to the world order—she was left with the hardest task of them all—waiting for the result.

  Audrey watched as a white split sternwheeler, its paddles foaming the dark waters behind it, chugged past the island. The double-decker boat looked as if it was transported from the late 1800s. The irony didn’t escape her. A trailblazer her entire life, an equal partner in all family endeavors, and a fearless emissary of her nonprofit that built schools and hospitals in some of the most dangerous places on Earth, now she was forced to be playing the role of an obedient wife. She should be wearing a puffy dress and a modest bonnet, she mused. Waiting for someone else to make a decision.

  She wondered what was going to happen if the president were to say no. Were they supposed to go back to their ordinary lives and pretend that nothing else had happened? Could they do anything? Or were they bound to watch from the sidelines as the drama unfolded before their eyes? A small part of her still didn’t quite grasp the magnitude of the task they were about to undertake.

  Her imagination conjured up the images of the president throwing her husband and Rovinsky out of their meeting after listening to the tale of global conspiracy that was about to take over the world. But, of course, this wasn’t the first time somebody had an aspiration to bring the world to its knees, bend it to their will, and enjoy the fruits of other people’s labor.

  It had happened many times before: the Roman Empire, the Mongols, the British Empire, Nazi Germany. In a strange way, she realized, arguing that nothing was about to happen right now was not unlike sitting in a sunlit hotel in Poland on the eve of the German invasion, drinking hot linden tea and enjoying a piece of kolach, while explaining to your peers why there was absolutely not going to be another world war.

  The only true difference this time was the fact that the aggressor didn’t have a familiar and instantly recognizable face. It didn’t fly banners with bold red colors and a creeping black spider of a swastika. Instead, it was a faceless hydra with multiple tentacles slithering their way into the very fabric of modern society. If anything, that made it only more dangerous.

  She heard a key swipe on the door lock and turned around in time to see Andrew Hunt walk into the room. There were dark circles around his eyes, but there was a smile on his lips.

  “He said yes,” he announced. He walked across the plush rug and collapsed on a sofa, not bothering to take off his shoes. “We’re getting a fifty-million-dollar budget, at least for now, some key personnel shuffled around for the Unit to use, and an old installation out in California for a temporary training facility.”

  “You know, it’s a shame,” she said.

  “I have to admit,” he said, a puzzled expression on his face, “this is not the reaction I expected. Are you having second
thoughts?”

  “No.” She shook her head and sat next to him. “Not at all. This is obviously great news. And I’m going to tell you that I am not going to be bringing coffee to your office. I want to be included in every decision.”

  “I never intended to have you bringing me coffee.” He smiled, throwing his hands in the air in a defensive gesture.

  “But what I was trying to say was that it’s a shame that this needs to be done at all. We should be living in a golden age right now. No wars, no diseases, no poverty. Instead,” she made a sweeping gesture with her hand, “we are in this giant mess.”

  “What do you mean by golden age?”

  “The US military budget this year is almost seven hundred billion dollars, that’s what I mean. And then you have other countries doing the same thing on a smaller scale. Imagine what you could do if you spent this much money every year on things like renewable energy and disease research. We could conquer the deadliest diseases within a decade and solve the energy crisis for the entire world at the same time.”

  “That’s my dreamer.” He pulled her into a bear hug and planted a kiss on her lips.

  “And kids.” She gently pushed him away. “Why are there kids like Dalmar, who have to grow up surrounded by poverty and violence and so much despair? No adult should experience what that kid has already seen in his short life. They should be able to experience life to the fullest, surrounded by happy peers instead of grimy, angry men carrying automatic weapons.”

  “I know,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s human nature. Tribalism is part of our DNA, our internal survival mechanism. Us versus them.”

  “Bullshit,” she said. “We don’t live in lean-tos anymore, where you need to ride your horse for two hours to get to the next village. We are way past the point where this kind of mentality is necessary or even useful. You can fly around the world on a commercial airplane in a couple of days.”

  “So why do you think we are who we are?”

  “Greed. That’s the only explanation I have,” Audrey said, “and this is the biggest conspiracy of them all because it has so many faces. The military industrial complex, the oil companies, big pharma. It all comes down to a bunch of people concerned with lining their own pockets above everything else.”

  “Well, if that’s the case,” he said, “then we’re doomed. You can defeat even the most powerful enemy if you know who they are. But how do you defeat greed? It’s like fighting the mythical hydra when every time you cut one of its heads off, it grows two more.”

  “I don’t know yet,” she said, “but this whole experience was a real eye-opener for me. It made me think—what if we are not ambitious enough?”

  “How so?”

  “Think about what we are doing here and why our organization is being established. There’s an actual conspiracy out there to take over the world. That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, but now somehow it makes total sense. And if someone’s convinced they can accomplish that, obviously for all the wrong reasons in this case, perhaps it’s actually possible.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying here,” he said.

  “I’m saying, we need a conspiracy of our own. I’m not sure how to do it yet, but if we get to create this agency, we can do more than battle the villains. We can change the world.”

  20

  September 2007

  New York

  It was past ten in the evening when Chen’s doorbell rang. She logged out of her laptop, walked to the hallway, and peered through the peephole. A distorted image of Vic waved to her through the curved glass of the lens.

  “Hey.” She opened the door and stepped back, letting him in. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”

  “Is there a naked man holding on for his dear life on the outside of your bedroom window?” His tone was light, but his eyes were not smiling.

  “Two of them, in fact. Don’t you know cheating on boyfriends with one man is so twentieth century?” she said, studying his face. “Is everything all right? You seem on edge. What are you doing here?”

  He seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, his dark eyes scanning her up and down.

  “Vic?”

  “I came here to ask if you still want to find that hacker fellow,” he finally said. “I might have a lead.”

  “Of course I do,” she said. “You said you might know someone who can help. Why are you acting so weird?”

  “Get dressed, then. I need you to come with me.”

  “You’ve found him?”

  “Please,” he pleaded. “Don’t ask me questions now. Let’s go.”

  “You’re weirding me out,” she said, putting a pair of sneakers on, “but okay.”

  They went down the stairs and through the front door. A black stretch limo with tinted windows was parked by the hydrant next to the house, gleaming in the light drizzle. The engine was running, and Chen could see the silhouette of the driver behind the wheel. Vic went ahead and opened the door for her.

  “What the hell?” She stopped and looked at him quizzically. “A limo?”

  “Get in.”

  She hesitated for a moment and then climbed inside the long vehicle. Vic climbed in after her. The driver revved the engine and the locks on the doors engaged. A glass partition between the passengers and the driver rolled down, revealing a middle-aged Chinese driver. He threw something soft on Chen’s knees.

  “Good evening, miss,” the driver said. His accent was a weird mix of a first-generation Chinese immigrant sprinkled with hard Brooklyn consonants.

  He probably came to the States as a youth, she thought. Old enough not to lose his accent completely, but young enough to assimilate.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” the man continued, “but you have to put this on. Please.”

  She puzzled over the object for a few seconds. It looked like an oversized hat and she turned it this way and that, trying to understand what it was. Then it struck her.

  “You’re shitting me.” She grabbed the door handle. “Open the door. Right fucking now.”

  “Helen, wait.” Vic grabbed her hand, turning her to face him. “I didn’t want to do it. At all. But you said you needed that guy and there was nothing that was going to change your mind. I’m trying to help. Just do it. Please.”

  “And then a few days later, my dead body will turn up somewhere downstream in the Hudson River?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Please,” he said. “I’ve broken so many rules to find him. At this point, it would be a terrible waste not to see this through. C’mon.”

  She looked at him for a few seconds and then pulled the hood over her head without a word. Then she leaned back and defiantly crossed her arms. The car started to move.

  It was a strange experience to be driven in the back of a limo with a dark hood over the head. After a minute or two, when her eyes adapted to the darkness, she realized that she could still see the ghostly silhouettes outside as the soft, diffused light penetrated the black fabric. She could make out the outlines of the buildings lit up in the night, the bright multicolored traffic lights, and big glowing islands of street lamp posts. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, heightening her senses. Chen could hear the sound of Vic’s breathing, the crunching sound of gravel under the heavy car’s tires, the swooshing of the windshield wipers.

  She wasn’t truly scared, at least not yet. But it was ironic, she thought, that the first time she hadn’t hacked her boyfriend to make sure there was no weird shit in his closet, he’d show up with a limo with an empty-eyed driver and put a hood over her head.

  After what she thought was thirty or thirty-five minutes of driving, the limo slowed down to a crawl and then came to a full stop. She heard the door open and Vic exited the car.

  “Can I take this off now?” she asked without too much effort to hide her irritation.

  “No ma’am, I’m sorry. Not yet,” she heard the driver say.

  A strong arm took her elbow and guided her ou
t of the car. The rain was coming down harder now and the cold drops were softly drumming on the top of her hood. She shivered as biting wind found its way under her blouse and hugged herself, trying to keep warm.

  Chen let them guide her on an uneven path to some kind of structure and then she was inside a building and out of the rain. Somebody pulled the hood off her head, and she squinted against the bright light.

  She was standing inside of a small warehouse next to the limo driver. There was a row of garage doors on her left, a few smaller offices on her right, and a large empty area in between with regularly spaced spotlights illuminating the room. A low rumble of machinery working somewhere nearby filled up the air.

  “Where is Vic?” she demanded. “I want to see him.”

  “Please follow me,” the driver said, ignoring her request. “It’s this way.”

  He started off toward one of the garage doors, and after a moment she followed after him.

  “Before I’m allowed to let you in,” the driver said, his tone almost apologetic, “I was instructed to ask you one more time if you were firm on your intention to proceed.”

  “I’m getting a little sick of these games,” she said. “Yes, I want to proceed. It’s not my thing to be driven in black limos with a hood over my head for no reason at all.”

  “As you wish.” The driver bowed and started walking away. “I will open the door for you in a minute, and once you go in, I will close it behind you. There will be another door inside that you will have to go through. The light is configurated to turn on when you close it.”