by Reece Hirsch
“Can you tell me what’s on the drive?”
“Emails between a Security Officer Yu and the hacker Li Owyang. They constitute proof that the PLA has been stealing secrets from US companies.”
“That will be more difficult.”
“Yes, that’s understood. But you’re not expected to obtain all of the copies. The US government probably already has one, but they are unlikely to make it public. Others may not be so discreet. The primary mission is still Bruen, but if you can retrieve any copies of the flash drive, your fee will be increased substantially.”
“Bonus points.”
“If you like. You should know that if there are any complications, you can come here. But only if it’s absolutely necessary. And if you allow anyone to follow you back here, you will wish that you hadn’t.”
“I’m not anticipating any complications.”
“They never do.”
Tao picked up the gun and placed it in his satchel. “I’ll let myself out,” he said.
“Use the back way,” she said. “Good luck.”
Tao pushed open a metal door onto the alleyway, which smelled of rotting seafood and garbage. He strolled the length of the alley and did not rejoin Grant Avenue until he was three blocks away from the antiques shop.
He wondered if Ms. Wan was a spy, but he was pretty sure she would consider that an overly dramatic word to describe her role.
Tao didn’t understand how the PLA knew about the flash drive now, when they seemingly hadn’t known about it when giving him his assignment. Perhaps their hackers had penetrated Bruen’s law firm. Or perhaps they had found someone close to the project and made them talk. Tao wondered if there was another contractor working the job, a fail-safe in case he didn’t succeed.
Tao walked until he had left Chinatown behind and entered the neon of the strip clubs and Italian restaurants of North Beach. He needed to think about the logistics of his assignment, but bloody thoughts preoccupied him.
What he would do to Bruen with a knife.
What he would do to Bruen with the lit burner of a stove.
What he would do to Bruen with a power drill.
The thoughts were not unwelcome. He had never found pleasure in his work in this way before, but since the hit on Naruse in Tokyo, things had changed. He had changed, and was changing still. Many Chinese people believed that there was no such thing as mental illness, or that it was reserved for the criminally insane, but Tao had a more informed view of the subject. In the human mind there was at least as much darkness as there was light, and that fact might as well be embraced. To do otherwise, Tao believed, was to willfully misunderstand those around you.
Tao tried to put his more twisted thoughts aside, save them for later. He needed to focus on the job and his primary motivation of freeing his brother. At least he told himself that was his primary motivation.
24
The Mission District was what was sometimes referred to as a “transitional” neighborhood, which meant that a familiar battle was being waged there, with history and tradition on one side and money on the other. As usual money was heavily favored to win. Zoey walked along Valencia Street, which was still pretty equally divided between bodegas and new upscale restaurants catering to the young bohos who flocked to the area.
She had met Geist when she was tending bar at the Bottom of the Hill. He had been a regular who had found his perfect barstool, drawn there by his enthusiasm for indie bands, Jameson, and, eventually, Zoey. He’d asked her out a few times with polite, self-deprecating persistence, but she’d never said yes. It wasn’t that Zoey didn’t find him sweet and appealing, but she had decided he was a little too much like her—too much the beautiful loser. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but she had been looking for someone like Chris.
Zoey had been serving Geist drinks for almost a year before he learned that she was a hacker. Geist had started talking about a story he was working on involving a major corporate security breach, and Zoey couldn’t resist lending her expert opinion. After that Zoey had been Geist’s source on several articles over the years, but never anything as big as this.
As Zoey climbed the steps of Matt Geist’s Hoff Street apartment building, she assumed that the journalist would be hung over, but she hoped he wouldn’t be in the grip of a full-on bender.
It took several knocks and a little shouting, but Geist finally came to the door. He was wearing gray sweat pants and a ratty robe that was as colorless as his face.
He ran a hand through his curly, black-going-to-gray hair. “I thought you said eleven.”
“It is eleven.”
“It feels earlier.”
“I bet it does. Can I come in?”
“Yeah, sure,” Geist said, turning and leading the way. He lowered himself carefully onto a couch that was approximately the same color as his robe, making it appear as if he had been swallowed by the upholstery. One side of the apartment was lined with wall-to-wall vinyl records like wainscoting.
“Is your editor friend still here?”
“No, his wife carted him away last night. I would have done it myself but . . .”
“I’m sure that was for the best.”
Zoey sat in a chair across from him and set a brown paper bag down on the table between them. “I come bearing coffee and breakfast burritos.”
“Bless you, my child.”
Zoey waited as Geist devoured a burrito and got some caffeine in him.
“So what was all that last night about mourning a lost way of life?” Zoey asked.
“It’s what we print journalists do. Piss and moan about the good old days—when no one knew what a blog was. We were paid poorly then too, but at least we had jobs. I was going to say we had respect, but I’m not sure how much of that we had back then either.”
“Who’s your drinking buddy?”
“Dan Halliday, my first editor. We were Gannetroids together in the early nineties at the Des Moines Register.”
“Gannetroids?”
“The Register was owned by the Gannett newspaper chain.”
“It’s tough when the thing that you love isn’t valued by the world at large.”
Geist seemed to be growing more alert with every sip of coffee. He raised his eyebrows at her over the rim of his cardboard coffee cup. “You know something about that too, don’t you?”
“Let’s just say that if I had been interested in stealing social security numbers I would have saved a lot more money by now.”
“Now why couldn’t we just love something like corporate law or real estate or accounting?”
“You can’t choose who or what you love,” Zoey said, thinking of Chris. “And no one loves accounting.”
Now that Geist had begun to show signs of life, Zoey said, “So, are you ready to hear my story?”
“I’m breathless with anticipation.”
Zoey proceeded to recount her tale of the PLA squad dedicated to hacking US companies, and Chris’s mission to disrupt its efforts.
As she spoke, Geist raised himself up to an upright sitting position and began leaning forward. When she was done, he said, “That’s a good story, but so far it sounds like that’s all it is—a story. Do you have something more?”
Zoey pulled the flash drive from her pants pocket and slid it across the nicked-up table, littered with copies of Mother Jones and The Nation.
“What’s on this?”
“The smoking gun. The email exchange between the PLA officer and Li Owyang. It’s forensically sound.”
“Does anyone know that you have this?”
“No, but if it appears in print, they will figure it out pretty fast.”
“I’ll have to review the contents of course.”
“Of course.”
“But if it is what you say it is, then—it’s a very big story.”
/>
Now and then Geist broke stories, but they tended to be stories he had to try to convince the world to care about. Zoey could see his excitement building as he realized that this was a story that didn’t need to be sold. For this one, the world would come to him. Every network news show would want to interview him. This was the kind of story that could turn around a career.
“You’re glad I woke you up now, aren’t you?”
“I think I am, yeah.”
“I’d like to remain anonymous. I’ll probably lose my job over this anyway, but if my name appears in the story then I’m definitely out.”
“I can do that. The State Department isn’t going to like it if we print this.”
“No, they won’t. You’ll probably need a lawyer.”
“The Sentinel has one on retainer. We’re the kind of publication that needs lawyers. He’s going to be very excited to defend this one.”
“As excited as you are to get the story?”
“Is it that obvious?” Geist smiled. “Even if I end up in jail at the end of this, I’ll still owe you one.”
25
Tao had suspected that the PLA had hacked Bruen’s law firm, but he was certain of it when he got the call that morning from Ms. Wan on his burner phone.
“Bruen’s friend Zoey Doucet has made a copy of the flash drive,” Wan said. “She’s going to share it with a journalist named Geist. You need to make certain that doesn’t happen.”
“Where is she now?”
“In the law firm’s offices. Where are you?”
“Exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’m in front of the entrance to their building, waiting for Bruen to appear. What do you want me to do?”
“Retrieve the flash drive—at all costs. No one will second-guess you if things get messy.”
The only way that the PLA could know the content of Doucet’s communications with the journalist was by intercepting her phone calls or emails. He imagined that a major US law firm had good security, but it was hard for any system to defend against a sophisticated, concerted assault by the PLA’s hackers.
As if on cue, Doucet emerged from the office building. She walked a block to the entrance to the BART station and descended the steps to the trains. Tao followed her at a distance and, when she boarded a train, stepped onto the rear of the same car.
She exited at the Sixteenth and Mission station and climbed the escalator to the street. Emerging outdoors, Tao found Mission Street to be teeming and alive; it reminded him of the riotous backstreets of Shanghai. By contrast, the pristine white office towers of Embarcadero Center seemed as lifeless and calcified as old bones.
He followed her through the Mission, past the bodegas and dollar stores, past the hip cafes and the vintage clothing shops, past graffiti murals and taquerias, past garages and community centers. People walked with the loping pace of ordinary life, not the manic, overcaffeinated bustling of the Financial District. There were fewer people here attempting to walk with their eyes glued to a phone or device.
Doucet arrived at an apartment on Hoff Street that must belong to the journalist. She was carrying a brown paper bag and two coffees from a Mexican place where she had stopped along the way.
Tao fingered the Beretta in his jacket pocket and considered whether he should move in immediately and do the job right there in the street, but decided against it. There were too many pedestrians passing nearby, particularly considering he would need to search her for the flash drive after he took the shot.
No, he assumed that Doucet was bringing the flash drive to Geist, so it would be with him when she left. It made much more sense to wait until she was gone and then pay Geist a visit. He would have a controlled environment in the apartment and all the time necessary to locate the flash drive, even if that meant going to work on the journalist.
After Doucet disappeared into the building, Tao got himself a coffee and sat on the stoop of another apartment building down the street to wait for her to leave.
About a half hour later, Doucet emerged from the apartment and strode away in the direction of the BART station. Five minutes after she turned the corner, when he was fairly certain she would not return, Tao stood and crossed the street. He entered the tiny lobby of the building and saw from the mailboxes that Geist’s apartment was on the second floor. Tao climbed the flight of steps, not attempting to quiet his footsteps. If he was listening, Geist would hear him coming.
He rapped on the door.
An eye appeared in the peephole. “Who’s there?”
“You’re Matt Geist, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m a friend of Zoey Doucet’s. She just left something here and asked me to come and pick it up. She didn’t have time to come back. Had to get to the office.” Tao’s English was good, but a bit stiff.
He heard the chain on the door slide. When the door opened, Geist was wearing a ratty bathrobe and holding a coffee. He was animated, even though his eyes were bloodshot and he looked the worse for wear.
“Matt Geist,” he said, extending his hand.
“Henry Yang,” Tao said.
Geist led him into the living room, which, in the small apartment, was about two paces from the front door. “What are we looking for?”
“Thing . . . for makeup.”
“You mean a compact?”
“Yes, right.”
“Did she say where she left it?”
“Somewhere near where she was sitting.”
Geist walked over to a chair near the sofa and ran his hand along the edge of the cushion. “Not finding anything. You know, I don’t know how well you know Zoey, but I never thought of her as the kind of girl who carries a compact.”
When Tao didn’t respond, Geist turned around for a reaction. By that time, Tao had set his bag down on the floor and removed the Beretta.
“No, you’re probably right,” Tao said.
“You’re not a friend of Zoey’s, are you?” Geist said.
“No, I’m not.”
“What do you want?” Tao could see Geist’s head clearing, could see him focusing. He was not nearly as panicked as he might have been. “If you’re looking for money, you came to the wrong place.”
“I’m not looking for money.”
“What are you looking for then?”
“I think you know.”
He could see that Geist was putting it together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
Geist started to punctuate with his hands, a nervous mannerism. “Look, take whatever you want. Not that there’s much here. But there’s a cop who lives downstairs, and he’s going to hear a gunshot.”
Tao grabbed a straight-backed chair from the dining table and set it in front of Geist. “Sit down.”
As Geist lowered himself into the chair, his eyes darted about the room, looking for a weapon, looking for an exit.
Keeping the gun trained on the journalist, Tao reached into the bag again and produced vinyl rope and a roll of duct tape.
“Tape your feet together,” Tao said, tossing the roll at his feet.
“There’s no need for this,” Geist said. “I’ll give you what you want.”
“I know you will,” Tao said.
After Geist’s feet were secured, Tao went around behind him and tied him to the chair.
“Just tell me what you want.”
“You know.” There was a violent ripping sound as Tao tore a strip of duct tape off the roll. He leaned in close to Geist’s face. “I’m going to cover your mouth in a minute, and that’s when the talking is going to stop for a while. When I remove the tape, you’re going to tell me where I can find it.”
“Find what?”
“The flash drive.”
“What flash drive?
” Geist didn’t say it like a question; he spat it through clenched teeth like a curse, like he knew it was going to be followed by a blow.
The journalist probably saw the flash drive as a way to salvage his career, which couldn’t be going very well, judging by where he was living. Tao wasn’t displeased that it was turning out this way. He might have done it even if it hadn’t been strictly necessary.
“So that is your answer?”
“That’s right, you ridiculous fucking cartoon of a black ops fuck.”
“You’re going to hurt my feelings talking like that.”
For some time now, a black tide had been rising inside Tao, along with a realization. Although it had taken him a while to admit it to himself, he had come to love his work as a hit man. He would do it even if his brother wasn’t in a prison in Shanghai. In fact, he would do it even if no one was paying him. Of course, if no one was paying him, then that would make him a serial killer, wouldn’t it? Fortunately, there was no need to apply such a distasteful label, because he was one of those lucky few who had the privilege of earning a living doing something that he loved.
Tao took the strip of duct tape and pressed it gently over the journalist’s mouth. Geist’s eyes were still bloodshot, but they were wide open and electric now. This was the moment Tao had been chasing: the moment of recognition, the moment of his control and the victim’s subjugation.
When he had gazed into Naruse’s eyes on that cobblestone path in Tokyo, the feeling had hit him like the first glimpse of the woman that you would marry. But he needed to know if the feeling was more than fleeting heat lightning. Now he knew that it was something that he could have again and again. And he would have it regardless of consequences, regardless of morality, regardless of human life. It was like the addict’s first hit of heroin, or the pervert’s discovery of the sexual kink that quickens his pulse and darkens his heart.
26
Later that afternoon, Zoey tried calling Geist at home and at the Sentinel’s offices, but he was nowhere to be found. She wanted to gauge his reaction after he had reviewed the contents of the flash drive, get a sense of how long the story would have to be vetted by the lawyers and editors before it could be published. Zoey was also anxious to know how long she had to speak with Chris about her actions before the Sentinel article appeared. That conversation was going to be difficult enough, and she didn’t want him to learn about it first in the press.