by Leslie Wolfe
She watched it disappear, and then she went back inside the terminal, waiting for her commercial flight to New Delhi to start boarding.
...Chapter 87: Controversial
...Tuesday, September 6, 10:07PM EDT(UTC-4:00 hours)
...Flash Elections
...Nationally Syndicated
“If Doug Krassner proves to be as controversial a president as he is a candidate, we’re in for an exciting four years,” Phil Fournier opened his news insert. “His ratings remained stable during the past few days, high enough to have us believe he’s the next president, but low enough to add excitement to this race. The wheel might turn at any moment.
“In Krassner’s case, the electoral campaign has been a roller coaster of controversial statements, scandals, revelations, and surprises, out of which, for the most part, he came out shining even brighter than before.
“However, the country stands divided on Krassner, and divided passionately. The issues separating his supporters from his opponents are powerful issues, leading to heated debates and strong emotions. These emotions now transcend the political party lines, becoming more and more personal for both sides. Even long-standing democrats are won over by Krassner’s views on the economy. Even hardcore republicans are repelled by his liberal, non-committal stance on religion and abortions.
“After last week’s debate, Krassner’s rating still holds at 46 percent. While he looks like he might be our next president, that’s not entirely sure. Bobby Johnson’s ratings rise slowly but surely, and Johnson might yet prove to be the proverbial tortoise that wins the race.
“From Flash Elections, this is Phil Fournier, wishing you a good night.”
...Chapter 88: New Code
...Tuesday, September 13, 1:08AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...Lou Bailey’s Residence
...San Diego, California
He had spent the past week or so glued to his living room. His laptop was logged into the encrypted chat room he and his white-hat friends normally used. It announced with a chime whenever any of them had questions. A week of eating canned food and delivery pizza, dozing off now and then on the sofa, and keeping track of Alex’s whereabouts via her cell phone’s tracking app. He was counting the minutes until she’d be able to get out of New Delhi and come back to safety. He was counting the minutes until the voting software they had dubbed e-vote 2.0 would be ready to deliver.
A familiar chime got him to jump off the sofa and grab his laptop. There was activity in their chat room; people were logging on.
MissMeNow: Hey, baby Seal, you up still?
SealBreaker: Always.
TheMoon: Yo, Sealie, what’s up?
Alpha: May the Force be with y’all.
SealBreaker: Greetings, hats. Speak.
Alpha: We done.
SealBreaker: For real?
MissMeNow: Real as it gets. Very done.
TheMoon: We’ve been done since yesterday, but Alpha wanted v 2.0 to be delivered on the 13th.
SealBreaker: LOL. And I’ve been waiting...
Alpha: Wish it were Friday the 13th.
SealBreaker: Tested?
MissMeNow: Yup.
TheMoon: Test some more, U got time.
SealBreaker: Will do. Encryption?
Alpha: Solidest I’ve seen. All hats coded that padlock.
SealBreaker: Rewrite/modify/clean? Or new?
Alpha: Entirely new. Offshore modules pure junk.
TheMoon: Pure barf.
MissMeNow: Barf + poison.
SealBreaker: Cool hats, you rock!
Alpha: You just acquired that value?
SealBreaker: Yep. The Force was with you on this.
Alpha: And with you. What next?
SealBreaker: Code transfer, shower, sleep. U?
Alpha: Same.
MissMeNow: Baby Seal, we shine, we rule, we deliver. Who needs running water over that? Just beer and zzz...
Alpha: ROFL.
SealBreaker: Can’t thank you enough, hats. Console.WriteLine (“thank you,” 1000000000).
That line of code, if compiled, would return the words “thank you” one billion times, running down the screen in endless, streaming rows of text.
MissMeNow: Compiles.
TheMoon: Be well, brother. Stay unhacked.
SealBreaker: Will execute. Signing off...
They had the replacement software, clean, secure, and election-ready. But that was only a part of the challenge.
...Chapter 89: Money Trails
...Wednesday, September 14, 7:19PM Local Time (UTC+5:30 hours)
...Bukhara Restaurant
...New Delhi, India
Alex waited for her Tandoori mutton, one of the few Indian cuisine dishes her palate savored. Having dinner alone was not easy, especially in New Delhi, but she didn’t want to let herself be intimidated into ordering room service. A woman dining alone was insulting to many, but she willfully ignored any disapproving looks and managed to enjoy her dinners to some extent, evening after endless evening, reading from her iPad or browsing through a magazine. She missed having those lengthy dinner conversations with Lou, but she was still in Delhi for a precise reason, and he wasn’t, for another precise reason. The software was almost ready for sign-off, which meant she could soon go home.
Home. The word had a very different meaning now, sitting alone in the Bukhara and ignoring the gazes of countless strangers who thought she didn’t belong. More than that, she hated the inaction; there was little she could do other than wait for the damn thing to be finally ready. Every day she thought of hopping on a plane and just going home, the hell with it all, and every day she talked herself out of it, considering the huge risk her departure would pose to their plan, to Robert and Melanie Wilton’s lives, to their overall mission.
Her phone rang, scattering her dark thoughts. She didn’t recognize the caller ID.
“Hello,” she answered neutrally.
“Alex, this is Blake Bernard. Can you talk?”
“Not really,” she replied, aware she continued to be under surveillance.
“Can you at least listen?” Blake asked.
She verified the encryption status on the phone. It was working.
“Yes, that I can do.”
“Clarence came back with some findings. There are several others names associated with the name you gave us, Mastaan Singh. Clarence ran some database searches looking for anyone traveling at the same times and same places as Singh, for several of his travels. He matched credit card charges, hotel stays, and wherever available, any type of aviation activity, whether commercial or private.”
“Great news, please go on,” she said enthusiastically.
“We were able to ascertain that there is, in fact, a network of sorts that you have uncovered. They’re organized as moneymakers and money movers. The moneymakers are Singh and one other man by the name of Ahmad Babak Javadi. These two have organized a network of charity organizations across Europe, operating as Eastern Africa Development Fund, for which they continuously fundraise. They do it right, and they have access to celebrities and influential people, being able to raise significant amounts of money at events throughout Europe. They receive corporate donations in the hundreds of thousands, even millions. Each event raises several million dollars. Clarence and I can only speculate as to the reasons why some corporations donate so generously, but we have nothing solid yet.”
“Very interesting,” she said, careful with her words, in case her followers were dining within earshot of her. “I wonder about that too.”
“We’re still investigating that angle. Money movers, now. The movers we found are Karmal Shah and Muhammad Sadiq. Shah has a prosperous deli business operating out of Prague and operates a Piaggio turboprop airplane that can take him anywhere with significant cargo onboard. The other mover, Sadiq, has a Sea Ray 470, and his favorite destination is the Bahamas.”
“So how does this work?” Alex asked.
“From what we’ve seen, th
e two moneymakers raise funds and send them legally to Somalia, in Mogadishu. All seemingly legit so far. From here on it turns interesting. Cash is withdrawn and just disappears, but the dates coincide with Shah’s Piaggio’s shopping visits to the area. His business conveniently imports delicacies from Africa, among other places. In other cases we have seen cash going to a bank in Bahamas, from where it disappears again, dates coinciding with the voyages of Sadiq’s Sea Ray. We are assuming that the purpose is to get the cash into the continental United States, untraceable, and this is how they do it.”
“Fascinating,” she said, “and very useful.” She took notes discreetly on a sticky pad she had in her laptop bag.
“A couple more interesting things to note,” Blake continued. “They are very discreet, these people. They cover their tracks well. We almost missed the money movers completely. They made only one mistake, allowing us to connect the movers with the makers. The moneymakers, when they organized a fundraiser in Zurich, used Shah’s deli business in Prague as a supplier. They ordered caviar and truffles from Overnight Delight and had it shipped to their location, on ice, the next day. Big mistake, sloppy work, but we were grateful for it. Another note, looking at these people’s accounts, they’re not your typical person of interest for terrorism, Alex. They are all powerful, wealthy business people. I cannot comprehend why someone like that would get involved in terrorism and what they could be planning. Their status is probably the best cover a terrorist could hope for. No one expects it; no one sees it coming. Clarence was thinking that those corporate donations we can’t explain might very well be their own companies’ network of vendors, being encouraged to donate. We’re still exploring that angle.”
“Are we missing anyone? From this party?”
“Not sure. Clarence said he’ll keep looking. The more they travel and use their credit cards, their passports, or their identities anywhere in the world, we can narrow down other associations. You remember how the association search worked, right? With each move, it eliminates coincidental travelers and pinpoints those people who always happen to be in the same place at the same time as our targets. It becomes very precise after a certain number of iterations. We just need more time.”
“I cannot thank you enough,” Alex said, “this is extremely helpful for me.”
“You’re very welcome,” Blake replied. “Call anytime, for anything at all. Clarence will keep looking. Good luck!”
She thought for a few seconds about what to do, ignoring the Tandoori mutton that was getting cold in front of her. She grabbed her cell again, this time sending an encrypted text to Sam: “Need to see you now. Say where.”
A minute later, his reply came. ”Sheraton New Delhi, room 306.”
She took a couple of bites from her food, signaled for the check, and programmed her phone to get driving directions. She realized she had to lose Pranav, her driver, and drive herself through New Delhi. She had no other option.
She reached the Toyota and Pranav hopped out from behind the wheel to open her door.
“Pranav, you need to take a cab and get yourself home, do you understand?” She gave him forty dollars in small bills, a small fortune for New Delhi. He looked confused.
“Ma’am, I drive you,” he said.
“Not tonight you’re not, sorry. May I have the keys, please?” she asked, extending her hand.
He held the keys, looking even more confused.
She sighed and just snatched the keys from his hand. She hopped into the Toyota and drove away slowly, getting used to the car’s right-side steering wheel and the streets with left-side driving. This is gonna hurt, she thought.
In the rearview mirror, she saw Pranav speaking to the driver of a black SUV, some local brand she didn’t recognize, but that SUV looked very much like a Jeep. Now she knew what her followers were driving.
She hit the gas and entered traffic in the screams of horns from the heavy traffic. She held the wheel tight, her knuckles white from effort and her palms sweating. She followed the GPS directions with difficulty for a while, until she got the hang of driving on the left side of the road. It was weird, and the crazy, unpredictable traffic made it even worse. She stopped at a red light, making the cars behind her honk furiously, but she didn’t budge.
She checked her rearview mirror and saw the black Jeep knock-off right there behind her, third car back. She took a quick breath and turned left, on the red, pedal to the metal. Then she turned left again into a small alley, instantly killing the engine and lights. She saw the Jeep pass on the street behind her. She waited a few minutes, then drove away from the alley, resuming GPS instructions.
She drove for a few minutes, checking her surroundings all the time. Suddenly, the Jeep was back, on the lane to her left, a little behind her. She hit the gas; there was no other way. She sped by a farmers’ market, managing not to hit much; although she did run too close to a clothing rack, her bumper and wiper getting entangled in a couple items. She dragged those along for a while, until they finally became loose. The Jeep was following her aggressively now, giving up all attempts to stay inconspicuous.
She took a sudden right turn into an alley in the market, making her tires squeal and some pedestrians run scared. The Jeep still followed, hitting a bunch of grain buckets and spreading their contents onto the sidewalk. People screamed and ran as she drove by; she honked almost constantly. She came close to hitting an old man, but managed to maneuver out of the way and just hit a small wooden cart instead. Melons scattered everywhere, the Jeep smashing them as they came. She took another tight turn onto a small bridge, squealing her tires some more and scraping the side rails.
The Jeep still followed, hitting a snake charmer’s basket and throwing it into the air, snakes falling from it onto the ground as the crowds shrieked and ran. The fake Jeep’s turn radius must have been a little too wide, or the driver not very skilled. It missed the tight turn onto the bridge and hit the end rail straight on, making it do a side flip through the air and land in a muddy river.
Alex slowed and watched the black Jeep as it sunk slowly into the muddy waters of the river, while the two men in the vehicle were making their escape. They were going to be just fine. She hit the gas happily, resuming the instructions on her phone’s GPS and following the directions it gave.
She arrived at the Sheraton, hands still trembling a little from the effort and the adrenaline of the chase. She went straight to room 306, and after giving Sam a quick hug, she went straight for the mini bar.
“That bad, huh?” Sam probed.
“Wasn’t easy,” she said, wearing a smile of satisfaction on her lips. She had pulled it off, on her own, and she felt proud.
“Did anyone follow you?”
“Nope,” she smiled.
“How come? I thought they were on you 24/7.”
“They’ve gone fishing. In the river. Or canal, or whatever. Really filthy. Cheers!”
“Huh?”
“They took their vehicle into the river too,” she winked.
Sam burst out laughing.
“Nice going, kiddo!” He extended a high-five, and she slammed her palm into his with enthusiasm. She took another gulp of Martini vermouth, finishing off the small bottle, then took the sticky pad from her laptop bag and started writing names on the notes, sticking them to the hotel room wall.
“Blake Bernard just called, gave me four names, well, just three we didn’t already know, and some money trails.”
She explained to Sam what Blake had uncovered, and as she did, she pointed at the names on the wall, connecting them using other sticky notes with arrows drawn on them. The four names were lined up horizontally, under two separate sections, titled “$ Makers” and “$ Movers.”
“Do you see what we’re missing, Sam?”
“Yep, we don’t have their leader,” he replied, confirming her conclusion.
She took another note, wrote “X” on it, and placed it on the wall above everyone else.
“Blake se
emed confident that the software would identify X at some point in time. I’m thinking X might be too smart for that. If he didn’t make a single mistake in so long, more than a year is what Blake said, it’s possible the bank’s anti-money laundering software will never catch him.”
“If he’s this good, he’d be using private jets with fake flight plans, cash, or use his staffers’ credit cards to pay for stuff, rotate through them often enough. It’s a possibility we won’t catch him,” Sam said.
“Until we know who X is and what he’s after, we can’t assume we’re done, or that this threat has been averted or controlled. So far, no one even knows he exists, and he was able to plan the biggest electoral fraud in our history and get powerful business people to execute it. Our Mr. X is scary good at his game.”
“I agree.”
“What next, then?”
“I’ll make a couple of calls and see if these names ring any bells with my Mossad friends.”
...Chapter 90: A Goodbye
...Wednesday, September 21, 7:23AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Robert Wilton’s Residence
...Washington, DC
Robert Wilton dressed himself carefully that morning. White dress shirt, charcoal suit, silver gray tie. He was getting ready for what could turn into a day of unexpected outcomes. The Agency team had provided a solution, and they were working on tying up loose ends now, which meant the time had come for him to come clean. That could mean he might be arrested that day, minutes after having a conversation with his boss, Campbell. That could not be helped, and it didn’t matter.
What mattered was Melanie. Alex and The Agency team had told him she was safe. As soon as he accepted the software from the Indian software vendor and released the final payment owed to them, Melanie’s life would stop being under threat. Alex reassured him that the UNSUB was going to have what she had called “bigger concerns” right after that contract ended. He definitely hoped so.