by Dave Buschi
Sometimes, when he was blind drunk on hundred-year-old cognac, he’d have strangely lucid moments where he felt like leaving it all behind and starting over. Getting back to where he had that true hunger in his belly again.
Perhaps someday he would, he’d ruminate as he’d have another glass.
But not today.
He flicked a piece of skin off his shirt’s white cuff, which was now stained crimson red. Red was lucky. It was a good omen. It was going to be a good day.
A sixty-billion-dollar day.
Fêng!
His balls were large, like a bull’s. He felt the winds of power coursing through him.
His phone interrupted his thoughts.
He had an email. The subject header wasn’t in Mandarin, but English. He recognized the name.
ComTek.
69
“POÉKHALI!” Savic said. He cursed while the men finished their preparations.
Enrique looked at Savic with disdain. This alliance with their Russian partners was not to his liking. These guys were thugs and had no respect for the delicate nature of this operation.
If that wasn’t bad enough—there was also the eroding situation in his own camp. Enrique had just gotten off the phone with Paulson. Paulson wanted things wrapped quickly—as if he was calling the shots. What an ass. He still didn’t understand why Portino had insisted on using him again. The man was an arrogant prick, and Enrique trusted him about as far as he could throw him.
He began to regret the communication channels they’d pre-established. He was getting that itchy feeling that things were starting to slip. They were on their second audible call. It reminded him of the MicroLan deal in Germany they’d botched two years ago.
They were lucky that time. They were able to walk away when things got hairy. They wouldn’t have that luxury this time.
Not with this. The American authorities were going to be all over this, shortly. And instead of executing, like they should be, they were improvising. Which introduced new variables. New variables introduced new risks… Enrique didn’t like it.
Not one bit.
He chewed on his lower lip, as he looked around the service dock. The place was huge and vaguely resembled an airplane hangar, except that it was underground with a ramp that led up. The emergency generators were housed here. Big, freight container looking things. They filled the cavernous space with their thunderous noise. Near them was a large tank that said ‘flammable’ on its side in red cautionary letters.
Two identical white vans were nearby. The one near the tank was running. Yuri should have been here by now, Enrique realized.
Savic said something in Russian. His voice was a guttural slur of words all strung together. He even spoke like a thug, Enrique mused.
Enrique heard only static on his Bluetooth headset. They were all patched into the same frequency to hear each other’s transmissions, but their reception was lousy. Much of their chatter was garbled static, and their cell phones had been working sporadically ever since they got here.
None of this boded well.
A few minutes ago Yuri had transmitted a short message saying he’d found James and was coming up. He definitely should have been here by now. What was taking him so long?
This whole operation should have taken twenty minutes tops. Eighty-six minutes later and they were still here, pissing away precious time trying to bottle James. How he’d managed to hide from them for this long he had no idea. This place was big, but still there weren’t that many places to hide. Not when you had a dozen men searching.
To his manager’s credit, the man had been resourceful. Too resourceful. There was no telling what he’d been doing for this span of time… that was something entirely else that worried Enrique. The man had shut down the power grid. What else had he done?
“We need to hurry.”
Savic glared at him. “Don’t tell me—” He stopped talking, as static crackled on the headsets. “Yuri?”
There was no reply.
Savic frowned. He looked at two of his men and gestured to Enrique. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” Enrique said.
“To find him.” Savic glared at Enrique. “This is your fault.”
“My fault?”
“If you got cameras working we wouldn’t be dealing with this. Come!”
Enrique bit back his tongue. He followed Savic and the others back into The Vault.
70
AS the elevator stopped, the man ripped his headset from his ear and cursed. Even though he couldn’t hear what was being said in the man’s molded earpiece, James had an inkling what had the man incensed; the man was only getting static. The Vault’s two foot thick concrete walls made reception spotty down here; they must be in one of the dead zones. Either that, or the man was using a bad frequency. The shielding used for the equipment down here could affect transmissions.
Enrique wouldn’t know that. That was more trivia James had learned from Jerry. There was shielding down here to protect the servers from EMI (Electromagnetic Interference). It must be affecting his Bluetooth.
The man motioned with his gun for James to move forward. Duffel bag in hand, James limped off the platform.
They’d just ridden the lift up three levels. It appeared the man was leading him towards the service dock. They were taking a circuitous route, definitely not the most direct way. They had already backtracked twice.
The guy had most likely gotten lost. It was confusing down here. Even some of the guys that worked here every day joked about getting lost in The Vault anytime they were late for a shift. If you weren’t familiar with the place, the place could overwhelm you.
Over half a million square feet—if you plotted your path right, you could walk for miles down here and not once redouble your tracks. The place was laid out in a grid, all modular bays. It wasn’t difficult to navigate once you understood the logic of the place and how each quadrant was identical to the one above and below it. Yet for newbies, it could feel like walking in a maze. Each of the stacks looked the same. Row after row. Entering another quadrant just to see a repeat of what you’d just seen.
“Stop.”
James looked back.
The guy pulled something from his pocket and glanced at the directional signage on the wall. To the uninitiated it might as well have been Greek he was looking at.
02-DD-884120-AZ <
02-DD-758916-AZ >
The first two numbers let you know which level you were on, the following two letters corresponded with the quadrant and the next batch of numbers and letters were specific to the servers and told you which servers lay which direction. Based on this guy’s expression this guy didn’t have a clue where he was.
“Where are you trying to take me?”
“Shut up.” The man motioned with his gun for James to move forward again.
“My ankle hurts.”
“I said shut up.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
The man’s face contorted. He had one of those faces that didn’t seem quite to go with the rest of him. It was round with soft cheeks. The rest of him was a beast. Nothing soft about him. The gray Security shirt barely fit him. His entire body looked to be rock-hard muscle. Tattoos tracked up his neck. He towered over James.
The man pointed his gun. “Say another word and I shoot your ear off.” His accent was thick and Slavic.
The man was Russian, James was pretty sure of that. The guy had spoken a few words in his native tongue into his headset a couple of minutes ago. From all the info James had uncovered earlier on his laptop there was no doubt in his mind he was looking at a guy that had every intention on killing him. The fact he hadn’t done so, yet, didn’t give James reason to hope. The guy was probably just waiting for the right time and place to dispose of him.
James adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder and shuffled forward. The Russian followed. In another minute or so they’d be at the service dock. James knew he was running out of time
.
“Ahhh!” James stumbled. The duffel bag fell from his shoulder. He grabbed his ankle and his face winced in pain. He sat down and cradled his ankle.
The Russian looked at him in disgust. He tucked his gun in his pants and cursed. He grabbed James by his arm. “Get up. Tëlka.”
James felt himself being lifted.
“Hold on. I’m getting up.”
The Russian stepped back. James winced again. He looked at the Russian, who was still slightly stooped over. The position of both their bodies was just about right. They were facing each other. James began to get up.
But instead of standing upright, James dipped his head and shot forward. His arm went through the man’s open legs and powered-up into the man’s groin, grabbing a meaty hold on the back of the man’s upper leg, right on the hamstring. At the same exact moment, his other hand grabbed the man just above the elbow. He had two holds, wrists locked. James pivoted ninety degrees while bent at the knees and slammed his shoulder into the man’s stomach. Simultaneously, he pulled down hard on the elbow and torqued his body, flexing his knees double and falling sideways.
The entire thing was one seamless motion. It was called a fireman’s carry. And it was all about leverage. James was falling and the man had to come with him. Only in the man’s case he was heading head first towards the concrete floor. The man had no choice. The way he was going gave him no control. He flopped over like a two hundred and thirty pound fish, crashing hard onto his back.
It was an ugly sound. An experienced wrestler would have anticipated what was happening and would have tucked his head. But not this guy. He’d tried to resist the entire way over. He never fully tucked in his head.
Big mistake. The guy’s noggin had hit hard and he was out stone cold.
James wiped the sweat from his brow and drew in a breath. He still had it.
Kind of hard to believe. James was in the worst shape of his life. He barely worked out anymore, and his eating habits were terrible. But that hadn’t always been the case.
Back at Penn State, twenty plus years ago, he’d wrestled in the 157 pound class. Had come one victory away from winning an NCAA title his senior year. Back then get him on a mat and he was a force to deal with. Used to have a washboard for a stomach. Ran six miles a day and that didn’t include the miles of wind sprints he routinely did in practice.
He wasn’t that young buck anymore in any shape or form. He was probably pushing 200 plus now. Not quite this guy’s weight, but close.
Granted, in James’s case his girth wasn’t rock-hard muscle like this guy. A lot of it was flab. But those extra l-bees did come with a benefit. It upped his weight class. Gave him a lot more leverage than he used to have. He’d taken out a gorilla. Up close the guy was scary looking, just slabs of muscle. James was stunned how easy it had been. Even with his bum ankle, he’d had no problem executing a highly technical move he hadn’t tried in years. It was still automatic.
He checked the man’s pulse to make sure he hadn’t broken the man’s neck. There was a pulse. The man was breathing, just unconscious. No doubt with a fat concussion.
James rifled through the man’s pockets. There was nothing in them. He had no form of ID. He retrieved the pistol the man had been carrying. It was a few feet from him. It had fallen out of the man’s pants as James had flipped him over.
The pistol didn’t appear to be damaged. He was lucky it hadn’t discharged when it hit the floor. James examined it. He wasn’t an expert, but he’d handled a gun before. He’d learned to shoot when he was thirteen. His dad had taught him; the first time out in an abandoned field. His dad hadn’t owned one of these. This one looked like a semi-automatic.
There was some writing on it.
Austria. 9x9. LOCK.
A circle was around LOCK. He realized that circle actually formed a “G”.
Shit. This was a Glock. That was a firearm that James had heard about. They came with a lot more rounds than the .38 revolver he used to shoot with. Something like fifteen, he seemed to recall.
James checked for the safety. There was a trigger safety and it seemed to be off. He switched it on, testing the trigger slightly to make sure he got it right. There was resistance. The safety was on. With some reluctance, he pocketed the piece. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t take the high road here. He was past that. He knew the stakes. These men were armed.
James left the man on the floor and picked up the duffel bag. The emergency lights were casting their blue haze. He went down some stairs and found a niche behind some equipment. He needed to see where the others were.
He opened the duffel bag and pulled out his laptop. With dismay he saw that it had been damaged when he’d dropped it. The server blade was badly damaged too. There was a big scratch and a wedge-shaped dent on its electronic circuit board. Pieces were broken off.
Shit.
This was supposed to be his insurance. He had pulled data off the main servers and stored it on this blade. That data would help clear his name, if he ever got out of here. He looked at the blade and examined the full extent of the damage. There were more than just a few pieces broken. It was destroyed.
James opened the laptop. Worthless too. Its screen was cracked. So much for using the FLIR. He wasn’t going to be able to see where the others were. He was in their shoes, completely blind.
Not good.
He chewed on his lower lip. He couldn’t get out of here. Not yet.
What he needed was another laptop. He needed to be plugged in. And not just because of the guys roaming The Vault looking for him. He needed to see if his first salvo—what’s the status?—had hit any targets.
He left the niche and headed to a lower level.
71
Moscow, Russia
MIHAJLOVIC roused from his rumbling slumber. His heavy-lidded eyes took in the blonde hair splayed on the pillows next to him. He glanced, disinterestedly, at the naked back, the silken sheets hanging off his latest Krasivaya. He raised his portly fat frame, his powerful arms propping himself up like a sitting bear.
“Time is it?” he grunted.
“Three thirty.” The man standing by his bedside was thin with effeminate features. He gave no look towards the beautiful naked girl.
“Better be good. Spit it out.”
“You need to see.”
72
JAMES found another laptop in the same room he’d gotten the first two. He didn’t stay there, but plugged in long enough to do what he needed to do. FLIR gave him the edge. This time those men weren’t getting close to him.
He steered far from the hot zones, where FLIR was useless. That kept him well clear of The Stacks. It was too risky in those areas. There were other areas to hide. Other areas where he could be dangerous.
Dangerous. That was a strange term to use. He didn’t dwell on it for long. There was work to be done.
In one of the mechanical rooms he found a spot to sit down. It was tucked behind some ductwork. There wasn’t the normal WHOOSH sound to contend with. The air handlers were off. He could hear his thoughts.
Focus. Get down to business.
His initial forays, reverse-stream phishing, had some hits. His first salvo, simple emails on the surface with the subject header: ComTek, had done better than he could hope. Contained within the bodies of those emails—what’s the status?—was an imbedded malware program.
Nothing needed to be opened; the email didn’t even need to be viewed. It just needed to find their inboxes and slip past their spam filters. Seemingly harmless…
James had spent a good chunk of his life learning about viruses. He knew the most successful ones were the ones that never made the news. They always intrigued him the most. A virus in some ways was a beautiful thing. Perfectly constructed, it was not unlike a snowflake.
Snowflakes.
For some reason he always saw the correlation. Beautiful. But perhaps another analogy would have been more appropriate, such as the white and pink blooms of Wisteria.
Equally beautiful. Each bloom a variation—like a snowflake—different than the next. But those sweatpea-like flowers were no gentle lady. Their vines could choke and kill. Wrap around trees. Their green leaves waving in the breeze, taking over. Sucking the light and life, squeezing trees’ limbs.
Pine trees were no match for Wisteria. The vines of Wisteria crushed the soft wood. Made the cambium layer unable to bring up water. Squeezed those trees to death.
Beautiful, but oh so deadly.
Viruses were no different. There was elegance in their construction. Beauty in the brevity of their code. Some were just a few bytes. Too small to produce any harm.
Or so it seemed.
There were reasons virus definitions had to be constantly updated. Viruses propagated themselves, they multiplied endlessly. It took nothing to create one. Particularly the simplistic ones. A two-second tweak of the source code, and what was once a prehistoric—at least in Internet years—Sasser Worm or Mydoom virus became something else, a new variant that could slip past updated antivirus measures.
The best viruses in James’s opinion were the ones that didn’t draw attention to themselves. The ones that did nothing on the surface, but allowed computer systems to work as seamlessly as before. The ones that simply infiltrated and observed.
Shoots of Wisteria, spreading its feelers…
It was all about finding that initial crack in the door. No matter how slim or slight, once that was found, from that point on it was just a matter of time before vulnerabilities could be exploited.
James followed up his first salvo with a second and a third. He was shooting in the dark at first, but with each salvo he was able to shed some light on who he was dealing with. He infiltrated and observed, doing it all with speedy surgical precision.
The puppet masters behind this couldn’t cleanse everything about themselves. They needed a link; a means to orchestrate what they were trying to do. He followed that tendril, that common byte connecting them. He peeled back those Matryoshka dolls and used their own aliases—those masked TCP/IP addresses—against themselves.