by Robert Stohn
Cipher
by
Robert Stohn
Copyright © 2013 Robert Stohn
All rights are reserved.
You may not distribute this book in any way. No part of this publication may be reproduced, retransmitted, or downloaded, in any form, or by any means, without the express written permission of the author. The distribution of this book via the Internet, or via any other means, without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, places, events, or other locales, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 1
During the bustling evening rush of passengers hurriedly slipping through the congested Amsterdam Schiphol Airport, a man seated in the corner of one of the many bistros in the terminal area, slipped a black USB cipher drive into his laptop and powered the sleek machine on. He watched the glowing screen in front of him as it came to life, and carefully scanned the terminal floor from beneath his thick non-prescription lenses. He inconspicuously tapped his finger on the black faux mustache and beard on his face to ensure that they were securely in place. Then, navigating his way across the keyword with the skill of an artisan, his fingers and hands glided smoothly along as he worked his magic like a master pianist playing his most prized concerto.
Occasionally glancing up to see that everything else in the airport was operating smoothly and efficiently, the man focused his attention on the task at hand. Passengers quickly glided across the airport floor under the towering ceiling of white lights slung high above as they made their way to their destinations, all while the man carried out his virtual attack. He appeared just like any other of the thousands of people rushing through or waiting in the airport terminal – a busy traveler using his laptop to check-in remotely to the office. But that’s not what he was doing. He watched as the black USB cipher drive whirred to life, and he launched a UNIX systems browser screen. He spent the next few minutes keying in various data and details of his planned targets. He was starting with the Air Traffic Control systems.
He pounded on the keyboard with lightning fury as the lines of code appeared before him. The white code cast a stark contrast against the black background of the UNIX browser screen he had launched. He focused his attention further as he pressed enter, sending the code through the bowels of Cyberspace. He set the timer on his phone for 27 minutes – the time it would take for his hack to take effect. And, although nothing changed in that instant when he hit the enter key, he knew what he had just done. He knew what was imminently on the horizon. Air Traffic Control Systems rely on several mainframe databases that communicate information back and forth from airplanes in real-time. These databases are responsible for helping to guide all of the airplanes in the sky. They help to point planes in the right direction, avert flight paths, and keep people safe. That was all about to change.
The man opened up another UNIX browser window – this time he was after infrastructure in the major cities around the world. He spent several more minutes keying in data as he watched the portions of UNIX lines of code spit out results to his commands. He was about to cripple water and power in several major cities throughout the world. He honed in on the destinations he was selecting as his fingers continued to glide across the keys. He knew that it would be catastrophic, but this was only a test. He could bring cities and governments to their knees if he wanted to. He knew that. He knew that very well. He pressed enter and set another timer for 27 minutes.
The man then opened up a final UNIX browser window. This time, he was after financial institutions. He typed in code with a fury, occasionally glancing at the little black USB cipher box connected to the laptop. He punched in code and it spit back results, line after line. He was working with the obsession of a mad man. It was as if he was possessed as his fingers flew across that keyboard. Occasionally, he would glance up and adjust the horn-rimmed glasses he had on. His furious typing didn’t even catch a second glance from airport passengers or security that were busy milling about, completely unaware of what was about to happen. He was about to cripple the major financial institutions in the world, and in the process, extract billions of dollars.
The man kept typing away, keying in more details. This one was more complex. He entered in several added commands, which included elongated numbered accounts from international banks that were in his control. The numbers corresponded to the most secrecy-shrouded banks throughout the world. From Panama to Switzerland, he had methodically plotted towards that moment for months, and now he was about to execute his plan. He watched the little black USB cipher drive connected to his laptop whirring, rapidly flashing an orange and green LED light as it went to work sending crippling ciphers across the Web.
He knew that no one could stop him. He was hopping from one proxy server on the Internet to the next. He was a virtual ghost. No one would even know he existed. He had complete control, and his finger was on the trigger. He knew the power that he held in his hands with that little black cipher drive. He adjusted his tie and breathed in and out slowly. He stared at the UNIX commands being spit back out at him from the various windows he had open. 25 minutes and counting. The first window was whirring back commands as it sent the ciphers through the Web in an orchestrated attack on some of the Web’s most highly secured databases. He watched carefully as the information was spewed back at him; he watched with intent as his plan carefully unfolded before his very eyes.
He looked around, almost expecting a group of men to appear with assault rifles all pointed in his direction, but they didn’t. He really was a ghost. He cracked a half-witted smile as he looked up at the security cameras in the airport terminal. They wouldn’t have even known the difference. But the sophisticated hacker had the help of his newly acquired cipher drive, and with it, he was going to take over the world. As the perspiration built on the side of his face and as his fingers continued to fly across the keyboard, he realized that nothing could stop him. No one could stop him. He was virtually invincible, and his only weapon was a little black USB cipher drive. He looked down at the small device connected to his laptop as the UNIX lines of code continued to spew back at an extraordinarily fast rate, and realized the importance of that one tiny device. With that cipher drive, he could do anything. He could conquer the world.
And as the time wound down, he knew that the moment would soon arrive when all hell would break loose. Cities would fall into complete chaos, the people would riot and loot, and banking systems around the world would virtually collapse. He would be left standing at the helm of one of the largest criminal organizations with the resources to do anything he wanted. He would have the money and the power. The twisted, maniacal thoughts ran through his mind as he slipped the laptop closed. The click of the screen hitting the keyboard put a sense of silent det
ermination into his heart. This is it, he thought. This is finally it.
Chapter 2
Jonathan Grace checked his watch – it was a quarter past two in the morning when his work phone rang. The incessant ringing woke him out of a half-drunken stupor. He felt around his nightstand in the dark as he tried to pull himself together. His nerves were fried and his senses were shot; a 12-hour drinking binge would do that to you. And, even by alcoholics’ standards, Jonathan Grace was a force to be reckoned with. He could throw them back with the best of them.
“Hello?” His muffled voice was sure to detract anyone who was calling to harass him at that hour.
“Detective Grace?”
“Who’s asking?” No one had called him that in a long time; no one except some of his old clients. His investigative business had all but washed up two years ago, along with his sobriety.
“We need to meet,” said the tense voice on the other line. “We have job for you,” he added in broken English.
“Who is this?”
“Vinnie. I’m friend of Joe,” he said in more broken English. His thick heavy voice clung to the air like a bad stench of next-day cigarette smoke.
“Joe Cicerone?”
“Si. Si?” The voice suddenly sounded much more Italian than it did when he first picked up the phone. Maybe he was starting to finally wake up.
“Okay. When?” Jonathan asked.
“Tomorrow. Noon.”
“Where?”
“Bethesda Fountain. Central Park.”
“Okay, I’ll be there,” Jonathan hummed back. He was still trying to get his bearings.
“See you,” said the voice on the other end. And with that, the phone clicked. Jonathan looked at it and scratched his head. He hadn’t taken a job in ages and his thinning roster of clients was a product of his increased efficiency in boozing. He knew he had to pull himself together. He rummaged around in his nightstand drawer looking for something to write on. He remembered placing a notepad in there somewhere, and began tossing out socks and underwear until he located a pad and pen. He scribbled down some notes and tried to jar his memory. His head was still throbbing but he had to try to do it while it was fresh in his head.
Don Joe Cicerone – Cicerone Family Head – Little Italy
12:00pm Central Park – Bethesda Fountain
The next day, Jonathan could feel the effects of his hangover. He could feel his head throbbing and his dry mouth as soon as he opened his eyes. He was paying the price for his poor decisions, but that was always the case. He seemed to always be paying the price; at least that’s how the past two years had been. He tried to shake it off. He thought back to the phone call and tried to pull himself together. He knew he needed to nurse his hangover, and he did it like any other professional drinker would – by pouring himself another drink. He cracked opened the near desolate fridge and scanned the shelves – vodka, tomato juice, Worcester sauce – he had found breakfast. He carefully blended a morning meal – a Bloody Mary it was. He plopped a handful of ice cubes in, dashed it with some salt, and stirred it with his pink finger. Perfection.
He gulped down hard. The concoction hit just the right spot, but it was still to early for him to be up. It had been ages since he had woken up early to meet a client; and early by his standards meant anything before noon. He had become accustomed to the late wake as he would describe it to the few close friends he still had left. He checked his watch – only an hour to go before the meeting. He thought about Don Cicerone and the meeting as he surveyed the atomic bomb that had gone off in his apartment. He scanned the empty pizza boxes, empty cans of beer, and the kitchen sink full of dishes as he thought about the type of jobs he had been given in the past from the Cicerone family. He was always tasked with digging up the dirt that no one else could find. That’s why they came to him – he used to be the best in the business.
Looking around his own apartment, he realized that he sure didn’t feel confident anymore. In fact, he was completely out sync with reality. He was a rusty nail in an old beat up toolbox. After throwing back the bottle for the past couple of years, his thinning roster of clients was barely helping edge him by in life. But he kept those few clients because that’s what kept him going; that’s what kept the pleasure train rolling. Without them, the river would dry up, and Jonathan would actually have to man up. He didn’t want to face the music. He wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t remotely ready for anything like that. No rehab. No sobriety. Nothing. All he wanted to do was get by, and that’s just what he had been doing.
He hit the streets to a sweltering gust of heat outside his Brooklyn apartment. New York City was ablaze with a heat wave. But it wasn’t just any old heat wave, because the humidity made the temperature boil over even more. It was hot and muggy out. Jonathan dressed the part in an effort to keep cool – beige khakis, a white polo tee was in order for the day, and a silver set of aviators to keep the glaring sun away from his very hungover state-of-mind. He would have preferred to be indoors where he could feel the cool breeze of the air conditioning on his face, but he had no choice. Vinnie was waiting, and it was for Don Cicerone. He thought about the Italian mob boss, and what he could have possibly wanted him to help him with this time. He had been one of his best clients but after a year of not hearing from him, he thought he had all but been forgotten.
Jonathan tried to fan his face as he dropped down below Church Street and into the depths of the New York subway system. The hot air upstairs was even more exaggerated down below. It was midday, so the Brooklyn subway platform had a light passenger load. Most people were at work at that hour. As the number five train approached, the hot gust of wind made it almost unbearable to be down there. Coupled with the hangover he was still trying to nurse, the blast of hot air made him feel lightheaded. He walked onto the air-conditioned subway car and was happily greeted with a gust of cold air. He could relax. He sat down, eyed the passengers, and tried to pull himself together.
He pulled out his phone and leafed through his messages. He was just killing time, but he couldn’t help but think about Don Cicerone again. The fear of working for one of the most repudiated mob families in New York was tempered by his need for cash. Jonathan was going broke, and he needed to do something fast. He had been burning a hole in his pocket ever since he started binge drinking again. The subway stopped at Dyre Avenue in lower Manhattan, and he hoofed it to transfer to the C-Train. He still had about thirty minutes to go as he headed towards the Fulton street transfer.
When he finally arrived at the 72nd street stop, he sensed some built-up anxiety. Why had they called him after so long? What was so important that it couldn’t be discussed over the phone? Why the call at 2 o’clock in the morning? The secrecy that shrouded the job was eating at him, and as he hoofed his way in the sweltering heat towards Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, he rubbed the sweat off his forehead. The unbearable heat made it difficult to be outside. The 100-plus degree weather made even the least strenuous activity difficult. And although the brisk walk was just a short trek through the park, it made Jonathan sweat.
When he reached the fountain, he was out of breath. He wasn’t sure who he would be looking for because he didn’t know what Vinnie looked like, so he sat down on the fountain’s edge. The cool mist from the water made being by the fountain more bearable. He faced the terrace just to the south of the fountain and wished he were standing under the protection of it. He looked around at all the people who had filled the park that day – it was late summer after all, and tourism in New York City was most likely booming. He looked around to survey the other park goers and checked his watch – 11:58am. He had made it with only minutes to spare. But where was Vinnie?
Jonathan checked his watch again – 12:05pm. They were late. But, maybe he just wasn’t noticeable enough. Maybe he needed to stand up so that they would be able to spot him. It wasn’t the first time he was meeting someone blind on the spot, meaning he didn’t know who he was looking for. But, they usually knew t
o look for him, and he figured today wouldn’t have been any different. He checked his watch one final time – 12:08pm. They were really late. Jonathan looked around one more time before standing up to stretch when a man selling balloons approached him. He handed him a blue balloon.
“This is for you,” said the man with balloons.
“No thank you, I really don’t want a balloon,” he barked back.
“Yes you do. You want this balloon. Take this balloon and walk up through the terrace and onto the other side. Wait there for a black town car to pick you up.” The man with the balloons walked off just as quickly as he had appeared. He left headed north through the park, the opposite direction Jonathan was supposed to go in.
He didn’t wait around any longer. He took the balloon, walked through the ornately decorated Bethesda Terrace, and quickly ascended the steps on the other side towards Terrace Drive. When he got there, he stood and waited with his blue balloon. I feel like a fool holding this thing. He watched as car after car drove by, mostly taxis until a black town car stopped in front of him. The driver rolled the window down.
“Get in,” said the beefy man with a triple chin.
Jonathan hopped in the backseat, and looked at the overweight thug in the driver’s seat. He had on all black. A black suit jacket, black dress shirt, black tie, and black pants. He looked like he was on his way to a funeral. His overtly Italian accent meant that he was most likely new to the states.
“Hi, so where to?” Jonathan tried to play friendly. He tried to be nice.
“Uptown,” he said in his very thick accent.
Jonathan got the point that the man was either in no mood to talk, or didn’t really have the vocabulary to strike up a conversation. So, he just sat in the car, still nursing a hangover, and watched the scenery go by as they made their way uptown. The car veered out of Central Park heading north on Broadway. They made their way west towards the Hudson River when they hit 96th street. He still wasn’t sure where they were going, but Jonathan knew enough to keep his mouth shut. He looked at the glum driver every now and then who had a proclivity to keep his hand on the horn for a few seconds too long each time he thought another car was in his way. A barrage of Italian spoken excessively fast and foul would follow each incident.