by Drew Murray
“They don’t know who we are yet, do they?”
“No, they don’t, and they don’t need to. We’re Special Agents, that’s it.”
“I don’t think you understand,” I say with a laugh, drawing his attention back to me. “I’m kind of a big deal. They’re going to know who I am.”
Decker frowns at me in confusion. I’m not surprised. He’s a guy that spends his life blending in. In the Valley, you spend your life trying to stand out, and stand out I did.
“Whatever,” Decker says finally, swilling a big gulp of his coffee and sucking more air in through his teeth. “Time we headed upstairs.”
There’s another aspect to this, one that he doesn’t mention, and I wonder if that’s because he doesn’t know or because he doesn’t want to say. I suspect the latter. Not only am I an expert on the Fukushima Unicorn, I’m also the legal owner. Or at least CastorNet is.
He stands up, straightening his jacket.
“Not just yet,” I say, holding up a hand. “The Fukushima radiation match explains me, but it doesn’t explain you.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he says, stiffly.
“Stuff giving off gamma rays would go straight to Counter Terror, with an inter-agency notification to Homeland Security. But that’s not who they sent. They sent you.”
“And?” he says.
“Why?”
“I’m also here because of the Unicorn,” says Decker.
Because of. Not for. Then it clicks. I clench my teeth in irritation. My emotional response to news of the Unicorn caught me off guard. It distracted me. I hate that. Clearly, I wouldn’t be the only person interested in it. And the other types of people that would be interested are people that Decker would very much like to find.
“Who is it?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, hands in the pockets of his inexpensive, but perfectly pressed, G-Man suit. Classic pissing contest. The kind I’m certain he’s accustomed to winning. But he’s never played them with me, a guy with little to lose to a guy like him. My worst-case scenario at the FBI ends with me walking out the door to lead the life of a retired one-percenter of a one-percenter. He knows that, but he also knows the Fukushima Unicorn is something I can’t walk away from.
I roll my eyes at his silence and pull out my giant iPhone. This little train can’t leave the station without me, and something tells me Decker won’t be tolerant of delays.
I know he can see the screen from where he’s standing. I open Facebook and start skimming through my news feed. Sarah went out to Chan’s restaurant last night. Gary got a new rescue dog. By the time I’m reading the meme that Ashraf posted, Decker breaks.
“He goes by Dragoniis.”
“No shit.” The words slip out of my mouth.
“You’ve heard of him.”
“Hello? Cyber?” I say, shaking my head. “He’s the most skilled and prolific hacker in Asia. Supported by the Chinese government. Word is he waltzed in and out of Sony Entertainment like it was Sunday shopping at the mall. Another rumor had it that, for a fee, he removed some of the most notable names from the Panama Papers before they went public. He’s breached every major bank on Wall Street at one time or another.”
I pause. We also believe he wrote the core code for the secret chips in servers that went into all the big tech companies, government, and intelligence agencies. Which means he knows the location of all the back doors, including the ones we never found. With what Dragoniis knows, the Chinese could be cut off, or even better, fed disinformation. No wonder Decker’s so wound up.
“But he rarely travels,” I continue, “and when he does, it’s always a non-extradition country. We don’t even know his real name.”
“We got chatter that he might be headed here,” Decker answers, “and when the locals reported the radiological alert, it all came together.”
My eyebrows pop up. I can’t contain my surprise. He doesn’t just mean the United States. He means here. Right here. There’s only one thing that would make Dragoniis take the risk of someone like Decker getting his hands on him: he’s after the Unicorn.
“That’s right,” Decker says with a nod, when he sees I’ve sorted it out. “And if you want a chance at getting the Unicorn first, we best be getting upstairs. Shall we?”
“Give me one second—I need to check in with LA. I’ll meet you at the elevators,” I say, unlocking my phone.
“Do I need to tell you this is classified?”
“Only if that makes you feel better.”
“It does.”
As Decker walks off to the elevators, I consider something else. We were called here on a murder. That’s one dead body because of the Unicorn. How many more will there be before this is over? Given what the Unicorn is worth, my gut says a lot.
CHAPTER FOUR
Me: Where are you?
Bradley W: Café Cenfor. Peruvian Gold. You want?
Me: Late night?
Bradley W: Club Emerald. J-Lo and Leo were there.
Me: Still hacking VIP lists?
Bradley W: How else do I get in on a government salary?
Me: Get to office ASAP. Need you at your desk.
Bradley W: You’re not there?
Me: Indiana.
Bradley W: WTF? When did that happen?
Me: Middle of the night. Call from Burke. Caught a high-profile.
Bradley W: Crap. OK, Boss. At desk in 15.
Bradley White is my chief technician in the LA Field Office. Formerly NSA, he’s now a civilian Specialist for the Bureau. Not an agent, which is good because he’s not a field man. Too excitable. But I trust him.
Now that I’ve put Bradley on standby, I step into the elevator to follow Decker upstairs. On the way up, my thoughts are pulled inexorably to the past.
After Sterling murdered Kate Mason, I doubled down on our efforts to protect privacy, and transform the way we communicate, and all that other great stuff from company promotional videos. The truth is, I didn’t want to confront what I’d done and being consumed by work left me little time to think about it.
Even better than being consumed by work at home was being consumed by work abroad, avoiding questions about Kate Mason’s murder. Not that there ended up being any. I was right, of course, the pop-up message disappeared without a trace when Sterling started the livestream. The FBI never asked any questions about what happened on the tech end. They assumed the plan had gone off properly because we gave them Sterling’s location. They never asked about the message, and we never told them. But I knew what we’d done. So did Jack.
My trance is interrupted by the elevator door opening. Decker’s waiting. I follow him down the hall, thoughts of my Japanese partners and their invention tugging at my conscious mind.
When we turn the corner at the end of the hall, I see a uniformed local police officer standing guard outside a door. Well, sitting to be precise. They brought him what looks like a banquet room chair and he’s slouching in it, legs crossed, doing the crossword puzzle in a newspaper. Where did he get a newspaper? They still make those?
Decker struts up. Chin held high. Back straight. A force of nature. I have to admit; his size alone is imposing. When he flashes his FBI badge, the uniform jumps to his feet.
“Special Agents Decker and Parker, FBI,” he says.
The uniform looks over at me and I see surprise on his face. While Decker looks every inch an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, from his clean-cut hair to his G-man suit, I do not. I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt with an X-wing fighter on it, underneath a blazer whose sole purpose is to conceal the badge and gun I have to carry. I grab my ID and flip it open for the uniform, who shrugs.
“Hold on, sirs,” he says, turning around to slip a key card in the door. It opens, and he sticks his head inside. “Excuse me, Detective, two Agents from the FBI are here.”
“Are they? Already?” says a female voice. Strong, decisive. “All right, let them in to join the party.”
&nbs
p; He opens the door wide enough for us to pass. The room is huge by New York standards, but average for the Midwest. King-sized bed. Sitting area. Refreshment station. Desk. Bathroom next to the door.
The first thing I notice is that it’s oddly tidy for an occupied room. The bed is turned down, a card with the following day’s weather written on it placed neatly between a bottle of water and a clean glass. No one slept here last night.
The key card envelope is on the counter in front of the TV, a room key still in it. On the desk a white cable is plugged into the lamp, next to an empty box of donuts and a small mesh pouch containing a gaggle of extra computer cables. A roller bag sits on the luggage rack. Carry-on size.
Industrial LED lights on tripods cast bright light in pools on the wall and floor. Someone on their knees, dressed in white coveralls, holds a digital SLR camera. Black watch on their wrist. The forensics tech.
By the desk is a woman. Average height, jet black hair tied in a ponytail, tanned complexion, wearing a gray pantsuit that doesn’t quite hide her athletic figure. She’s leaning on the desk, right hand on her hip, holding her jacket back to reveal a gold badge and a Smith & Wesson.
“Detective Dana Lopez, Homicide,” she says, holding up a hand and then pointing to the man on the floor. “And that’s Keith Miller, Crime Tech. You are?”
“Special Agent Thomas Decker, FBI.”
“Special Agent Will Parker. Call me Will.”
She looks at me with that evaluating cop gaze. “Seriously?” she says.
“No shit, are you really?” Miller scrambles to his feet.
I smile and wave.
Miller holds out a hand, but I don’t respond. He’s wearing latex gloves and he’s been crawling around the floor of a hotel room. No thanks. Dana gives him a look, but before she can say anything, Decker moves on.
“I read your report, but it was brief,” says Decker.
“And Parker here is just getting up to speed,” he continues. “Why don’t you fill us in?”
“What report?” I ask. There he goes again. Dribs and drabs. Never the full story.
“It was just a one-pager,” says Decker. “Not much detail.” I recognize the warning of impending machismo, like the first rumbles of thunder before a storm. Storm Decker.
Dana stands up straighter. “The blood’s not even dry. Reports aren’t the top priority, even if they do end up at the FBI.”
“That’s okay. Why don’t you just tell me now about the radiation?” I say. If I’m going to have a shot at finding the Unicorn, I don’t have time for dominance displays.
“Sure,” says Dana, turning away from Decker. “When we arrived here at Caplan’s hotel room, we did a preliminary search and found a black Pelican case under the bed. Empty.”
“State regulations say that we have to sweep for chemical and radiological traces,” says Miller. “When I booted up the radiation detector, it alerted right away on the open case.”
Miller pauses, face flushed.
“Then what happened?” I ask. “Can we please keep the show moving, people?”
“Miller told us to get out,” says Dana. “Urgently.”
“I was being cautious,” Miller says, crossing his arms and looking down at the floor. “I might have overreacted.”
“First time it’s ever gone off?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Miller.
I walk over to the bed and bend down to take a look. The height underneath is right. There’s plenty of space to fit a Pelican case large enough to hold a Unicorn. Even a case with sufficient internal padding. There’s also another white cable connected to a white power brick plugged into the wall.
“Where’s the case now?”
“Back at the lab,” says Miller. “In safe storage.”
I stand up and look at Miller. He meets my gaze hesitantly.
“Are you sure you did it right?”
“I’m sure.” He nods, face flushing an even brighter red.
“I ask because that’s the whole reason I’m here. That test result.” I look back over at Dana, standing still at the lamp, watching me, evaluating. “Who’s Caplan?”
“The victim,” she says. “Roger Caplan. Forty. Caucasian male. Souvenir vendor from Boston.”
“Collectibles,” I correct her on the way to the closet.
“I’m sorry?”
“Collectibles. That’s what they’re called at a Comic Con. Not souvenirs. Souvenirs are things you buy at Times Square with ‘I heart NY’ on them. Vendors at Comic Cons sell collectible items associated with a particular fandom, or genre.”
“And you know this how?” Dana asks, putting her hands on her hips.
“Doesn’t everyone? Miller knows.” I point at the tech before sliding open the closet door.
Dana glares at Miller who shrugs his shoulder and nods. I made Miller for a sci-fi fan the minute I walked in the door. And he recognized my name right away, which means he’s a techie. Pure geek.
“He does?” Dana lifts an eyebrow.
“Check out his watch face. The symbol for the Star Wars Rebel Alliance.” I turn to Miller. “You in the 501st?”
“Maybe.” He never takes his gaze from the floor, awkwardly covering his watch face with the camera in his other hand.
“The 501st? I don’t know that unit,” says Decker.
“Of course you don’t,” I answer. “The 501st are cosplayers.”
“Cos-what?” says Decker.
“Have you processed the laptop yet?” I ask Dana, ignoring Decker.
“We haven’t recovered one,” she says.
“Good, so it hasn’t been compromised.”
“There wasn’t one at the scene, and there wasn’t one on the desk when we came in,” she continues, ignoring my commentary. She’s not easily rattled. Intriguing.
“Well, then, it’s still in here,” I say, tapping on the metal safe on the upper shelf of the closet. It makes a muted ringing noise. Like most hotel safes, it’s not very thick metal.
“How do you know that?” Dana asks, narrowing her eyes into little slits. She’s got a hell of a stare, and I lean back under the weight of it.
“Because under the bed is a white power cable plugged into the wall. Apple, USB-C, 60W. So, there’s a MacBook. Caplan also had an iPhone, based on the lightning cable plugged into the lamp.”
Miller’s under the bed. “He’s right,” he says. “It must have fallen down off the nightstand. I didn’t notice it before.”
“So where would the laptop be?” I ask, spreading my arms wide. “Wherever he went, he didn’t take the Pelican case that would protect him from the radioactive contents. If he doesn’t take that, he certainly wouldn’t take his laptop.”
Miller pops his head back out from under the bed looking like a meerkat in his white overalls. Dana’s still squinting at me, but she’s stopped frowning. Decker’s grinning. I’m doing exactly what he wants, which is mildly annoying, but it’s also what Burke sent me here to do, so I have to suck it up. For now.
“If it’s here, where?” I continue. “I assume Miller’s checked the desk and dresser drawers. The TV cabinet won’t fly because there’s a mini-fridge on one side and a coffee machine on the other, leaving no space.”
“Which brings us to the safe,” interrupts Decker. “You opened it yet?”
Dana looks at Miller.
“I can’t,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve asked hotel security to come, but they haven’t yet, so I’ve been processing the rest of the room.”
I wave my hand at him. “You go ahead with that; I’ve got this.”
Inside my jacket pocket are two devices. My hardened Bureau Android, and an iPhone. I use the Bureau phone for official communications. Everything else is the iPhone. Of course, it’s not an ordinary iPhone, it’s my iPhone.
I take it out now and search for the app I want. When I find it, I hold my phone up to the safe.
“What are you doing?” asks Dana.
“Opening it,” I say.<
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“How are you going to do that?” asks Decker. “Are you going to make a call?”
Oh, Decker. You sound so old. It may be called a phone, but it’s really a pocket computer. And like any computer, its power comes from the apps running on it. And I’ve got some great apps.
This particular app goes about its work. Technically it doesn’t have to touch the safe, just be close, but I’m tired, and the Tropical Blend wasn’t enough jet fuel, so I rest it on the front.
“You may have noticed there’s no key hole,” I say to Decker. “Without the four-digit code, hotel safes open up via a wireless connection on the right frequency. Miller’s still waiting for hotel security to open it because, right now, they’re charging the device they use to override the lock. It doesn’t get used all that often, and undoubtedly sits in a desk somewhere until the battery is dead.”
“But you’re using the phone antenna to scan and search for the right frequency,” says Miller. “Damn, that’s clever.”
“Yes, it is.” I’m rewarded for my patient leaning by an electronic whine and the grinding of gears. The display on the safe lights up and says “OPEN.” I reach out for the handle and pause. “You dust this already?”
“Yeah,” says Miller.
Dana crosses the room. Her frown is gone, the squinting eyes showing curiosity now, rather than suspicion. Decker catches my eye. The Unicorn. Could it also be in there with the laptop? What if Caplan put it there for safekeeping, damn the radiation?
“Wait,” says Decker to Dana and Miller. “This could be dangerous. What if there’s something radioactive in there, too? Maybe you should wait outside.”
“What, are you Feds somehow immune to radiation?” Dana huffs. “We’re fine here.”
My hand hovers over the pull handle. How many years has it been? How many sleepless nights trying to piece together what happened to the Unicorn? And now it could be on the other side of this thin metal door. This isn’t how I imagined our reunion. By trying to get Dana and Miller out of the room, Decker’s revealed himself to be a problem. If it’s in there, he’s going to take it, giving the United States government a terrifying power. Is that something I’m prepared to let happen? Too late now.