by Drew Murray
I want to hear her say for herself that she’s going to be okay. Whether that’s out of concern for her well-being, or so she can forgive me, I don’t know. That will have to wait. Right now, Peter Griffon, from the Organized Crime task force, and Rena Nassar, from Counter Intelligence, are filling us in on just how fucked we are.
I sent Griffon the gunman’s photo before he was even booked because I had my suspicions. Russians aren’t known for their subtlety, and a broad daylight attack on two police officers is the sort of thing they would do. Besides, the guy just looked like a Russian with that shiny suit.
As usual, I was right.
“The shooter’s name is Vasily Petrov,” says Griffon. “A highly ranked employee of Vladimir Golovchenko, head of an organized crime syndicate. Golovchenko’s small by Russian standards, not part of the ‘Moscow Circle’ as we like to call them, but he’s an especially nasty customer. Known as ‘The Reaper of Vladivostock’ because coming up through the ranks in his hometown, his preferred method of execution was decapitation using a scythe.
“Within the last year, he’s become increasingly volatile,” Griffon continues. “I’m not surprised at a public shooting by one of his men.”
“We’ve got Petrov in holding now,” says Decker. “Do you want us to wait for someone from the task force, or can we have a go at him now?”
“By all means, have a crack at him,” says Griffon. “But we’re not sending anyone from the task force.”
“You just said he works for this Reaper of Vladi-something,” says Decker.
“Precisely,” says Griffon. “Which means it’s pointless to talk to him.”
“He lawyered up on the spot,” I say, leaning toward the phone. “He didn’t say a word after the shooting. An hour after booking, he’s got a big-time defense attorney at his side.”
“Forget about the lawyer,” says Griffon with a wry chuckle. “He’s just window dressing to speed along the process. When you sit down with him, I’m certain he’ll be ready to plead guilty.”
“Guilty? There’s no way the DA’s giving this guy a plea deal,” says Decker, “even if he’s willing to roll.”
“He’s not interested in a plea deal,” says Griffon. “Pleading guilty cuts off the investigation, keeping anyone from digging into Golovchenko. If he turns informant, Golovchenko murders Petrov’s family, his friends, and basically anyone that didn’t think he was a total dick. Hell, he’d probably have a few of them killed, too. No way Petrov says a word about Golovchenko.”
“So, we won’t get anything,” says Decker. I think he may be the master of understatement. He leans back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head.
“Beyond his name, an admission of guilt, and a statement of regret? Nope. Not a damn thing.”
“The locals aren’t going to like that much,” I say, watching Dana through the glass wall.
“The locals? Let them worry about it, Will. We’ve got bigger things on our plate,” says Decker. “Don’t let yourself get distracted.”
“Get distracted?” I look back at him. “By what?”
“You’ve been awfully friendly with Lopez.”
“She’s a good detective. You do realize that after getting shot, she got up and went after Petrov.”
“And it’s a good thing she did,” says Decker. “Because if she didn’t, then Petrov would be in the wind. With the case.”
He’s insinuating that I should have taken the shot and put Petrov down. He may be right, which is especially annoying. I had a shot and I didn’t take it.
Decker wouldn’t have hesitated, and that’s where the friction is coming from. Decker’s a former solider, comfortable with action and skilled with firearms. I’m not. The truth is, I’m a lousy shot. Every year when I certify at the range, I only pass by the skin of my teeth. And that’s on a range, shooting a paper target. In the real world, in a split second? It’s just as likely I would have shot some civilian by accident.
“What I want to know is why Golovchenko wants this computer thing so bad,” says Nassar, her loud, clear voice reverberating through the phone.
“Think about what Russian criminals have done online,” I say, pausing to let them consider it. “Ransomware attacks. Election tampering. Every cyber warfare tactic they’ve employed would be elevated to unstoppable with a quantum computer. And with it portable, by the time we track down their location, they’ve packed up and moved. Just like the Cold War.”
“Cold War?” asks Griffon. “I’m from Organized Crime, not Intelligence. Help me out.”
“It’s called maskirovka, the art of tricking your enemies,” explains Nassar. “Knowing we were watching with satellites, the Soviets mounted their nukes on trains and kept them moving around the country so we couldn’t target them. They also had fake nukes on identical trains so we couldn’t tell what was real. Today they use inflatable tanks and jets good enough to confuse our drones.”
“Hold on, you guys are talking about stuff way outside of Golovchenko’s league,” says Griffon. “He just isn’t that sophisticated. Think blunt instrument, not a scalpel. The surveillance hack at the Convention Center, for example. Beyond his capabilities.”
“Couldn’t he hire those skills from the Dark Net?” Decker’s frustrated. He wants a target to go after and Griffon’s not letting him have it.
“For the Convention Center hacking?” I interrupt. “He could outsource that. But using the Unicorn is completely different. It isn’t like an iMac. You don’t just plug it in and it works. You need to build artificial intelligence software around it. That’s cutting-edge stuff. You need deep resources.”
“I might be able to make that connection,” says Nassar with a sigh. “This would explain some of the chatter we’ve been hearing lately out of Eastern Europe.”
“What chatter?” Decker asks. “You didn’t say anything about chatter.”
“Wasn’t relevant yet,” she answers.
“Well, it’s relevant now. What’s the intel?” asks Decker scowling at the phone.
I struggle to keep from laughing. How do you like those dribs and drabs now, Decker? Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother restraining myself, but I suspect Decker’s close to losing it, and I don’t like the idea of being in the room if Storm Decker reaches hurricane force.
My phone vibrates. Seeing it’s Bradley, I hit DECLINE. I’ll call him back in a minute.
“Word is that Golovchenko’s been doing work for the Russian government abroad, in exchange for favors at home,” says Nassar.
Decker pounds his fists on the table.
“That actually makes sense,” says Griffon, ignoring Decker’s ruckus. “We know Golovchenko spent time in East Berlin in the 1980s, the same time the Russian President was there with the KGB. We’ve long suspected there’s a relationship between them. Golovchenko doesn’t have the resources to utilize the Unicorn, but you can bet the Kremlin does.”
“I’m with you, Agent Griffon,” says Nassar. “From where I’m sitting in Counter Intelligence, I can tell you Russia couldn’t use the FSB to go after it themselves. Not on American soil. Hawks in the White House would demand a response. It’s too dangerous. But by using a criminal like Golovchenko, they stay at arm’s length. They can deny everything.”
“So you’ve got a hacker contractor for the Chinese government and Russian criminals with links to the Kremlin,” says Griffon. “And this Unicorn is still on the loose?”
“Yes,” I answer, running a hand through my hair. My phone vibrates again.
“Well then, good luck, gentlemen. You’re going to need it,” says Griffon.
I’m wrong. Griffon is, in fact, the master of understatement.
My phone is still vibrating, messages coming in rapid succession.
Bradley W: Will. Heard about shooting. Know you are busy, but this is urgent.
Bradley W: Seriously. Ping me ASAP. 911.
Bradley W: Will!!!!
Me: Sorry. You are right, busy. On phone with HQ. What’s
up?
Bradley W: Caplan refers to “associates” online.
Me: Witnesses didn’t mention anyone else with him. No one else in room. Bluffing for cover?
Bradley W: Daughter. Amanda. Arrived this morning.
Me: WTF? Where?
Bradley W: Checked into different hotel. Missed it on first pass.
Me: OK. I’ll go get her.
Bradley W: Too late. New message in Caplan’s Dark Net account.
Me: What message?
Bradley W: Subject is “New Bid.”
Bradley W: Content is image.
Bradley W: IMG attached
The room swims around me. In the space of a heartbeat, every nightmare I’ve endured since the night of the tsunami has become real. I can’t get a breath; my lungs are frozen. I want to run, but I can’t move. I drop the phone on the table. Decker asks me what’s wrong, but I barely hear him.
Staring up at me from the screen is a picture of a young woman, no more than eighteen, long brown hair swept back behind her ears, horn-rimmed glasses standing out against her smooth, youthful skin. She’s thin, almost waif-like. Pretty. An innocent middle-class American girl.
She’s also gagged and bound to a chair, just like Kate Mason.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Before Decker can ask me again if I’m all right, Dana walks into the conference room for the next call. Her arrival gives me momentary reprieve. Desperately, I seize the seconds to process this development. It isn’t Kate Mason in the picture, but the similarity is threatening to tear down the delicately constructed peace treaty I have with my past.
Since joining the FBI, I’ve diligently avoided kidnapping cases to avoid confronting my role in what happened the night of the tsunami. There were always plenty of other crimes to solve without going there. Now, I have no choice.
I haven’t talked about my mistake with anyone, not even the highly paid therapists. I would have talked to Jack—I should have talked to Jack—he was my partner and best friend. But I never got the chance.
Despite the glass walls, the room feels like it’s shrinking around me, suffocating. I want to get up and walk out, and I could. I could walk out of this room, straight out of the police station, and just keep on going. What good is being an almost billionaire if you can’t do that? But where would I go? Already, I tried the other side of the world and I couldn’t escape my past. I abandoned my life in Silicon Valley, and still it’s found me.
“What’s wrong with Parker?” asks Dana. “He looks as pale as I do. You’d think he was the one that got shot.”
She’s got her hands on her hips. In the center of her torso, the bullet hole and scorch marks stare back at me, dark nylon fabric peeking out from underneath. A new vest. That’s my fault. So is Miller in the hospital. Caplan’s daughter is being held hostage, and if we don’t get her back, that’ll be my fault too.
“Snap out of it, Will,” says Decker. “We need to talk to Burke. He’s going to want to send an army of agents down here. I know you don’t want that any more than I do.”
I find my voice, but it’s slow and thick, like I’m only half awake. “No, I don’t.”
The city cops are already wound up, and if Burke sends swarms of FBI down here to join them, it’ll surely spook the bidders off. We’ll lose the Unicorn, Dragoniis, and who knows what will happen to Caplan’s daughter.
The phone, already dialed into the conference bridge, comes to life. Opera comes through faintly in the background. It’s Friday, it’s late. He’s at home. I’ve been there. A homey, modest place that always has a DIY project on the go. Italian opera and building things is how he manages his stress. Burke doesn’t wait for greetings and introductions, launching directly into his erudite assessment of the situation.
“All right, I just got off the phone with the local chief. You may not have started it, but you’re in the middle of a shit storm now,” he says. “He’s pulling in every cop in the city down there. Understandably, he wants to track down anyone connected to this shooter, Petrov. Detective Lopez? Impressive takedown. Agent Parker, what’s this I hear about you being disrobed?”
“It wasn’t disrobed, sir, I was in yoga wear,” I reply. “Lululemon.”
“Lulu who? What were you doing in yoga wear?”
“Yoga.”
I’m not trying to aggravate him this time; my mind is occupied with more important things. It races through all the permutations of what happens next, in each scenario assigning a probability to getting Caplan’s daughter back unharmed. It isn’t looking good.
Burke sighs deeply and the sound is momentarily muffled as his hand passes over the mouthpiece at the other end. I’m guessing he’s not a yoga practitioner.
“Whatever, good collar, both of you.”
Burke doesn’t ask about why the case was there at all. If Burke suspects I used the case to draw out dangerous bidders from the Dark Net, he doesn’t say anything.
Hungry for more data, I look at the picture again. Amanda Caplan’s wrists are bound to the legs of a chair. A ball-gag strapped around her head fills her mouth so she can’t scream. Her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks streaked with tears. On her knees is a laptop, turned to face the camera. It’s powered up, and the screen shows the Google search page. But it’s not the Google logo. It’s a Google doodle. A drawing Google puts up for one day to celebrate something unique about that date.
I pull up Google’s search page on my phone. It’s the same doodle.
The picture was taken today.
“There’s been a development,” I say, closing my eyes and swallowing.
My body vibrates like a tightened wire in the wind. I struggle to keep my breathing even.
“Roger Caplan had a daughter,” I say, turning the phone around for Decker and Dana. “One of the bidders has taken her.”
Even Decker is stunned into silence, reaching out to take my phone as if holding it would dispel what I said. The muscles around his jaw ripple as he clenches his teeth together. Dana’s brow darkens into a frown so deep it threatens to swallow her eyes completely as she looks over his shoulder.
After I explain how Bradley located the photo in Caplan’s Dark Net private messages, Burke outlines a plan to send reinforcements our way. He wants to assemble a task force with the locals. Freeing Amanda Caplan, capturing the Chinese agent, and finding the Fukushima Unicorn is too much for two agents to handle. He’s not wrong, but a flood of bodies is not what we need.
“Sir, could we discuss this approach?” Decker’s leaning forward toward the conference phone again. His hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white. “If there’s a foreign asset on the ground here, it’s possible a ramp-up of agents might cause him to run.”
Of course it will cause them to run. For a chance to buy the Fukushima Unicorn, it was worth the risk for Dragoniis to come here. But he didn’t figure on facing down an army of G-Men. He won’t stay.
“Dragoniis is no fool, Director,” I say, pulling myself together and raising my voice from the end of the table. “Cyber’s been aware of him for years. He’s kept his identity a complete secret, and moved frequently, always avoiding countries with extradition to the U.S. Decker’s right—if he’s on U.S. soil, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“I understand the value of discretion, Agents,” says Burke. “That’s why I sent Decker in the first place.”
He doesn’t mention me. Yeah, okay, discretion isn’t my thing. But I haven’t been bad at all this time around. So far, I’ve only pissed off Farber, and he doesn’t really count because I’ve got a dollar bill that says he gets out of bed angry every day anyway.
“This is bigger now,” Burke continues. “A girl’s been kidnapped. And we have public safety to consider. Petrov shot cops in broad daylight, in public. What’s to say his cronies don’t do it again? There needs to be a public response to maintain order.”
“I understand, Director. The city is already losing its mind. Chief Wilmont is being bombarded by
media,” says Dana. “But the kidnapping isn’t across state lines. It’s still our case, unless we ask for FBI assistance.”
“Are you saying you don’t want our assistance? Do we need to have this discussion with Chief Wilmont?”
Decker and I exchange a glance. We recognize the warning in Burke’s tone. Dana’s pushing the envelope, but Burke hasn’t shut her down because this is still her town, and she’s the top detective on the force. I checked. While Petrov was being booked, I talked to some people in the building who told me Dana’s close rate is number one.
“Not at all, sir. Agents Decker and Parker have been, and continue to be, invaluable to the investigation. I’d like to remind you there’s a murdered civilian at the beginning of all this. He may have been from out of town, but he was killed here, and his death kicked off this chain of events, which culminated with bullets flying in the streets. Here. In my city. I took one of those bullets in the chest today. And while I appreciate the support of the FBI, if additional agents risk this investigation, possibly putting my community in further jeopardy, I believe I speak for Chief Wilmont when I say it’s a risk I don’t want to take.”
I lean back in my chair, eyes wide. She just schooled a director of the FBI.
“For future reference, Parker, that is how you object,” Burke says after a long pause, his tone a stone-chewing gravel. “So just how would you recommend we proceed, Detective?”
“There’s a lot going on here, sir. We need to keep the public safe, but we can’t spook whoever has Amanda Caplan. They may think they’re still dealing with Caplan, or may not even know who is running the auction,” Dana says. “The murder scene is in the Convention Center, and the auction for the Unicorn is supposed to end there, making it a concentration point of the case. It makes sense to keep our focus there.
“It’s also the most public, along with the downtown hotels,” she continues. “To protect people, we add uniformed officers to the Convention Center’s entrances, scanning everyone as they come in. That creates a secure, weapon-free zone in that building where we can pursue the suspects involved with minimal threat to the public. We throw some plainclothes in the hotels, keeping a low-profile, but ready for rapid response. We’ve got enough cops on the force, especially with the chief authorizing OT. It’s a public response, but it’s an expected response. So, it won’t spook the killer, this Chinese hacker, or the kidnappers.”