Bitcoin Bandits

by Chris Kale

  Joon had kept all the drives in a drawer in his computer desk, not a very secretive place. Each one had a hinge that could fold out a cover that would reveal the USB male end. All the drives had a digital screen on the side of them, where the amount of cryptocurrency held on each would be displayed—once your password was correctly inputted. The man knew these drives were the most secure way to keep crypto, these drives are known as ledgers, the only other safe option would be a paper wallet.

  The bald man with the blue eyes had a thin black shirt on, had a tattoo of a knife on his throat, and had cauliflower ears—a common symptom MMA fighters would get from getting punched or kicked too much. He tossed the ledgers onto the passenger seat’s black leather and clicked down the volume of the music on the steering wheel as he looked out at the reflection of the sun on the Han’s choppy water from the boats and ferries moving along.

  “Call him,” he said in a gruff voice in the car.

  Calling him, the car replied.

  The phone rang three times from the speakers, then with a click, the ringing stopped.

  “Niklas,” the voice of a man said from the speakers, from the slight accent it was notable that English wasn’t his first language.

  “Yes, it’s me.” Niklas scratched his head.

  “Well?” the man said.

  “I visited him, but he wouldn’t give me the seed. I found his drives, but I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to keep the seed phrases or any paper wallets written in his apartment. He probably wrote them down somewhere else, a lockbox of some sort, or with a friend. I doubt he gave anything to his family.”

  “What was his state when you left him?” the man asked.

  “Messy,” Niklas said.

  The man on the other end of the phone call sighed. “That’s not what I asked you to do.” Another sigh. “Well, we’ll just have to figure out a way to move forward. We have to find that Bitcoin. I agree he wouldn’t have left it on a ledger right next to his computer. He must have used a paper wallet. My people have located where the Bitcoin was moved to, but we need that seed phrase. Find his friends or family if you need to.”

  “I’ll go through his cell phone records to see where he’s been the last couple of days,” Niklas said. “Shouldn’t be tough. With any luck, we’ll find the lockbox.”

  Again, the man on the other end of the line sighed. “Goddammit, Joon. . . Goddammit. . . Have you seen the market cap since the incident?”

  “Yes,” Niklas said. “A thirty-five percent drop in Bitcoin’s market cap alone. The alt coins are following it down.”

  “Investors are scared,” the man said. “We’ve got to get that Bitcoin, and soon. . .”

  “I’m just buying more.” Niklas smiled.

  “This isn’t about a couple of Bitcoin,” the man snapped. “I’m not trying to get you a deal on your personal crypto portfolio. This is about the entire market!”

  “Sorry, sir.” Niklas leaned back and folded his strong arms over his chest.

  “I suppose I’ll have someone go over to his condo and call the police. You checked the entirety of his place?”

  “I did,” Niklas said. “Nothing. I gathered his computer and laptop for your hackers, in case something is in there.”

  “If there is,” the man said, “it's going to be deep and hidden, encrypted and some sort of riddle. But I think you’re right, the Bitcoin is on a paper wallet. Yes, go track where he’s been running around to recently, that’s a good place to start. Be quick, the government is slow, but they may be quick to get involved now. We expect the Americans to get involved too, but we’ll deal with that when it comes.”

  “The Americans?” Niklas furrowed his brow. “Why would they get involved? It’s not their money.”

  “Actually, quite a bit of the lost Bitcoin belongs to investors in the west, from small fish to four whales.”

  “Whales?” Niklas asked. “How much did they own?”

  “These four owned over one million USD in Bitcoin on the BitX exchange alone. They will surely have reached out to the SEC by now. I know I would,” the man said. “And this is a down market, once the market spikes again, it’s feasible with market cycles that that one million could be ten or twenty million.”

  “Doubt it's going that high anytime soon after this,” Niklas said.

  “Unless we get it back,” the man hissed.

  “I’ll get it back.” Niklas took a pair of Mykita sunglasses from his center-section console and placed them on his face.

  “Be sure you do,” the man said, “and Niklas, no more messes unless you hear that directly from me. Keep it clean.” The phone call ended with a click.

  Niklas cleared his throat and thumbed the metal music back up. He shifted the car into first gear and sped off with a screeching sound of tires on wet cement.

  “No more messes. . .” he said to himself. “The suits always say that, but they don’t know. . . They think everything is so simple. Easy to say when your hands are just as dirty as mine, but you don’t have to do any of the work.”

  Chapter Three

  The next day, after leaving the two-thirds completed rocket on his desk, Thomas made his way to MCI Airport. He’d been booked on the 8:45 departure via American Airlines to Washington D.C. The company had booked him a business class ticket, which wasn’t uncommon, but the upgrade usually meant they needed urgent help.

  He’d brought a book on the plane, Jurassic Park; The Lost World, but after reading one page, flipped through the movies on the plane. He ended up watching the first thirty minutes of Citizen Kane before falling asleep. He landed at DCA, or the Ronald Reagan National Airport, fifteen minutes early. He disembarked with only carry-on luggage, a canvas bag with a single strap. Thomas wore a tan suit with a dark-gray tie. His hair was neatly combed back, and he wore a pair of sunglasses he didn’t remember or care to remember the name of.

  Making his way out of the airport, he quickly found a heavy-set man holding a sign with Merten neatly scribbled across it.

  “Have a good trip, sir?” The man in the dark blue suit, with a kind smile and a long, thin ponytail running down his back gestured for Thomas to hand him his luggage. Thomas did so, he always felt strange handing over a single bag to a driver, but it was easier and less awkward to just give them the bag.

  “Fine, thank you.” Thomas followed the man out of the airport and into the gloomy afternoon air.

  “First time to the capital?” the driver asked as he popped the trunk open to the black, four-door Ford.

  “Unfortunately, not.” Thomas opened the door and sat on the back seat. “I’ve been here more times than I care to count.”

  “Oh.” The driver shut the trunk and moved to the driver seat. “Seems to be the consensus. Most of my patrons either love it or hate it. They usually love it if it’s their first time here, and they’re going site-seeing.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Thomas said, as the driver pulled away from the airport. “It’s always been for business for me. And I always seem to see the dirt first, bad luck I suppose.”

  The driver chuckled, shifting in his seat. “Everybody knows the politics in this city is far from clean, that’s for sure.”

  After a quick twelve-minute drive over the Potomac River, the driver let him out in front of the SEC headquarters. Thomas made his way in, after leaving the driver with a fiver. He made his way through security quickly, with one of the attendants welcoming him by his first name before even looking at his ID.

  He took the elevator up three floors and nodded to Wyatt’s secretary with a smile. She stood, smiling back, went to the office door, and opened it for him. She was a petite woman with wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, probably from years of smoking, he thought.

  “Right on time,” she said, “Wyatt said that about you.”

  “I don’t like to be late,” Thomas said.

  He walked into the office, with Wyatt sitting at his computer, scrolling through something. Wyatt was a barrel-ches
ted man with thinning hair, thick eyebrows, and a short, blond beard. He wore old-fashioned, wide glasses and had his pinstriped shirt rolled up, showing his hairy arms and gold watch.

  “Thomas, welcome.” He stood, walking around the desk he went and shook his hand. “Please sit, I hope your flight went well.”

  “It did.” Thomas set his bag down and sat in the leather chair on the left side, and Wyatt sat with his back to the huge window behind him that showed downtown D.C., and the White House hidden behind the buildings. “Now, I came because you asked me to, but I don’t know the slightest bit about cryptocurrencies.”

  “I know, I know.” Wyatt rubbed his forehead. “But we’ve got some real players in this one, Americans, who want the best looking into this.” He leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “Think about cryptocurrencies like money. That’s your specialty, you need to follow the money.”

  “But they aren’t money.” Thomas frowned. “Any Joe can just make one, right? How’s that have any value?”

  “Listen,” Wyatt said, “I don’t know, either, all right? But what’s happening behind the scenes is even getting everyone all hot-and-bothered. Even the banks are buying them up in secret. The big exchanges are getting in, the retirement conglomerates are getting in, and the big boys in New York too. Something is coming, and whatever happened in Seoul, they want it cleaned up, and quickly.”

  “OK.” Thomas leaned back in his chair, putting his elbows on the chair arms, and pressing his fingers together in front of him. “So what happened?”

  “Someone somehow hacked one of the biggest exchanges of cryptocurrency in Korea; BitX.”

  “BitX?” Thomas winced. “Doesn’t sound like the most legit name for an exchange.”

  “Regardless,” Wyatt said, “a lot of Bitcoin was taken.”

  “You said billions in your e-mail,” Thomas said. “That’s a lot of money, if it’s real money.”

  Wyatt turned and grabbed a loose piece of paper on the side of his desk and held it up close for him to read. “Five-hundred and eighty-five thousand Bitcoin gone.”

  “That’s worth a billion dollars?” Thomas asked.

  “It’s technically worth over two billion U.S.,” Wyatt said, “at least before the market slid after news of the hack.”

  “All right.” Thomas leaned forward in his chair. “Well, you know me, this is my cynical side coming out. Why don’t they just make more of it? I mean, that’s what it is, right? Made-up money?”

  “I don’t pretend to be an expert on this new technology,” Wyatt said, “but that’s one interesting part of crypto—or at least Bitcoin itself—there can’t be any more made. . .” He picked up the paper again and looked at it. “There’s supposedly only going to be twenty-one million Bitcoins ever created.”

  Thomas rubbed his chin. “Interesting, I didn’t know that.”

  “It's coded in there, I guess,” Wyatt said.

  “So, this hack,” Thomas said, “represents roughly three percent of the total supply. . . that’s no small amount. I’ll have to go to Korea for this one.” Wyatt nodded. “Does this happen often? Hacks like this?”

  “Not on large exchanges like this one,” Wyatt said. “The big ones hire the best coders and security programmers in the world sometimes. . . because it's so in right now. . .” He glanced at the paper again. “This exchange has one of the best as its lead developer—Joon Chang-Min, known as Bob June on Twitter. There was another big hack known as Mt. Gox years ago, and that’s still unresolved.”

  “I don’t like leaving loose, messy ends. I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will, that’s why I reached out to you first. You’re booked on a flight the day after tomorrow, should give you a little time for research.”

  “Sounds good,” Thomas said, “that it?”

  Wyatt reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver phone, handing it to Thomas, who rolled his eyes. “We really need to be that secret?”

  “These hackers are good,” Wyatt said, “if you found anything, they are skilled at snatching funds up in seconds. If you want to call your ex or daughter, you can always use your private phone. You talked with Sarah lately? If you don’t mind my asking. . .”

  “It’s been a few months, it kind of got left in her court,” Thomas said. “But I’ll give her a call before I go.”

  “You never think it’ll be this difficult when children get older,” Wyatt said, folding his arms over his chest. “One of my sons thinks I’m the bad guy just for doing my job—that I’m working for the man.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, Wyatt. We most certainly are working for the man.”

  “Sarah doesn’t think you’re evil though,” Wyatt said, “you can rekindle that relationship I bet.”

  “You may be evil,” Thomas said, “but you weren’t a neglectful drunk.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking out the window.

  “It’s been years,” Wyatt said. “People change.”

  “You know something, Wyatt, the older I get, the more I doubt the truth in that statement. People don’t change, they just pretend. Everyone out there is just pretending to be what they think they’re supposed to be.”

  “Man. . .” Wyatt laughed. “You’ve been locked away in that apartment alone too long with your rockets, I think this case will be good for you. You can get some fresh air and be around people again.”

  “We’ll see, maybe I’m turning into my father, grouchy and cynical.”

  “Just don’t get too sarcastic,” Wyatt said. “You know what they say about sarcasm.”

  “It's just the truth veiled,” Thomas said. “Well, let's see if we can get to the truth of what happened in Korea.”

  “If you need anything,” Wyatt said, “don’t hesitate.”

  They both stood and shook hands. “Thanks, sounds like I’ve got some serious reading up to do on cryptocurrencies. I don’t see the value in it quite yet, but if that much Bitcoin is really worth billions, I could see why someone would want to take it.”

  Chapter Four

  After his meeting with Wyatt, Thomas didn’t quite yet want to go back to the hotel room they’d booked him in. He instead headed down the street to one of the only places he enjoyed in the city, and although he couldn’t indulge like he used to, he made his way into the dingy, dimly lit bar.

  The place was called Roman’s Tavern, and as soon as he swung the door and walked in his shoulders relaxed, and he loosened his tie. The bar was dimly lit with an aged pool table in the middle of the room along with a single pinball machine. A place like this one used to be Thomas’ favorite type of dive bar. Walking over to the bartop, an eight-seater with many scratches and glass stains covered over with a newish coat of polyurethane, he laid his bag on the ground next to him and rested his elbows on the bar. He didn’t recognize the bartender or the other patron sitting at the far end of the bar, his face nearly-obscured by what appeared to be the New York Times.

  The bartender came over, he was a man who appeared to be in his late twenties, had a curled dark mustache, and was wearing a neat button-up vest.

  “How we doin’?” he asked, placing both of his palms on the bartop.

  “I’m good, just getting in town,” Thomas said, peering up at the television screen in the upper right, with one corner hidden by hanging wine glasses.

  “Well, welcome, then. What can I get ya?”

  “Soda with lime, please.”

  The bartender went over, scooped the ice, sprayed the liquid in from the gun, and squeezed a lime wedge in. “Starting a tab?”

  Thomas nodded. “Thanks.”

  On the tube, there was a Manchester United game going on, which the bartender seemed keen on watching. Thomas didn’t know the other acronym for the other team, but he knew about MUFC. That was one of Sarah’s favorite teams, as she’d played a bit of soccer in college. He took a drink of the soda.

  The game was tied 1-1, and in its final minutes of stoppage time for the first half. Thomas took the
phone Wyatt had given him out of his pocket, he noticed it was an iPhone. He used the same code he always had to unlock the phone. There was Safari, call, e-mail, and text features, but not much else. Thomas set it on the bar just as the refs blew the final whistle for half-time.

  “That’s one thing I always appreciated about soccer, or futbol rather,” Thomas said to the young man, “no commercials except for half-time.”

  “Yeah, it’s a lot better than American Football,” the man said.

  As the program was about to head into commercial break an ad rolled across the short wall that encircled the field—it was an ad for. . . Bitcoin?

  Thomas looked at the bartender, scanning the man’s youth and seeming hipsterishness. “Can I ask you a question about something in that game? Not sure if you know or not.” Thomas shuffled on the stool.

  The bartender nodded, leaning back on the backside of the bar near the register with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “That ad for Bitcoin.” He motioned to it rolling along the digital screen.

  The man acknowledged it with a flick of his head.

  “I’m new to this stuff, and. . . It doesn’t give any company name or where to get it. What kind of ad is that?”

  “I think it's just, like, the Bitcoin foundation or something advertising it,” the bartender said casually.

  “So, who's making money off people buying it?” Thomas asked. “What's the point of that ad besides exposure?”

  “Well, when you buy it, you usually pay a small fee with the company you get it from,” the bartender said, crossing his arms over his chest now. “I like it better than paying the 6-7-dollar fee buying stocks though. It's nice when you buy little bits at a time.”

  “You own Bitcoin?” Thomas asked.

  “Me, no,” the man said. “I own a few, mostly Litecoin.”