Swiftshadow

by D S Kane

  Cassie thought of a line from an old B. B. King blues song she’d played on guitar when she was in college, ‘If it wasn’t for bad luck, real bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.’ Now she’d have to finish up here fast and get out of town in a hurry. She took a painkiller and tried to sleep, without success. She gulped down a sedative, but despite the mix of alcohol and drugs, many hours passed before she drifted off.

  Cassie woke the next morning to a hangover in a perfect California day, blue sky, warm, and almost no humidity. She took several aspirin and did her best to put the events from yesterday from her mind. She sat in a meditation pose on the bed, attempting to regain focus. It didn’t work. And the aspirin caused some bleeding.

  She dressed in a gray blouse and black slacks. Clothes common enough not to draw attention. She packed what she needed in the attaché case and placed everything else into a dry-cleaning bag. She planned to toss the bag into the trash container in the parking lot. She was now prepared to flee the hotel. But first, she needed to conclude her business. Cassie sent an email to Katherine McCandless at Stillwater Technology:

  I have completed your assignment, locating and destroying all paper and electronic copies of the material stolen from the company. I request you wire the remaining payment due from one of your offshore banks to the numbered bank account where you deposited my retainer, by end of today. Send me an electronic copy of the sending bank’s advice for the wire, at which point I’ll send the final remaining electronic copies of all documents to you by certified mail.

  Until then, I hold these copies.

  To enable you to see my work is now done, here is a key paragraph of one of your documents, translated back into English.

  The email continued with part of the “General Description” paragraph she’d found in Hong Kong on the front page of one of the more important documents. She implied the threat that if McCandless failed to pay her, the “final copies” might end up somewhere very public. In minutes she could post all of the documents on the Internet. If McCandless paid her and then tried to locate her, the trail would end with the San Jose postmark, 3,000 miles from where she was going next.

  She checked her website every few minutes for incoming email. There was one already waiting for her, from the same company she’d just hacked in Hong Kong.

  Your company comes to us highly recommended. We want your company to complete an assignment. Documents were stolen from us, and we want your company to find and return them. Please also provide the identity of the hacker or hackers and thieves who broke into our offices and their network, so we can appropriately deal with them.

  A most interesting thought occurred to her, and she smiled. While she might never enjoy her life as a hacker in the world of corporate finance, it would always be more entertaining than a “normal” life.

  CHAPTER 11

  July 30, 11:09 p.m.

  11 West Kirke Street,

  Chevy Chase Village, Maryland

  Mark McDougal brushed his teeth. He heard the start of the late night news show from the television in the bedroom of their house on West Kirke Street in Chevy Chase Village. He could see his wife’s image in the mirror as she rested against a pillow in bed, watching the news.

  Curious about the day’s events, he emerged from the bathroom. On the wide screen he saw a woman’s image glaring at him through the cameras. The toothbrush dropped from his mouth. “Holy shit,” he said, spraying toothpaste over the rug as he recognized Sashakovich emerging from the abortion clinic. He was absolutely sure it was her. He thought the shape of her face was different, but the angry glare and the way her hips moved as she walked by the cameras were a dead giveaway. Nobody else saunters like that. Nobody else wears their emotions that way. It’s Sashakovich.

  His wife, her head rising off the pillow, looked daggers at him and pointed to the small pool of toothpaste and saliva on the carpet. “Mark. Don’t be a slob. Clean that up. I’m not your maid.”

  McDougal bent to wipe it, thinking, that could be her. Maybe she’s alive. I’ll need to get electronic copy of that news footage early tomorrow and run it against facial recog software.

  * * *

  Leland Ainsley, Director of Information Network Security for the agency, almost never arrived home in time to see the late news on television. Tonight was a rare exception. He unlocked the front door of his tiny studio apartment in Georgetown, carrying an expensive leather attaché case filled with work reading.

  Dropping a tech journal article on the sofa, he loosened the yellow and red rep tie from the collar of his starched white shirt. The article, “Trends in MVS Security: What They Mean to Auditors and Data Security Officers,” sponsored by the Henderson Group, fell off the couch onto the floor. He glanced at its new resting place, on top of a piece of toast crust he’d failed to pick up over a week ago. “Sheesh.” Longish blond hair fell into his eyes, and he swept it back from his forehead as he opened the fridge to rummage through the science projects brewing within. He smiled, selecting one not toxic enough to kill him.

  Ainsley stood in front of the open microwave door, eating reheated leftover moo shu pork from dinner takeout four nights ago. He stared longingly at a journal article on computer fraud and countermeasures lying on the countertop and then decided he didn’t have the energy. Boob tube tonight.

  A tall, slender man thirty years of age, Ainsley was responsible for maintaining security of all the secrets found on the agency’s mainframe servers and internal networks. The wall of his studio displayed his diploma from West Point, but it had been years since he thought about military tactics or even fired a gun. As his eyes passed the diploma, the name his coworkers had secretly given him blurted into his mind: “the Technoweenie Prince.” He hated that. But, that’s exactly what he was. An absolute genius with computer technology. It bothered him to be thought of as unessential by the analysts and operatives he guarded.

  As usual, he’d exercised on his way home at a nearby gym, but while he used their torture machines, all he thought about was the state of the art in computer security and countermeasures. He had no social life.

  Ainsley hung the suit jacket and pants he’d worn in his closet. He took off his tie and shirt. In his underwear, he sat on his couch, not appearing to notice the trash scattered around the room—trash he’d never have time to throw out.

  Wolfing the remaining bits of food into his mouth with chopsticks, he stared at the screen. The national news filled his TV screen. He wiped his mouth with a well-used paper napkin.

  He watched a report about a riot outside a San Mateo abortion clinic, sponsored by a group whose leaders were now in jail for burning down the clinic and killing a staff member and a fireman still inside.

  The story bored him. He was about to change the channel when he was startled by the vision of a woman with snarling lips staring at the camera. His jaw dropped. A bamboo shoot fell from his lips. The woman on the screen in front of him, her face filled with rage, was almost familiar but not quite the person he remembered. His eyes followed her, scanning for details. He nodded, recognizing her walk, broad shoulders, and swinging hips—her characteristic movements—and the defiance on her face. Yes, despite the changes to her face, this was someone he knew, and knew well. He whispered, “Cassandra.”

  Moments later he smiled. She might be the easiest answer to his most dangerous problem. But first he had to figure out how to handle those he thought wanted him dead. He examined the probabilities of all the outcomes he could think of. Now, which outcome worked best for him? At least he wouldn’t just wait to be picked off. Yes, this was so very good.

  He celebrated the moment by filling a shot glass with expensive Lagavulin sixteen-year-old single malt Scotch and savoring its taste. Then he smiled. Re-dressed into his business suit, he returned to his office at the agency.

  * * *

  Robert Gault also lived in a studio apartment, less than a mile from Ainsley’s. His differed in several ways, but the biggest and most important diff
erences were a larger pantry filled with junk food and health food, and a larger deluxe refrigerator. Gault walked through the door just as the news came on. He walked past the hanging photograph of the woman he’d once been married to and headed directly to the fridge. He never missed the news. He sat and watched, eating a jelly doughnut as Cassandra Sashakovich glared at the camera. Wow! Looks like Sashakovich. I wonder if she’s still alive? Son of a bitch! How’d she do it? As a senior operative with the agency, he was overdue for promotion. And maybe her improbable survival was something he could leverage.

  Gault scratched the bald spot at the crown of his head. He’d been with the agency for just under twenty years. Competent and patient were terms he thought of to describe himself. But not inspired. Well, maybe knowledge of the former NOC’s location in Northern California was worth something.

  * * *

  Greenfield looked up from the stack of reports and noted that he was approaching his house. The chauffeur pulled to a stop in his driveway and waited for the director to leave. “Pick me up at 6:45 tomorrow. We’ll be going to the Hill.” Greenfield exited the limo, walked to the door, and let himself in. Almost 11 p.m. He hiked the stairs to the bedroom and kissed Debra, his wife, on the cheek. As he removed his suit, he saw the report she watched on television. She picked up the remote. “Wait, honey. I want to see this.” And he also recognized the angry face of Sashakovich as she faced the camera.

  He thought for a second. The face was different, but not remarkably so. But the way she walked—it had to be her.

  The Saudis hadn’t yet figured out what she’d done. But if she was still alive and they did, well, he couldn’t let that happen.

  He made a mental note to think about how best to handle the problem. Before it became a crisis.

  * * *

  As the morning ended, the mole sat alone at the basement terminal at agency headquarters. No one knew the mole was there. The hum of air circulating through the forced air system was all the mole could hear.

  These terminals were special. They couldn’t carry attachments, but they were screened for Internet address links, and certain terms and words triggered alarms. The mole’s fingers carefully pecked at the keyboard, tiny clicks echoing off the walls. Long fingers crafted an innocuous message, but its recipient 10,000 miles away wouldn’t fail to understand its meaning. The mole entered the Internet address of a video file placed on YouTube in the early morning hours from home, with a label that wouldn’t attract anyone’s attention unless they’d been told to look for it.

  Would it be enough to satisfy those who’d threatened the mole’s family? Would they want more?

  They always did.

  * * *

  Before leaving the hotel, Cassie logged into her numbered bank account. She found the payment had arrived in her offshore numbered bank account after pushing through the five financial blinds. The cash was marked as good funds, “available cash.” With the payment confirmation on her screen, Cassie sent an email message to McCandless, thanking her and stating she would mail the documents to her within the hour. She replied to the offer of work from their competitor—the company she’d just hacked—with a brief email:

  Thanks very much for your kind consideration, as this assignment would provide us with the opportunity to demonstrate a set of skills of which we take great pride. Regretfully, however, we must decline as the work backlog of assignments to which we’re committed exceeds one year.

  The money she’d just earned would last over a year, even if she spent it unwisely. But, if she was prudent, this cash could easily last well beyond five years. She needed to save most of the money she’d earned, to use it to solve her ultimate “problem” with the Islamic extremists. And she’d need much more cash than the half-million dollars she’d just earned to have a prayer of being successful.

  Cassie returned the car to the rental agency. She took a taxi to the Amtrak Train Station in a rundown section of San Jose.

  * * *

  At the moment when Cassie received confirmation she’d been paid, in the small mountain village of Upper Pachir, in Nangarhar Province, thirty miles southeast of Jalalabad, Afghanistan, a fifty-two-year-old man wearing traditional Saudi garb received an untraceable email pointing him to a website that displayed an MPEG-4 video file. Although he knew he couldn’t trace the email back to its source, he knew who’d sent it.

  He sat on a small canvas chair, with his netbook on his lap. He scratched his beard as he viewed the attached video. Shit, the bitch is still alive. He’d thought as much, but here was the proof he wasn’t finished with her. How much does she know? He had to find out. The idiot at Greenfield’s agency who sent me the email gets to live a little longer.

  He rose from his seat and yelled over his shoulder, “Kassim, get my brother on satellite phone.” He scratched the scar on his left cheek, a souvenir of the Soviet Union’s adventure in Afghanistan so many years ago. He decided to order the mole to scan cell phone traffic and trace her location

  Tariq Houmaz had a momentary flash to the time long ago when he’d studied to become a petrochemical engineer. All he’d wanted then was to work for his father at ArabOil Corporation. But the accident at the refinery where he’d apprenticed had left him disowned. He was sure it had been no accident. Navy SEALs had destroyed the refinery, trying to eliminate someone the United States thought might be a conduit to a Muslim terrorist group. “Collateral damage,” the American diplomats claimed. Thirty-seven innocent men and women had died. He was never told if the suspect had been apprehended and executed, or had escaped. Or even if there really was any terrorist.

  But his father had blamed him. Pushed him from the family. Soon he’d pay them back. An eye for an eye.

  Before he did, he had to know what that bitch knew. Had she stolen just their money, or did she also take their secrets?

  * * *

  Hamid, Sayed, and their two companions sat in first class on the Singapore Airlines flight to San Francisco. Sayed hummed something while Hamid slept. It would be ten more hours before the plane landed. Sayed thought about how best to get the intel from the young woman. Would he use a knife to remove pieces of her body? They’d been told to collect a few as proof she’d been executed. Which parts would he choose to slice first? He already knew the method of execution: an ancient sharia punishment using a spear or some other sharp object, like a sharpened broom handle.

  * * *

  Since the newscast featuring her face had aired on television, Cassie knew to remain cautious as she traveled. After seeing herself on television, she knew the facial surgery she’d had was now worthless. The surgery would have made her more difficult to find, but that was before the scene at the abortion clinic. Her agency now had cam footage of her in action. She’d need to disguise herself for the trip back to Manhattan.

  She bought makeup and disguised herself as an ancient hooker one day, as a gentle grandmother the next, then as a business executive. She crisscrossed north and south as she headed east, took her time traveling, rotating her identities with her disguises.

  She ignored the screech of the voice in her head. She’d grown used to it. Did all covert operatives come with the voice already assembled inside them? And, what would happen if she stopped hearing it. Would that be good or bad?

  It took two weeks to arrive back in Manhattan. The voice in her head remained sullenly silent for the final day of the trip. She checked into the Ramada Plaza New Yorker near the Javits Center, on Eighth Avenue at 34th Street. Sitting in her hotel room, she was happy to be in Manhattan, a place she now called home.

  Cassie left the hotel for dinner at Centro Vasco on 23rd Street near Eighth Avenue. A lightly steamed three-pound lobster tasted delicious in celebration of her successful completion of Swiftshadow Consulting’s first assignment.

  Then she headed to Starbucks where she used her cell’s wireless function to download her email. There were no email messages. How disappointing.

  The next day she retrieved her work
station from the locker at the YMCA, and reclaimed documents and supplies from a locker at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. It took hours, but she was now back in operation.

  Late that afternoon she used her cell to check her email and found a message from a contact she didn’t know. From small cues – language phrasing, specific terminology, and the nature of the assignment described in the vaguest of terms—it seemed to be either a federal agency or a contractor to a federal agency. She replied,

  Interested, but unable to commit without more specific details and a broadly-worded mission statement.

  They were unwilling to divulge enough, and she balked at accepting an assignment for something so vaguely defined. However, two email messages each way the next day began with a brief description of the assignment:

  We require creation of a semi-repetitive bank-to-bank Electronic Funds Transfer network called Project SafePay, with de novo current accounts set up through screens of multiple financial blinds. SafePay will be used for military payrolls. We need end-points in Middle East, South America, and North America. Work may require in-country presence for very brief visits.

  Cassie whispered aloud, “Oh, yes, this is so me!” Her whole body shivered in anticipation. It’s just what she’d done for the agency. It’s what she did best. Her smug, arrogant grin felt good.

  But seconds later, the tiny voice in her head registered a warning. Why are you suddenly gifted with something so tailored to you as the mission where they sent a hit man to you? Could this assignment have come courtesy of the special someone from the agency who’d blown your cover? And if not, this could still be the Islamic extremists, trying to backtrace you through your email.

  She sat stock-still, considering her options. Then she shook her head, her face a solemn sadness. She should simply decline politely. Tell them this is something she didn’t possess the skills they required. Maybe she’d get lucky. Might even make them think they hadn’t found her, that she was someone else.