Death and Treason

by Seeley James

  After the Cold War, the world changed. The oligarchs didn’t fight the regulations or the regulators. They fought the concept of regulations. They shredded the “United We Stand” idea, believing they could unleash unlimited growth if they were unfettered. Billionaires financed libertarian ideas. News organizations, owned by billionaires, challenged the federal model that had built the USA. Over the last thirty years, national pride transformed into a strange hatred of centralized government. Hatred of the very centralized government that saved them from the Great Depression, the savings and loan debacle of 1987, and the Great Recession of 2008.

  Most surprising about this American movement was that the American economy was the biggest, most productive economy in the history of civilization—yet politicians were campaigning to disrupt and dismantle what they called the “administrative state.”

  Why? Yuri scratched his head.

  American billionaires, along with wealthy English and Germans and French, wanted to be more like their Russian counterparts. No holds barred. And the Russians wanted freedom from the arbitrary rules dropped on them by Western democracies.

  The vultures had a common cause.

  He laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. For twenty years, traditional governments like Russia, Germany, and the United Kingdom had tried to keep the billionaires in check. Enter Chuck Roche, America’s President-Elect. He worked with Popov and Strangelove to disrupt governments that dared say no to his business interests. They had a common enemy: democracy. Russia wanted western governments that are too paralyzed to act. Regulations that, if not repealed, are ignored. Sanctions that can be disregarded. Dysfunctional governments.

  Yuri’s men had been bringing about that disrupted state with their relentless planting of fake news. They had been effective. Very effective. Soon, there would be no governments, no democracies, no sanctions—only oligarchs.

  George Orwell had been wrong when he forecast the Oligarch Collective as the future political system. Their egos were too big to work together. Instead, the oligarchs were reverting to the Dark Ages. Each billionaire’s corporation would fend for itself like an ancient fiefdom. Soon they would conscript their own armies to fight never-ending wars between city-state-corporations. Each oligarch could rule his corporate “nation” by decree.

  Brilliant!

  Yuri almost laughed out loud when he understood how far ahead of him they were. But there were three problems. First, he was not yet an oligarch. Second, Popov was trying to eliminate him. And third, the Americans wanted him to answer for Flight 1028.

  His Stateless Hacktivist and Resistance Collective wasn’t just good at what it did—it was too good. Strangelove had been jealous, maybe even afraid. Popov also had that fear. If Yuri’s men could disrupt an American election, they could easily expose Popov and his little machinations using the same methods.

  Where did mysterious Brad fit in?

  But there was a fourth faction in the mix. The useful-yet-dangerous Jacob Stearne and his boss, Pia Sabel. What did they want? They imagined themselves as the last defenders of a hopeless democracy. Fools. If SHaRC could sway an election, they could certainly take down a young woman and her mad soldier.

  Yuri examined the young men milling about on the veranda and thought about where they were in the big picture. SHaRC was in a Hobbesian trap with Popov: they represented an escalating fear leading to pre-emptive strikes. Popov struck first by killing Alexandr.

  And that was all he needed to know. Yuri knew how to win the war.

  He rose and strolled around the pool to the veranda. The others stood in a big circle. Three of them, like Yuri and Roman, had bandage-wrapped faces. Those three were the first to commit to SHaRC in a visible way. He was proud of them.

  The brilliant mathematician, Petr, was holding forth. “If we had ten thousand friends from Moscow to stand with us, then freedom from Viktor Popov might be more than a daydream.”

  Yuri patted Petr’s shoulder and put his arm around him. “Petr, why wish for that? If we lose, then our sacrifice will be smaller in number and therefore better for the hacker community. But if we win, our brothers will revere us as gods—or even Jedi!”

  A few men laughed sadly.

  “No, my friends,” Yuri raised his voice, “don’t wish for one more man than stands with us here tonight. It’s not about the money we can make. We can make money anytime we wish. This is about our freedom. This is about the respect of our peers. Think about it, gentlemen. When we win this war with Viktor Popov, we will bask in the admiration of every hacker from here to Moscow. We won’t stop there. We’ll wage war on the oligarchs. Our victories will be legendary. Why share the glory with any of them? No, I don’t want more than the lot of you. You are the best.”

  He caught the gaze of each man in the circle.

  “Not everyone agrees with me, I know.” He waited while they looked from one to another. “It is a difficult journey. We’ve lost friends and family. It will get worse. I am a professional soldier while you are not. Nonetheless, I understand your anxiety. If you wish to go home, I will give you what you need: money, ID, whatever you want. Because.” He tightened his mouth and lowered his voice. “I have no desire to die in the company of men who live in fear. If Popov wins, I have no intention of going out with a whimper. I’ll fight to the end. And I’d be proud to die standing next to any of you.”

  Yuri felt Petr’s arm lock around his shoulder. Petr said, “It sounds crazy, but—I’m with you.”

  A few others wrapped an arm around a comrade.

  “You know what day this is in America?” Yuri asked. “Thanksgiving. On this day, Americans give thanks for all their riches. From this day forward, we will celebrate it as the day we were thankful to be in the company of real men. Brave men who resolved to fight the devil himself. Honorable men who chose not to run but to stand up to Viktor Popov. He is afraid of us because he knows what we can do. He is right to be afraid. We will not sit here and wait for Viktor to find us. We will do what he made us do to the Americans. We will hack through his security. We will find out where he lives. We will disrupt his life with fake emails and postings. We will find the evidence we need to convict him. And we will take him down.”

  Someone shouted, “Damn right!” Several others agreed.

  The circle locked together, their arms grasping each other.

  Yuri brought his voice to full-thunder. “We will kill Popov and anyone who wants to fill his chair. We will do it for all those who lost their lives to that beast. We will do it for Aleksandr. We will do it for Vasili. We will do it for Alexi!”

  CHAPTER 54

  Pia squeezed the paddle, downshifting her Lamborghini Centenario Roadster into a four-wheel drift that landed her on River Road. In the passenger seat, Tania buckled her seatbelt. Half a city ahead of her, the man who embodied evil. Popov was responsible for crashing two American airliners. He was meddling in her nation’s election. And now, he was attempting to use Stefan as a pawn. All four tires found grip and vaulted them onto empty streets at two in the morning. Having not wasted time raising the top, she cranked up the heat.

  Tania scanned maps on her phone. “Jacob stopped on Ewing Drive just north of Greentree Road.”

  “Jacob, do you still have eyes on them?” Pia asked in her comm link.

  She slammed on her brakes approaching the intersection at the center of Potomac, Maryland. She looked both ways before running the red light. Vague noises came through the comm link in reply.

  “Jacob, are you there?” The engine thundered them back up to speed.

  A terse voice, speaking low through clenched teeth answered. “Can’t talk. Police rifles aimed at me right now. Subject last seen heading south on Ewing.”

  Then she heard shouting, followed by Jacob and Miguel being thrown roughly to the ground.

  “Those two are useless.” Tania checked her extra magazines. “Bianca said we have live feeds from satellites just like the Russians. Can we get a view of
Bradley Boulevard right now? Cause I’m thinking Popov’s heading for his little hideout in the Embassy.”

  Pia shifted up, doubling the speed limit. “The Russians have theirs trained on Washington all the time, but mine are under contract to the intelligence community. No, we can’t move them from Tehran or Mosul just to follow him.”

  “I know where he’s headed,” Tania spun the map around to show Pia. “We can cut him off at Little Falls Parkway.”

  Pia glanced but couldn’t take her eyes off the road at speed. “How far?”

  Tania checked. “Six miles.”

  Pia gave her a questioning glance.

  “At your speed,” Tania said, “that’s under three minutes.”

  “It’s a two-lane road.” Pia shook her head.

  They crested a rise and found a Toyota crawling along at the 45 mph speed limit. She crossed the double yellow line. The compressed air between the two cars boomed as she passed four startled teenagers. The little car bounced in her wake.

  “What’s the plan if we catch him?” Tania asked.

  “Kill him.”

  “Bad idea. You’re on record in the Senate. Everyone will know who did it.”

  “How do I stop him from threatening my friends and family?” Pia paused a moment. She wiped her eye. “Just friends at this point. I don’t have any family left.”

  Tania stroked her shoulder. “Yes, you do.”

  The road widened into a four-lane parkway. She pushed the roadster up another notch. Wary of the residential neighborhood’s ability to disgorge families heading home, her eyes scanned side streets for any sign of cars.

  They flew over the I-495 overpass, getting a little air under all four tires. A comet-trail of sparks followed them when they landed. They stayed quiet and wove around a delivery van joining from the access ramp. Her turbulence rocked it from side to side.

  “Make a dog-leg onto Mass Ave using Little Falls.” Tania held up her phone-map for Pia to see, then pulled it down. “He’s probably going for the embassy’s secure entrance off Tunlaw. We might catch him.”

  Pia slid her wide, low car through narrow Westmoreland Circle, spewing smoke and tire squeals. The V12 bellowed down Massachusetts Avenue. Over a rise, they could see the tail lights of one other car on the road. She wound it up higher, the note of the massive engine straining.

  Tania pushed her feet into the floor, gripped the door handle with one hand, and the dashboard with the other. “We’ll still catch ’em if you take it down a bit.”

  Pia kept her foot to the floor.

  Without signaling or showing brake lights, their quarry turned right on a side street. Pia flew by. Grinding her tires to a stop, she held the clutch, wound up the revs, and let go. The tires broke loose. She spun it around in the narrow lane. She made it back to where Popov’s limo disappeared and turned down the street. He was gone.

  “Keep going down to New Mexico.” Tania checked her phone. “He must’ve seen us. He’s taking a shortcut through slower streets to scrub our speed advantage.”

  Pia drove as fast as she dared in the slender residential road lined with apartment buildings. When they rounded a bend, the limo was in sight for a fleeting moment. Pia slammed them into their seats as she pushed the chase to the limits.

  They rounded the next bend. The limo turned into a blind drive behind a high wall.

  She slowed as they reached the turning point. The barrier created a hiding place. Tania stood on her seat and aimed her assault rifle at the edge.

  “Security gates,” Tania said. “Protocol dictates that the occupants of the car have to get out, show themselves to the guards, proving there’s no one holding them at gunpoint inside the car.”

  Rolling forward, their angle slowly exposed the limo. It sat imprisoned between the inner and outer gates to the compound. In Tania’s theory, Popov would exit the car any second. Tania stood on her seat and took careful aim.

  Brilliant white lights burst on them from a van parked nearby.

  Tania dropped down, hiding her weapon. “Oh shit. Cops?”

  Pia shielded her eyes. The van had a satellite dish on top and a big green square with RT America in the middle. Russia Today, the state-run news agency. A reporter ran toward them from the van with a microphone in her hand.

  “Damn it.” Pia dropped the clutch and smoked the exotic car around in reverse.

  They headed up the lane at a good clip until the RT van disappeared in the distance behind them.

  “Good thing I didn’t shoot him right off.” Tania stowed her rifle.

  “You just told me not to kill him.” Pia gave her friend a glare.

  “Hey. You got friends here, OK?” Tania huffed. “You can go back to the Senate and say, ‘I didn’t kill Popov’ and not perjure yourself. But we gotta do something quick before that guy gets some of our people.”

  The drive back to Sabel Gardens took significantly longer than the outbound trip.

  Before they reached the gates, a horde of reporters ambushed her on her street. They stood in the road with cameras and lights.

  A perfectly coiffed blonde was the first to reach her door. “Ms. Sabel, why did you try to murder a Russian diplomat in the street?”

  Pia gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

  “In your Senate testimony,” the woman continued, “you pled the Fifth when asked if you swore to kill Viktor Popov. Is that what you were doing tonight?”

  Pia let out an exasperated breath.

  The reporter raised her voice. “Is it true you said, ‘I’m not going to bring Strangelove and Popov to justice. I’m going to kill them’?”

  Pia turned to the reporters. “Is it OK with you that Viktor Popov slit Bridgette Jallet’s throat in front of her children? Did you know he murdered Olesya Sochneva, his personal secretary of thirty years? If those murders don’t bother you because they took place far away, how about this? Sabel Technology tracked the hackers who killed 365 innocent Americans on flights 1028 and 31 to Viktor Popov’s group. You tell me, what do you think should happen to him?”

  She revved the engine and waited until the press jumped out of the lane before dropping the clutch.

  They parked and walked to the main house. Pia’s phone rang, showing a call from Stefan.

  “Pia,” he said without waiting for a response, “how could you bring your vendetta to my door? Have these innocent children not suffered enough? You’ve lost two fathers and a mother already. Where will it end? I beg you—do what I did. Renounce your wealth. Give everything to the poor. Walk away from the trappings of power and money. It does nothing but bring you grief and hatred and violence. Love can conquer everything, Pia. Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King changed the world without hurting people. You can do this. Leave it all behind and join me.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Miguel helped me push the marble slab onto the small foundation in my backyard. We got it squared up and level just before a familiar voice broke my moment of pride.

  “You know, Jacob,” Detective CJ said, “you’re Montgomery County’s public enemy number one.”

  He strolled into the backyard with a couple other guys in cheap suits.

  Miguel picked up a shovel and held it like a baseball bat. He took a couple practice swings. Satisfied, he hoisted it to his shoulder and stared at the cops.

  “Your bodyguard out front sent us back here.” CJ thumbed over his shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “What did my attorney tell you last night?”

  “We just have some simple questions on another matter. Nothing about your personal war with Viktor Popov.” He pointed to the cheap suits. “These guys are from NYPD. They’re concerned about the Kasey Earl murder.”

  I straightened up and faced them. “Gentlemen, I refuse to answer any questions without a lawyer present.”

  “We just have a couple easy things we’ve been wondering about since the video camera wasn’t working.” The bald guy put his hands out.


  “I want a lawyer present.” I gave him my soldier stare. He flinched.

  “You see, there’s no eyewitness,” his buddy said, “but a lot of the residents said you were there when they heard a loud bang.”

  “L-A-W-Y-E-R.”

  “What’re you building there?” CJ pointed to the slab.

  Mercury stepped up behind the detectives. Yeah, bro, what is that thing?

  I said, It’s a shrine. Obviously.

  Mercury scratched his head and stepped between the cops. Shrine? Are you kidding me? This is a fucking dollhouse. Oh homie, I never should’ve trusted you. And to think, I came all the way here to tell you where to find the video the cops are saying doesn’t exist.

  I said, You know where the video is?

  Mercury folded his arms. Shrine my ass.

  I looked at the work. Uh. It’s a model. Yeah. Scale model. I wasn’t going big until … you know, I had some experience.

  Izzat right? Mercury grinned and walked around the mini-temple. That throws a whole new light on things, bro. Yeah, tell the New Yawkas that the supervisor has a mirror copy on a cloud drive. The killer didn’t know that when he erased it.

  “Shrine, huh?” CJ asked. “You mean like for Mother Mary?”

  I processed the origins of the surname Czajkowski and figured it sounded Czech because it starts with the same two letters.

  Mercury punched me in the shoulder. Polish nobility, yo. Catholic. Descendant of the goddamned Vandals who trashed Rome. Feel free to kill him anytime now.