Spies Lie Series Box Set

by D S Kane

  After a night where he’d pleased Sandhia more times than he’d thought possible, Jon slept for most of the ride to JFK.

  By now his growing beard was obvious. He looked like his alter ego, Salim al-Muhammed. Jon drifted with the humming of jet engines and rubber-band jet lag.

  The female flight attendant wore a sari similar to the one Sandhia had worn the night she’d first bedded him. She touched his shoulder and asked him a question, but he didn’t understand the language. When he opened his mouth to ask her to speak English, his words came out in Hebrew. She frowned and then unwrapped the top of her sari, exposing her breasts. He tried to move further into his seat, but she was on him, straddling him in the seat, ripping off his clothing. Her face reshaped itself into Lisa’s. Then they were both naked, her crotch grinding against his penis, and then she held a knife to his throat. “Never do that with anyone else. Ever! Understand?”

  He nodded. The skin and muscle dropped off her corpse leaving her skeleton gripping his shoulders.

  He gasped, waking. The flight attendant walked by, offering him water. He nodded and took a cup.

  Looking out the window, the lights of city buildings blinked far away in the darkness.

  The plane touched down. Jon stretched. If all went according to plan, he was close to completing his mission for MI-6. If all went according to plan, he might have the leverage to reinsert himself into the Mossad.

  But, his mind filled with a sudden, disturbing thought: as his trainers had told him in Tel Aviv, no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  William Wing’s apartment,Ascot Heights, Block A, 21 Lok Lam Road, New Territories, Hong Kong

  August 28, 8:22 a.m.

  The short young man wore glasses so thick his eyes looked like they floated in tiny fishbowls. The screen, inches from his face, displayed fields requesting user identification and a password. His fingers hovered above the Enter key. He licked his lips, trying to decide. Seconds passed but then he smiled and slammed the key.

  The computer echoed back “ID Approved.” He grinned. “CryptoMonger is the best!” The screen shifted. William Wing entered a string of numbers before pressing the Enter key once more. He printed the screen, showing his SWIFT MT-100 transfer of $26,000 from his client’s bank account to another account. His. Well, one he owned but under another name. Untraceable. His client had reneged on the fee, so Wing took the cash anyway.

  He logged out and placed his purloined copy of the 200-page SWIFT Procedure Manual back on the tiny bookshelf in the guest bedroom of the apartment that served as his Hong Kong office. The codes in the manual listed the electronic addresses and specifications for the automatic handshake codes of over 3,000 banks that were members of the Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication, as well as details of each field in every possible transaction type.

  William had searched for months for someone inside a major bank who’d sell him a copy. Howard Shin, an AVP in the Bank of Shanghai, hadn’t trusted William, thinking he might be a spy for the bank itself, but relented when William offered the low-level, money-transfer bank officer over $25,000 to make him an unauthorized copy.

  He switched Internet pages and watched the balance of his bank account swell with the inclusion of his hacked fee. In ten minutes more, he’d wiped all traces of his hack from both the sending and receiving banks’ computers.

  Grinning, he decided to celebrate by going out for breakfast at a dim sum palace near Hong Kong’s harbor. He was hungry for char siu bau, a sweet, steamed pork pastry. William considered the short list of restaurants, trying to decide which made the best one. He programmed the security cameras in his apartment to surveil while he was gone. Although not in the harbor, Yung Kee specialized in roast goose with delectable crisp skin, but the place was also well known for dim sum. Maybe. Xiao Nan Guo had a serious following, particularly for dim sum, such as its magnificent flavored soup dumplings and fatty "Lion's Head" meatballs. The Dim Sum Bar was a gourmet delight. His mouth watered as he made his decision. The thought of goose made him smile. So, he’d be heading toward central Hong Kong, and on to Fook Lam Moon in Wan Chai, a ferry and a bus ride away.

  But as he reached for the keys to his apartment, his cell phone buzzed. Wing pulled it from his pocket and examined the screen for the caller’s name. He hit the button to reject the call, wondering what his father wanted.

  His father was the director of internal security for China’s CSIS. His cover title was senior director at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Six years ago the old man had disowned William and expelled him from their house in Beijing for his thefts as a hacker. He hadn’t tried to call or contact William until last week. Now the tally was six vain attempts.

  William opened the apartment door and retrieved the newspaper, its headline about the government in Beijing and his father’s role in some crisis taking place on the border with Russia. He tossed it into the kitchen trash.

  He exited, locked the door, and walked toward the elevator. The hallway aromas of a mélange of Asian cooking increased his hunger. Sesame seed oil, ginger, roasted Tai Chen peppers. And boiling soy sauce. He licked his lips.

  And as the elevator doors closed, the cell buzzed once more. He plucked it back out and examined its screen. “Damn.” Giving up, he flipped it open. “Yes, father?”

  The voice he heard was oh so familiar, and, as it always had been, soft without inflection. “Son, you are still impossible. But, I need you to return home, as soon as you can.”

  Wing shouted. “Why should I? And why now?”

  “There are certain things happening. I cannot handle them without your special talents. And I cannot discuss them on an unencrypted line.”

  William frowned. “Why should I help the most esteemed senior director of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs? What can be so serious for you to feel obliged to contact a criminal like me? And even if I wanted to, what help could your miserable son provide?”

  “Please. Stop. It is a different world now. I now acknowledge your usefulness. Our government has agreed that your skills will be prized. Just come. Son, I need you.”

  He claims me now? This is so much bullshit. “So, now that I might be useful to your masters, I can return? After so many years of being unworthy in your eyes?”

  But William felt surprise as he considered his father’s request. There was one thing he did want. He could regain face with his father by helping the man save face with his own masters. “So when you want me, you call. Where were you when I needed you? For twelve years I heard nothing!”

  “Yes. I felt you had done evil things. But things have changed. I need you now.”

  He sighed as he came to a decision. “Okay, father, I will help you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” There was a bitter tone in his voice as he terminated the call. He pressed the button for the elevator to return to the third floor so he could pack a suitcase.

  At Beijing Capital International Airport, Wing walked from the aircraft wearing a blue business suit, silk tie, and prescription sunglasses with fishbowl lenses. He carried a notebook computer in a black leather briefcase that also held several eBooks on international banking, foreign exchange, and trade finance. These would supplement his career talents in computer hacking, and constituted the skill base he assumed his father needed.

  He concentrated on keeping all emotion off his face, but flinched at the noises around him one second, and felt disgust at the familiarity of the city of his birth the next second.

  As he took the escalator to the baggage claim, someone behind him tapped his shoulder. He stopped short, shock holding him still as he swiveled to face the interloper.

  It was his father’s driver, a man in his late seventies, wearing the uniform of a captain in the Chinese army. He remembered the man from when he was a child. The driver had worked for his family for over thirty years. He seemed to find William as disgusting as William found this country. “Your father awaits. I’ll have st
aff pick up your luggage. Please follow.” With that, the driver led him out through the front of the airport where a limousine waited curbside.

  As he took a seat in the back, Wing heard the trunk open and close. The ancient driver sped from the curb. William coughed. The pollution that he hadn’t noticed when he was young had intensified to the point of making him choke. He pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket and hawked into it. William watched the rural countryside flash by under a brownish sky. He saw peasants using ancient farming tools. “Captain Sung, can you tell me why I have been summoned?”

  The driver remained silent. William shrugged. In China, nothing ever changes.

  The car approached the home office of Xian Wing, Senior Director of State Security, at the north side of Fourth Ring Road near Jingping Road. The driver flashed an ID card and the compound’s outer gate swung open.

  They entered through the inner gate whose high wall was topped with barbed wire and guarded by armed soldiers. The limo pulled to a stop adjacent to the front door of his father’s home, a twenty-eight room mansion.

  The driver opened the door and William marched up a few stairs to the entryway. A soldier opened the front door for him, calling into a two-way as William passed. William’s shirt stuck to his back, but inside, it was cool.

  He knew where to find his father. William barged through the bamboo library doors.

  A soldier unshouldered his weapon but, as William’s father rose, smiling, the soldier stepped back and resumed his position at ease. His father’s hair was thinning and white. His posture was stooped. “My wayward son, home at last.”

  William frowned. “Why am I here, father?”

  His father motioned to the others in the room. “Leave. Now.” As the door closed, the old man ran his fingers through his hair, sinking back into the seat behind the desk. William could imagine the thoughts cycling through his father’s head. The words came as if he were uncertain of how much to tell his son. “We have a possible crisis. I need a professional to investigate. Someone is drawing our country into a needless war with our Russian neighbors. Find out who it is.”

  William felt the air gush from his lungs. He fell into the seat behind him. Both countries were well-stocked with nuclear weapons. And, Hong Kong was so close to the mainland. If this was true, it could be as catastrophic for him as for a billion others. “Find out who?”

  Xiang Wing frowned, nodding. “I wish to use your criminal skills to hack into the Russian government’s computers. And you must do it without being detected.”

  William doubted he or anyone he knew could do this without leaving traces. Both countries had extensive anti-cybercrime programs. He knew he could easily hack into the Pentagon of the United States without leaving any traces, but he knew from firsthand experience that Russia was the most difficult hack of all.

  If he claimed he could be successful, that would be a lie. But even though his father still thought of him as a thief, here was his best chance to win back his father’s respect. He sat, trapped within the web of deceit his mind was spinning. “A most difficult task. But I’m a master at this. If I can’t, no one else can. You’ll have to get me resources. Hardware and people.”

  The old man rose from his seat and shuffled toward his son. “It can be done? I can offer you a team of the 6000s, our best hackers.” His father nodded. “Thank you, son.”

  William moved into the largest unoccupied room of the mansion. Soldiers carried furniture inside, including a bed, a teak desk, and several solid-teak bookcases. He admired the quality of life senior government officials could demand. The bed was a Sleep Number 5000, an upscale bed sold in the United States. He wondered if it were genuine or a knock off. Either way, it was made in China, of course.

  When the room was set up to his specifications, he exited and went to the smaller of the two libraries to interview his hacker team. He doubted they could be half as good at their work as he was.

  He’d need to figure out how to please his father. If he succeeded, maybe he could return now, and the scorn and retribution his computer hacking had brought on his father would be forgotten. I’ve wandered long enough.

  When he entered the room, the others stood up, at attention. Each wore an army uniform. William scanned their stiff resolve. “Who’s in charge?”

  A thin young man with sallow skin faced him. “I’m Lieutenant Chan.”

  Wing frowned. “What’s your experience in hacking?”

  The officer’s face remained rigid. “I have a PhD in computer science from Stanford University. I pay our covert agents in seventy countries with bank transactions from nonexistent accounts that I create and wipe out after the funds are delivered. I have stolen commercial software from Microsoft’s computers in Redmond before they are released for DVD production. I—”

  Wing waved his hands. “Yeah. Okay. What about the others?”

  Chan nodded. “I trained them. My fellow students at the University of Shanghai.” He stood rigid, waiting.

  Wing paced the room. He expected they’d be useless. He was sure no one outside the hacker community had the capabilities to supplement him. People like the Butterfly.

  But he’d give them a chance before dismissing them. “Okay. I need a spec sheet for current version of the FSB’s security system,” he demanded, referring to the Russian security organization that had succeeded the old KGB. “And the details of the personnel of their cybercrime unit. Their training, and copies of their software tools. Everything. You can find what I want on one of their mainframes in Moscow center. Get it for me.”

  Chan smiled. He turned and gave orders to the other three soldiers.

  William shook his head. He’d end up doing everything himself. He turned away and muttered, “Bullshit.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  IRT Subway Stop, 179th Street, the Bronx

  August 28, 10:47 a.m.

  A bank of pay phones stood on the Grand Concourse near the apartment, just across the street from the subway entrance. Only one of the phones worked. Jon wore his shabbiest clothing. He’d made his hair greasy and wild. Looking like a homeless person, he called Crane. “It’s O’Hara. I have what you wanted. I’ll need a favor from you in return.”

  He heard voices in the background. The voice of Crane sounded distant. “I’m busy now. What do you need?”

  Jon rushed the words. “A UK visa and passport in the name of ‘Sandhia Sorab.’ She got us the intel and it’s her payment.”

  “We don’t pay informers without a prior agreement.”

  Jon had expected this. “Your agreement is with me. I can sell the information if you aren’t interested. Will you provide the docs?”

  “Okay, but only if the intelligence is what we need. We’ll examine the contents and then decide.”

  Jon considered this complication. “Okay. There’s a tree with a slot carved out of its trunk in Bryant Park, near the northwest corner of the library. Call me when the docs are ready and I’ll make a dead drop in the slick.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have her docs by the end of today. I’ll send someone to pick up the drop. They’ll arrive at noon, so make your drop about 11:45. If the intel is solid, I’ll have them leave the docs in your slick the same time tomorrow, but only if the intel is what we need.” Crane’s voice sounded distracted. Jon wondered why as he walked from the IRT station, on his way to the apartment. He could think of no answer.

  Having to wait for the intel to be vetted before getting her docs gave him an uneasy feeling. Crane didn’t trust him. And Jon didn’t trust Crane.

  He took the subway to Bryant Park and walked past the slick, scanning the area to his south. No one seemed out of place. So far, so good. Another pass in the opposite direction ten minutes later, and nothing suspicious. He waited in the lobby of one of the glass and concrete towers—the Grace—for ten minutes, scanning all the traffic. When he was sure it was safe, he dropped the intel at the slick as instructed.

  Almost time for phase two. Running fr
om the Mossad was a headache he needed to end. Maybe, the intel could give him leverage to have Mother call off the kidons hunting him. After lunch, he called Mother from the bank of pay phones. “It’s your long-lost son. I have something you’d bloody well kill for. Call the cell phone you sent with me when I followed Houmaz to New York. We’ll set up a blind date, and no kidons this time or you’ll get nothing from me.”

  William’s eyes were downcast. “So, you see, father, there is nothing in the Russian computers ordering their soldiers to violate our borders. But, there are records of reports of our own soldiers crossing theirs. And, also recommendations regarding what they should do in response. If we continue these claimed violations, their intentions are violent in the extreme.” He handed a thumb-drive to his father. “It’s confusing.”

  The old man scratched his head, rose from his desk and paced the room. “Why?”

  “I haven’t any idea. My guess is a third party. Some kind of false flag operation. Although I couldn’t identify the party provoking both them and us, whoever it is, well, they’re very competent.” William faced his father. “But that’s just a guess. I’ll keep looking, and I’ll stay in touch with the men you’ve assigned me. Please, father, I’m of no further use here. I want to go home. When I’ve solved the mystery, I’ll return here, to you.” The unsaid desire for his father to request he remain here came to naught.

  His father’s face sagged and he turned away. “I understand. I’ll arrange a jet back to Hong Kong. But before you leave, say goodbye to your mother.”

  As he rode in the back seat of the limo, all William could think of was, I’ve failed my father. I’m still an outcast. His mind drifted over his failure like a seagull hunting aimlessly for lunch as it glided over the water. Who is provoking the border skirmishes? And why?

  This summer day in Manhattan was ideal for a walk. Jon strolled along wearing a collared shirt, a tie, and dark suit. He carried an umbrella, swinging it more to impose his sense of being the essential Brit than to protect him from the rain that had stopped long before the lunch hour. His beard was trimmed close and he knew he could pass for a Wall Street executive out for his lunch hour. Entering the pub on Washington Street just north of Wall Street, he sought a dark booth in the back. The pub had survived 9/11 and now thrived as a place where bankers and brokers lunched when they weren’t scamming their customers.