by D S Kane
Chapter Twenty-Five
William Wing’s apartment, Ascot Heights, Block A, 21 Lok Lam Road, New Territories, Hong Kong
September 18, 10:23 p.m.
William Wing read the latest useless email from Lieutenant Chan and cursed in Mandarin. He doubted the efficacy of using Chinese hackers. It had been his father’s decision, in order to keep the border skirmish problem under wraps. But William felt his own complicity, never arguing that better talent might be available. And, it was.
He knew several in North Vietnam and a few in Riyadh he thought were much better hackers. And then he remembered the best one, Brown. Betsy “Butterfly” Brown. He mumbled her name with unintended reverence, as if she was a goddess. It made him laugh. But, he needed the best. And, he thought, she is the best. He reached for his cell phone and punched in her number.
He counted the rings. One, two, three. Damn. She used a cell phone. Had she decided to assign him to voicemail hell? But, on the fourth ring, he heard her say “What?”
“Butterfly, it’s Wing.” He sighed and braced himself for the onslaught of imagined insults he was sure she’d hurl.
“Little Wing. Why are you calling?”
“I have another problem. You might be better at this than those who’ve been helping me.” William realized too late that he’d worded his request in an insulting way and prepared for her diatribe.
“You stupid shit. First, you call me on an unencrypted line. Then you tell me your first choice of talent wasn’t me. And, of course, that didn’t work, did it? Some defective asshole you are. And you assert you managed them? Idiot, you couldn’t manage an insect, let alone someone with half a brain.”
He flinched. “Uh, you’re right. On all counts. Please forgive me. Will you help?”
“And what do I get for being your hacker slave?” He could hear the half-laugh in her voice and winced.
He had only one thing to offer. “Another favor owed. To be claimed at the time you choose, and for anything you desire.” Ouch, another mistake. Maybe I should have had another cup of coffee before I called the little brat.
“Well. Well, well, well. Let’s see, I think that’s a total of six solids you’ll owe me if I agree to do this one. Maybe I’ll have you be my very own house slave. You can dress in an apron, with nothing else underneath it, of course. And you’ll cook my favorite dishes for me, vacuum, and clean my cat’s litter box. Or maybe I’ll have you stud in person for me. No more phone sex. Hmmm? Lemme think. Oh, I have a really good idea. I think I’ll just—”
NO! He flinched. “Right. Well, I agree to whatever.”
“Then call me back using a secure Internet phone connection.” She gave him details for a temporary Internet sanctuary and terminated the call.
It took William less than five minutes to set up the new connection.
Her voice was all business. “So?”
He steeled himself, thinking. “What I need is a traceless hack of the Chinese and Russian government servers. A third party has inserted data into their computers. The hacks state that each country attacked the other. Border attacks, But they never happened. Phantom events. I need you to find out who placed the reports there. So, when you have the data strings, you’ll need to figure out how they got there and who put them there. Can you do it?”
“A very trivial pursuit. Of course I can.”
He took a deep breath. “Good. How long? For something so easy?”
“Dunno. It’s been a while since I was deep inside the Ruskies’ kitchen. And your folks’ mainframes? Not for at least a year. It’ll take me a few days just to see what the current state of their computer security is. I’ve heard both countries have enhanced their cybercrime units. Ever since the US power grids were infected with super viruses from some hacker, everyone is spending the bucks on finding and fucking with us. So, uh, figure a week to be safe. Okay?”
William nodded, smiling. “Yeah. The power-grid infection. Well, everyone knows about that.”
“One more thing. This will cost you. I want fifty thou.”
He stopped himself from gasping and took a few seconds to settle himself. “No. I’ll give you twenty.”
“Thirty-five.”
He sighed. “Thirty.”
“Done.”
“Thanks, Butterfly. You’re the best.” As the words emerged, he realized he’d made another mistake.
“But of course I am. And thanks for finally saying it. So, I’ll tell you what. As one of the favors you owe me, I want to you post your evaluation, the one you just gave me, on all the hacker blogs and in all the hacker newsgroups. NOW!”
Ouch. He knew it would hurt. A lot, he guessed. “Okay! Lemme know when you have what I need.”
He heard her terminate the call. Shit. There goes my own reputation. CryptoMonger is no longer the best. Now I’m just second best. Butterfly is the best. CRAP!
The next morning, William found an encrypted email on his personal web page. It had taken Butterfly less than twelve hours to do what he couldn’t do at all. He felt excitement for the intel he could send to his father, but it was tempered with disappointment for the damage to his own reputation.
It took him twenty minutes to decrypt the email. He read the contents and their attachments, his brows furrowing several times.
The text went on forever, offering myriad details. But, the bottom line was obvious. The computer hackers who did the Chinese and Russian government computers were from the Mossad, and they’d covered their tracks well.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat in his kitchen, thinking as he sipped. Should I tell father? What will he do if he finds out? What if I don’t tell him and the hare-brained lieutenant somehow finds out? But if he realizes the Israelis hacked his government computers, what would he do in retaliation? And if, after that, they ever found out I’ve worked for the Mossad as a stringer, what would the Chinese government do to me, and to father?
He let these thoughts cycle through his brain like a computer program stuck in a buggy, endlessly looping logic routine. As he swallowed the last gulp of coffee, he stared out the window at the busy harbor below his apartment.
William decided not to tell his father. Not yet. Not until he knew why. He’d need to talk to someone in the Mossad. Someone careful. He knew only one Mossad case officer he could trust.
Michael O’Hara. He owes me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Changi Airport, Singapore
September 19, 4:23 p.m.
Jon walked into Changi Airport, one of the twins on either side of him. He held a can of cola in his left hand and answered the cell phone in his right. “Sommers.”
The person on the other end of the line was silent for a few seconds. It seemed like hours to him. The voice sounded like a growling dog. “I heard you were treated poorly by our enemies.”
So, Jon thought, Mother must be receiving intel from MI-6. It was the deal Crane had first proposed to Jon in Manhattan. And, of course, Crane was sourced by the Brits, who had offered intel from the Americans. He felt dizzy just thinking about it. He was still strung between the three intelligence agencies like a puppet whose strings were tangled.
Jon could hear the sneer in his own voice. “They bloody well tortured me and would have executed me if my friends from MI-6 hadn’t intervened. Not to mention a Yank named Gault. No thanks to you after what I did to help Mossad. Who is Bob Gault?”
“He works for Mark McDougal. McDougal is one of the Ass Dires in Gilbert Greenfield’s intelligence agency. That agency has no name. You didn’t tell Gault anything, did you?”
“Don’t be stupid, Mother. Just the smell of him put me off. I didn’t call you to chat about the bloody Yanks. What are you doing about Houmaz?”
The laugh on the other end of the line was chilling. “Why should I give you intel? You’re not Mossad anymore. At best you’re a stringer now.” Silence for a few seconds. Jon could feel the man thinking. “Wait. You’re not intending to hunt Tariq Houmaz, are you?
That would be suicide.” Mother’s voice was shrill now.
“Just tell me. I know where he is, and what he intends. Either you let me help, or I might get in your way. I want justice for Lisa Gabriel, and I won’t stop until I’m done with him. What’s it to be?” Now, Jon felt his palms go sweaty, fearing what Mother could do to him. Yet, his face was hot with rage at what he wanted to do to Houmaz.
The protracted silence was a good sign. Mother must be juggling the potential outcomes. “I have a team in Vlad. After he pays for the subs, we’ll decide what to do with him. No decision until he pays the mafiya for them. We don’t want to incur the wrath of Russian organized crime. They can bury Israel faster than any Arab nation, given the weapons they sell to anyone who can pay for them.”
“What are you planning?” Jon’s eyebrows scrunched.
“What will you do if I tell you?”
“If you tell me everything I want to know, I’ll help out. You orphaned me from the Mossad. As an independent agent, it’s safer to use me. I’m just a former NOC. I can give you deniability.” Jon prayed Mother would comply.
“Well. Yes. There is that.” Silence. “But you screwed up your last kidon assignment. I’ve no reason to believe you’ll fare better this time.”
“Mother, you owe me. All the intel you have, you got from me. If I screw up, it’ll likely end with my death. If so, we’ll be done.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself to the secrets Mother held. His voice grew louder. “Give me the intel.”
Ben-Levy said nothing for a while. “I sent a new Mossad recruit, an IDF major, Avram Shimmel, with a battle team from the Israeli navy. Shimmel is one of our most talented military officers, a legend in tactics from IDF. He’s done work for SHABEK and also has extensive covert training. He isn’t good at playing politics though, or he’d be the head of Aman by now. In Vlad, he and his squad will hunt and find Aziz Tamil and the crew trained by the Russians to man the subs. They’ll execute the crew and take their places. Shimmel’s crew was chosen because they can pass for Arabs, and we trained them to operate Russian submarines, using the manuals we hacked off the Russian government’s servers. We learned that Houmaz has never met any of the crew his brother bought. They came through an intermediary in the Syrian government. When Houmaz hands the subs over to Tamil, he’ll be giving them to us.”
Jon felt a rush of surprise mixed with pride. “And then I can have Houmaz.”
“No, you idiot. Patience! As a result of your work, I have a deal with MI-6. And they’ll stop the flow of intel when Houmaz dies. He’s part of the deal now. Executing him isn’t an option.”
Jon was thunderstruck. This was proof positive Mother had concluded the deal Crane had asked him to make with Mother. “But—”
“No buts. My man in Vlad. Shimmel. I’ll send you contact details in an encrypted email. There. It’s on its way. Don’t blow this or I’ll hunt you personally.
The line went dead.
Jon faced the twins. “Guys, we need to buy our tickets for the first flight out to Vlad. Have Crane’s cobblers get us visas and deliver them ASAP.” They both smiled and walked behind him to the Aeroflot ticket counter.
The next flight to Vlad wasn’t for two hours. Jon paced, while the twins read USA Today online, using their cell phones. When the line cued for departure, he felt exhausted.
A messenger appeared with an envelope and handed it to Clyde. They had their visas.
After finding his seat, he’d tried sleeping, but it wasn’t happening. He was primed for the next step.
Jon’s belly ached, but the shooting pains were less frequent and less intense. He scratched the itchy spot under his bellybutton where his belt squeezed the stitches.
When the flight steward offered a snack, he decided to try solid food. The potato chips tasted delicious, and he drifted off into sleep. He saw Lisa, felt her hands on him, her lips kissing his, her voice whispering into his ear. And felt joy for the first time in as long as he could remember.
But when he woke, the plane was descending though a grayish brown sky to the airport runway in Vlad. The pain in his gut was wrenching. He should have heeded the doctor. He asked for a glass of water and swallowed a sip with another pain killer and an antibiotic.
Inside the terminal, the petrochemical odor of the city made him queasy. He bolted for the restroom and threw up the chips he’d eaten. Clyde asked, “You okay?”
Jon nodded. “We need to find a hotel.”
Clyde shook his head. “No, brother. Been here before. We want the Hotel Visit. No electronic shit. They have an old-fashioned pen-and-paper registration book. And, they speak English there. No place else does. But, no speaking about our business in the rooms. Every room in Vlad is bugged by the Russian mafiya.”
Once again, Jon was grateful for the twins. He followed them to a car rental counter.
In less than an hour, they were driving into downtown. Leaving the car, Jon scanned the area. The Hotel Visit sat on the hill overlooking the wharf. And the piers below held warehouses. Did these house the weapons sold by the Russian mafiya? Everything was as Mother had told him.
As he handed his Salim al-Muhammed passport to the registration clerk, he had a chance to think.
He needed to make another plan. A perfect plan.
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Changi Airport, Singapore
September 19, 5:17 p.m.
“It’s Gault.” The spy shifted his pear-shaped body until he stood silhouetted against the window. He shifted behind a pillar and watched the three coverts as they queued to board the aircraft. Gault watched, remaining motionless, listening to his handler’s reply.
The spy nodded. “Yes. Right now, they’re boarding an Aeroflot flight to Vladivostok. My guess is, they think Houmaz went there.” As his targets disappeared into the aircraft, he found a seat in the waiting area.
“No, sir,” Gault said. “I don’t know what his orders are. But I think he’s following Houmaz because the terrorist must be buying something there. Nope, don’t know what. But the Russian mafiya owns the city. And they sell everything from howitzers to nuclear weapons.”
The voice on the other side of the line spoke for a long time.
Gault sighed and rose from his seat. He paced around the gate area. “I understand that. But, what is it you want me to do?”
This time his handler uttered just one sentence.
“Right. I’ll get on it. Literally on it.” When his handler terminated the conversation, he walked to the ticket counter. “Get me on the next flight to Vladivostok.”
While they processed the ticket, he looked out the window and watched Sommers’s flight disengage from the gate. The aircraft rolled along the tarmac toward a runway. Gault shook his head. Too late for that one.
The earliest available seat was on tomorrow’s flight. He wanted to track the twins and their charge as much as he wanted a fatal wound. Yes, a night off would do him good. Maybe some female company, too.
Houmaz could wait.
The next day, Gault was the first passenger boarding the plane. He found his seat and sat rigid as the plane rose through the clouds while he considered his options in Vlad.
By the time the aircraft landed at the airport late in the evening, Gault had a plan and a bellyache from the snacks.
He debarked into Vlad’s terminal, deciding which cover identity to select and how to play it to gain advantage. He smiled; the plan was good. He’d need backups, none of these identities would be washed. No time for a legend and not even time to backstop the passports or other documents. He’d be walking the line without a net, and just the thought sent a chill up his spine. A good chill.
Gault called the research desk at his agency. “I need the name and address of a cobbler in Vladivostok who forges ID’s for us.” He listened and wrote nothing down. The name he was given was a forger on the payroll of the Russian mafiya. He walked from the terminal to a taxi stand and gave the cabbie an address two block
s away from his destination.
The cobbler’s shop was covered by a clothing store that served as its front. He found the man whose description he sought. “I need several sets of passports, drivers licenses, and gun permits. How much?” Gault noticed his own Russian linguistic skills were rusty from the old man’s reaction.
The bald, thin man had a birthmark shaped like a handgun on his right cheek. He smiled as he appraised Gault. “Twenty thousand rubles each. And cheap at that price.”
It was. He removed an American Express card with the name “Wesley Amanpour” from his wallet. The card was washed, of course. “Four of them. Kiril Sarkovsky, Russian. Herr Henrik Schmidt, German. Sayed Abedi, Pakistani. And Ahmed Samsir, Saudi. How fast can you produce all the documents for each identity?”
The old man stood silent for a few seconds. “One hour. There’s a restaurant across the street. Give me your cell phone number. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“No. I’ll just check in with you from time to time.” Gault looked at his wristwatch. 4:45 p.m. He chuckled. No way I’m giving the Russian mafiya my phone number.
He left the cobbler’s shop. What do I need to prove to earn my next promotion? Although his handler would never admit it, what he was doing now was off the books. Either it succeeded or Gault would be taking the fall. What will I do with the rest of my life if I fail and get my ass fired?
While he waited, Gault found a drug store and purchased cosmetics so, if need be, he could disguise his face. Then he went to a clothing store and bought appropriate clothes for each passport. Semper paratus, he whispered to himself. “Always Ready,” the motto of the US Coast Guard. When he checked in just before 6 p.m., all the documents were ready.
Gault had never been to Vlad, but he’d done his research during the plane ride. He took a cab to the Hotel Visit, the only lodging place which offered an English-speaking staff.
