by D S Kane
The security guard called his name and handed him a pass. Jon entered the elevator, crowded with after-lunch arrivals. He listened to the patois of Hebrew as the lift stopped at every floor going up. The top floor. Senior management and the assistant director’s office.
He stopped at the floor guard’s desk and handed him the pass. The guard peered at Jon’s face and nodded. “Down the hall to the corner office on the right.”
The door was blond cedar wood. He knocked and waited. The voice had a distinct Boston accent. “Enter.”
He’d never met the new director. Jon extended his hand. “I’m Sommers.”
The other man was in his early forties, trim and balding. He held up a file folder with Jon’s name on it. “I know. Saw you on the security cam when you triggered an alert at the checkpoint. I’m sorry for your loss. I was aware of your relationship with Ruth Cohen. She was one of our rising stars.”
Jon continued to stand. “Sir, her death leaves me adrift. Nothing more I want to do for you and the agency. No passion. I need to leave.”
Meyer’s head cocked to the right. “Oh? I quite understand. If that’s what you want, I’ll grant you permission to go inactive.”
Jon shook his head. “Why? Why not just let me go?”
Meyer cocked his head. “No one ever simply leaves. We’ll always have call on you. Consider this extended leave.”
Jon held his breath. “I see.”
“You might someday want to return to active status. Should you ever return, the door will be open.” Meyer extended his hand and they shook. “Good luck to you, then, Mr. Sommers. What’s your next destination?”
Jon shook his head. Even had he had one, he’d never have mentioned it. “None as yet. I’ll just wander around for a bit.”
Meyer scratched his chin. “You’d be perfect as one of our sayanim. If you’ve the interest in working as a banker again, we could use another hand in New York. Ries is working at American Bank and Trust. Her cover name is Susan Rubin. Interested?”
Jon was silent and Meyer waved toward the door. It opened and, in seconds Jon was back on the elevator, going nowhere.
He ate lunch near the corner of Hasadnaot Street and Hamenofim Street at Mike’s Place, a long walk from the headquarters building. The coffee relieved his headache and the corned beef sandwich filled his belly.
It was easy to spot his tail. When he ran a surveillance detection route past Union Bank and Nuvoton, he found an obvious amateur, a trainee. Which meant that Jon was no longer a priority. He smiled.
It would make his next task so much easier.
Gunda Schlein sat at her desk. She scanned electronic funds transfers as they streamed through the SWIFT system. Things had been quiet since Herr Stamphil left. His replacement contact, a man named “Ari,” had only demanded that she report any funds transfers that hit the terrorism filters. None had. Her brother had called her and said he was being relocated with a new identity. He was told never to contact her again, but now he was safe. It was all she wanted.
Her cell phone buzzed. She pulled it from her purse and stared at its screen. A smile budded on her face. “Herr Stamphil. It’s been weeks. How can I help you?”
“I have a modest task for you. It will challenge you in several ways. I need to find out where an individual is hiding. It could be anywhere. Search for bank transactions. To live, he must eat. He’ll need money. He has bank accounts and I’m sure he’s already moved the funds he needs into an intermediate account somewhere totally unrelated to his current location and identity. He probably bought cash cards, virtually untraceable to the person spending the cash unless you know where the funds came from. The original transfers taking him out from his past location would be about a month ago. Got it?”
She thought about this information as she restated his request into an overview analysis. “You want me to track transactions a month old into new accounts, and the transfers out from those accounts into cash cards. Then track usage of the cash cards to figure out where he’s located?”
“Zackly. Can you do it?”
She pursed her lips. “Yes.”
“Right, then. I have a list of all his sourcing bank accounts. I’m sending it to your cell. Should make your task much easier.”
She watched the document fill the screen of her phone. “How do I get back in touch with you?”
“Ah, Fraulein Schlein. You don’t. I’ll call you back in a day or two. Thanks for this.” The call terminated.
William dropped the pot stickers from the pan onto their plates. “Not the best, but these from the supermarket in Omaha will do. To make real ones, I’m going to need cooking classes.”
Betsy plucked one from her plate and examined it. “Good enough for today. Tomorrow, we’ll take the long ride to Omaha and pick up some ingredients. There’s an Asian cooking class at the Y. I’ll book us both in.” She bit a piece of the dim sum. “Tastes better than it looks. I think you should have used more sesame oil and a lower temperature.”
He sat and chewed on one. “Yeah. Well, at least no one would think to look for me here.” He frowned.
His new burner cell buzzed. He flinched before he picked it from his pocket. “Hello, Jon. I’ve been thinking about calling you. How’d you find me?”
“Traced your bank transfers. Not too difficult when you own the bank’s repair stations. Well then, I need your help. Not a dangerous task. Are you willing?”
William paced the room “Shit, I thought we were through with each other.” He stood stock still in thought. “Well, if it’s not too dangerous, I’ll grant your favor in exchange for a more dangerous one I need. I’ve been thinking for more than a week, about how to end the trouble I’m in.”
“Me too. Trouble, I mean. So we trade. I hear Avram is raising an army. Will we need him too?”
“Absolutely. But first we have to meet face-to-face to figure it all out.”
“Where?”
William looked out the window at the drab cornfields. “Get a flight to Omaha, Nebraska, and call me back when you get there.”
“Nebraska? Sweet Jesus, William. You’ve been banished to Hell!”
William took Betsy’s hand. “Actually, not. I believe I’ve found heaven.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
4 Railroad Street, Woodbine, Iowa
August 13, 12:22 p.m.
It was hot and humid in Woodbine when Jon stepped from the rental car two days later. He wore a white wide-brimmed Panama hat that he removed and used to fan his face. The town was just a few old homes, a set of tree-lined streets and white picket fences. All flat ground except for the train tracks, set through the center of the tiny village.
The house he sought was at the end of the street. It was white with a white picket fence, both in need of painting. Its porch creaked as he mounted the stairs, carrying his go bag. He knocked. “William? It’s Jon. Friends and secrets forever.” He waited and listened to the hollow sound of footsteps that descended from the second floor. He peered through the gauze curtains and saw his friend’s round face smiling back.
William opened the door and swept his arm around in welcome. “Mi casa, tu casa.”
A tiny woman whose nose was the most prominent feature of her face bounced down the stairs. “I’m Betsy the Butterfly.” She frowned at him as if she suspected he would be trouble.
Jon nodded. “But of course you are. Thanks for your help last year when I needed to find my way around the Bank of Trade’s funds transfer area.”
She just nodded.
William led them into the kitchen, white walls, white floor, white counters, white appliances. The table top was unpainted oak, covered with white gauze table mats. “Coffee? Have a seat.”
Jon pulled back a chair—white—and sat. “Sounds fine. What the fuck are you doing here? It’s the middle of nowhere and there’s nothing here. What were you thinking?”
William nodded. “Exactly. I can hide here. As long as I don’t do anything to draw attention, I�
�m safe.”
The Butterfly pointed at Jon. “It’s my home. I was born here. Upstairs in the master bedroom.”
Jon frowned. “A hacker’s paradise, then.” He thought for a second. “The only danger here is dying of boredom.”
William chuckled. “Jon, I need your help. If we can manage to destroy the intel and all the backups the CSIS has on Bug-Lok, I may be out of danger. I could live a normal life.” He smiled at the Butterfly. “With Betsy, that is.”
“Seems a bit high on the scale of nasty-to-do. But we can try. William, I need your help too. People have been lying to me, deceiving me, failing to tell me things I should know. I need you to hack the truth for me. Without it, my life is a bloody waste of time.”
William looked as if he’d been struck in the face. “Okay. A trade then. But my mission first. Agree?”
Jon thought for a few seconds. What if William needed his mission done first because of what he knew? Had William been concealing things from him? He shook his head in thought. Now I’m getting paranoid. He nodded. “Okay. We’ll do yours first.” He removed a notebook computer from his suitcase. “Tell me what we need to do and I’ll create a mission plan and the support logistics.”
William and Betsy sat at the table with Jon. “We need a small military force. We need to enter China without anyone noticing, and get me and Betsy into the Cyberwar Technology Lab of the Ministry of State Security in Beijing, without the Chinese Secret Intelligence Service knowing. Inside the complex, we’ll hack the servers of the Security Ministry’s computer facility, destroy all copies and backups. Oh, and to be sure we’ve destroyed everything, we’ll need to burn the facility to the ground.”
Jon stared back in silence. He shook his head. “This is crazy. For someone who hates dangerous situations, this mission is way past that. It’s bloody suicide. Clearly, you haven’t thought this through.”
“Jon, I have little choice. My only other alternative is to live out my life in Woodbridge, Iowa. And as you stated, die of boredom.”
Jon swallowed a sip of coffee. “Let me think. More coffee. Lots more.”
Avram Shimmel terminated the phone call from his benefactor. He’d rented a jet and flown the mercenary army to Tel Aviv. He didn’t know who had given him the cash, but it didn’t matter. The money and the troops, all were ready.
The warehouse near Ben Gurion Airport was large enough to provide a barracks and armory. It was a temporary arrangement, but after they completed the mission for Sashakovich, they could easily afford something permanent. That is, if Ainsley ever called. His benefactor stated Ainsley would, but so far, no love.
He’d named the army “Kravgruppe” and set it up on the Internet, with keyword tags in Google under “mercenary army,” “paramilitary organizations,” and “private security.” So far, he’d received nearly 1,500 click-throughs in less than five days. Lots of troubled dictators, drug lords, and Hollywood movie stars.
He scanned the activity in the warehouse. Officers and enlisted men and women readied their weapons, and packed supplies and ammunition in preparation for the Sashakovich mission. He was ready for the phone call from Lee Ainsley and Cassandra Sashakovich. The first test of Kravgruppe Mercenary Force.
His cell buzzed. Sommers. “Hello, Jon. I didn’t expect to hear from you again. I assume you believe we have more unfinished business. Correct?”
“Ah, yes. This one would be a really big favor. Not for me, for William. He’s in trouble.”
At the mention of his friend’s name, Avram leaned forward in his seat. “What trouble? He never does anything dangerous unless you make him. What have you done, Jon?”
“Avram, I’ve done nothing. William’s father found that he did side-work for the Mossad. Worse, the CSIS hacked his computer and now they have the plans for Bug-Lok. Not Mother’s bogus plans but the ones William hacked from Stillwater. The real plans.”
Avram cursed in Hebrew. “And what do you want me to do about it?”
“We heard you have a mercenary force. We have a mission that requires the support of a military team. Your team. Please help me save our friend.”
Avram scanned the warehouse. They were ready and eager. He could probably spare a week before the Sashakovich mission. “Okay, Jon. I can give you a week. But I have no further slack in the schedule. Will that do?”
Avram heard conversation on the other side of the line. So Jon and William were already waiting for him, somewhere. Jon could draft a plan and they could meet en route. He waited.
“Meet us in Vladivostok as soon as you can. We’ll be working inside China. Okay?”
Avram frowned, swallowing hard. More than just a test of his tiny army. He had no resident expertise on China. He hated Vladivostok, the Eastern capital of the Russian mafiya.It would be difficult. “I can have a force of sixty there the day after tomorrow. My logistics officer will obtain the necessary transport. I assume William will act as our only point of local contact, since he speaks both Mandarin and Cantonese. Where within China?” He prayed it wouldn’t be a big city, where they would be more likely to be spotted and reported. If it was a small town, it was possible the mercs might be able to enter, work, and leave in the dark without disturbing the sleeping population.
“Beijing.”
Avram’s shoulders sagged. Almost impossible. “I’ll have us in a rental jet within the next three hours.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Northwest outskirts of Vladivostok, Russia
August 15, 1:45 p.m.
Once Avram’s troops landed in Vladivostok, Jon, William, and Betsy found Avram and the Kravgruppe mercenary force in the airport terminal. They immediately spent three hours buying food in small local groceries. No one entered more than one store, and every mercenary who made a purchase did so in silence.
Now convened near the harbor and waiting until dusk, Avram paid close attention to his mercenaries and noted their areas of strength and weakness. He took extensive notes on his smartphone, and referred to a loose-leaf binder he carried, titled “American Football and Its Relationship to Battle Tactics.” He was the author of the text, which had been published by the US Naval War College. Avram had written it four years ago, after returning from a year at the Naval Postgraduate School.
Jon’s plan called for them to steal several small fishing boats, and motor northwest through Amurskiy Bay to Ansan, Russia. There, they’d cross the border into China at night, dressed as Chinese troops, their faces covered with scarves. They would wear sunglasses during the day so no one could see that they were guilou, or “round-eyes.”
At the northwest edge of the city, Vlad’s harbor was half-filled with small boats. As dusk set, the locals went their way to their homes. Avram’s mercs stole ten boats, crowded them with up to eight in each, and pushed off into the gulf. The tidal current took them all out, away from the harbor, and after an hour, they turned on the motors and headed toward the border of Russia and China.
The mountainous border was mostly unpopulated. They made good time as they repeated their border crossings, posing as Russians in Luozigou, until they closed on the Chinese border. Then they posed as Chinese Army and walked several clicks west into the outskirts of Xinkai, China. Here they dressed in Russian clothing and crossed the border. Shimmel could tell everyone was exhausted, but Betsy had fared worst of them all. Avram asked two soldiers to take turns carrying her for the next two hours of their trip.
They trekked northeast past Poltavka, Russia, and then west. Just before dawn, they crossed the border, to Sanchakou, China. They made camp in the empty, wooded hills. Only Betsy and William seemed to be tired. Avram was satisfied every merc was fit enough for a forced march. And this was the only day where they’d be travelling continuously on foot. Once again mercenaries carried Betsy, one merc for an hour, spelled by another, and another.
Before dawn the next day, they crossed the border into Russia and stole four trucks in a medium-sized village. They drove southeast to Korfovka, Russia, then hid
the trucks near the border.
They walked east to Dongning, China, where they were now. Once again, they had found cover in a wooded area.
They were two days away from Beijing by truck. William directed them to an army base due east of the city. They waited for the guard to change as dusk faded, and while the sentries filled out their paperwork, Kravgruppe hot-wired and stole seven Chinese Army trucks.
They drove nonstop to the northern outskirts of Beijing, where they camouflaged the trucks and waited once again, cloaked in darkness within a forest.
With the sounds of city car traffic as cover in the background, William and Betsy sat on small folding campaign chairs around a makeshift table in the back of a parked stolen truck. She shifted on the chair. “After over a week of walking I’m in the best shape of my life, but my back is killing me. How do soldiers do this? Riding in the back of that truck is a special torture I could never have imagined.”
He nodded. “Yeah. But it’s still better than walking all the way here. And better than what we’re about to go up against now.”
He pointed to the screen in his notebook. “This mission is far riskier than the others we did before you came on board. Those were just ‘break it with a hammer’ escapades. This time, we need something more powerful, yet subtle. We need to create a distributed denial of service attack to keep the Chinese military from discovering us. It’s just you and me doing this. Ready?”
She nodded. “How much activity?”
“At least 200,000 echoes per second. I seeded fifty mainframes before we left home.”
She imagined the process. It would take many hackers, excellent hackers. “Willy, that’s not enough. We’ll need ten times that amount.”
He shrugged. “It’s our task to do that, right now. Got a better idea?”
She frowned. He’d have crafted software. It’s what she’d have done. “Where’s the trigger program?”
