by D S Kane
I am grateful for all the suggestions and advice I have received but I alone am responsible for the resulting work.
About the Author
About the Author
D. S. KANE is the name the author has chosen to write under. He worked in the field of covert intelligence for over a decade. During that time, he traveled globally for clients including government and military agencies, the largest banks, and Fortune 100 corporations. One of the banks he investigated housed the banking assets of many of the world’s intelligence agencies and secret police forces, including the CIA and NSA. Much of his work product was pure but believable fiction, lies he told, and truths he concealed.
Now, he’s a retired spy, still writing fiction. Through his novels, he exposes the way intelligence agencies craft fiction for sale to sway their countries and manipulate their national policy, driving countries into dangerous conflicts.
He’s been published under his real name many times in financial trade journals on topics including global banking, computer fraud and countermeasures, financial forecasting, global electronic-funds transfer networks, and corporate finance, including one book on finance published by a major publisher. He has been a featured speaker at financial conferences and conventions. His children’s book, A Teenager’s Guide to Money, Banking and Finance, was published in 1987 by Simon & Schuster. He was once the CEO of an eBook publishing company and writes a blog (http://dskane.com) on topics that include new technology, politics, and the future of publishing.
He has been guest lecturer at the Whidbey Island MFA program, and also teaches a course at the Muse Online Writers Conference entitled Covert Training and Covert Operations for Fiction Writers, and one on a similar topic at California libraries, funded by a federal grant. He has taught a thriller-writing course at the Pikes Peak Writers Conference and was a featured speaker at a dinner meeting of the California Writers Club. He taught finance at the Stern Graduate Business School of New York University for over ten years, and is one of the co-founders of ActFourWriters.com, a unique email-based novelists’ critique group (http://www.actfourwriters.com). His website can be found at http://dskane.com. He can be found at @DSKaneThriller on Twitter and at www.facebook.com/ DSKaneAFormerSpyStill TellingLies.
Swiftshadow
Book 3 In The Spies Lie Series
By D.S. Kane
D. S. KANE
Copyright © 2014 D. S. Kane
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-0-9960591-6-9 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-9960591-8-3 (Kindle)
ISBN 978-0-9960591-7-6 (ePub)
Cover design by Jeroen Ten Berge
[www.jeroentenberge.com]
Print layout by eBooks By Barb for
booknook.biz
Also by DS Kane
The “Spies Lie” Series by DS Kane:
Bloodridge, Book 1 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
DeathByte, Book 2 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
Swiftshadow, Book 3 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
GrayNet, Book 4 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
Baksheesh (Bribes), Book 5 — AMAZON BESTSELLER
ProxyWar, Book 6…with more to come.
For Michael and Elliot, brothers in arms.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events depicted here are the work of the author’s mind. Most but not all of the places are real.
“Political language – and with variations this is true of all political parties, from Conservatives to Anarchists – is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.”
—George Orwell,“Politics and the English Language”, 1946
Part One
Chapter One
September 13, 6:16 p.m.
Cassandra Sashakovich’s apartment, Number 408, 219 F Street NW, Washington, DC
Cassandra Sashakovich hummed “Candy Man,” a John Hurt delta blues tune, as she opened the door and pulled her spinner suitcase into her studio apartment. The trip home from Tel Aviv had taken an entire day. She prepared for another round of jet-lag. Travel was exciting but the aftermath was always a pain. She dragged her spinner suitcase inside and closed the door, and set the stack of mail she’d retrieved from the lobby mailbox on the table.
Despite their best efforts, two weeks performing an econometric study for startups in Herzliyya had left her exhausted. Such is the life of a management consultant. Two of the startups needed help setting up their venture capital relationships, and she coached them through their initial meetings. The other startup had encountered serious financial problems and run out of cash. She’d worked with the investors to obtain a third and final round of financing, then informed them that unless they could complete their prototype before the cash ran out, they’d be dead and gone.
She admired the tan Israel had put on her forearms. A good match for her brown eyes. But, as she passed the mirror, she saw how bedraggled she looked. Her long, chestnut hair stuck to her ears and heart-shaped face.
In the fridge, she found the smell of science experiments gone bad. She slammed its door shut, opting for a glass of tap water instead. The stack of mail was thick. She sat and ripped open the first three envelopes, all bills.
The final letter in the stack came from her fiancé, serving a tour in Afghanistan. Evan! She smiled as she ripped the envelope. She dropped onto the couch and read the letter three times. It was over two weeks old. It probably arrived the day she’d left. Its final sentence glared at her: “Tomorrow we’ll be clearing a dangerous spot, but don’t worry. I’ll be okay. I always am.”
This was a lie. He’d recently experienced several near misses, dramatic escapes, and one of his fellow soldiers had died rescuing him in combat.
They’d been engaged since his second tour, soon after she met him. When he had told her he wanted to sign up for another tour, she’d lost her temper and told him she wanted to attend their wedding, not his funeral. They’d argued for hours, but in the end, he’d promised this would be his last tour. She said a prayer for Evan.
She undressed and went to bed, unable to sleep as she worried about him. She dreamed of an explosion with Evan at its center, and woke up drenched.
To take her mind off Evan’s letter and her fears, she thought of her next assignment. Tomorrow, she’d be expected at the Washington DC satellite office of Brewster Jennings, an econometric consulting firm headquartered in Boston. She thought of the report she was scheduled to deliver on the Israeli startups, and worried about how jet lag might affect her performance. It took hours before she drifted back into a dreamless sleep.
She saw the answering machine message light blinking the following morning as she was pouring herself a cup of coffee. Dressed and ready to leave the apartment, she pressed the machine’s buttons and heard the voice of Evan’s mother.
“Cassandra, it’s Linda. I don’t know what to tell you. I guess it’s best if I just say it. Evan died sometime last week. They won’t tell me how or where, but his body is on its way home. If you can, his funeral is the day after tomorrow.” The message had arrived yesterday just before she’d unlocked her apartment door. Her legs buckled and she fell to the floor. Evan! She reached for his letter and held it to her chest. She felt as if half her heart had been ripped away. How could this happen? What should I do now? I have to travel to his home, to see Linda, to be there with her. She rose, but before she could move, she fell to her knees again, bawling, a flood of tears washing the makeup from her face.
She bought a black dress and called her manager, saying she’d be away for two more days. She arrived in Lexington, Virginia, just in time to see Evan put under the ground.
Under a gray drizzle, she stood next to Linda as the casket scraped its way down. She listened as an Army major told Linda that Evan died when an IED blew apart the vehicle carrying him and three others. The image of his mother accepting the folded flag that had covered Evan’s coffin would remain seared forever in Cassi
e’s memory as the ultimate cost of war.
She was utterly devastated on the drive to Linda’s home for the wake. It was long after dark when she parked her car in her apartment’s garage. Once more home, anger and grief welled up irresistibly within her. The apartment seemed to close around her. She decided impulsively to visit a bar, intending to drown her sorrows. It was unlike her to drink. And she’d never let herself get drunk before.
But when she woke up the next morning, the light bursting through her eyes left her with the solid pain of a hangover.
Her hand was atop a stranger’s hairy thigh. Her eyes darted to the sight of a naked, snoring man she didn’t remember meeting. But there he was, an uninvited guest in her bed.
She’d gasped, then shuddered. With short, brown hair and an athletic build, she guessed he’d looked like Evan in the dark bar. What had she done? She didn’t even know his name.
Her head felt like her brain was stuffed into a skull that was way too small. Her tongue felt like a bale of hay.
When the man rolled toward her, she was greeted by the smell of alcohol on his putrid morning breath. Then she saw the used condom on the bed between them. Cassie gagged, ran to the bathroom and threw up.
The naked stranger walked into the bathroom and smiled. “Was I that bad?”
She felt only revulsion at the sight of him. “Please go. Now.”
He did just that, out the door in less than two minutes, stuffing himself into his pants as she slammed the door on him.
A week after his burial, Evan’s last letter arrived, containing the photo of him in his uniform, smiling, leaning against a Humvee.
She decided she’d take the photo with her wherever she traveled.
I want my life back, my dreams back. But she knew this wasn’t possible. Instead, she’d have to find a way to move ahead. She needed new hopes and dreams, a new future.
Late! She’d have to hurry to work at Brewster Jennings. As she pulled the toothbrush from its holder, her cell buzzed, echoing the pounding from her hangover. The caller ID was blocked. She ignored the throbbing and answered. “Cassandra Sashakovich.”
“Ms. Sashakovich, how would you like to help your government?”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Mark McDougal. You’ve been recommended for an opening in my department.”
She balked at his Midwestern twang. “I already have a job.”
“Yes, and we know you, from your econometric forecasts and your work with startups in China and Israel. Brewster Jennings was kind enough to send them on to us. We could use another bright PhD like you.”
Someone unnamed had recommended her for something unknown. But who, and for what? Maybe this would be the opportunity that gave her a fresh start. “Fed, huh? Which department?”
“National intelligence. One of the smaller services. If we hire you, you’d report to me. Interested?”
Two Years Later
Chapter Two
May 28, 9:22 p.m.
Jinnah International Airport,Karachi, Pakistan
It was to be a short trip, but the task was so urgent Mr. McDougal hadn’t given her time to pack properly.
From the moment Cassandra Sashakovich’s flight touched down, the clock was running. She’d trotted off the plane, dressed in a dark gray sari and a black head scarf. She managed her way through customs, dragging her suitcase and carrying her passport as a Pakistani national named Chandra Paklorri. She’d been in the region so many times her skin was suntanned to the color of a native.
The customs official scanned the passport declaring her a local. “Welcome home.”
She barely nodded, gliding through the airport’s exit into a taxi, and on to the entrance of the Karachi Marriott at Abdullah Haroon Road. From her purse, she exchanged passports, and was now “Chrissie Card, Management Consultant, Brewster Jennings and Associates,” an ENR 500 engineering consulting firm headquartered in Boston. She pulled off the headscarf, exposing her long chestnut-brown hair as she marched to the front desk.
Check-in took less than ten minutes, but even that was time on the clock. By the time she tipped the valet and closed her door, she had less than two hours remaining.
What was so urgent that the agency couldn’t plan this better? She sighed, setting up her notebook computer. Her suitcase remained unopened, for use after her mission was complete, or in case she failed.
But she’d never failed. Not yet, anyway.
She set up her wireless connection and hacked into the hotel’s Internet connection so there’d be no trace of her ever having been a hotel customer. Then she side-loaded into the main server of the Bank of Trade and back-doored, shifting IDs and passwords until she was within the transaction server for the bank’s deposits.
She took a deep breath. Halfway there now, but only eight minutes remaining before the bank’s time clock cycled into tomorrow, locking her out from the database and keeping her from wiping away her presence.
Cassie searched for the account Mark McDougal had told her to find. There was never anything written down, and she’d barely had time to memorize her orders and her washed identity. Now, she entered into the transaction pool and, finally, found the specific records she sought. She tried deleting the first one. Keyed several passwords but none worked.
Three minutes left. She cursed in several languages and stopped to think. Maybe if she used the name of the bank officer who’d authorized the transfers? She keyed “Syed_ Ali_Bosfara,” banged the Enter key, and was rewarded. Deleted the first transaction. But there were seventeen of them and only fifty-two seconds remaining. Not long enough to get to each of them individually. Cassie tried eliminating all the entries as a group. No good, the system wouldn’t permit group deletions. Seven seconds left.
Time to backtrace her steps and wipe away all trace of her. She could type faster than any of the other hackers from the intelligence service. It was one of the skills that had gotten her through the economics PhD program at Stanford.
But, tonight, her speed might not be enough. She finished keying and slammed the Enter key for the last time. The system sat without responding as she counted down the seconds. Her wristwatch alarm buzzed.
She terminated the wireless connection as fast as she could. But she knew it wasn’t good enough. Less than a second later, the system returned an error message: “Time Expired. Day Cycle In Progress.”
Damn! She’d been locked out before her visit could be expunged. When the backup cycle started its second stage, it would record a second copy off-site, and then she would be truly screwed. Only one way to fix this and all I have left is twenty-nine minutes.
Cassie rose from the desk chair and packed her notebook into its case. She opened the suitcase. It was going to be a long night, and for the first time since she’d been hired as an NOC, or “non-official cover,” she would have to do work she feared. NOC’s were never acknowledged by her agency.
She re-dressed in black spandex clothing treated with a Kevlar formulation. Almost bulletproof. She stuffed her notebook computer and her tools within her backpack along with her exit clothing and alternate identities, and dropped the backpack into the suitcase. She left the room. I’m ready.
Cassie took the stairs down to Abdullah Haroon Road, removed the backpack from the suitcase and dropped the suitcase in one of the trash containers. She donned the backpack and attached the notebook computer case to the backpack with Velcro fasteners.
The streets were dark and silent. She pulled her map from one of the backpack’s zippered pockets. It was a long walk to the Bank of Trade’s headquarters building at Lakhani Centre, on I. I. Chundrigar Road. She sprinted. Her training at the CIA’s training facility known as “The Farm” included running at top speed for over two miles.
She had less than ten minutes until the bank’s offsite backup cycle began. Hurry!
When she reached the row of bank buildings, Cassie slowed to a stroll and entered the alleyway between the banking operations building and t
he headquarters building. She examined the map McDougal had packed and found the spot he’d marked. A series of glass windows ran along the ground level. She took the glass cutter and suction cup from the backpack and crafted an entrance through the basement window. Inside, she placed packets of C-6 explosive against the load-bearing walls, where they would cause the greatest damage. She spread a pool of the incendiary liquid on the floor under the computers. She set the timer and rushed out, back onto the street.
At this time of night, no cars passed and no people walked the streets. At five-foot-six and one-hundred-twenty pounds, she was thin enough that her black clothing made her almost invisible as she ran through the night.
Several buildings away loomed the head office of the National Bank of Pakistan. She blended into the darkness in the building’s side alleyway and entered the stately building by slicing through its basement window. The memory of a blues tune, “St. James Infirmary,” floated through her head, distracting her, and she forced herself to focus. Her watch displayed the urgency. Four minutes left.
In the basement she traced the location of the bank’s CAT-5 network lines and opened her notebook case. In less than a minute she’d hacked into their database and transaction pools. She found the funds transfers she’d failed to delete before they’d been sent through to the national clearing center, and destroyed them all.
As she ran from the building, the explosion from the Bank of Trade’s basement threw flames into the sky. The wrist alarm buzzed. Time’s up. But, I’m finished.
