by D S Kane
She’d remembered an agency analyst complaining that the Secret Service monitored websites in unfriendly nations but couldn’t do anything about the myriad offshore sites with instructions on counterfeiting. From that long-ago discussion, she found a plethora of information on counterfeiting currency, including an underground eBook on BitTorrent that contained details rarely found outside the US Treasury and specialty numismatists. She also found instructions on simulating real currency using Photoshop, including high-definition currency images and special programs to randomize the serial numbers.
She took buses to the Best Buy at 86th and Lexington where she purchased a high-quality scanner and two printers—one was dye sublimation and the other was a dot matrix preprinted-form printer—and went to work. Over the next two days, she printed fresh bills on the dye sub, and ran them through the dot matrix without a ribbon to simulate the raised feel left by a real bill’s intaglio printing process.
To finish the process, she bought some India ink and made several pots of strong Lapsang Souchong tea. She combined these liquids, and “aged”the bills by tossing them and the fluid in a garbage bag, then drying them with a hair dryer until they looked like they’d been in use for a few months. She spent two days crumpling the bills to wrinkle them.
Three days later, she had $2.5 million in counterfeit currency, bills ranging from 20s to 50s. All would pass muster with the city’s corner fruit stands. She was sure no one scanned for anything less than 100s.
It was more than she could fit in a suitcase.
Cassie needed identification papers that would pass muster at customs, but the hustlers in East Harlem offered poorly crafted false IDs that might get minors into bars but could easily expose an ex-agency analyst with a burn notice.
She had the name of someone at the US State Department who was the agency’s New York City contact for blank passports. It cost $50,000 of the counterfeit cash to purchase twenty blanks.
She also purchased the blank paper stock used for Social Security cards, and more blank stock for New York State drivers’ licenses.
Nothing came cheap to forgers. She paid for everything with almost $700,000 of counterfeit money. These vendors were the test of whether her counterfeiting efforts were adequate. They were.
She drew some of the laundered funds from her numbered account. But Cassie knew the amount of activity she was forcing through the offshore account might make it a trap for her, attracting investigation by foreign central banks and governments.
Move the cash somewhere safer. She opened an investment account online and slowly migrated the funds into it. She used the money to purchase US 90-day Treasury bills, and took loans from several New York banks using the T-bills as cash collateral.
One of her fake IDs netted her a three-day gig as a substitute teacher in an elementary school in the East 30s. She appeared at the school as a white-haired arrogant woman with a sweet spot for young children and wearing out-of-fashion clothes. As she entered the public school she examined her reflection. Holding her head high as she walked, stiff and formal, the smile she let loose when she saw the children was genuine.
The principal met her in his office and pointed to a chair in front of his desk. “Well, Ms. Cawdry, I see you’re certified to teach kindergarten and first grade. We have temporary openings in both. The kindergarten assignment is only for a few days, since Ms. Coultrane is just out with the flu. However, if you’d prefer a longer stint, our first-grade teacher is going out on pregnancy leave next week and we could move you into that position right after. What’s your pleasure?”
Cassie sniffed the stale air. “Let’s try the kindergarten assignment and after it ends, we’ll talk about the other.” Cassie had no intention of becoming a teacher. As a temporary teacher, she’d be no more than a baby sitter. No need to worry about the impression she left with the toddlers.
Three days would be long enough to gather DNA and fingerprint samples from the class of six- and seven-year-olds. If she ever needed to deceive authorities as to the identity of someone who’d committed a crime, she could use their fingerprints and DNA. The voice of Uncle Misha chuckled in the back of her head.
Three days of babysitting toddlers was enough time for her to gather the DNA samples. She’d enjoyed it, but she had work to do. But when she was back at the Milburn, Cassie stared at the plastic-coated photo of Ann. It reminded her of how brave Ann must be. The youngster’s determination to survive provided Cassie with an example she was determined to emulate. Someday, she vowed, someday I’ll return and take you with me to somewhere safe. Someday. But first I have to save myself. She placed the photo back into her pocket and sipped a cup of Starbucks’ best.
Ann hadn’t wanted her to return, but this was something Cassie couldn’t abide. Staring at the picture of Ann wasn’t enough for her.
Cassie finally gave up trying and left her room, took the elevator down to the lobby, and walked into a wall of humid heat. She took the bus south and east to Grand Central and entered tunnels, at first promising herself it was to be just that once.
But she went back a few times every week and brought the teen food, clothing, and cash. She searched each time for hours until she found Ann. And each time, Ann reluctantly accepted the food and clothing, but only took the cash if it was less than fifty dollars. The first time Cassie pressed a stack of Franklins into her palm, she told Cassie, “Taking this much might make me think you’re there for me. No one is there for any of us. Not even you.”
One time, Cassie spent several hours with the teen, just talking with her. Ann was filled with grief over the loss of her entire family. She said, “I still see Joshua, whenever I walk past where he died.”
Cassie couldn’t comprehend the depth of anguish Ann felt. She nodded but couldn’t find words.
Ann shocked Cassie, asking her, “What did you do, Chrissie, for your work? Before you got into trouble? I know you’re not like the rest of us, living here in the tunnels. I can tell you’re better than the rest of us. What did you do? What did you really do? Don’t lie to me.”
Cassie thought over the request for almost a minute. Ann wasn’t a threat. Anything she said to her would stay with her. “I’m no better, Ann. I’m more foolish than I should have been. But you’re right. I have a lot of formal education. I worked for the government for a few years, but they made my life so dangerous I had to flee or risk death. My real name isn’t even Chrissie. It’s Cassie. Nothing about me is what it seems. My entire life is nothing but lies. And I remember your advice: we all have only ourselves to depend on. It was the best advice I’ve received in many years. Behaving that way, though, it’s made me lonely. Aren’t you?”
At this, Ann’s expression moved from shocked to smiling. She held out her hand. “Yes. Then you really are one of us. I’m happy to call you my friend.”
But when Cassie started showing up almost every day, Ann drew the line. “Cassie, please let me be. I’m beginning to like you and trust you. It’s not good for me. Please don’t ever come back unless I can count on you forever. We both know I can’t.”
Reluctantly, Cassie left Ann alone after that, thinking that no one was truly “there” for either of them. The voice in Cassie’s head told her it was a lesson she’d find true. Once again she was left with only Ann’s photo for strength.
Cassie paced the room for hours at a time while she waited for replies to her email blast looking for consulting work. She tried to focus on her future, but kept sliding into memories of her past. Her dreams filled with nightmares of Evan, Abdul, and McDougal’s phone call terminating her employment. She’d been taught at The Farm to manage her emotions, and she’d done well before Riyadh. No longer. She had no idea why she couldn’t force focus, and worried about this inability leading her into danger.
She visited the YMCA on Third Avenue at 47th Street early one morning and paid a day fee to take a course in self-defense taught by a woman named Judy Hernandez. When she arrived, she felt her stomach tossing, and w
ith it, some nausea. She ignored this and plunged into the martial arts maneuvers. The activity took her mind off her problems, and she was able to center herself after that.
When she arrived back at the hotel, she found a reply to her email blast announcing her consulting business. Out of fifty-six emails she sent, just one came in, from the Chief Financial Officer of a publicly traded Silicon Valley company, Stillwater Technology Corporation.
She’d never heard of them, or their CFO. Cassie fretted, pacing her room. Maybe this was a set up. Maybe not though, and it only took one client to begin building a reputation.
In the email, Katherine McCandless stated she’d been referred by one of their vendors in the Far East. Cassie had no contacts there. She did some research on Stillwater. After thorough examination, she found both Stillwater and McCandless were legit. The email mentioned the company’s CEO believed “some of our confidential high-tech research was stolen by a Hong Kong-based competitor. We want your company to locate and destroy that research, all original copies with our corporate letterhead, and all the copies that might have been made, both paper and electronic.”
Cassie nodded and smiled. Here was a real test of her ability to complete an independent black op. She hesitated, considering the many risks, but her desire to not remain a victim won out. What excited her even more was the chance to stop being a thief, forger, and liar.
This was serious work. Cassie stood tall. Her sense of pride welled up. She even tried to force herself to grin into the mirror, but the tension reflected back at her.
Cassie replied in email:
We’re interested. Fixed fee of $500,000. Send $250,000 retainer via EFT to the offshore bank account with the following account number and SWIFT code…
What a stroke of good fortune. Maybe she had a future as a rogue financial operative.
Most of the work Cassie intended could be done from anywhere in the world, but it was always possible a client might need something done requiring her presence in a particular spot. She judged this assignment dangerous.
While she waited for a reply, Cassie focused on refresher courses in martial arts at the mini-dojo within the Y. A tall, thin, bald, black man, specializing in aikido, ran her ragged. The woman who had taught her a one-day course the previous week made no secret of being gay. Judy Hernandez was built like a fireplug, shorter than Cassie, and weighed at least forty pounds more, all of it muscle. Hernandez specialized in jujitsu. Cassie practiced hard and learned fast. In two days she’d picked up a handful of valuable martial arts tricks to supplement what she’d learned at The Farm.
“We have her location.” The disembodied voice on the cell phone had a distinctly Middle Eastern accent. “We’re on our way right now, to get her.”
Ten thousand miles away, the bearded man smiled. He paced outside the upscale rambling mansion northeast of Riyadh. “Remember, don’t kill her until you have the intel. It’s essential we know what she knows. Call me again when she’s gagged and trussed. I want to say goodbye.”
Cassie hit the ground and bounced, with Judy standing over her. She lifted herself up, feeling pain in her backside. At least this was the only time she’d been tossed today. She’d come up to speed in tactical and operational hand-to-hand combat moves and believed she might stand a chance against a stronger opponent.
Her cell phone buzzed with an incoming email, indicating that the retainer funds had arrived in her numbered account.
She scanned the screen and smiled. Here goes everything. She turned off the email application on her cell and looked at her wristwatch. 4:45 p.m. Cassie touched Judy’s shoulder. “I’ll be gone for a while. Maybe three weeks, give or take. Thanks for your help and encouragement. I’ll see you as soon as I return.”
A fresh start. She almost danced back to her hotel room.
The van was stuck in Midtown rush-hour traffic. In the back of the van, three men wore trench coats to hide the AK-74s holstered within, holding ski masks ready to pull over their faces. The driver cursed in Pashto. “Fucking traffic. It’s worse than Bangkok.”
One of the men in the back of the van tapped his shoulder. “Relax, Sayed. She’ll be there when we arrive. If she isn’t, we’ll just break into the room and wait for her.”
The driver stopped the van before it rolled into the taxi sitting still in front of it. He turned his head. “What if she sees us before we see her? Eh, Hamid?”
Hamid shook his head and muttered about the will of Allah.
Fifty feet in front of them the light turned green and the van crept forward again.
Cassie packed her attaché case and used the Internet to find freighters leaving the Port Authority of New York bound for Hong Kong. Next boat out was 7 p.m. from the 46th Street pier. From what she’d learned at The Farm in a class session called “Preparing for an Operation,” she made a mental checklist of the things needed for the trip.
She walked to an Army-Navy surplus store near the Chelsea area on Tenth Avenue and bought items she’d need, including an inflatable life raft and life jacket, canvas boat shoes, three bathing suits, a large waterproof bag, Dramamine patches, a large supply of freeze-dried food packs, and water bottles.
She walked twenty blocks northeast and deposited the remainder of her belongings into several lockers at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. The voice in the back of her head yammered, and she tried to drown it out. It shrieked, telling her how dangerous this would be, reminding her she’d be without support.
Back at the hotel, she told the clerk she was leaving. She paid with counterfeit bills, then went back to her room for her travel bag. She didn’t bother to clean the room of the papers she’d printed. The cleaning crew would take care of that tomorrow morning.
Three men in ski masks bounded up two flights of stairs and silently walked the hall to the room they’d been told was Cassie’s. Sayed knocked on the door, prepared to claim he was sent by the front desk. But there was no answer, and after trying twice more, he slipped a credit card between the door’s frame and its latch to spring it open.
He cursed. The room was empty. They searched the room. In less than a minute, he was holding her itinerary. “She’s at the 46th Street pier. Hurry.”
When Cassie arrived at the West 46th Street pier where the freighter—the Soochow Dragon—was berthed, she found several barrels on the dock. She used one as cover while she waited patiently for the sunset.
The pier darkened, making the freighter look older. Its stacks emitted soot, creating the air of a noir film. She could smell a mélange of ocean barnacles and the stench of diesel exhaust.
She pushed fear away as she crouched behind the barrels. Scouting the night watchmen and their patrol routes, she timed the seconds for them to complete their routes. Scanning the boat’s bridge, she learned the bridge staff’s watch profiles. The night watchmen walked the pier by the boarding gangplank every seven minutes. I’ll need to move fast between the seven and eight minute mark for the dock-side watch. The bridge crew of the Soochow Dragon walked past the receiving end of the gangplank at nine minutes, so she’d have to move on the stroke of seven and be hidden within the ship before nine. Cassie used her cell phone to record the start and end times, looking for discrepancies in their patterns and finding none.
Uncle Misha’s voice in the back of her head kept screaming, this is dangerous. More dangerous than Riyadh. She shrugged and took a deep breath.
The van screeched to a halt at the entrance to the pier. The driver stayed inside, to keep the vehicle from being stripped by roaming gangs. Three others sprinted down the pier, looking for the Soochow Dragon.
As Cassie took a deep breath and made her move, the squeal of nearby braking traffic drew the attention of the watch crew. Her boat shoes were silent as she ran up the gangplank and onto the ship, keeping low to the ground. She looked around as she neared the top of the gangplank, familiarizing herself with the ship. Cassie sprinted to the davits cradling one of the lifeboats, and dove under the boat’s canvas cove
r. I’ll be safe here for the next twenty-four hours, until tomorrow night when the boat is far away from the harbor and on its route through the Panama Canal.
Two hundred feet away, as a tug moved the boat from the pier, one of the hunters pointed to a human form dropping within the davits on the upper deck. “That’s her.”
Sayed thought, yes, and we’re seconds too late.
Hamid pulled a sniper rifle from the canvass bag on his back and assembled it. In seconds he was searching through its night scope.
Sayed shook his head. “Don’t. In the dark, you’ll likely miss as the ship moves with the tide. Even if you kill her, we couldn’t confirm it. We’ll get her when the ship docks in Hong Kong. Let’s go to JFK.”
Covered by the canvas, Cassie smiled. I’ve done it! Successfully obtained transit to my objective. The voice in the back of her head stopped suddenly but she still felt her heart slamming in her chest, her lungs struggling. She sat squat on the floor of the lifeboat and focused on normalizing her breathing. Slowly, her heart calmed. Cassie opened the self-inflating raft to use as a mattress.
She woke hours later when her stomach lurched despite the acclaimed Dramamine patch. She was forced to stay in the shelter and safety of the covered lifeboat.
Just after dawn, she peeked from under the canvas covering her lifeboat. Her hands fumbled through the attaché case for one of the plastic bags she’d brought to catch everything her body eliminated, but it was too late. She dry-heaved again and again into the lifeboat, at last bringing up a small amount of partially digested food, and clumsily missed the bag.
