by D S Kane
She looked out the window at the lights of the city of Providence, Rhode Island, as the bus picked up speed heading north on the Massachusetts Turnpike. She had a copy of Shimmel’s plan on her lap. It was simple and short, designed to dispose of most of the “Cassie Killers.” If they succeeded, she would have murdered at least three hundred and possibly as many as three thousand more.
She shook her head, overwhelmed by guilt. But for her to live, they had to die.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
November 6, 11:24 p.m.
220 East Kirke Street, Chevy Chase, Maryland
William Wing had worked from before dawn straight through until after 7 p.m. and was exhausted. He marched up the stairs to the bedroom he shared with Sylvia Orley. After a “quick roll in the hay”—as Sylvia called it—she let him sleep and padded off to do a few chores.
As he lay alone in the bed, he remembered his life in China, his parents’ poverty as farmers. There was never enough food, something he blamed for his short stature. He saw his mother stirring juke, a white sticky porridge over the flames of their primitive wood stove. She argued with his father about how difficult it was to make food appear from magic. Of course, there was no magic and they all remained painfully thin. He could feel his stomach growling as he faded off into a dream. His father’s meteoric rise from farmer to politician happened unexpectedly, when William was a child. It changed everything.
As dawn broke the night sky, Sylvia sat at the computer in the den, her jaw open and her eyebrows arched. Something wrong here, she thought. She felt like she was being punished for not having met Ann at her school. She examined the numbers on the screen and said, “Sheet!” According to what she saw, her bank account was overdrawn by five thousand dollars. But except for driving that impudent child to and from school, she’d been stuck in this stupid house for a week. She’d just been paid for the week. There should be at least eighteen hundred dollars available. She cursed and went off to find William.
Wing lay on his back in the guest room’s bed at Cassie’s house. He snored, his mouth open wide—and naked. There were large black-and-blue marks all over his neck and chest. The blanket lay on the floor, where Sylvia had left it when she finished using him. She kissed his ear and then put her lips to it, speaking directly into it. “Leetle Wing. Wake up, Wheelyam. I need you.”
“Damn, Sylvia, that’s the title of a Jimi Hendrix tune. I’m spent. Please, just give me another couple of hours to recharge my batteries. I need an hour at least.” He attempted to roll over.
“Wheelyam, someone has stolen all the monies from my bank account.”
His eyes snapped open. He stirred. “Huh? What do you mean?” He winced as he got up and pulled a bathrobe from the closet, drawing it around him.
“Last week, when we arrive here, remember setting up my email account on the computer in the den?”
“Yeah, I remember.” He remembered completing that before she forced him back to the bed and did him again. For the fourth time that day. He remembered his exhaustion then, but he was even more depleted now. Wing rubbed his eyes. “The email still works, right?”
“Yes. Yes it steel works. But when I log into my account at the Bank Credit Swiss, it shows I’m overdrawn.”
“Sylvia, how much was there when we arrived? You’ve hardly left the house since we got here. Did you buy anything on the Internet?”
“No. Never. My only using of thees computer has been to receive and send emails. Except for looking at my bank account balance on-line.”
“Let me see your emails.” He staggered down the hall with her and entered the den where Horst had usurped her place, using the computer to play “US Army,” a first-person shooter. “Uh, Horst, we have a little problem and need to use the computer. Ah, Horst, shouldn’t you have left for Boston by now?”
It was obvious Horst didn’t hear William. He plucked repeatedly on the joystick trigger button and said, “Die, die, die you stinkin’ terrorist!” Sylvia grabbed the hair on his head and pulled his face to hers. Horst yelled at her, “What?”
She sneered back, her lips less than an inch from his face. “We will use thees computer now, Horst. Go. Go to Boston. Or get yourself breakfast. Or go fuck Gretchen. You both want to fuck more than you want to eat.”
Horst cursed but continued to sit. “We go to Boston soon. I get to play this game until we leave.”
Sylvia dug her left hand into a pressure point on his neck and he went unconscious before he could react. She said, “Or you can go and fuck yourself.” She pushed him out of the chair and let him fall on the floor while William watched.
She sighed. She exited the game and pulled up her email. “Here. Wheelyam, look for yourself.”
William stepped over Horst’s body and sat in the desk chair. It was still warm. He scanned her emails on screen and then clicked on one, to send it into the preview page. “Sylvia, did you do anything about this one?”
She looked at the screen and read it carefully. “Of course, yes, I did. Zay say I need to update my account information or I wheel have problem with zee bank. So, I—”
“What did you enter on the website?”
“I don’t remember. Zay ask about my account number, my identification number, and password. I give zem what zay need.”
William shook his head. “Syl, I’m almost certain this email wasn’t sent from your bank. It looks like one of theirs, but that just means that someone else scanned their logo and put it on an email. You replied to a thief and sent them all your account info. That’s how you were robbed. The thief hijacked your money and your identity. Probably bought and paid for stuff using your ATM account. The thief may have also sold your account info to others who will use it to forge passports in your name. It’s called ‘phishing.’”
“I know what is fishing, Wheelyam. I am not stupid. I just enter the information on their website.”
He smiled, but didn’t comment on her misunderstanding. “Yes, but you used the email link from this email to get to the website, didn’t you?”
“Of course. So much easier zat way.”
He grimaced. “Syl, it’s not really their website. They just created one that looks like a copy of the bank’s website.” He pressed a few keys and then activated the email link. “Look, over here is the bank’s real website. And over here,” he pointed to the other corner of the screen, “is the fake. It’s called ‘spoofing.’ See how similar they are.” She nodded and William continued. “But, note the differences. Slight one. Like this.” He pointed to a misspelling of one of the words. “Careless error. They should have just copied the entire thing. Syl, anyone who is a decent hacker can do this.”
Her mouth dropped. “Zen how do I get my monies back?”
He smiled. “I can do that for you. By stealing it back from the hacker. But I’ll only steal what you lost. How much was stolen from you?” While she was calculating the missing amount, William waited patiently. “You should close that account immediately and open a new one. And use a different password.”
At that moment William’s jaw dropped and his fingers went slack. He realized how stupid he’d been. So focused on being Sylvia’s sex-slave, so consumed with his chores for Cassie, he’d missed something that should be obvious to him. It was as if Sylvia had hit him with a baseball bat. “Holy shit on a barbeque skewer!” He smiled at her. “I think you just might have helped me find a way to save Cassie’s life.”
She appeared to have no understanding of what she did or how she had helped.
William began keying data into the computer, humming a Blind Blake tune from the 1920’s, “That Will Never Happen No More,” one of Cassie’s favorite blues tunes, and cursing occasionally. She watched him, fascinated as screens swiftly flew across the monitor. William began to sing words to the song off-key.
He should have realized long ago there was something obvious he could do. Thinking about Sylvia’s problem, he realized he didn’t have to capture Watson and get his password to the
website. There was something he could do without any password. He could use the same tactic to hack and spoof the GrayNet website! No phishing required.
William remembered Jon Sommers telling him Phillip Watson’s wife’s name was Jennie. It took less than a minute to determine that “jennie” was the password Watson had used for Internic, the organization responsible for ensuring that websites were only operated by the people that owned them. From there it took only a few minutes before he found there was no password for the actual website. Watson’s Internic password was his only security feature. He made a copy of the website on his hard disk. He began making changes to all the data related to the contracts on Cassie’s life.
He was now in control of the website, and simply copied the changed site from his hard disk back to the Internet. Then he changed the password to one he’d remember: “cryptomongeristhebest.” When he had completed his work, he retained total control over the site and its top-to-bottom security. The site appeared to be whatever William wanted it to be.
His ghost website was identical to the original in most respects, but the biggest change showed Cassie’s assassination as “FULFILLED” by Jacques LeFleur, who was in actuality a major in Cassie’s merc force and one of Shimmel’s direct reports. And, since the website was spoofed, no real proof of Cassie’s head in a box would be required. William copied the photo of Cassie he’d taken at their initial board meeting and used Photoshop to modify it. The “new” photo showed her severed head, gray skin, dead glazed eyes, and bright red pool of blood dripping from her neck, in a small wooden crate surrounded by ice, displayed on the GrayNet web page calling for her assassination. He then went to the other Internet betting sites and claimed LeFleur’s assassination of Cassie.
William looked around. Sylvia was gone. He had no idea of how much time had passed. It was dark outside. He went to the kitchen and looked at the clock on the wall. Nearly midnight. He yawned, and his stomach growled in reply. He hadn’t eaten or used the bathroom for almost ten hours. William decided to wait until after he’d eaten before calling Cassie. He opened the fridge and began building a another Dagwood sandwich, containing a mix of whatever looked interesting on sourdough toast.
The plane from Maui touched down at Logan Airport and all of the passengers formed a line, preparing to disembark. A cacophony of cell phones rang. Each traveler would be heading to the baggage claim, since they had had to check the weapons they had carried. Louis Stepponi was among those on this airplane and he queued close to the front, carrying a small bag.
He was sure none of the other passengers on the Maui to Boston flight headed anywhere but to the harbor. And it wasn’t the “No Name” restaurant that attracted them. They weren’t out to get scrod.
There had been another unscheduled flight directly before this, since the planes between Maui and Boston had been overbooked for days. And there’d be another in less than a half hour and another after that. Stepponi guessed that over three thousand zombie patriots and assassins had traveled to Boston or were at the harbor now.
Stepponi had seen Harry Aimes sitting in the back of the plane, sharing only the same goal as Stepponi. He assumed they had both bet everything they could beg, borrow, or steal on the death of Cassandra Sashakovich, hoping also to be the one who would place her severed head into a box for the bonus bounty of three million dollars.
He was sure by now every hitter had checked the GrayNet website when their aircraft landed, about an hour ago. After all, he had. He suspected every taxi in Boston was continuously round tripping to and from Logan Airport, ferrying the mass of professional killers and hit-man wannabe’s to the wharf. Right where the Internet sites had stated she was. He thought about rechecking GrayNet, but why bother? What could have changed over the last few hours?
Stepponi rushed past baggage claim to the taxi line and took a cab to the FedEx Office near Government Center. He picked up his package and carried the unopened box with him as he walked out into the thronging tourist area. His stomach growled and he walked to Durgin Park for a brief meal. It was the oldest restaurant in America, open for some two hundred years. He hadn’t eaten that day and the surly waitress’s attitude matched his own after the flight from Maui. The New England boiled dinner assuaged some of his uneasiness, and the aromas overwhelmed his own body-stink. Then he found another taxi.
When Stepponi reached the harbor, he looked for a good spot to snipe. Cargo pods were stacked on the pier waiting to be off-loaded from a Brazilian freighter. From the top of one of them he thought he might get a good shot at anyone leaving the sub. He found a spot lacking security camera coverage and waited until there was no one nearby. With great care, he climbed eight feet to the top of one. He was so close, only about two hundred fifty feet away. An easy shot even an amateur could make. And he was so much better.
At the top of the cargo pod, he unpacked the pool-cue case that held his M40A3 sniper rifle from the FedEx box. He attached his AN/PVS-10 infrared night scope to the top of the rifle and a tripod to its bottom. He felt the cold November night chill him and tried to measure the effect of the wind blowing from the southwest through the harbor. He adjusted the scope to accommodate the breeze. He wondered if the temperature would dip below freezing. He wondered how long he’d have to remain hidden here.
Stepponi opened the backpack and removed a copper-colored sweater. He put it on and settled into a prone position. The sub was clearly visible through his scope. He’d be able to make an accurate kill shot, even in the dark.
Now, he’d just have to wait.
But after three weeks without any reward for his work in Maui, he wasn’t going to give up. Waiting was one of the things he did best.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
November 7, 12:52 p.m.
Agency headquarters, K Street, Washington, DC
As lunchtime approached on this chilly sunny day, Mark McDougal sat at his desk, reading reports from analysts and NOCs. His stomach rumbled and he looked at his watch. Returning the report he’d just picked up from the “Unread” pile on his desk, he shook his head to clear it. The noise of someone’s approach against the office carpet had him flinch, but it continued past his office door. He’d been hyperalert and sleepless since Sashakovich’s call.
As he did every day when nearing a break, he logged into the GrayNet website to read the Contracts for Death section.
McDougal had followed Cassie’s feints and dodges for over two weeks. As he saw it, she seemed to be a remarkably resilient foe but death was a relentless adversary. He wondered if she was really on that sub in Boston harbor, or if that was just disinformation. He thought, I guess that we trained her too well. I wonder how long she’ll last? Can’t be long now before some yahoo picks her off.
As the website came up on his computer monitor, his phone rang. McDougal pulled his fingers off the computer mouse to answer the phone. The phone’s tiny screen showed “unknown party.” His brow raised. “McDougal.”
“Sashakovich. I require your help. Have you seen GrayNet today?”
“Hang on. I was just about to—” He scanned the website’s home page and his eyebrows went up in shock. He saw her severed head on the home page, the face a pasty gray, the eyes cold and lifeless, a deep red bullet hole in the center of her forehead. There was a spot of clotted blood at the side of her severed neck and more pooled at its bottom. Below the image, it showed the contract as “FULFILLED” by Jacques LeFleur. “Neat trick, Cassandra. I continue to underestimate you.”
“Don’t stop there. Go to the Contracts for Death page.”
He did. And he saw two new contracts, one each for his wife and son. “Shit.” His mind did the mathematics and he asked, “How long since you took out the contracts on my family?”
“Just went up now, before I dialed your number.”
“What do you want?”
“I now control this website. I can change the odds to be anything I wish. I can let the contracts run and I can add your name. Or, I can add Greenfield.
Or maybe the President. But, Mark, I can have the contracts for your family gone from the site just as soon as you complete my little task. What I want, you can do in your sleep, it’s that easy.”
He grimaced. From her tone, he suspected it was probably both difficult and dangerous. “Which is?”
“Call Houmaz. Put a continuous NSA backtrace on him. I know that you know how to reach him. Have one of your guys do it off-the-wire. I need to know the location of his cell phone, continuously as he moves. Give me the ability to track him down and I’ll let your family live. Well? What’s your answer?”
McDougal sighed. “Of course. As if I have a choice, you little bitch. What’s the number where I can reach you?”
“Don’t call. Send an email to swiftshadow.com and set up a temp web page on the agency’s site for me to use in tracking him. Someone will be picking up email and forwarding them to me as they come in. Once I have the website location you assign for continuous traces, I’ll check to make sure it works. If it does, I’ll have my tech pull the contracts off the site, to save your family. If I live to see Houmaz dead, I’ll close down the website completely and forever.”
McDougal sat stock-still for some time. God, how he hated the woman. “Okay, I’ll do it. Any more tasks or questions?”
“No. Get busy, before someone decides to collect on your family. Such soft targets.” She terminated the conversation.
He sighed, and his hands began moving. He picked up a piece of paper and began scribbling onto it. He’d later burn the paper, leaving no trace behind. It only took a few minutes until his little speech was memorized. Now, who to give it to?
