The Shadow File (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 4)

by A. C. Fuller

  "I'm a professional, Alex. I thought you were, too. Won't take more than an hour."

  "You live a thousand miles from here. I wouldn't come back to the ARDS offices for anything in the world."

  "You won't have to, Alex."

  It took me a second to get what he was saying. "You unbelievable bastard—"

  "I'm downstairs. Pioneer Square. Everyone says that Seattle is rainy all the time, and maybe that's true, but today...well, look out your window. Sunny, warm. The air is crisp. Lovely day for a walk."

  Hearing his voice was bad, but knowing that he was in my city, walking around my neighborhood and probably getting coffee from the same place I do, put me over the edge.

  I picked up the cordless phone and stabbed the talk button, shifting it from speakerphone. "Look, you miserable piece of shit. We have no reason to talk. No reason to ever see each other again. No reason to—"

  "There's a good reason, Alex. A very good reason. It involves your friend Innerva."

  And there it was.

  My legs decided to take five and I flopped into my chair and slid over to the large window. Twenty stories below, the traffic was light and I could see a ferry nearing the dock in downtown Seattle. For a moment, I imagined that I could see Amand below, standing in a camel-hair coat and drinking a latte while screwing with my life. But the people were too small to make out and it was more likely that Amand was sitting in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows.

  "Who's Innerva?" I asked, playing dumb in a way I knew he wouldn't buy.

  "Please, Alex. Have some respect. You may hate me for whatever reason, but you know I'm not stupid."

  "Fine, what about her?"

  "I have reason to believe you've been in touch with her, and I'd like to chat with you about that."

  "I haven't been in touch with her." I didn't need a reason to lie to Amand—I'd lie to him on principle alone—but this was the truth. After Innerva helped me get to the bottom of James's death, she disappeared, leaving me only a simple app on my laptop called Collude. I couldn't contact her on it, but she could contact me. But after her initial message, vowing revenge on James's killers, I hadn't heard from her.

  "Well, either way," Amand said, "we're going to need to speak."

  "You haven't given me a single reason to speak to you, Amand. You have ten seconds before I hang up."

  "That would be a mistake, Alex. You know we can monitor your servers at The Barker, right?"

  "Bull. We have software that protects against that."

  Amand let out a long sigh, followed by a chuckle. I knew that, theoretically, someone could hack our servers, but I didn't imagine anyone would. And certainly not Amand. "Even if you could get into our servers, we—"

  "We're in your servers, Alex. Every piece of internal communication, every draft of every story you've ever published, and, most importantly, everything you haven't published."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Nude photos of underage girls, Alex."

  "What the hell are you—" I stopped halfway through the sentence, wracking my brain. We'd never done any stories on child pornography, and, even if we had, we never would have allowed any images to touch our hard drives, even for research purposes.

  "Melinda Garcia ring a bell, Alex?"

  It did, but I wasn't going to admit it. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Yes, you do, Alex. You killed the story yourself. We know all about it, and if you're not out front of your building in fifteen minutes, the FBI is going to know about it, too."

  "You son of a—"

  "Alex, please. I don't have time for your self-righteous rage. This isn't about you, and it's not about me. I don't want to tell the FBI about those photos. But you know I will." He paused and sighed again. "Be downstairs in fifteen minutes."

  With that, the line went silent, and I was left to fume.

  Melinda Garcia was a doe-eyed sixteen-year-old who lost in the final round of The Voice a few seasons ago. She'd been all over the news leading up to the final round of voting, and our music writers had been covering her religiously, along with all the other finalists. Garcia was a fan favorite, a religious girl with a stunning soprano voice and just enough edge to keep people interested. I didn't watch the show, but I was already familiar with her name when the photos showed up in our inbox at The Barker.

  There were six of them altogether, showing Melinda in progressive states of undress, probably in her bedroom because there were posters of pop stars on the wall behind her. The photos were the type most likely taken by a boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend—on a cellphone. The quality was fairly low, but they were, unmistakably, Melinda Garcia. And she was, unmistakably, nude and underage.

  Of course, we didn't publish them or respond to the anonymous email. We'd run some terrible stories to generate clicks, but even if we'd been able to get around the fact that publishing them was wildly illegal, we never would have stooped that low. Despite a brief objection from one of our music writers—who argued that they were newsworthy because they contrasted with Garcia's wholesome image—Bird and I shut down the story before the first word had been written. We never even mentioned their existence on our site.

  We'd notified the police, but they hadn't been any help. After a failed attempt to trace the email, they gave up and wrote off the whole thing as a prank. And since the photos never surfaced online from another outlet, we were left wondering who'd sent them, and why.

  Now it was making more sense. If Amand knew about the Garcia photos, maybe he really did have access to our server. Just as I started to wonder how he'd done that and what we could do about it, it hit me. It was equally likely—maybe more so—that he was lying about the server access, and that he'd sent the photos himself to set us up.

  To gain leverage.

  I pressed the intercom to dial Mia, but hung up before it rang. Again, I thought of calling Greta, and I picked up the phone. Dialing her, I looked down at the street below, trying to think my way out of a problem without a solution. Before the phone could start ringing, I hung up and threw on my blazer.

  I had to meet with Amand.

  3

  The late-morning light edged around the corner of the Puget Tower, blinding me temporarily as I stepped through the revolving door on the ground floor.

  On the elevator ride, I'd realized that we hadn't set a meeting spot and concluded that Amand probably wouldn't want to be seen with me in public. Guys like him have hundreds of informants, and there's no value to him in anyone knowing who those informants are.

  Shielding my eyes, I shot a look down the street, then up it, looking for an oversized, double-parked, black SUV.

  But he wasn't in an SUV after all.

  A sharp whistle came from across the street, and there he was, leaning on a tree and smiling. In a superficial way, Amand came off as gregarious and open, even transparent. But it was all an act. A former spy, he'd probably decided to play an affable character because he genuinely believed in what he was doing and thought I'd respond to a genial, guy-like-you type.

  But when I spotted him, his smile wasn't quite as convincing as usual.

  Waiting to cross the street, I tried to read something in his eyes, but he looked away and tugged at the bottom of his seersucker jacket, a nervous tic I wouldn't have expected from him. Next, and even more surprising, he didn't look at me as I waited for the cars to pass. Ten seconds, then twenty, then thirty. A full minute passed and he kept his eyes on the ground.

  My memory of Amand was of a guy who never broke eye contact first. The kind of guy who would offer up a smile even if you'd just insulted his mother—or he'd just insulted yours—because, ultimately, he was in control of whether you lived or died, so why bother with coarse human emotions like hurt or anger.

  There was a brief gap in the traffic, and I jogged across the street, then strode up to him with as much confidence as I could muster. "Seen the Space Needle yet?" I asked, defaulting to sarcasm for safety reasons. />
  As I stepped up on the curb, he turned, flashed a smile, and extended his hand. "Alex. Good to see you." After we shook, he stepped back, adding, "You've lost a little weight. Ten, maybe fifteen pounds? Living with Greta again is good for you."

  "Don't know," I said dismissively. But that was a lie. I'd lost exactly nine and a half pounds. Not much at a height of six foot two, but better than nothing. "I'm surprised you're not in a black SUV, idling for hours and burning taxpayer dollars by the gallon."

  He studied my face for a moment, then gestured down the street, toward Occidental Park, an open square which was once the heart of Seattle. "I did ask if you have time for a walk."

  "You did, but I assumed you meant that we'd drive somewhere first."

  "Don't want to be seen with me?"

  "Not especially, but I figured you wouldn't want to be seen with me."

  We walked in silence for a minute, then crossed the street and entered the park, which was really more of a plaza—a half-acre, brick-paved area lined with trees and dotted with benches.

  Walking slowly, we made our way halfway across the square before Amand spoke again. "I came into Seattle alone, early this morning. No SUV, no team. Just me."

  "And I assume you're going to tell me why."

  "I'll be honest with you, Alex. I need your help."

  "First of all, I don't trust that you'll be honest with me, or with anyone. Second, you made your need clear on the phone. So tell me why I took an elevator ride down to discuss it face-to-face."

  "Right, right, I hear you."

  Amand seemed flustered, but I couldn't tell if it was a new act he'd created for me, or if something was going on that he couldn't control. For a guy like Amand, losing control is the worst thing that can happen.

  My uncertainty, combined with his earlier threat, was throwing me off. "Can you get to the point?" I blurted.

  "We need to find Innerva Shah. And we need to find her now."

  "Why?"

  "Do you know where she is?"

  "If you've been tracking our emails and whatnot, you know that I don't."

  "I believe you, Alex. I do. We'd been tracking Innerva closely since the incident with—"

  "Since your people murdered James—her best friend, business partner, and lover. Helps to say it out loud."

  "Since that incident, yes. We've been tracking her and, a couple weeks ago, she dropped off the map."

  "And why would I help you find her?"

  Amand took a seat on a bench about twenty yards from the famous firefighter memorial that sat at the west end of the square. He turned toward me and I could tell he was waiting for me to meet his eyes.

  But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "If you're not going to check out the Space Needle, at least take the time to appreciate the firefighter memorial." I pointed at the four bronze firefighters, two standing, two crouched down, but I could tell that Amand wasn't shifting his gaze. "Stunning, right?"

  "Look at me, Alex. Right now."

  This time I did, and he looked genuinely concerned. "There's been an attack." As he said it, he looked straight into my eyes, trying to read me.

  I tried to keep my face expressionless. "What sort of attack?"

  "A hijacking of sorts, a ransomware attack. Do you know what that is?"

  Alarms were going off in my head, but I played it cool. "I do, but I don't see what this has to do with me, or with Innerva."

  "Did you read your Tech Triune blog this morning?"

  "I saw something go by about a ransomware attack. Is that what you're all worked up over? If it was a big deal, wouldn't the newspapers be covering it?"

  He was quiet for a moment, and he seemed to be making a decision. "I'm going to tell you something that only a few dozen people on earth know, Alex. I'm going to tell you this thing because I trust you. And because I want you to trust me."

  I said nothing, and he waited for a couple with a double-wide stroller to pass us before continuing. "The attack on Greyson is real. She has total control of their systems. They're in a panic over there, and their ability to protect the data of thousands of companies is…compromised to say the least. They can't access anything. Can't use their phones. Their payroll system doesn't even work.

  "But Greyson is the tip of the iceberg. News hasn't broken yet, but the Greyson attack is one of seven hundred ninety-one attacks, all initiated yesterday, all aimed at the private security apparatus that keeps the United States safe."

  "And kills innocent people from time to time."

  He grabbed my forearm, twisting the skin a little to let me know that he was in no mood for my quips. "Alex, don't let your stupid grievances get the better of you. Every military on earth kills innocent people on occasion. It's tragic, and it's absolutely necessary."

  "You're not military, though. You just said you're—"

  "Don't," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "You know you don't believe there's some sacred line between military and private security, and neither do I."

  Pulling my arm free, I said, "Fine, fine. But what does what you're talking about have to do with Innerva?"

  "The hacker who initiated the attack is going by the name The Freedom Collective. We believe The Freedom Collective is Innerva Shah. She's demanding that each and every non-governmental security firm in the United States shut down by midnight eastern time on Sunday, about four and a half days from today."

  "What makes you think it's her?"

  "Various channels were used that she's used before, and she left a few other fingerprints. Plus, as you know, she has a motive."

  I stood and did a slow lap around the bench, then sat back down. "When you say 'every,' do you mean every? Like, every single company that has anything to do with private security?"

  "Not every one. She skipped over a few minor subcontractors so she can feel like she's not hurting the little guy. It's only the companies working on national security, counter-terrorism, cyberwarfare, intelligence, and related issues, but outside the purview of the federal government. And yes. Every. One. Of. Those."

  I looked away, trying to think through what that meant. Amand must have read my mind because he continued. "That's right, Alex. All the companies that existed before 9/11, and hundreds that were created or expanded afterwards, thanks to Federal funding after that tragedy. Like I said, seven hundred and ninety-one altogether. Together, they employ north of a million people, three hundred thousand of whom have security clearances. This is the most significant attack on U.S. security since..."

  As he trailed off, two opposing emotions were hitting me at the same time, and I could barely contain them. I did another slow lap around the bench to get out of his field of vision and still my racing heart.

  The first emotion was elation. The pure joy of vengeance. The satisfaction of knowing that Innerva had struck back, and had struck in such a way that threatened Amand. It was the kind of feeling most of us only get to experience second-hand when Joffrey Baratheon gets poisoned, or when Clint Eastwood kills Little Bill, or when Inigo Montoya kills the Six-Fingered Man.

  But the elation was mixed with terror, the kind I'd felt just one other time, on the morning of 9/11. When the planes hit the towers, I was about five miles north of the World Trade Center, sleeping in my apartment on 105th and Broadway. When I heard the news, I panicked. A couple dozen guys I'd never thought about had killed thousands, redirected the American government, and broken the sky, which was gray with smoke and ash. I worried about our vulnerability. About my vulnerability.

  If Amand was telling me the truth—and I believed he was, at least about the scope of the ransomware attack—I didn't know exactly what it meant for the U.S., or the world, but I knew it wasn't good. As much as I loathed Amand, ARDS, and everyone else tangentially related to the staged mass shooting that took my friend James, I was no anarchist. And deep down I knew that I benefited from the shadowy security firms doing God-knew-what, all around the world. Was it even possible for them to go dark at the same
time, and what would it mean if they did?

  Amand was watching me closely, and finally spoke. "Do you know what her threat was?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, she demanded that every one of these companies close up shop, cease doing business. That the Department of Defense and all the other government agencies who pay them stop cutting checks. But do you know what she said she'd do if they failed to comply by the deadline?"

  I recalled that the article had noted the lack of a specific threat, and I was genuinely curious. "What?"

  "If these companies don't shut down, she's threatening to leak all the data from their private servers. Mission data, names and addresses, sources and methods, millions of pages of top secret information. Plus, private correspondence and even cam footage of many of the executives involved. It would be like the Panama Papers leak, combined with the Wikileaks hack on the CIA, all times a hundred." He paused and let out a long sigh. "Times a thousand."

  Amand looked half broken, and it struck me that all that data would certainly include a good deal of information about him, about ARDS.

  "Are you sure she actually has it?" I asked, but I already believed she did.

  In 2004 when I'd first met Innerva, she'd uncovered thousands of personal phone records and bank statements belonging to George Bush and John Kerry before the election, and it had taken her only a day. At the time, I'd convinced her not to release the documents, which easily could have swayed the 2004 presidential election. With ample time to plan her revenge on ARDS, I believed she could have accomplished almost anything.

  "We think she has what she says she has," Amand said. "And there's more."

  He sighed again and, for the first time, he looked as worried as I felt. "She has personal information, or at least claims to. We haven't yet been able to verify it. Embarrassing personal information about thousands of men and women in top positions at these companies. Alex, do you get what I'm saying?"

  Assuming Amand wasn't lying to me, the fact that he knew about the scope of the attack meant that he was even higher up than I had previously realized. Until now, I thought he was the head of a powerful data security firm that did the dirty work of protecting and destroying data—and sometimes people—for important companies and the U.S. government.