by S. L. Jones
Culder smiled. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Chapter 78
The Stradivari Society, Chicago, IL
THE HOPE THAT filled her eyes the previous evening had been extinguished. It all started when she connected with a kindred spirit. He had introduced himself as Tony Kalem. He was rugged, mysterious, and Victoria Eden sensed the danger, along with their mutual attraction. He was as suave as he was hard to get, and what began with turbulence on a personal level eventually escalated to something physical once the plane landed.
She had big aspirations for her first major audition, but things had gone horribly wrong. When the virtuoso violinist arrived at her hotel, she discovered her instrument had been damaged. The bombardment of emotions had been overwhelming. The tears came and went, but the emptiness remained. After her father had passed away, she discovered the violin was the only thing that could erase her feeling of being alone. It made her feel independent, like she didn’t need anyone or anything else. Her beauty and attitude made relationships difficult. She was intimidating to most and couldn’t be bothered by the rest.
Every blue moon she’d come across someone who was different—a man like Tony Kalem. Channeling despair into anger was easy for her. It was part of the survival instinct for someone who was alone, but the thought of being eternally lonely scared her. What happened to her mother scared her.
There was one person she could always count on to wipe away any despair that withstood the anger. She would never call him to discuss her problems with men, but he was someone who would always provide sound advice on life. This time she had desperately needed help, or her audition wouldn’t happen. He was able to come through for her, the constant rock she could lean on. Nevin Perlman, her godfather, had a friend in Chicago who he was confident would lend her an instrument.
She approached the building on South Michigan Avenue on foot. The air was crisp, and she once again carried a hopeful attitude. The audition later that morning meant the world to her. She would be showcasing her talent with a heavy heart. This, she thought, would be the key that would unshackle her from the past. She knew it would make her mother and father proud, albeit in their absence.
The Stradivari Society occupied the entire fifth floor of the large building dedicated to the fine arts. The bell chimed, and she stepped out into the reception area with her violin slung over her shoulder. An aging woman with kind eyes returned her timid smile from the reception desk.
“Hello, dear. How may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Dr. Becker, please.” Her voice was nervous, but hopeful.
“Dr. Becker?” The receptionist’s tone didn’t hide the fact that she was ready to play traffic cop.
“Yes. Dr. Nathan Becker, please. He’s still here, isn’t he?”
The receptionist laughed. “Of course he is. The Stradivari Society wouldn’t be here without him.”
She realized she needed to draw on her usual confidence to get past this one. “Nevin Perlman sent me.”
The receptionist dropped her chin and fired a look of surprise over the top of her glasses. “Nevin Perlman?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness. Isn’t that a name from the past? Tragic what happened.” She shook her head grievingly. “We’ve all wondered what had become of him.”
Eden knew the woman was referring to the death of her father. Mentioning his name would be a mistake, but it was something she hoped she could do in time.
“He sent me here to see if I could borrow an instrument. Mine was damaged on the flight over, and I would greatly appreciate your help.”
The receptionist held a warm smile. “A friend of Nevin’s is a friend of ours. One second. I’ll get him.” She picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Honey, Nevin Perlman sent someone to speak with you. Can you come upfront? Wonderful.” She looked up at Eden as she returned the phone to the cradle and said, “He’ll be right here, dear.”
Thirty seconds later a dapper elderly man in a brown tweed suit appeared from behind the reception area. He had short white hair and thick brown-rimmed glasses and was wearing a flashy orange bow tie. He lowered his chin to the side and approached with his hand extended.
“Nathan Becker. Pleased to meet you,” he said.
She smiled. “Victoria Eden. Nice to meet you too.”
He had a firm handshake that showed strength for his age.
“Rumor has it you’ve been sent by Nevin Perlman.” Becker lowered his chin again as though he wanted a rumor confirmed.
“Yes. He said you might be able to help.”
“Help?” He frowned. “Why I sure hope so. He’s a very kind man. One of the best teachers the violin has ever known.” His voice was soft, and his appraising look picked up the sadness in her eyes. It was as if he knew to leave the subject of her father alone. “Do send him my regards,” he said with a curt nod. “And what can I do for you today? Are you here to request admission for this evening?”
The evening’s annual black-tie performance commanded fifty thousand dollars a head to raise money for the society. They put the world’s best classical instrumentalists on one stage in the same evening, and the gala event always sold out.
“Oh heavens no. I wouldn’t want to trouble you with that,” Victoria said. She slipped the case off her shoulder. “My violin was damaged on the flight over. I have an audition with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra later this morning.” She shrugged sheepishly and showed her discomfort for the imposition. “I was here to see if I could borrow an instrument.” She offered a hopeful smile.
Becker didn’t answer immediately, so she added, “And possibly practice with it here for a little while first. So I can get used to how it plays.”
She opened the case and showed him the damage from the flight over.
He let out a long exhale as he considered the question. “Hmm. Victoria Eden? I beg your pardon, but I don’t recall hearing your name before. That’s unusual considering for whom you will be auditioning.” He raised his chin and pursed his lips curiously. “Is Nevin your teacher?”
“No, sorry. He worked with me for a couple years when I was a young girl, but it’s been quite a long time. We’re just old friends. He set up the audition for me.”
“Then who, may I ask?”
She smiled weakly. “Nobody in your circles, I’m sure,” she said, thinking of her father.
His expression softened when he met her eyes. “Interesting. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re being given such an opportunity.” He raised an index finger and said, “It mustn’t be wasted. Nevin wouldn’t send just anyone here.” He smiled and gave a series of eager nods. “Let me see if I can get you set up with something to suit your needs.”
She exhaled in relief. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Chapter 79
Downtown hotel, Chicago, IL
TRENT TURNER AND Etzy Millar had worked through the night with The Shop’s CDWG Division from their hotel room. The pair had shared the single desk available. Turner sat on the chair, while Millar used one of the two single beds for his seat. One of the largest financial institutions in the country, Nations Bank, had agreed to grant The Shop access to its computer systems.
Within a couple of hours they had managed to discover an infected computer in the wild. The team had quickly confirmed it was a surgeon bot, one of the systems that would carry out the most critical aspects of the operation. It represented an opportunity to uncover the attack vectors being used, but it was a job that would take time.
There was no way to know what the owners of the botnet were monitoring, so until they had more details about what they were dealing with, an intrusive large-scale search for the malware wasn’t feasible. If the owners of the botnet found out they had been compromised, it could set off a destructive chain of events. Since they were now confident the operation was going to impact banks, and they had no idea to what extent, that risk wasn’t one they were willing to take. All conversations between t
he bank’s technology assets and The Shop were confined to private cell phones.
Etzy Millar exhaled in frustration and leaned back, supporting himself with his elbows on the bed. “We’ve got to narrow this down,” he said. “An attack could start any second, and we don’t even know what it’s going to do.”
“Any thoughts, Finger?” CDWG Director Cynthia Grayson asked, her voice coming through a connection over the computer.
Trent Turner had been deep in thought and was ready to chime in. “Okay, let’s do it then,” he said.
“Do what?” Millar asked.
“Narrow down the purpose of the botnet,” she said. “We know that Nations Bank is a target, so let’s start there. Let’s talk out the likely targets inside the bank.”
“They could be trying to bring all of the systems down,” Millar said.
“Possibly,” Grayson replied. “But if that was the purpose, they certainly didn’t need something this elaborate to accomplish their goal.”
“Sure,” Millar agreed. “Why wait if that was the case? They designed it so you could plug in different modules, which wouldn’t be necessary if that was their end game.”
“I think there might be something more obvious than that, when you consider how the technology side of the banking systems works,” Turner explained. “There are—what?—ten, maybe twenty banking systems that run the majority of the world’s banks?”
“Probably. Go on,” Grayson said.
“We know Nations runs its transactions through a banking software platform developed by Allegiance Financial Systems. It’s called DataBank.”
“Right,” Grayson confirmed. “They know what they’re doing, so let’s assume they’re targeting a specific banking platform.”
“Exactly.” Turner punched the keys on his laptop, and when he pressed Enter the search results displayed on the screen. He pulled up a sales presentation for the company and began reading. “DataBank is running in more than thirty percent of the world’s banks. Eighty percent of the banks with assets over three hundred and fifty billion use it and—get this—ninety-five percent if you narrow it down to the United States.”
“Nations is one of the largest banks out there,” Grayson said. “If this is about transactions, we can split it down even further… Only look at banks big enough to move a significant amount of money without immediately raising eyebrows.”
“The modules would come into play there,” Millar added. “They might have a module that gets the money out somehow. Maybe they have another one set to wreak havoc on the systems to buy them some time afterward.”
“That would be a solid plan,” Turner said. “Cyndi, do we have anyone on the inside at one of the other major banks that uses DataBank?”
“Give me a sec,” Grayson said. Mouse clicks and keyboard strokes could be heard in the background. “Here we go. Okay, say over fifty billion in assets. Here’s one, Spartan Bank. They’re almost one trillion. I’ll have my analysts focus there and try to identify a pattern.”
“What have you managed to dig up on the Federal Reserve?” Turner asked. “That’s definitely going to be another common thread. All of these banks will be connected to the Federal Reserve system.”
“We hacked into its network through a system that was downloading security updates,” Grayson confirmed. “We hijacked the session and managed to look around and set up a couple more backdoors, but we haven’t found anything yet. We’re still in there poking around and wading through their traffic logs.”
“There was a Federal Reserve branch that correlated with most of the dead hackers,” Turner said.
“True. We can consider major locations for the big banks that correlate with Fed branches,” Grayson suggested. “It’s something else to narrow things down.”
“Sounds good.” Turner thought about the results from Cannibal. “What about the hackers that turned up dead on Interpol?”
“I’ve put a couple of analysts on that, and they haven’t come up with anything,” Grayson said. “We’ll look for connections to big banks.”
“The Federal Reserve is the central bank for the United States, so it’s got more money than any other target,” Turner pointed out. “We should assume they’re going big, considering the level of sophistication.”
“You know the Fed could well have its most significant assets abroad,” Grayson replied. “The politicians have been fighting for visibility into its foreign dealings since the dawn of time.”
“Good point. Try digging into its overseas accounts and see if anything lines up,” Turner said. “Also see if there are ties to The Collective.”
Grayson didn’t respond immediately, and then said, “We’ll focus on that angle for now and assume the US is the target.”
Chapter 80
The Stradivari Society, Chicago, IL
PAVEL KOZLOV’s EYES were cold, void of emotion. “I understand,” he said in Russian.
The man on the other end of the phone didn’t like to rush a plan, but recent events and a lifetime of experience had made the decision to put Operation Berlin on the fast track easy for him. Yuri Khrushchev was also smart enough to know that no good battle plan survived first contact with the enemy, so he wasn’t alarmed. They needed to stay nimble.
“Are you on track with the operation?” Khrushchev asked, but the question was more of a command.
“Yes, we are. Tomorrow, correct?” Kozlov answered. There was too much at stake, so he wanted to make sure they were in sync.
“Tomorrow,” Khrushchev confirmed. “Did your men take care of The American?”
Kozlov closed his eyes and bowed his head. He knew his delayed response had already given his mentor the answer.
“No. He has proven to be a very difficult man to kill.”
There was an uncomfortable pause that could only mean the confidence in him from his comrades back in the Motherland had begun to wane.
“And the internal situation? The hacker that chose the senator’s son?” Khrushchev pressed. When the response wasn’t immediate he added, “No more mistakes, Pavel.” His tone was reprimanding.
Kozlov raised his head and prepared to deliver new details he knew would strain their relationship further. “We had a problem with delivering the codes last night,” he admitted. He could hear his mentor take in a deep breath.
“What kind of problem?”
“Our man was not there for the pickup. Other arrangements were made, and they made it safely to the backup site.”
Khrushchev didn’t respond for a long moment and finally said, “Continue.”
“The men discovered an FBI agent was following them. They led her into a trap and were able to take her alive.”
“What?” The hard line communist was irate.
“Yes. We will find out what she knows. Our men can be very persuasive.”
Khrushchev was taken aback. The situation was much worse than he had thought. He knew Kozlov was loyal to their cause, but Yuri Khrushchev was now joining the ranks of those who doubted their comrade’s effectiveness.
Kozlov heard a squeak from what he assumed was his comrade’s chair as he sat down. Next he heard the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the desk, like Khrushchev always did before he made a big decision.
“It is wise to keep the two operations completely separate,” Khrushchev finally said.
Kozlov felt the loss of faith in his ability to execute physically. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and did what any good soldier would do.
“Yes, it is the best option,” he said. “We’ll remain prepared to handle things if the situation changes.”
“Take care of this, Pavel,” Khrushchev demanded, the importance of their operation evident.
This wouldn’t be the first time Pavel Kozlov had his back against the wall, and his resolve to prove his doubters wrong was absolute.
“I will,” he said.
“There is a meeting with The Group today,” Khrushchev said. “Andrei will set everything into mo
tion.”
“We are receiving the latest data from the targets,” Kozlov confirmed. “Dimitri said he will have everything completed to send the final commands in plenty of time.”
“Good. And the FBI woman?”
“I have told the men to do whatever it takes to extract the information from her quickly,” he answered in a dark tone. “Whatever it takes.”
Chapter 81
Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA
SHE WAS FORCED to strip down to her underwear as soon as they entered the room. The sheer purple underwear she had once considered cute now made her feel vulnerable. They were intimidating. Hard men, definitely killers, and they enjoyed the show. At first it wasn’t clear whether the two men were planning to rape her or just wanted to cause humiliation. They spoke in Russian, but lewd comments were a universal language, and she understood.
When they motioned her over to the bench, she reluctantly obeyed. She was paralyzed by the cold, deliberate eyes of her captors as they approached. Everything happened so fast. There was no time for her to react. They had strapped her to the bench and draped a damp cloth over her face before she could manage to take a breath. Her heart pounded as they fastened a restraint around her neck. She forced herself to breathe. She felt the bench rise up, which brought her feet above the rest of her body. Instinct told her to hold her legs together as the blood rushed to her head.
That was some minutes ago, she believed. She wasn’t sure… Now she listened, her covered eyes wide with terror. The next assault was on its way. She could visualize what was making the sounds—a spigot shooting a stream of water into a metal bucket. The initial pitter-patter on the bottom, followed by a crescendo of water as it tinkled its way to the top. Then three steps toward her. At first they weren’t sounds that tormented her. It was the third bucket that turned once-benign sounds into something she feared.
This was bucket number four, and the familiar noise had transformed yet again. Cathy Moynihan didn’t know how to describe what she felt. It was beyond fear; she was much more than horrified. Whatever it was, it numbed her. It was what she imagined a claustrophobic person might experience when locked away in a small, dark place. She contemplated whether this was karma, after what had happened to the man in the trailer. Maybe this was his way of coming back to haunt her.
