The King of Fear: Part Two: A Garrett Reilly Thriller

by Drew Chapman

  They sat on the front porch of the abandoned house, as rays of sunlight streaked across the grass and onto the oil depot in the distance. The day had been hot, and the evening wasn’t any cooler. Thick, humid air had settled over the East Coast, blanketing it in a layer of summer misery. “The FBI would have arrested all of you. They would have found me. But he spoofed us instead.”

  Garrett looked at the team, sitting on the porch with him, Patmore standing in the grass a few feet away. None of them seemed to be fully back on board yet; none of them seemed to trust Garrett. But he couldn’t do much about that. He simply had to keep trying.

  “Why?” he asked the team. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “He was fucking with us,” Mitty said. “Yanking our chain.”

  “But he doesn’t do that,” Garrett said. “He doesn’t joke around.”

  “How do you know he doesn’t joke around? You know him so well now?” Mitty asked.

  “He tried to kill Alexis. That’s not yanking anybody’s chain,” Garrett said. “And, yes, I do know him so well.”

  “You wanna explain how?” Mitty said.

  “I know him because we’re alike.”

  They stared at him, surprise in their eyes. Garrett shrugged. While he would be the first to admit that he wasn’t particularly self-aware—that much had been proven over the last twenty-four hours while he was tied to a fucking radiator—he still thought that he and Markov were remarkably similar. Similar life stories, similar talents, maybe even similar goals. That was the beginning of a worrisome pattern, and Garrett was reluctant to follow that pattern to its logical conclusion. But at some point he knew he would have to do exactly that: he would have to explore their likenesses and explain it to himself.

  Patmore turned away from the lowering sun. “He wasn’t sure it was you in the offices. He had some information, but not all the information, so he hedged his bets. A shot in the dark.”

  Garrett swigged a mouthful of water from a plastic bottle. His head was alive with pain, but he wasn’t going to tell anybody, and he wasn’t going to let anybody know how he felt, either. He’d made up his mind to bear his burden without complaint. He would sacrifice everything to keep Ascendant together and at his side. He was ashamed of that need—of that vulnerability—but his need outweighed his shame, and he had made peace with that.

  “How did he know where we were?” Garrett said out loud. “How could he have possibly known?”

  “Maybe one of us told him.” Celeste scanned the faces of the team. “Maybe one of us is a traitor.”

  Mitty let out a laugh, but no one else did. “A double agent? Cool.”

  “Does that pass the plausibility test?” Garrett asked. “Why wait until that moment to turn us in? And anyway, how would he have gotten to any of us to make us traitors? When would he have done that?”

  “Maybe one of us contacted him instead,” Celeste said. “That’s plausible.”

  Garrett paced. The floorboards of the abandoned house were rotted and streaked with black. They groaned under his weight. “Which of us would do that, and why?”

  “Money,” Bingo said. “He offered money. You said he had a lot. Maybe one of us wanted in on it.”

  Garrett looked from face to face—Mitty, Bingo, Patmore, Celeste—and considered the possibility. Mitty was out; she wouldn’t betray Garrett, no matter how much money was involved. Anyway, she didn’t give a shit about money and never had.

  Bingo was a possibility, but a remote one. Betraying people took a level of willpower and courage that Bingo just didn’t possess.

  Patmore was inscrutable, but he’d also had any number of chances to walk out of the offices, hail a cop car, and turn them all in. And if he were caught, he’d be court-martialed, and he knew it. Which left . . .

  Garrett studied Celeste’s face. She wasn’t crazy about Garrett, he knew that; she blamed him for her time in China. She had nothing particularly to lose by being arrested, and Bingo had told Garrett that he’d seen overdue notices littering her Palo Alto apartment, so she conceivably needed the money.

  “Don’t go there,” Celeste said dismissively. “If I’d wanted to screw you over, Garrett, I would have done it a long time ago. And the truth is, I don’t want to screw you over anymore. I don’t hold grudges—I just sink into despair.”

  Garrett smiled at the self-deprecating joke. He felt, instinctively, that she was telling the truth.

  “I know it was me who brought up the possibility, but I don’t think one of us contacted him,” Celeste said. “I think he found out some other way.”

  It gave Garrett no small amount of relief to know that the family he had chosen had not betrayed him. “Probably right. But we’ll need to know what that other way is, or he’ll keep finding us, and keep coming after us. And eventually, he’ll get us.”

  Bingo raised his hand, as he always did when asking a question. “But that brings us back to—why didn’t he tell the FBI where we were? If the FBI arrests us, then we’re out of the way, and Markov doesn’t have to bother with us anymore.”

  A silence settled on the team. The sun had slipped into a pink haze in the west, and the darkness began to grow behind the house, east over New York City and the Atlantic.

  “There’s a reason,” Garrett said. “We’re just not seeing it. But it’s right there. In front of our faces.”

  “We’re missing it because it’s not about him,” Celeste said, walking down the steps and kicking at the brown weeds in front of the house. “It’s about us.”

  “How so?” Garrett asked.

  “You called him a social engineer.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A con man. And what do con men do?”

  “Trick people,” Bingo said.

  “And how do they do it?” Celeste asked.

  “Sleight of hand, misdirection,” Garrett said.

  “Right, but to misdirect you, they have to get your attention in the first place. They have to talk to you. Engage you in a relationship.”

  Garrett blinked in the gathering gloom. Celeste was driving at a point, and it was becoming clearer. “You’re saying he’s talking to us.”

  “No. I’m saying he’s talking to you,” Celeste said. “He’s engaging you in a relationship. Because he’s a con man—and you’re part of the con.”

  • • •

  Garrett retreated into the house after that revelation. The truth of it startled him so badly that he needed time to process the idea. He was part of the con. Seen through the lens of that idea, what had happened over the last few days began to make sense. He flicked on a light—a bare bulb on the living-room ceiling—and padded back and forth on the dirty floor. The rest of the team loitered on the porch and the grass. The sun had gone down. Night was thickening all around them.

  Garrett went back to his first principles. A to B to C. Logic was his friend. What did he know?

  Markov was highly intelligent.

  Markov had a plan, but it was unknown to Garrett.

  Markov had stayed a step ahead of Garrett this entire time.

  Markov was establishing a relationship with Garrett, long distance, through proxies. It was a dangerous, scary relationship, but it was one nonetheless.

  Ilya Markov did not want him arrested. A jailed Garrett Reilly was somehow at odds with his plan.

  Garrett paused in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, trying to find the pattern in all of this. He waited, hoping he had not killed so many brain cells that his one true talent—his ability to cut through the white noise of everyday life—had deserted him. He tried to still the incessant buzz in his mind, the rattle of thoughts and opinions, banging this way and that, from neuron to sparking neuron.

  Markov was playing with Garrett. That’s what Markov did. He thought one step ahead of his opponent. If Alexis and the DIA could track Garrett’s p
rescriptions online, then why couldn’t a talented hacker such as Markov do the same? He had found Garrett’s vulnerability—addiction—and used it to make Garrett run. Which meant that . . .

  Garrett knew in a flash what to do. He walked from the living room to the porch. The team, in the middle of conversation, fell silent.

  “He’s playing a game. He’s guessing our next move by forcing our hand. He expects us to do one thing”—Garrett shook his head, amazed that he hadn’t come to this conclusion sooner—“so we have to do the opposite.”

  MIDTOWN MANHATTAN, JUNE 23, 7:41 P.M.

  Hans Metternich considered himself a war theorist. Admittedly, he was an amateur theorist, certainly no PhD on the subject, but most of his adult life had been spent in the trenches of modern warfare, so he felt this gave him insight that most academics did not have. And while Metternich had never been in a firefight, parachuted behind enemy lines, or seen a laser-guided missile explode, he did not believe that the future of warfare depended on any of those things.

  The future of modern warfare, Metternich mused as he picked his way through the crowd of tourists walking Fifth Avenue, would hinge on information: who had it, who lacked it, how you acquired it, and what you did with it once you possessed it. Information was not just power, it was a weapon—a razor-sharp weapon that could be used to disarm, confuse, and terrorize your enemies. Information, or the lack thereof, could bring down an army. It could, he thought—maybe a bit melodramatically, he had to admit—even bring down a country.

  All of which was why Garrett Reilly and his ongoing combat with Ilya Markov were so fascinating to Metternich. Both men were information soldiers. They were the warriors of the future, fighting invisible battles while the rest of the world watched sports on television or drank itself to death. Metternich wasn’t particularly rooting for either man, Reilly or Markov—although he felt more emotional connection to Reilly—but he understood that their battle was a harbinger of things to come. Also, it was a good way to make money.

  Metternich was not an information soldier—he was more of an information merchant. He bought data cheap and sold it dear, which was why he stopped on the corner of Thirty-Sixth Street and Fifth Avenue and stared in the window of NYC Gifts, a small trinket shop squeezed between a lingerie store and a Burger King. Brightly colored luggage was stacked in one window, and T-shirts, baseball caps, and disposable cell phones were scattered across the other.

  He stepped inside and felt the blast of air-conditioning cool the sweat on his neck and forehead. An Italian family crowded around a counter, pointing at digital cameras and jabbering in broken English. A middle-aged couple browsed T-shirts toward the back. Separate clerks were helping them, while a third clerk—a woman, young, with short, platinum-blond hair and a skull earring—smiled at Metternich. “Welcome to New York City Gifts. Would you like to see some of our watches? They’re all authentic, straight from the factory. Starting at twenty-five dollars.”

  Metternich glanced at the watches in the counter and tapped his finger over one. “Yes. That one perhaps. The gold. It’s a Rolex?”

  The young woman opened the counter and pulled out the gold watch, speaking quickly the whole time. “Absolutely, a Rolex, straight from Switzerland, fifty dollars. We have the box as well, waterproof, with a lifetime guarantee . . .”

  As she spoke, Metternich scanned the store. His eyes landed on the young clerk helping the Italian family. She was also a platinum blonde, also with her hair cut short and a skull earring in her left ear. She was, as far as Metternich could tell, the first clerk’s identical twin.

  The first clerk handed him the watch, and he put it carefully around his wrist. He noted that she had a long, thin tattoo running along her forearm, a string of 1’s and 0’s. Binary code. Now he was certain: this was the person for whom he was looking. “Twins?”

  The first clerk nodded cheerfully. “I’m Jen. She’s Jan.”

  Metternich nodded. The names were another hit. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me. I’m looking for someone. Maybe you know him.”

  Jen stared at Metternich, the wide smile disappearing from her face. “This is a gift store. Maybe you need to go someplace else.”

  “I like this watch very much.” Metternich pulled out his wallet and slid five $100 bills across the counter, making sure that the clerk saw them, and that they were secured with the palm of his hand. He had seen a man who looked like the store’s owner standing in the back, talking loudly on the phone, in what Metternich thought was Armenian. The man was distracted, deep in conversation.

  Jan stared at the money.

  “I’d be willing to pay top price for the watch.”

  “What makes you think I know who you’re looking for?” the clerk asked.

  “You were recruited online. For a job. You and your sister. But you didn’t get it. You weren’t happy about this. There was a darknet bulletin board. You should be more studied in what you post online. Anyone can read those things.”

  Jan frowned. She shot a look across the store to her sister—a look of fear—but Metternich could see that her twin was busy pulling camera bags off a shelf. “I don’t think I can help you.”

  “His name is Markov.”

  “Don’t recognize it.”

  “But you were in contact with someone offering the job. I would pay more for the watch, by the way. If it were a good watch. Verifiably authentic.” He slipped two more $100 bills under his palm.

  Jan shrugged. “I guess I was in contact with him.”

  “How did you communicate?”

  “E-mail.”

  “No phone numbers?”

  Jan shook her head no. At the back of the store, the Armenian hung up the phone and looked out over his business. His eyes landed—and locked—on Metternich.

  “That’s what I know. You taking the watch or not?” Jan said. “My boss sees you.”

  “Yes, please.” Metternich pushed the $700 across the glass to Jan.

  She pocketed the money in a flash. “Enjoy.”

  “One more question. Did anyone you know actually get the job?”

  Jan’s boss was still staring at them and was clearly about to cross the store to them.

  “Would you like to look at some of our cell phones?” Jan asked.

  Metternich let out a low laugh. This was turning into an expensive conversation. But if it worked for him, it would be worth it.

  “Same price?” Metternich pointed to a flip phone under the glass.

  “Same.”

  “I’ll need more than a name. I’ll need a phone number.” He palmed another $500 and placed his hand—and the money—on the glass counter.

  The Armenian was striding toward them. He looked suspicious—and tense. Jan pulled a plastic flip phone from under the counter, opened it, and punched a number into its tiny keyboard. She handed Metternich the phone.

  “Name?”

  Jan hesitated. The owner was fifteen feet away. “Uni. Better coder than me. But I’m cuter.” She yanked the bills from under Metternich’s hand and stashed them in her pocket, just as her boss walked up.

  “Everything good?” The owner of the store stared at Metternich. “We can be helpful?”

  “You have a lovely store. And your employees are extremely helpful.” Metternich held up the watch and the phone. “I’ve just bought two items. And at a fair price.” He smiled at the owner, then nodded appreciatively to the young clerk. “I will recommend you on Yelp.”

  Metternich walked quickly out of the store, took a hard right on Fifth Avenue, and ducked down Thirty-Sixth Street. He checked the number Jan had punched into the cell phone, then entered it into his own phone with deep pleasure. The information had cost him $1,200, but that was cheap. Once he spoke to his contact at the phone company—and paid him as well—and then tracked the location of the owner of that phone number, those ten di
gits would earn him fifty times that amount of money.

  Satisfaction welled up inside of him. He might not have ever experienced bullets whizzing past his head or seen young men die in the trenches, but to his mind he had just engaged in a skirmish in a war of the future.

  And he had won.

  NEWARK, NEW JERSEY, JUNE 23, 10:15 P.M.

  Deep disappointment washed over Agent Chaudry as she stood in the dark of the concrete plaza in downtown Newark. She had failed to grab Garrett Reilly, yet again, and this time she had been so certain she would find him. Everything had lined up for her—she’d had the DIA on her side, links from Captain Truffant’s phone and from her e-mail, as well as receipts for plane tickets and rental cars over the last week. General Kline had ordered his subordinate to open all her books and records to the FBI, and the information had led them to the seventh floor of the half-finished office tower on Raymond and Market.

  Only they were gone.

  Garrett Reilly and Ascendant had fled before Chaudry and the Bureau got there. Another missed chance. And the pressure was mounting. The Bureau was on war footing: from the murder of a federal official to a domestic terror bombing, the case was now on the front page of every newspaper in the country. The director of the FBI himself had called her that morning, his voice brimming with impatience, explaining that the president’s chief of staff had called him only ten minutes earlier, wanting to know what the hell was going on. They had put three separate teams on the bombing in DC, with a liaison to coordinate their efforts with hers. They had given her two dozen extra agents in Manhattan, as well as a new forensics team from the NYPD.

  And still she wasn’t getting the job done. Standing at the base of the building where Reilly had recently hidden himself, she could only scrape her heels against the cement and wonder where he had gone. She was trying so goddamned hard.

  In order to think like Reilly, Chaudry had immersed herself in the world of patterns: for the last twenty-four hours, anywhere she could possibly find a pattern, she sought it out, wrote it down, studied and analyzed it.