The Siren Project

by Renneberg, Stephen

  The ESU officer grabbed Mitch and threw him against the rear of the limo. He searched Mitch for weapons, then cuffed his hands behind his back. Another ESU officer advanced and frisked Christa, cuffing her also.

  “Nice elbow,” she said to Mitch.

  “Nice heel,” he replied with a grin, then turned to look back at the ESU officer behind him. “Those guys in the car have got guns. Big guns! Lots of guns! They’re going to resist arrest. You better shoot them. And the guy in the Armani suit is a drug dealer!”

  “Guns inside,” the ESU officer called to the other team members. “John Mitchell, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mathew Prescott, you have the right to remain silent . . .”

  While he was read his rights, Mitch watched to ensure Christa was safely in the rough care of the ESU team. Other team members swarmed around the limo as McNamara, Bradick and the two heavies were pulled from the car and their weapons confiscated.

  “We had no idea he was a murderer,” McNamara declared. “We had nothing to do with it. I used to work for the National Security Agency. I have a top level security clearance. I can give you a number in Washington to call. You’re making a big mistake.”

  An ESU officer spun McNamara around and pushed him hard against the car. “Shut the fuck up!” Before he could voice a complaint, handcuffs were snapped on his wrists.

  Mitch, his face pressed against the metal of the car, locked eyes with McNamara and grinned. “I guess you need a bigger computer, asshole!”

  Mitch was pulled away from the limousine by two E-men as police cars crowded in behind the gridlocked cars. Christa was loaded into a squad car, escorted by a police woman, while Mitch was marched toward another police vehicle. Police officers took up position either side of him in the back seat, then the squad car headed off in the same direction Christa had been taken. He caught glimpses of McNamara trying to talk his way out of the situation, but the ESU team weren’t interested.

  Mitch glanced at one of the two police officers sitting either side of him. “How did you know where to find me?”

  The bigger of the two officers looked at him disdainfully. “Something about a FBI computer flag. It came over the radio.”

  A wry grin crossed Mitch’s face. “There’s just no escaping those FBI computer flags!”

  * * * *

  Mitch was locked alone in his cell for more than five hours before someone came to question him. He declined to make a phone call, mindful of the ever present threat of Echelon, and certain Mouse knew where he was. He had no doubt Mouse’s computer tricks had put him there, safely out of McNamara’s reach, and it would be those same skills that would get him out. When the guard finally led a tall, well dressed middle aged man to his cell, Mitch was wary. His visitor had short cropped hair framing sharp African American features and eyes that exuded a steely toughness that could break a hardened criminal with a look.

  “My name’s FBI Special Agent Lamar. According to everything I'm seeing and hearing, you killed a Secret Service agent by the name of Mathew Prescott. Is that true?”

  “No.”

  “You used to work together, before they threw you out of the Secret Service.”

  “Yeah, we did.”

  “I understand you even went skiing together once.”

  “Up in Canada. That was a long time ago.”

  Lamar placed his foot on the bunk Mitch sat on, and stared down at him. “If you were such good buddies, how is it our computer flags you’re in a black limo stuck in traffic in downtown New York? Better than that, we know the license plate number, the street you’re in, in fact, we’re so freaking brilliant, we know where in the street you are! And we don’t even have a tail on you! Shit, I've never even heard of you before today.” He commenced pacing. “I’ve been in the Bureau twenty years, and I've never seen a flag like this! Not to mention you weren’t even a suspect. Hell, we didn't even know Prescott was dead.” Lamar turned to Mitch. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “But you didn't kill him?”

  Mitch shook his head. “No.”

  “The Bureau computer is convinced you did. And the Bureau computer must be right, because apparently, I was the one who told the computer you were public enemy number one and, I was the one who requested we send a God damned SWAT team to arrest you. Funny thing is, I don't remember doing any of that stuff. So why don't you tell me, what the fuck is going on?”

  “Technical glitch?”

  Lamar scowled. “I did a little checking on you Mitchell. You’re no boy scout. From what I can tell, you're something of a vigilante, not that anyone will miss a Columbian drug dealer. Is that what this is, vigilante justice?”

  “If you want me to answer, I need to know I can trust you.”

  Lamar gave Mitch a suspicious look. “What the fuck for? Just tell me the truth. What happened to Prescott?”

  “He . . . died in the line of duty.”

  “You want to explain that?”

  “The four men who were arrested with me had a hand in it.”

  “What four men? The arrest record says just you and a woman were taken into custody.”

  “They’re out already?” Mitch couldn't hide his surprise.

  “Who’s out? What are you talking about?”

  “The real killers. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There were four of them, and they were going to do to me, what they did to Prescott.”

  “Why?”

  Mitch thought for a moment. “Is the woman I was brought in with, still in custody?”

  “Yeah, she’s on ice upstairs.”

  “We’re both going to need protection.”

  Lamar raised his eyebrows. “Witness protection?”

  “Whatever you’ve got.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  With Knightly brain dead, his organization all but destroyed, Mitch knew he needed an ally. He glanced through the bars of his cell, checking if anyone was listening, then leant toward Lamar and spoke in a low voice. “Look, I don’t have all the answers, but I can tell you this, Prescott’s death is the tip of the iceberg. Before I can tell you anything, I need to talk to Christa, and . . . you need to be in the room.”

  “Listening to the conversation?”

  “No, I mean Christa and I talk privately, while you're in the room.” Mitch was almost certain Lamar was not conditioned, but before he would make a deal with him, he needed Christa’s confirmation. “After that, if everything pans out, I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Now you know, I can’t do that. Have you two collude on your story? Not a chance.”

  “That’s not the reason. But if you want me to tell you what I know, that’s the price.”

  Lamar hesitated. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t take too long. With McNamara out already, it’s only a matter of time before they get to us. Unless you want two more dead bodies on your hands, you’ve got to get us out of here, to a safe place. And there can’t be any record of where you put us, on any computer.”

  Lamar studied Mitch uncertainly.

  “And double security at the convention,” Mitch added.

  “Do what?”

  “There’s going to be a domestic terrorist attack on the convention being held in New York this week.”

  Lamar’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

  “Meet with me and Christa first, then I’ll explain.”

  The FBI Special Agent produced a small white card and passed it to Mitch without a word, then stepped to the bars and called the guard to let him out. “You’ll be safe enough in here until I get back.”

  Mitch stepped up to the cell bars. “Lamar!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t use the phones. They’re unsafe.”

  Lamar gave him an incredulous look, then strode off down the corridor. Mitch glanced down at the card, neatly embossed with the insignia of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and read the name: Michael J. Lamar, Special Agen
t.

  * * * *

  The watchhouse guard unlocked Mitch’s cell late that evening. Mitch had been dozing, but the clank of the key in the cell lock roused him. The guard motioned for Mitch to step out.

  “The charges have been dropped,” the guard said as he pulled the cell door open.

  Mitch sat up surprised. “When?”

  “Do I look like the district attorney?”

  Mitch grabbed his coat and followed the guard down the dimly lit corridor, past other cells occupied with sleeping prisoners. “What about the woman I was brought in with?”

  “I’m night shift. I don’t know anything about a woman.”

  The guard led Mitch out to the night desk, where the officer on duty handed him an envelope with his personal items. Mitch signed for them, then was shown to the station's entry. Christa was standing by the front door alone, waiting.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Mitch whispered.

  “No, they just let me out. They said you were being released too, so I waited.”

  “Did you talk to Lamar?”

  “Briefly. He asked a lot of questions, but I told him I wouldn’t say anything without seeing you first.”

  “Was he conditioned?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about McNamara, and the others?” Mitch asked.

  “No, none of them.”

  “That confirms it then. McNamara is part of the organization running things, not a slave to it.”

  Christa stepped aside as a couple of police officers brought in a man under arrest. “I haven’t been outside yet. I thought McNamara might be waiting out there.”

  “You know they were released almost as soon as they were arrested?”

  “I guessed. Lamar asked me about them. He obviously had no idea who they were. When I was released, I thought McNamara could have arranged it.”

  “He might have.” Mitch studied the room around them. There were a few police officers coming and going, a sergeant on duty at the main desk and several prisoners being processed, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention. “Come on.”

  Mitch strolled casually across the room toward a hallway leading back through the police station, past a row of mostly deserted offices.

  “Can I help you?” A uniformed officer stood in the hall watching them curiously.

  “My wife needs to use the bathroom.”

  The young officer pointed down the hall, toward the rear of the station house. “Down there, on the left.”

  Christa smiled. “Thanks.”

  They headed down the hall, took the left turn out of sight of the officer, then continued on past the ladies room to the rear exit. Mitch let them out into the alley behind the police station. It was dark and deserted with bright street lights at one end and a gloomy side street the other.

  Mitch started toward the dark side street, speaking in a low voice. “If McNamara got us released, he’ll wait only so long, then he’ll send someone in looking for us.”

  They turned into the side street and headed away from the main entrance to the police station. They'd gone barely twenty feet when a car pulled into the street far behind them, illuminating them with its headlights.

  “Hurry,” Mitch whispered, holding Christa’s arm firmly, almost running.

  Another side street lay ahead, but the car drove toward them fast, too fast. Suddenly Mitch lamented not having his gun. He knew from the sound of the car’s engine it was racing to close the distance between them. The car lights grew brighter, picking them out starkly against the shadowy grime of the back street.

  “Run,” Mitch yelled, pulling Christa forward.

  They darted into the side street, as the car screeched to a stop at the intersection, then Mitch heard a car door behind them open.

  Chasing us on foot? They want us alive!

  “Mitch!” Mouse’s voice cut through the night.

  Mitch stopped dead, spinning around to see Mouse standing by the car waving them back. Gunter sat hidden in the shadows, behind the wheel.

  “Hurry, there’s surveillance everywhere,” Mouse yelled.

  Mitch and Christa ran to the car, jumped in, then Gunter slammed on the gas.

  “Good thing those storm troopers missed the tracking device in your shoes,” Mouse said. “I knew as soon as you went out the back way what was up. Been watching your position all day.”

  “That was a nice job,” Mitch said. “Getting us arrested like that.”

  Mouse shook his head. “That wasn’t me! I didn’t know what was happening when the chopper arrived. I got you out of jail tonight with a cheap trick, but getting you in there, that was something special. I shut down the traffic lights, knocked out the power, I even faked a message to the fire department, just to confuse things. But I was running out of ideas fast.”

  “They told me the FBI computers flagged me. That’s how the SWAT team got involved.”

  “I can hack into their computers, but not in two minutes. That was somebody else. They must have routed priority alert messages between the FBI and local police.”

  “There was an authorization from a FBI Special Agent.”

  “Wow, a forged authorization! That takes time and planning. At least it does for me. No way I could get that shit together in the few minutes from when the spook parade arrived to when the SWAT team pulled the plug. It’s a physical impossibility.”

  “Then who?”

  “I don’t know, but whoever he is, I want to shake his hand. He’s the hacker king of the universe!”

  “It was EB,” Gunter said with certainty, glancing back from the steering wheel. He turned the car onto a main road and melted into the traffic at a sedate speed. “He has demonstrated a capacity to penetrate any computer system, almost instantly. No one else could have done it.”

  “Yeah G,” Mouse said, “But do you know how tough it is to crack open the FBI computers? And plant all that fake data? And then get everyone moving on it? That’s a major sting operation, not something you throw together in a couple of minutes.”

  “How did he know we were in trouble?” Mitch asked.

  “He’s on the inside,” Christa said. “He must know about McNamara.”

  “And Knightly,” Gunter added.

  “EB couldn’t warn us, but he could save us,” Christa said.

  “The question is, can he save himself?” Mitch said thoughtfully. “McNamara has the CDs with EB's download. It won’t take him long to break our encryption.”

  “Hey!” Mouse said offended. “That’s my encryption system! Custom made. Those NSA jocks will need a brain transplant to figure it out.”

  Mitch shook his head slowly. “If they really do have access to NSA facilities, they’ll crack it, then they’ll analyze the data and figure out where it came from. The question is, how long do we have?”

  “We have to warn EB,” Christa said urgently.

  “Gunter, find me a seven eleven!” Mitch said

  “Right on!” Mouse declared, guessing Mitch’s intention. “Time for EB to phone home.”

  * * * *

  They found an all night diner with a manager barely out of puberty who greeted them with practiced courtesy.

  “I’d like to see the owner,” Mitch said.

  “He left about an hour ago. Can I help you? I’m the night manager.”

  Mitch looked around the diner, ensuring no one was paying attention to them, then whispered, “Do you want to make five thousand bucks, no questions asked?”

  The young manager’s eyes widened, then fear splashed over his face. “I can’t do anything illegal, I’d lose my job–”

  “It’s nothing like that kid,” Mitch reassured him. “We need to use some of your equipment. No one will ever know, and you'll make a clean five grand.”

  The young man’s innate cunning took hold. He may have been the night shift manager of a third rate diner, but he was no fool. “What’s the cat
ch?”

  “No catch. Fifteen minutes and we’ll be out of here.”

  The manager cast a calculating look at the waitress, who was loafing by the counter trying to avoid eye contact with the customers. “Cash?”

  “Nope, credit transfer. As good as cash, we put the money in your bank account.”

  “Hmm. What do you need our equipment for?”

  “We have to make a phone call, only it’s kind of tricky.”

  The diner's manager, now consumed with self interest, whispered enthusiastically. “Deal, mister.”

  “Where’s the credit card reading machine?”

  The young man showed them the primitive set up beside the cash register. Christa and Gunter sat on stools, while the others went behind the counter.

  “Prehistoric,” was Mouse’s assessment of the diner’s equipment as he reconnected the cables, routing his computer through the modem that dialed the credit card center.

  “The boss is cheap. He won’t spend money on anything.”

  Mitch passed Mouse his credit card. “Okay kid, give him your number and we’ll download five grand.”

  “You can’t transfer from that, it automatically deposits in the diner’s account.”

  “Not anymore,” Mouse informed him confidently.

  The young manager gave Mouse his account number, then when the transfer was completed, he leaned forward, eagerly. “Did it go through?”

  “Sure did,” Mouse replied.

  “Congratulations kid, you just made five grand,” Mitch said.

  “Now what?” the manager asked.

  “We hope our friend heard the phone ring.”

  Christa peered over the counter, watching Mouse’s notebook computer hopefully, while Gunter turned his back on them, keeping a wary eye on the customers in the diner. A couple of patrons glanced over toward the cash register, curious as to what was happening, although most showed no interest. Only the waitress in back was craning her neck suspiciously to see what they were doing.

  “Something bounced,” Mouse observed as a signal came back up the line tracing the connection. A moment later his screen went blank. He tapped the small keyboard experimentally. “ Someone just took over my computer.”