by J. G. Sandom
What the critics are saying...
The Wave – A John Decker Thriller
Kirkus said, “Sandom’s strength lies in the verve of his story, with writing that has both muscle, in its pacing and violence, and brains...The story races from improbable to crazywild, all in good fun, with Sandom always one step ahead...A story with enough manic energy to be worthy of a nuclear explosion.”
The God Machine – A Joseph Koster Mystery
Caroline Thompson (author of Edward Scissorhands) said, “Move over, Dan Brown. All hail J.G. Sandom...(The God Machine) is a thrilling and breathless, rapturously-written and mind-blowing read. It’ll keep you up all night, turning pages as fast as your little fingers can manage.” BookPage said, “Sandom has a knack for combining legendary gospels, ancient secrets, star-crossed lovers and Masonic puzzles to create a simmering stew of conspiracy, intrigue and danger that keeps the plot pot boiling until the very end.” And the Historical Novels Review said, “History galore, violence, and intrigue fill the pages of this tightly plotted, twisting and turning adventure story...A very impressive historical thriller!”
Gospel Truths – A Joseph Koster Mystery
Library Journal said, “By turns contemplative, descriptive, and emotive, this mixture of mystery and intrigue reveals intense preparation and fine writing.” Booklist called Gospel Truths, “A splendid, tautly woven thriller...(and) an intelligent mystery of tremendous spiritual and literary depth.” And Mostly Murder called it, “A fascinating mystery...captivating and engrossing.”
The Wall Street Murder Club
Scott Turow (author of Presumed Innocent and Ordinary Heroes) called The Wall Street Murder Club, “A gripping story, well told...Not only a tale of murder and betrayal, but an intelligent exploration of issues of male identity.” Kirkus termed it, “Slickly entertaining, right down to the last, inevitable twist.” And Booklist said, “Sandom writes with stunning elegance and nearly poetic beauty...A sure hit with any suspense reader.”
Kiss Me, I’m Dead
Ranked one of the Top Ten Children’s Books of the Year (2006) by the Washington Post, Kiss Me, I’m Dead was nominated for a Young Adult Library Services Association (YALSA) Teen’s Top Ten, named a Notable Book for Teens by the Sydney Taylor Book Award Committee (Association of Jewish Libraries), a Cybils literary award, and a Best Books for Young Adults (BBYA) by the American Library Association (ALA). The Washington Post said, “(J.G. Sandom) writes with a precision and delicacy unusual for YA fiction,” and called this paranormal romantic thriller, “a subtle gem.” In its starred review, School Library Journal said, “Kiss Me, I’m Dead tells a remarkable story in a remarkable way.” Horn Book called Kiss Me, I’m Dead, “A decidedly unconventional ghost story...(and) a tightly wound novel.” Midwest Book Review called the novel, “a wonderfully different kind of ghost story.” And Bookslut.com said, “Kiss Me, I’m Dead scores on several levels, most notably as a drama that blows apart all preconceived notions of how history can be retold.”
Confessions of a Teenage Body Snatcher
A Junior Library Guild selection, Publishers Weekly called Confessions of a Teenage Body Snatcher, “A haunting tour of London’s underclass during the 1830s...Teens will likely be both captivated by Victor’s harrowing story as well as his ability to prevail in the face of harsh injustices.” VOYA said, “Teen readers will thoroughly enjoy the hair-raising suspense in this historical thriller.” KLIATT said, “Like M.T. Anderson’s The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, this look at sinister events in history makes the era come alive and lingers in the memory.” And School Library Journal said, “Part historical fiction and part adventure story, the novel brings excitement to Victorian England...Readers will be on the edge of their seats.”
Also by J.G. Sandom:
The Seed of Icarus
The Blue Men
Gospel Truths – A Joseph Koster Mystery
The Wall Street Murder Club
The Wave – A John Decker Thriller
The Publicist (released under pen name Veronica Wright)
Kiss Me, I’m Dead
Confessions of a Teenage Body Snatcher
The God Machine – A Joseph Koster Mystery
Copyright © 2014 by J.G. Sandom
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to [email protected].
Published by Cornucopia Press, Philadelphia
November 21, 2014
ISBN-10: 0985695498
ISBN-13: 978-0-9856954-9-1
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
PART 2
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
PART 3
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
What the experts are saying about 404...
“Team up with FBI code-breaker John Decker as he tries to stop a mysterious hacker, recently discovered penetrating government defense systems. Now, the cyber villain has set his sights on Decker and his family. As a former Special Agent, I found this novel not only plausible, but riveting and truly alarming. If you care about our nation’s cyber-security, you MUST read this book.”
Ron Jaco
FBI
“After reading 404, you’ll never look at your tablet or notebook computer quite the same ever again.”
Todd Watson
Social Media Communications, Influence, and
Outreach Director for IBM’s $20 Billion software business
“Strap yourself in...you’re in for a Mach 2 ride with John Decker. As someone who has worked national security issues for decades, this story is all too scary and all too real. You’ll love it!”
Colonel Jim “Chip” Ma
rchio
US Air Force, Ret.
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to countless people in the writing of this book. Although this novel was written long before the revelations by NSA whistleblower Edward Snowden, I am especially indebted to him for alerting the world to U.S. government over-reach and the abrogation of our 1st and 4th Amendment Rights by the National Security Agency (NSA) and other government agencies. He follows in the footsteps of such courageous patriots as NSA whistleblowers William Binney and Tom Drake, as well as Dr. James Bamford and Duncan Campbell, both fearless journalists covering intelligence and national security issues. I would also like to thank James Ball, Julian Borger, and Yochai Benkler of The Guardian; Dave Sanger, Eric Schmitt, Nicole Perlroth, Scott Shane and John Markoff of The New York Times; Barton Gellman and Ellen Nakashima of The Washington Post; Marcel Rosenbach and Holger Stark of Der Spiegel; Jeff Larson of ProPublica; and, of course, Glenn Greenwald and Laura Poitras of The Intercept. When it comes to this story, they are the 4th Estate. Also of assistance were Jay Stanley of the American Civil Liberties Union, plus Parker Higgins at the Electronic Frontier Foundation. Both of these groups, using the Freedom of Information Act, have been hugely instrumental in exposing the domestic warrantless mass surveillance programs of the NSA and Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ), Britain’s NSA. A special thanks goes out to Senators Patrick Leahy of Vermont, Ed Markey and Elizabeth Warren of Massachusetts, James Sensenbrenner of Wisconsin, and especially Senators Ron Wyden of Colorado and Tom Udall of New Mexico for their vigilance and fortitude in trying to protect the American people in this hour of need. In addition, I’d like to thank my readers: Todd Watson, Social Media Communications, Influence, and Outreach Director for IBM’s $20 Billion software business; former Special Agent Ron Jaco of the FBI; Colonel Jim “Chip” Marchio, US Air Force, Ret; and, of course, my long-time partner and best friend Sylvana Joseph. Each of these readers provided invaluable assistance in the development of this book. Finally, I would like to thank my daughter, Olivia Lee Sandom. It is for her and for all our children that I wrote this book in an attempt to ensure that their world—our future world—will still protect our Constitutional rights to liberty and due process under the law. It is up to us to secure their freedom and privacy. We are the 5th Estate.
J. G. Sandom
Summer 2013
Philadelphia
For Edward Snowden
“If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, go home from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen.”
Samuel Adams
Friday, December 13
I am what I dream, what I’ve done, what I’ve seen, what I choose to remember. What I choose to forget. I choose. I...came home early today, around 5:00, after a hard day at the office. Traffic was light going north from the Farm and I made all the lights on Dorado. Another perfect sunset, I thought, I remember, as I rolled down the window. Breathing sagebrush, I thought that the sky looked a lot like a national flag, striped with purple and orange and pink. It was hot for December.
I left the car in the driveway because my three year old daughter had built some kind of castle from boxes and blankets inside the garage. I could see her now. She was playing in the sprinkler at the edge of the yard, dressed in a neon-lime bathing suit. She laughed and looked up at me, waving. I waved back. That, I remember. I had my briefcase in one hand, with all of its secrets, and I lifted the other and waved.
My wife was waiting for me in the kitchen. She was wearing that apron with the pair of bosc pears on the front, baking cookies or bread, but she turned toward me anyway and gave me a peck on the cheek. “How was your day?” she said, twisting back to the stove.
I told her about the Indian house crickets I’d heard chirping in the stand of Huisache trees down the street. When she didn’t say anything, I went down the hall to our bedroom. I took off my jacket and tie, and I wept.
All that I’d come to believe, all that I was, and still am, came apart in my hands then—like my tie. All simply unraveled. I put my jacket back on. I needed the jacket to hide it.
I hurried outside, to the back yard, to breathe. Mr. Billings was mowing his lawn down the street. He mows it every three days, no matter what time of year. It didn’t seem right for him to be mowing his lawn with all of those holiday decorations behind him. The blow-up reindeer and sled. The Santa tied to the chimney. He had bound up each bush in his garden with Christmas lights. He would have wrapped up the tumbleweeds too if he could have caught them.
I’d just reclined on a sling garden lounge chair when my wife came outside with a tray of iced tea. Under her apron, she was wearing a pair of tan stirrup pants and a dark indigo shirt—no, iron blue, like her eyes. Her eyes.
She stood over me, smiled, and gave me a glass. I could hear the sprinkler splash-splashing and my daughter laughing nearby. I could hear those damned Indian house crickets. I could hear Mr. Billings still mowing his lawn. Still mowing although something was wrong. I could feel it.
I took a sip of my tea. I looked up at my wife, at her honey blond hair, her waxed eyebrows, her nose, and her perfect pink lips. I looked into her eyes. Everything was wrong.
I reached into my jacket, took my gun out and shot her—two times—in the chest.
Bang, bang.
More like two stifled sneezes than gunshots.
Or the clanging of stones underwater.
No one stirred. My daughter still played in the sprinkler, oblivious. And the incessant refrain of Mr. Billings’ lawnmower never wavered or stilled. It droned on and on as I climbed to my feet. I stood over her, I looked down at the livid red blood pumping out of her chest, at her cornflower, china-doll eyes.
After a moment, I put the gun down on the lounge chair. I stared up at the sky and felt myself soar toward the heavens, over my rooftop and lot, higher and higher, the tract houses blending together in lines, sinuous oxbow contortions, with oases of shimmering swimming pools punctuating the desert as the Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime” unrolled like a band of black, bitter licorice through my head.
“And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, And you may ask yourself—well...how did I get here...And you may tell yourself, This is not my beautiful wife.”
Through the clouds I rose, higher and higher.
“And you may ask yourself, am I right? Am I wrong? And you may tell yourself, My god! What have I done?”
CHAPTER 1
Friday, November 29—Two Weeks Earlier
FBI Cryptanalyst Forensic Examiner John Decker was working late at the National Counter Terrorism Center in northern Virginia when he got the results of a test he’d been running. A screen at his workstation came to life with an audible ping. Decker leaned forward to scan it more closely.
Just shy of six feet tall, a trifle thin but wiry, Special Agent Decker had thick coal black hair, pale gray eyes dotted with blue and green specks, a strong mouth and a thin, rather delicate nose. Only a long white scar, barely visible below the hairline and sweeping along one eye, and a slight lopsidedness to his face marred his appearance. He was thirty-eight.
A known hacker named H2O2, on a watch list, appeared to have broken into the email server of Boston-area defense contractor Westlake Defense Systems, pierced through the firewall and embedded a Trojan, enabling outside access at the root level.
Decker smiled. Caught you, he thought.
H2O2 had first come to the attention of law enforcement when, at age twelve, he had hacked into his local Telco and stolen gigabytes of customer information, including Socials, passwords and bank account numbers. A junior high school rival had ultimately ratted him out but, due to his age, his sentence had been reduced to time served, which was basically nothing.
His real name was Jeffrey Greenberg.
He’d grown up in Pennington, New Jersey, the only son of a lawyer and stock broker. Three years later, H2O2 was linked to a blackmailing scheme. Allegedly, he and a pair of friends out of Russia had threatened to shut down a host of online gambling websites with Distributed Denial of Service (DDoS) attacks. Fearful of losing even more money while their sites were being flooded with more requests than they could possibly handle, many online casinos had paid. Their sites were their businesses, after all. But one had alerted the FBI, and it was only due to some silly prosecutorial error—uncovered by the hacker’s own mother—that the fifteen year old H2O2 had escaped being indicted for blackmail.
After that, he had kept his nose pretty clean, except for a couple of incidents.
One, he’d been linked to black hat hacker group LulzSec, as well as Anonymous, the decentralized online community associated with collaborative, international hacktivism.
And two, he’d been responsible for initiating a Flash Mob attack in Philadelphia using Twitter. Thousands of teens had converged on the corner of South Street and Sixth, and a woman had been robbed and assaulted. But, once again, Greenberg only got a slap on the wrist. The state couldn’t prove that he’d intentionally provoked the assault, and eventually the case was thrown out.
By monitoring his movements—via cash withdrawals and cell phone trilaterization—Decker had finally managed to track H2O2 down through a street surveillance video feed near an Internet Café called the Java Company on Second Avenue in Philly, meeting with a man whose face he could not quite discern but...
That man! An icy fist clamped Decker’s heart. It looked just like...
The stranger’s body and body language brought to mind El Aqrab, a notorious Jihadist bomber whom Decker had battled eight years earlier.
But that isn’t possible!
Even after all this time, the Lebanese terrorist still haunted Decker’s dreams. El Aqrab’s calling card had been to wrap people up with incendiary devices designed to produce flames in the shape of Koranic verses when exploded remotely. Some called it aesthetic destruction.
