GrayNet

by D S Kane

  Her companion reporter, a magnificently coiffed man wearing a charcoal suit and red tie smiled toward the screen and said, “We’ve had Cubans request sanctuary after arriving on a raft or a rowboat, but Russians in an ancient submarine claiming asylum from the Russian mafiya, not the Russian government, is a first! And, since they all left the sub and set foot on land after exiting off the wharf, the law might qualify them to make this request. They’re all back on the sub now, waiting for our government’s response.”

  Houmaz remembered the telephone call from Tobelov and made the connection. He smiled as he left the bed and flew from his room to the Internet café at the entrance of the motel.

  After the short trot, Houmaz ordered a double espresso. He waited his turn to use one of the rental computers, then logged onto www.gawkerstalker.com and planted a message stating that CNN reported seeing Cassandra Sashakovich aboard the submarine that just docked in Boston.

  Then he logged into www.GrayNet.com, and read the chatter that the zombie patriots and amateur assassins inputted to the “Contracts for Death” page of the website. The volume had decreased significantly since Cassie had escaped Maui in the sub. But as he updated the view of the web page, his gawkerstalker entry began to have an effect. Over the hour, as he watched, the number of entries grew with increasing speed. Soon, very soon, they’ll kill you, bitch. And I’ll be there to watch.

  He smiled. It wasn’t over yet. Houmaz began to feel exuberant.

  * * *

  As the sun sank below gray clouds, Lee drove into the parking lot. He and Ann walked to McCormick and Schmick’s Seafood Restaurant, at 711 Eastern Avenue, on Pier 5. The dinner rush in Baltimore harbor was just starting. He watched tourists and locals crowding outside restaurants that served cracked crab and other seafood delicacies, rushing to grab the limited number of tables. Ann had removed her makeup during the drive over, and left the top of the hoodie up to cover her short green hair. Lee told the hostess, “We have a reservation for three, under Swiftshadow.”

  The hostess turned her face as she led them through the restaurant, and asked, “Isn’t that a native American name?” Lee nodded with a smile as they passed the bar, stopping at a table in the back. They’d been seated less than a minute when someone at the bar—a woman whose paisley scarf veiled her face—rose from her seat, faced their table, walked to them and sat down. Through the scarf, the woman’s voice whispered, “Oh, how I missed you. I’m so happy you’re both safe.”

  “Mom?”

  “Cassie? I thought we were meeting Shimmel.”

  She nodded. As they rose out of their seats, she motioned them back down. “No. Sorry, but please. Stay seated. It’s too dangerous. Even here there’s a bounty on my head.” She pointed to the scarf. “This is enough to confuse any camera. But we don’t have a way to make me safe yet. Why don’t we order our dinners “to go” and take a walk down to the wharf at the end of the harbor. We can eat on the sub.”

  “What sub?” asked Lee. “Isn’t the sub in you bought in Boston?”

  “I acquired two subs. One’s in Boston.”

  She ordered take-out dinners for five and waited for them to be packed.

  Lee scratched his ear. “What’s the plan?”

  “Shimmel has a plan, but it’s got more holes than Swiss cheese. We have a lot of work to do just to stay safe, and now, with Houmaz looking for you guys, you’ll have to hang with me. Maybe more literally than it sounds.”

  Their waiter appeared carrying two large shopping bags. Lee paid him and they were left alone.

  Carrying their shopping bags filled with food and plastic utensils, the family walked in darkness, united again at last, to the submarine docked in the harbor.

  Once down the conning tower’s ladder, they hugged each other. Avram Shimmel met them in the sub’s small ready room.

  Captain Rogov served them all coffee. Ivan said, “Shimmel bought two pounds of Starbucks ground French roast,” and smiled. “Tastes like heaven. Coffee in Vlad tastes like shit.”

  Cassie asked Shimmel, “Will it be okay if we eat shellfish with you here?”

  Shimmel nodded. “I don’t keep kosher under battle conditions. I’m hungry, too.” He pointed to the food containers, opening one up. “What is this?” He failed to hide the momentary look of disgust on his face. “Is there enough for us all?”

  Cassie opened the containers and pointed to the cooked cracked crabs. “Yes. At least thirty of these little buggers. And garlic bread, and crab bisque in addition to the crabs.” She watched his frowning face. “If you’d rather not eat crab, I also brought fish and chips. Breaded deep-fried salmon.” She smiled apologetically, but Shimmel shook his head and reached tentatively for the claw of one of the crabs. He touched it then shook his head again. Cassie almost laughed as he lifted the fish and chips container from the bag and opened it.

  They ate and the conversation slowed as the pile of shells grew.

  After they cleaned off the table, Shimmel poured himself a cup of coffee. “We know where Houmaz was as of about an hour ago. He put a message about the Boston sub on the gawkerstalker.com website from a computer at Starbucks in downtown Washington. Wing back-traced the message about twenty minutes ago while you were at the restaurant. We can find him and kill him if he isn’t on the move, which I assume he will be. And if he is on the move, he’ll probably head for the harbor in Boston, where the other sub was reported to be. It made world news, just as we hoped. I expect that most of the zombie patriots will make their way there as well. Sashakovich, you should be going there with me and all the mercs, soon, to finish preparations. You said there was a way to determine if Houmaz is there.”

  Cassie nodded. She looked at her wristwatch. “Lee, Ann, you’ll both have to stay here with Ivan. You’ll be safe here. Avram and I have to leave.”

  “Don’t go, mom. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  Suddenly, Ann looked grown up to Cassie.

  Cassie took a deep breath and sighed. She smiled, feeling sad. “I have to find a way to make the world a safe place for you two. We’re going to try to get rid of enough of the zombie patriots so the odds of our survival increase. If we’re lucky, we might lure Houmaz there and be able to deal with him as well, but that’s less likely.” She sighed. “So, I’m going there for personal reasons.”

  Lee grabbed her by the shoulders. “Personal reasons be damned. You don’t have to go.” Cassie felt Lee’s anger like a knifepoint. “You’ve been through enough. Let your black ops people handle it. They’re professionals.”

  The unspoken words, “and you’re not” exploded through her consciousness as an accusation. She blanched as if slapped. “Lee, it was my decision to let the bastard live. I made a mistake. Now I have to be there when he dies. I can’t put anyone else at risk unless I am also at risk.” She reached and hugged Lee. And Ann. Then turned and left the ready room.

  Shimmel blocked the doorway behind her. “She’s right. I know her almost as well as you do. If she isn’t there when Houmaz dies, she’ll live the rest of her life under a shroud of guilt about those who died to save her. Do you want her alive but damaged?”

  Lee’s expression showed panic. “But she might die.”

  “She’s been in worse danger, and very recently. Your Cassandra is a very hard woman to kill. And I’ll be with her.” Shimmel pointed his index finger back at his torso. “Trust me.” He looked over his shoulder as he heard the sound of Cassie climbing up the ladder at the base of the con to the sub’s deck. “We must go. Stay here. I’ll send for you when this is over.”

  * * *

  Bob Gault pulled his suitcase through the hallway as fast as he could. He’d arrived back from Maui and gone to the agency directly after debarking. He took the elevator up two floors and raced to Gilbert Greenfield’s office. Out of breath, he muttered, “Bug-Lok’s gone dead.”

  “What?” asked the director.

  “Bug-Lok. I left Hawaii yesterday and had the subject’s position. But when
I got off the plane an hour ago, there was no signal. You had me reporting the subject’s movements.”

  Gault knew that the “subject” was Ainsley, but hoped Greenfield didn’t know he knew. Anyway, there was no way Gault was going to admit he’d gone past his orders.

  Greenfield raised his hand in a gesture that beckoned for more intel.

  “Here’s the report.” He passed the older man a miniSD flash memory card.

  The director sighed. “Where was the subject when you last had him?”

  “At Swiftshadow Consulting Group’s office on K Street.”

  Greenfield realized almost instantly that Ainsley must have been alerted to the bug’s residence in his body. He muttered under his breath. “Shit.” Then raised his voice to a more normal level. “Thanks, Bob. Please close the door as you leave.” As Gault pulled his suitcase behind him, retreating to his office, Greenfield activated the Encryption-Lok feature of his landline and keyed the President’s private number at the Oval Office.

  * * *

  Louis Stepponi walked to the front of the Wailea Spa and Hotel, looking for the taxi line to leave for the airport. He stood in line behind Harry Aimes. The night was stifling hot and both men perspired freely in the humidity. Most of the zombie patriots and assassins waiting at the hotel hadn’t bathed for days, and now the long line of people carried a distinctly unpleasant aroma that traveled into the hotel lobby. He’d gotten used to the stench of overripe flesh, cooked too long under the tropical sun. The amateurs and contract hitters stood in line next to each other waiting while taxis filled one by one.

  The noise of construction crews filled the air, and tourists were once again occupying rooms. Stepponi wondered if the real guests speculated over the stories they’d heard on the news about the Wailea.

  He also wondered if the huge throng of hitters exceeded the daily capacity of all the available aircraft to Boston’s Logan Airport. If so, some would wait for days to leave. Each wanted to get these rare seats on aircraft filled past capacity. Some would have to fly to other places and make connecting flights as their only way to arrive in Boston soon enough.

  Like the others on line, Aimes and Stepponi had bags or satchels with them.

  Neither had ever met the other. In fact, Stepponi made it a habit to never talk to a stranger, especially a competitor, and never to an amateur. But Aimes turned to him and said, “Fuckin’ bitch. Now we all have to go to Boston. That’s six thousand fuckin’ miles.”

  Stepponi remained poker-faced, unwilling to acknowledge the experience they shared. Another cab stopped at the front of the line. Zombie patriots, assassins, and their luggage filled it. It departed, the twentieth one in the last hour. The silence made him nervous, and he whispered loud enough for Aimes to hear, “Such is the nature of this business.”

  He’d sent his weapon to Boston via FedEx, even though it was a plastic rifle. He knew they’d be hand-searching everyone and didn’t want to check it inside one of his bags. This way, it wouldn’t trigger antiterrorism alarms at the Kahului Airport. “Look, all we do is set up, wait, try, and if you don’t get a shot, try again. Relax, old man, this might work out yet.” He smiled at Aimes. “Or maybe not. There were over three thousand of us trying to end her before the mercs saved her and murdered most of us. It’s all joss, as the Asians say. She’s one tough lady.”

  “I guess. But I’m running out of time.” Aimes shook his head in disgust. He barely whispered, scowling, “Didn’t know this would be so difficult.”

  At that moment Stepponi realized that Aimes was one of the walking dead, a zombie patriot, and decided that the conversation had exceeded his comfort level. He coughed, turned away, and became very quiet as he waited his turn for a cab.

  * * *

  The bus labeled “Remarkable Tours” contained seventy seats, all but four taken. They sat in silence, concentrating on the printed orders that General Avram Shimmel had given them.

  Cassie sat in the back of the bus, alone with her desperate thoughts, thinking again about how much and yet how little had changed in her life from last year. Once again she’d fled first away from danger and then back into the teeth of it. She thought, if I survive this, I definitely have to change something. I want to be with my family. Damn, I want a normal life. This has gotten old.

  She looked out the window at the lights of the city of Providence, Rhode Island, as the bus picked up speed heading north on the Massachusetts Turnpike. She had a copy of Shimmel’s plan on her lap. It was simple and short, designed to dispose of most of the “Cassie Killers.” If they succeeded, she would have murdered at least three hundred and possibly as many as three thousand more.

  She shook her head, overwhelmed by guilt. But for her to live, they had to die.

  CHAPTER 38

  November 6, 11:24 p.m.

  220 East Kirke Street,

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  William Wing had worked from before dawn straight through until after 7 p.m. and was exhausted. He marched up the stairs to the bedroom he shared with Sylvia Orley. After a “quick roll in the hay”—as Sylvia called it—she let him sleep and padded off to do a few chores.

  As he lay alone in the bed, he remembered his life in China, his parents’ poverty as farmers. There was never enough food, something he blamed for his short stature. He saw his mother stirring juke, a white sticky porridge over the flames of their primitive wood stove. She argued with his father about how difficult it was to make food appear from magic. Of course, there was no magic and they all remained painfully thin. He could feel his stomach growling as he faded off into a dream. His father’s meteoric rise from farmer to politician happened unexpectedly, when William was a child. It changed everything.

  * * *

  As dawn broke the night sky, Sylvia sat at the computer in the den, her jaw open and her eyebrows arched. Something wrong here, she thought. She felt like she was being punished for not having met Ann at her school. She examined the numbers on the screen and said, “Sheet!” According to what she saw, her bank account was overdrawn by five thousand dollars. But except for driving that impudent child to and from school, she’d been stuck in this stupid house for a week. She’d just been paid for the week. There should be at least eighteen hundred dollars available. She cursed and went off to find William.

  Wing lay on his back in the guest room’s bed at Cassie’s house. He snored, his mouth open wide—and naked. There were large black-and-blue marks all over his neck and chest. The blanket lay on the floor, where Sylvia had left it when she finished using him. She kissed his ear and then put her lips to it, speaking directly into it. “Leetle Wing. Wake up, Wheelyam. I need you.”

  “Damn, Sylvia, that’s the title of a Jimi Hendrix tune. I’m spent. Please, just give me another couple of hours to recharge my batteries. I need an hour at least.” He attempted to roll over.

  “Wheelyam, someone has stolen all the monies from my bank account.”

  His eyes snapped open. He stirred. “Huh? What do you mean?” He winced as he got up and pulled a bathrobe from the closet, drawing it around him.

  “Last week, when we arrive here, remember setting up my email account on the computer in the den?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” He remembered completing that before she forced him back to the bed and did him again. For the fourth time that day. He remembered his exhaustion then, but he was even more depleted now. Wing rubbed his eyes. “The email still works, right?”

  “Yes. Yes it steel works. But when I log into my account at the Bank Credit Swiss, it shows I’m overdrawn.”

  “Sylvia, how much was there when we arrived? You’ve hardly left the house since we got here. Did you buy anything on the Internet?”

  “No. Never. My only using of thees computer has been to receive and send emails. Except for looking at my bank account balance on-line.”

  “Let me see your emails.” He staggered down the hall with her and entered the den where Horst had usurped her place, using the computer to p
lay “US Army,” a first-person shooter. “Uh, Horst, we have a little problem and need to use the computer. Ah, Horst, shouldn’t you have left for Boston by now?”

  It was obvious Horst didn’t hear William. He plucked repeatedly on the joystick trigger button and said, “Die, die, die you stinkin’ terrorist!” Sylvia grabbed the hair on his head and pulled his face to hers. Horst yelled at her, “What?”

  She sneered back, her lips less than an inch from his face. “We will use thees computer now, Horst. Go. Go to Boston. Or get yourself breakfast. Or go fuck Gretchen. You both want to fuck more than you want to eat.”

  Horst cursed but continued to sit. “We go to Boston soon. I get to play this game until we leave.”

  Sylvia dug her left hand into a pressure point on his neck and he went unconscious before he could react. She said, “Or you can go and fuck yourself.” She pushed him out of the chair and let him fall on the floor while William watched.

  She sighed. She exited the game and pulled up her email. “Here. Wheelyam, look for yourself.”

  William stepped over Horst’s body and sat in the desk chair. It was still warm. He scanned her emails on screen and then clicked on one, to send it into the preview page. “Sylvia, did you do anything about this one?”

  She looked at the screen and read it carefully. “Of course, yes, I did. Zay say I need to update my account information or I wheel have problem with zee bank. So, I—”

  “What did you enter on the website?”

  “I don’t remember. Zay ask about my account number, my identification number, and password. I give zem what zay need.”

  William shook his head. “Syl, I’m almost certain this email wasn’t sent from your bank. It looks like one of theirs, but that just means that someone else scanned their logo and put it on an email. You replied to a thief and sent them all your account info. That’s how you were robbed. The thief hijacked your money and your identity. Probably bought and paid for stuff using your ATM account. The thief may have also sold your account info to others who will use it to forge passports in your name. It’s called ‘phishing.’”