by D S Kane
“I know what is fishing, Wheelyam. I am not stupid. I just enter the information on their website.”
He smiled, but didn’t comment on her misunderstanding. “Yes, but you used the email link from this email to get to the website, didn’t you?”
“Of course. So much easier zat way.”
He grimaced. “Syl, it’s not really their website. They just created one that looks like a copy of the bank’s website.” He pressed a few keys and then activated the email link. “Look, over here is the bank’s real website. And over here,” he pointed to the other corner of the screen, “is the fake. It’s called ‘spoofing.’ See how similar they are.” She nodded and William continued. “But, note the differences. Slight one. Like this.” He pointed to a misspelling of one of the words. “Careless error. They should have just copied the entire thing. Syl, anyone who is a decent hacker can do this.”
Her mouth dropped. “Zen how do I get my monies back?”
He smiled. “I can do that for you. By stealing it back from the hacker. But I’ll only steal what you lost. How much was stolen from you?” While she was calculating the missing amount, William waited patiently. “You should close that account immediately and open a new one. And use a different password.”
At that moment William’s jaw dropped and his fingers went slack. He realized how stupid he’d been. So focused on being Sylvia’s sex-slave, so consumed with his chores for Cassie, he’d missed something that should be obvious to him. It was as if Sylvia had hit him with a baseball bat. “Holy shit on a barbeque skewer!” He smiled at her. “I think you just might have helped me find a way to save Cassie’s life.”
She appeared to have no understanding of what she did or how she had helped.
William began keying data into the computer, humming a Blind Blake tune from the 1920’s, “That Will Never Happen No More,” one of Cassie’s favorite blues tunes, and cursing occasionally. She watched him, fascinated as screens swiftly flew across the monitor. William began to sing words to the song off-key.
He should have realized long ago there was something obvious he could do. Thinking about Sylvia’s problem, he realized he didn’t have to capture Watson and get his password to the website. There was something he could do without any password. He could use the same tactic to hack and spoof the GrayNet website! No phishing required.
William remembered Jon Sommers telling him Phillip Watson’s wife’s name was Jennie. It took less than a minute to determine that “jennie” was the password Watson had used for Internic, the organization responsible for ensuring that websites were only operated by the people that owned them. From there it took only a few minutes before he found there was no password for the actual website. Watson’s Internic password was his only security feature. He made a copy of the website on his hard disk. He began making changes to all the data related to the contracts on Cassie’s life.
He was now in control of the website, and simply copied the changed site from his hard disk back to the Internet. Then he changed the password to one he’d remember: “cryptomongeristhebest.” When he had completed his work, he retained total control over the site and its top-to-bottom security. The site appeared to be whatever William wanted it to be.
His ghost website was identical to the original in most respects, but the biggest change showed Cassie’s assassination as “FULFILLED” by Jacques LeFleur, who was in actuality a major in Cassie’s merc force and one of Shimmel’s direct reports. And, since the website was spoofed, no real proof of Cassie’s head in a box would be required. William copied the photo of Cassie he’d taken at their initial board meeting and used Photoshop to modify it. The “new” photo showed her severed head, gray skin, dead glazed eyes, and bright red pool of blood dripping from her neck, in a small wooden crate surrounded by ice, displayed on the GrayNet web page calling for her assassination. He then went to the other Internet betting sites and claimed LeFleur’s assassination of Cassie.
William looked around. Sylvia was gone. He had no idea of how much time had passed. It was dark outside. He went to the kitchen and looked at the clock on the wall. Nearly midnight. He yawned, and his stomach growled in reply. He hadn’t eaten or used the bathroom for almost ten hours. William decided to wait until after he’d eaten before calling Cassie. He opened the fridge and began building a another Dagwood sandwich, containing a mix of whatever looked interesting on sourdough toast.
* * *
The plane from Maui touched down at Logan Airport and all of the passengers formed a line, preparing to disembark. A cacophony of cell phones rang. Each traveler would be heading to the baggage claim, since they had had to check the weapons they had carried. Louis Stepponi was among those on this airplane and he queued close to the front, carrying a small bag.
He was sure none of the other passengers on the Maui to Boston flight headed anywhere but to the harbor. And it wasn’t the “No Name” restaurant that attracted them. They weren’t out to get scrod.
There had been another unscheduled flight directly before this, since the planes between Maui and Boston had been overbooked for days. And there’d be another in less than a half hour and another after that. Stepponi guessed that over three thousand zombie patriots and assassins had traveled to Boston or were at the harbor now.
Stepponi had seen Harry Aimes sitting in the back of the plane, sharing only the same goal as Stepponi. He assumed they had both bet everything they could beg, borrow, or steal on the death of Cassandra Sashakovich, hoping also to be the one who would place her severed head into a box for the bonus bounty of three million dollars.
He was sure by now every hitter had checked the GrayNet website when their aircraft landed, about an hour ago. After all, he had. He suspected every taxi in Boston was continuously round tripping to and from Logan Airport, ferrying the mass of professional killers and hit-man wannabe’s to the wharf. Right where the Internet sites had stated she was. He thought about rechecking GrayNet, but why bother? What could have changed over the last few hours?
Stepponi rushed past baggage claim to the taxi line and took a cab to the FedEx Office near Government Center. He picked up his package and carried the unopened box with him as he walked out into the thronging tourist area. His stomach growled and he walked to Durgin Park for a brief meal. It was the oldest restaurant in America, open for some two hundred years. He hadn’t eaten that day and the surly waitress’s attitude matched his own after the flight from Maui. The New England boiled dinner assuaged some of his uneasiness, and the aromas overwhelmed his own body-stink. Then he found another taxi.
When Stepponi reached the harbor, he looked for a good spot to snipe. Cargo pods were stacked on the pier waiting to be off-loaded from a Brazilian freighter. From the top of one of them he thought he might get a good shot at anyone leaving the sub. He found a spot lacking security camera coverage and waited until there was no one nearby. With great care, he climbed eight feet to the top of one. He was so close, only about two hundred fifty feet away. An easy shot even an amateur could make. And he was so much better.
At the top of the cargo pod, he unpacked the pool-cue case that held his M40A3 sniper rifle from the FedEx box. He attached his AN/PVS-10 infrared night scope to the top of the rifle and a tripod to its bottom. He felt the cold November night chill him and tried to measure the effect of the wind blowing from the southwest through the harbor. He adjusted the scope to accommodate the breeze. He wondered if the temperature would dip below freezing. He wondered how long he’d have to remain hidden here.
Stepponi opened the backpack and removed a copper-colored sweater. He put it on and settled into a prone position. The sub was clearly visible through his scope. He’d be able to make an accurate kill shot, even in the dark.
Now, he’d just have to wait.
But after three weeks without any reward for his work in Maui, he wasn’t going to give up. Waiting was one of the things he did best.
CHAPTER 39
November 7, 12:52 p.m.
&
nbsp; Agency headquarters,
K Street, Washington, DC
As lunchtime approached on this chilly sunny day, Mark McDougal sat at his desk, reading reports from analysts and NOCs. His stomach rumbled and he looked at his watch. Returning the report he’d just picked up from the “Unread” pile on his desk, he shook his head to clear it. The noise of someone’s approach against the office carpet had him flinch, but it continued past his office door. He’d been hyperalert and sleepless since Sashakovich’s call.
As he did every day when nearing a break, he logged into the GrayNet website to read the Contracts for Death section.
McDougal had followed Cassie’s feints and dodges for over two weeks. As he saw it, she seemed to be a remarkably resilient foe but death was a relentless adversary. He wondered if she was really on that sub in Boston harbor, or if that was just disinformation. He thought, I guess that we trained her too well. I wonder how long she’ll last? Can’t be long now before some yahoo picks her off.
As the website came up on his computer monitor, his phone rang. McDougal pulled his fingers off the computer mouse to answer the phone. The phone’s tiny screen showed “unknown party.” His brow raised. “McDougal.”
“Sashakovich. I require your help. Have you seen GrayNet today?”
“Hang on. I was just about to—” He scanned the website’s home page and his eyebrows went up in shock. He saw her severed head on the home page, the face a pasty gray, the eyes cold and lifeless, a deep red bullet hole in the center of her forehead. There was a spot of clotted blood at the side of her severed neck and more pooled at its bottom. Below the image, it showed the contract as “FULFILLED” by Jacques LeFleur. “Neat trick, Cassandra. I continue to underestimate you.”
“Don’t stop there. Go to the Contracts for Death page.”
He did. And he saw two new contracts, one each for his wife and son. “Shit.” His mind did the mathematics and he asked, “How long since you took out the contracts on my family?”
“Just went up now, before I dialed your number.”
“What do you want?”
“I now control this website. I can change the odds to be anything I wish. I can let the contracts run and I can add your name. Or, I can add Greenfield. Or maybe the President. But, Mark, I can have the contracts for your family gone from the site just as soon as you complete my little task. What I want, you can do in your sleep, it’s that easy.”
He grimaced. From her tone, he suspected it was probably both difficult and dangerous. “Which is?”
“Call Houmaz. Put a continuous NSA backtrace on him. I know that you know how to reach him. Have one of your guys do it off-the-wire. I need to know the location of his cell phone, continuously as he moves. Give me the ability to track him down and I’ll let your family live. Well? What’s your answer?”
McDougal sighed. “Of course. As if I have a choice, you little bitch. What’s the number where I can reach you?”
“Don’t call. Send an email to swiftshadow.com and set up a temp web page on the agency’s site for me to use in tracking him. Someone will be picking up email and forwarding them to me as they come in. Once I have the website location you assign for continuous traces, I’ll check to make sure it works. If it does, I’ll have my tech pull the contracts off the site, to save your family. If I live to see Houmaz dead, I’ll close down the website completely and forever.”
McDougal sat stock-still for some time. God, how he hated the woman. “Okay, I’ll do it. Any more tasks or questions?”
“No. Get busy, before someone decides to collect on your family. Such soft targets.” She terminated the conversation.
He sighed, and his hands began moving. He picked up a piece of paper and began scribbling onto it. He’d later burn the paper, leaving no trace behind. It only took a few minutes until his little speech was memorized. Now, who to give it to?
He decided to put Bob Gault on this task. He felt that Gault, one of his direct reports, was most capable of keeping secrets.
* * *
From her seat on the bus as it slowed into city traffic, Cassie looked out at Boston’s Chinatown. She hoped McDougal would decide to help her. But she doubted anything good would result. She longed for a decent meal, having eaten nothing since the seafood on the sub. Hungry people walked down Beach Street, on their way to lunch from their office buildings into restaurants.
Major Jacques LeFleur entered the bus with a box from which steam was escaping. He brought the box to her and opened it. “Dim sum from The New Golden Gate on Beach Street, Mademoiselle Cassandra. Try the excellent steamed pork buns.”
She plucked out a char siu bao and started to devour it. “Thanks, Jacques. Oh, yummy. That’s good bao.” She chewed the pillow-like pastry and smiled as the taste of sweet pork embedded within exploded in her mouth. She wondered whether to try the har gow shrimp dim sum, or the steamed pork siu mai next. She picked the latter and took a bite. “Soul food.”
As she enjoyed the savory flavor, she wondered, have I eaten my last meal?
* * *
“Bob, I have a little chore for you to do. It’s personal, not company business. I need you to trace a call I’ll be making to someone’s cell phone, in about five minutes. I know you can set this up that fast, and I need you to bring me back the owner’s info, and connect to the NSA’s servers for a continuous backtrace so I know exactly where the person holding the phone is located. Make sure that this particular sub-page on our Intranet is unsecure and temporary. We’ll have it up for a few days, maybe a week at most. Give me the details of the temp page. Okay?”
The balding pear-shaped man in his late forties, nodded. “Unsecure, eh?” He scratched the spot at the top of his head, thinking. “Piece of cake. I’ll only need ten minutes.” Gault turned and disappeared from the office. McDougal looked at his watch. Waiting would be difficult for him with his family’s lives hanging in the balance. He knew that warning them would be futile. If he failed, the black operatives she could hire would find them wherever they ran.
The minutes slowly passed, until Gault poked his head back in McDougal’s office doorway about seven minutes later. “Ready now, Mark.” Gault held a gooey pastry in his hands. He turned on his heel and walked away.
McDougal picked up the telephone receiver and called Houmaz’s cell phone number. “This is Mark McDougal. We spoke over a month ago. I’m the one who gave you Sashakovich’s name. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, I do. Why are you calling me?”
McDougal looked at his wristwatch. He waited. Just a few more seconds. “We need to meet. She’s been threatening me. Meet me or I’ll—” He heard Houmaz end the conversation, but the connection would take a few more seconds until it terminated. When he was sure it was no longer active, he dropped his landline on its cradle.
His door opened again and Gault’s head popped back in through the doorway. “I got him. I’ve set it to automatically send updates on the cell phone’s location every five seconds, as he moves. I put the tracker on an unsecure Intranet page and made it available for you and anyone you give its user ID and password to. The link containing the website address, user ID, and password is on its way via your email.”
“Thanks, Bob. I owe you big time for this one.” As he spoke, McDougal’s email updated. He clicked on the link and viewed the locator moving around on a map of the Massachusetts Turnpike heading toward Boston.
Houmaz was just south of downtown, passing Back Bay at the Boylston Street exit near Boston University. He forwarded the link to Cassie’s website email. Thirty seconds later, he received an email from Cassie:
Mark—
The contracts are being pulled off right now. We can deal with the mess that you created and your responsibility for it later.
—Cassie
CHAPTER 40
November 7, 4:27 p.m.
Agency headquarters,
K Street, Washington, DC
Gault felt his pager vibrate and looked down at its scree
n. He hated pagers but because cell phones were forbidden within the agency’s buildings, all urgent matters were settled using the tiny ancient devices. It showed Greenfield’s name and one additional word: “URGENT.” Gault moved as fast as he could to the elevator. He wondered what Greenfield wanted now.
The director’s office was empty when he got there, and he scratched his head as Greenfield sprinted back into it, tossing his overcoat on the leather couch. “Sorry, but better you wait for me than I wait for you. Greenfield sat behind his desk and continued. “I just came back from seeing POTUS about another matter but this one I have for you is important. Very Important.”
The director took a few deep breaths. “I need you to get your ass to the wharf in Boston where the Russian submarine docked, as soon as possible. When you arrive, you’ll find about a thousand illegally armed men on that pier. Call me when you get there. I want you to witness Sashakovich’s execution and report it to me in writing. Record it on your cell’s camera. I want photos and a movie. Leave immediately and take an agency vehicle. Even with a government pass, you’ll never get on a plane. Everything to Boston is filled, and I can’t get a charter for something like this.”
Gault’s jaw hung open so wide he thought the director could have used it for a waste basket.
* * *
April May O’Toole sat at her desk working on a story about a Swiss arms dealer when her cell phone rang. She looked at its screen and smiled. “William Wing! How good of you to call me. You have something for me?”
“Cassandra Sashakovich. Don’t have her contact info right now. She’s still out of the office, maybe for another a day or two. I think the two of you have a bigger story to tell than her own. And I think with your help as a journalist and a researcher, both of you can find a way to make this work.”
