by Dale Brown
Trevor Jenkins pulled the lapels of his suit jacket forward as Louis Massina stepped out into the hallway. Jenkins felt a sudden surge of nervousness but fought through it. “Mr. Massina?”
The scientist jerked his head in Jenkins’s direction.
“I’m Trevor Jenkins,” said the agent, striding forward. Tall and well-built, he was naturally imposing. The fact that he was black sometimes added to that aura, but it sometimes worked against him. He hoped it was neutral in this case, though racial prejudices were beyond his control. “I don’t know if you remember me—”
“Of course. Your daughter has an artificial knee,” said Massina, surprising Jenkins by remembering him. It had been two years since they’d last spoken. “How is she?”
“She’s fine, she’s fine,” said Jenkins. “Every day, we thank you.”
“We all do what we can.” Massina started to turn away.
“Actually, I came here on official business. Semiofficial,” added the agent. “You filed a complaint about your bank account. An ATM card.”
“Yes?”
“Your office said I would be able to catch you here,” explained Jenkins.
“You’ve caught the thieves?”
“No, but . . .” Jenkins shook his head. “I thought, when I saw your name, I would—that you were owed a real explanation.”
“I see.”
Jenkins glanced at Sister Rose, who’d just come out of the room. “Maybe we should discuss this somewhere a little more private?”
“Mr. Jenkins,” said Sister Rose, belatedly recognizing him. “How is your daughter?”
“Very well, Sister, thank you.”
“Business, Louis?” she asked.
“It’ll only take a minute,” said Jenkins. “Maybe in the lounge, or better yet, downstairs?”
Massina looked at the nun.
“We’ll always wait for you, Louis,” said Sister Rose. “Go right ahead.”
5
Boston—Tuesday
Gabor Tolevi walked out onto the platform of Boston South and glanced in the direction of the Amtrak train. Its departure had been delayed forty minutes for unspecified reasons—not unusual for Amtrak.
He hated trains—they reminded him of his early childhood in Europe, Ukraine especially, when his father took him on business trips. He loved his father but hated those trips—far too poor for first class, let alone airplanes, they most often went common or fourth class, which meant jamming aboard the sleeping cars and staying there for the duration of a trip. These cars were traveling dormitories where as many as fifty bunks might be partitioned in. Tolevi and his father would share a bed, which was one thing when Gabor was three and quite another at six; they traveled together until Gabor was nearly thirteen, his father unable to find a suitable sitter after Gabor’s mother died. A splurge might buy a platzkart, or third-class ticket, which meant a real seat in another car, but that, too, they would have to share, generally as a tag team. The Russian trains were usually cleaner than the Ukrainian, though that was simply a matter of degree, and he’d been on a Russian train when a fat walrus of a man tried molesting him at age nine. The incident had changed Tolevi, but in his estimation for the better: he had learned how to fight and stand up for himself, and if it was his father who slit the man’s throat that night in revenge, it could just as well have been him with the knife.
The Amtrak train was heading for New York City, a destination that Tolevi would have much preferred to have flown to. But he was taking the train, and this train in particular, at the request of Yuri Johansen. Johansen wanted to talk to him, and Tolevi couldn’t easily turn down such requests.
Tolevi had met Johansen more than twenty years before, when both had been not only younger but also borderline naive. Tolevi was a young officer in the Ukrainian army, looking to come to America and not particularly concerned about how he got the money to do so; Johansen was a freshly minted CIA officer whose responsibilities included helping people like Tolevi. Johansen had recruited Tolevi following a three-month “courtship”; as these things went, it was rather quick, but it had proved immensely valuable over the years.
The relationship was mutually beneficial. With minimal but strategic assistance from Johansen, Tolevi had exploited his connections in both the Ukraine and Russia to build a thriving import-export business, one that was generally, though not always, aboveboard. American by birth as well as a Ukrainian passport holder, he was now a property owner and a man of some means. The fact that he occasionally worked with the Russian mafya was both necessary and a source of endless opportunity, not just for him but for Johansen, too. Johansen had moved up the ranks at the CIA. Even so, he continued to “run” Tolevi personally.
Johansen had once explained to Tolevi that he kept up contact because he “liked to keep a hand in.” Tolevi doubted that was true—he suspected that the CIA officer used trips from the Washington area to Boston as a cover for something else, including a mistress—but he was used to Johansen, and in fact would have balked if he had been handed off to someone of lesser importance.
Johansen liked using trains for contact. This was inexplicable to Tolevi. Perhaps it had to do with the CIA officer’s ability to scan the tickets and ID passengers; maybe he got some sort of agency discount. It did solve one problem: Tolevi had to be especially careful in Boston, as there were plenty of people around with connections to the Russian mob and, through them, to the intelligence services. Even a chance sighting of him next to a CIA agent would add complications to his life that he preferred not to deal with.
The train was late. He walked back into the station building, circling around toward the eating area between Dunkin’ Donuts and the Au Bon Pain. There were no seats, so Gabor satisfied himself with examining faces, trying to decide who in the small crowd might be following him.
No one. No reason for paranoia.
The train was finally called. Tolevi made his way on board, finding a seat in the first car. He took the window seat and left his jacket on the aisle seat, a precaution to ward off a neighbor. The train, though, was relatively empty, and as it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long—Johansen got on at Route 128, the second stop after the station, a little less than fifteen minutes after pulling out.
“This seat taken?” asked the CIA officer.
“Go ahead,” said Tolevi roughly. He dropped his jacket onto his lap, repositioning his Kindle Fire atop it.
Johansen pulled a laptop from his briefcase before sitting down. Neither man spoke; they never admitted to knowing each other or made any sign of comradery or even bare courtesy during these meetings. They communicated by typing on their devices, pretending to be talking to someone else.
As always, Johansen started the conversation with an inane question.
You are flying?
Tolevi resisted the impulse to reply with something nasty.
Plane leaves tonight.
Are you stopping in Crimea?
If all goes well.
Could you pick up a package?
Not a good place.
You must try. We will compensate.
Yes, Tolevi thought. You definitely will compensate. He typed:
I will need the rate applied for the Moscow errand.
That was a one-time thing.
This is more difficult than that.
I will arrange it.
I will do my best.
That was the extent of their conversation. Johansen shut down the word-processing program and pulled up the browser; he watched a movie until they reached Westerly, Rhode Island, where he got off.
Always suspicious that Johansen might have left a trail or even some sort of device to watch him, Tolevi waited until he reached New York and was in a cab to make the call.
“Yes?” said Iosif. It was a bare syllable, more a grunt than a word, but it immediately identified him beyond any doubt.
“I’ll be out of town for a few days. We have a shipment coming on the ninth.”
“Taken care of.”<
br />
“Good. Anything else?”
“Stratowich stopped by. He wants to talk to you,” added Iosif.
Stephan Stratowich was a low-level goon who worked with some of the mafya people, Maarav Medved in particular. He obviously had been sent to bug him for either a favor or money.
Probably money. Tolevi owed Medved a payment: a “tax” for the benefit of not being interfered with.
“He was ranting about a robot,” added Iosif.
“A robot?”
“You know Stratowich. Always something.”
“Was that what he wanted?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Neither do I. Tell him I’ll be back in a few days.”
“I did.”
“Let me know if anything comes up. I’ll check in from Europe.”
“Right.”
6
Boston—about the same time
According to Trevor Jenkins, Massina was just one of a hundred people who had been victimized in a strain of identity theft involving ATM skimmers.
“The theory is they used a skimmer,” said the FBI agent. Massina listened patiently as the agent then explained what a skimmer was—a device that was placed on the ATM, reading the pertinent information.
“There was nothing like that there,” said Massina when Jenkins finished.
“They are quite clever,” said the agent. He unfolded a sheaf of papers with photos demonstrating how the machines were placed over the ATM’s card apparatus. They ranged from crude card readers with a keyboard to a far more sophisticated device that looked like a card slot with a fat lip. “As soon as the PIN is keyed in, the thieves have all the information they need.”
“I don’t recall seeing anything like these,” said Massina. “I think I would have noticed.”
“Well, the ATMs seem to be the only link,” said Jenkins apologetically. “There have been a rash of these, at different banks.”
The incident was one of half a dozen in the area over the past several weeks, explained the agent. The thefts occurred within moments of each other—literally nanoseconds, as computer programs directed transfers over high-speed Internet lines. The transfers would cascade across a number of accounts until finally disappearing somewhere in Eastern Europe, where tracing them became very difficult.
The FBI had dealt with these sorts of devices for years and had a fairly good feel for what they looked like and were capable of. They also knew what sort of fraud pattern they generally corresponded to—quick hits on a number of bank accounts that had only one thing in common: a withdrawal at the compromised ATM. Most skimmer operations were relatively primitive; in most cases, the skimmers had to be recovered for the data to be used. This was more sophisticated; the transfers happened instantly, in small amounts that defeated normal security screening. And it involved transfers rather than cash.
“We have a number of the ATMs under surveillance,” added Jenkins. “We’ll catch them eventually.”
“You’re watching every ATM in the city?”
“I wish. Has your bank offered to make good on the money?” asked Jenkins.
“They said they would.”
“Then you’re ahead of the game. Many banks don’t. Technically, they don’t have to. If the PIN is used, they claim that you didn’t keep it secure.”
“That’s bull.”
“They can say anything they want, right?” The agent laughed nervously. “When I saw your name this morning on the list, I felt I had to tell you what was going on. Twenty-three people were hit last night. They got about ten thousand dollars. Your account was actually one of the bigger ones.”
“Must be my lucky day.” Massina stood. “I’m sorry, but I really need to go see Sister Rose and her committee.”
“Of course.” Jenkins took a business card from his pocket. “If I can help—if you have trouble getting your money back—just call. We can put pressure on the bank.”
“Thanks,” said Massina.
“I’m sorry that I can’t be more positive,” said Jenkins.
“Give my best to your daughter.”
“We think about you every day. You really changed her life.”
7
Boston—the next day
If there was one way to get Louis Massina interested in something, it was by telling him it was impossible. And while Agent Jenkins hadn’t used that word exactly, everything he had said about the ATM card thieves made it sound like catching them would be very difficult without some sort of lucky break.
That was a challenge.
Still, Massina never would have pursued the matter had the bank’s manager not called him a short while later to tell him that the bank had reversed its decision to reimburse him.
“Why?” Massina asked.
“You must have used your PIN,” said the manager apologetically. “The regional office told me that I have to follow the rules.”
“This is part of a skimmer operation,” said Massina. “I’ve already spoken to the FBI.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s no evidence that there was a skimmer. We checked the tapes, and there was no physical alteration at the machine.”
“Why would I have used an ATM to make a transfer,” said Massina, not even bothering to make it sound like a question. “And from that account?”
“I can’t explain that,” said the bank manager.
“If you look at the way that account is used—”
“I’ve been all through it with my bank’s security VP,” she said. “If they credit your account, they’ll have to credit everyone’s.”
“As they should.”
“You can take it up with regional,” said the manager. “My hands are tied.”
“You realize I have other accounts with you.”
“I told them that. Several times.”
He hung up. Chelsea Goodman was standing at his door; she’d heard his side of the conversation.
“The ATM theft?” she asked.
“They think I did it.” Massina suppressed a growl. The unfairness angered him. While he could easily afford the loss, the idea of being ripped off annoyed him beyond proportion. Part of Massina realized he should be spending his time on something more productive, but it was overwhelmed by a simmering rage and a desire for revenge, however irrational it might be. He was angry at the thieves, but nearly as mad at the bank; he had to struggle to maintain his outward calm.
“Why don’t you just hack into their system and see where the transfer went?” asked Chelsea.
“If I do that, I might just as well reverse the transaction,” said Massina.
“That’s a thought.”
“An illegal one.”
“It’s your money.”
“Tell me how Peter did,” he said, changing the subject.
Though Massina cut her off, Chelsea’s suggestion started a chain of thoughts that led him to call Jenkins later that day.
Much later. It was a few minutes past midnight.
“I have a proposition,” he told the FBI agent. “I’d like to help you and your case.”
“Really?”
“We’ll do anything short of hacking into the banking system. Though if you want us to—”
“No, no, uh, we, uh, I wouldn’t want . . .”
“How can we help?” insisted Massina.
“Uh . . .”
“You don’t have the resources to watch every ATM, is that your problem?” asked Massina.
Jenkins didn’t answer. Massina finally realized he had woken him up.
Not that it mattered.
“The first thing we have to do is analyze the location of the ATMs that have been hit already,” said Massina. “I can supply surveillance equipment to watch a hundred units at a time. Analyze the theft patterns and we’ll stake out the likely ones. We can use a remote system. We’ll train the computer coordinating it to alert you to suspicious activity. We can then track the suspect, and you take it from there.”
“Track the
m how?”
“We have UAVs,” said Massina. “Small ones.”
“Drones?” asked Jenkins.
“Depending on the geographical spread, you should only need six or seven.”
“Well, I, um,” Jenkins stuttered. “B-But . . .”
“What?”
“Well, for five thousand dollars—you’d be going through a lot of trouble.”
“You have dozens of cases like this?”
“Over a hundred.”
“Do you want to solve this or not?”
“I’ll have to talk to my boss.”
“Two of my people will be at your office at nine a.m. tomorrow. I’ll call them now.”
“Um, Mr. Massina, it’s after midnight.”
“They’ll be at work. It’s not a problem. What’s the address?”
“Who were you talking to?” asked Jenkins’s wife as he slipped his cell phone back onto the nightstand.
“Mr. Massina.”
“Louis Massina? Who helped Deidre? Is he in trouble?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Why is he calling this late?”
Jenkins pulled the covers up to his neck, then rolled toward his wife. “He wants to help an investigation I’m involved in.”
“Couldn’t it have waited?”
“Just be thankful I don’t work for him,” he said, closing his eyes.
8
Boston—three days later
Three days later, Trevor Jenkins found himself sitting in the back of an FBI control van, monitoring some fifty ATMs with the help of small video cameras installed on or near the machines. While Jenkins flipped back and forth between different feeds, the real work was being done by a monitoring program hosted on one of Smart Metal’s servers down in Boston. The program not only singled out ATMs where there was activity but also looked for images that corresponded to ATM skimmers, as well as tools and other assorted items deemed possibly suspicious, such as briefcases and large bags. There had been five alerts in the three hours since the system had gone live; all had been quickly ruled “benign” by the computer as well as Jenkins.
