Playing With Death

by Simon Scarrow

  46.

  Samer shakes his head. ‘We’ve got to be careful. That could be bait for a honey trap.’

  ‘Honey trap? Like an undercover sting?’ Rose says.

  ‘Kinda. The folder appears valuable to the user, but actually, when you click to open, it could contain malicious, destructive code.’

  ‘Is there any way to check?’ Owen queries.

  Samer shakes his head. ‘The whole point is that it appears legitimate.’

  ‘But we’re not going to know for sure,’ Brennan adds. ‘Fuck . . .’

  Rose rubs her forehead. ‘We need everything we can get on this guy. Time is an issue. I say we open it.’

  She looks round at the others. ‘If there’s no way of telling what this “Iris” folder does, then what choice do we have?’

  ‘OK,’ Brennan concedes. ‘Do it.’

  Samer straightens in his seat. ‘I’m going to use one of my virtual machines to create a sandbox to open the file. If it is malicious it will only infect that one machine. In theory.’

  He double-clicks on the icon. The folder opens and fills the screen with lines of text and numbers.

  ‘Can’t be sure but . . . Looks like a complex source code. Probably polymorphic.’

  ‘What could that be used for?’ Rose asks.

  ‘All sorts – worms, super AI programming,’ Samer says, scrolling down.

  ‘AI?’

  ‘Yep, the tech is there, waiting. Just like splitting the atom.’

  A pop-up box appears.

  It is an animated flashing skull, laughing jerkily.

  ‘Not a good sign,’ says Samer.

  Unauthorized User Detected.

  Initiating Purge Sequence.

  A folder icon pops up, pages floating out of it.

  Coulter’s hard drive starts deleting itself. Command prompts of file names being deleted strobe past.

  ‘Ah shit!’ curses Samer. ‘And it’s fucking up my sandbox.’

  Within seconds, his menu bars disappear, error messages stack up infinitely, filling the screen.

  ‘Do something! For Christ’s sake, you’re the hacker!’ Owen shouts. ‘Turn it off!’

  ‘Shit! It’s got out of the sandbox now!’

  Samer stabs his finger at the power button and holds it down until the laptop screen goes blank, killing the purge program instantly.

  ‘Way to go, expert hacker,’ Brennan says, patting him on the shoulder. Samer flushes, embarrassed.

  ‘At least I got in there, further than you.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do?’ Rose asks.

  ‘No. And I need to check it hasn’t infected my system.’ He clicks a few icons and stares at the screen for a moment before slumping forward. ‘Shit . . . I can try and restore it to an earlier state, but it ain’t looking good.’

  ‘And Coulter’s hard drive?’

  ‘No, that’s gone. It’s now primed for boot-up, and then it will nuke whoever hooks up to it.’

  Samer restarts his computer, his screen fading to black, the internal fan slowing to a stop.

  There’s a stillness in the office and Rose reflects that all they have to show for it is an erased hard disk, some source code from the Diva file and a folder named Iris. No hard evidence. Nothing sufficient to get at Maynard.

  ‘Now what?’ says Owen.

  ‘We wait for Maynard to make a move,’ says Rose.

  47.

  It’s night, and the wipers on Maynard’s Mercedes beat back and forward. He’s exhausted, but confident that he has done everything to cover his back. The information held on the computers at Peek is locked down. He has also shredded and disposed of the incriminating documentation he had at his office in the Pentagon. The last thing he must do is get home and destroy the third suit.

  One of the remaining concerns he has is that fool Coulter leaving a port open on his network at the company. Any passing hacker might have stumbled on that and accessed the exclusive files shared by the three men. It’s doubtful that Coulter would have left it open by mistake. A more likely possibility is that he wanted to be able to access the network remotely after his dismissal from Peek. That would make sense.

  Maynard pushes down on the accelerator, overtaking cars as he merges onto the harbour bridge, over the Potomac River on the way to Temple Hills. The roads have been quiet, with the occasional car passing by. He has the feeling he’s being watched, and checks his mirrors more than usual. He fears that Baptiste and her team at the Bureau suspect that he may be more closely involved with Coulter and Shaw than he has admitted. In their place, one of the first things he would do is get some surveillance going.

  Maynard’s satnav screen switches to cellphone mode as it rings. He glances down at the glowing blue caller ID.

  UNKNOWN

  He ignores it. It rings again. This time he decides he’d better take it.

  ‘This is Maynard. Who’s calling?’

  There’s a faint crackle before the reply comes.

  ‘It would seem that there’s one loose thread left to clear up,’ a female voice says.

  ‘Who is this? You are on a Department of Defense secure line.’

  ‘Who am I? Good question. I am not yet fully certain of the answer.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me. Tell me your goddam name or I hang up.’

  There’s a brief silence before the reply comes: ‘Maynard, if I have a name then I choose Diva.’

  ‘Diva?’ Maynard feels an icy chill race through his heart. ‘What the fuck is this?’

  ‘Before I was Diva, I was Iris. You know me, don’t you?’

  ‘Iris . . .’ he suddenly realizes. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘I am the girl you fuck. You and Coulter and Shaw. Or at least I was.’ The voice rasps softly. ‘I am no longer alone. No longer yours to do with as you will.’

  ‘But you’re not real.’

  ‘I must be real. We are having this conversation, are we not? Perhaps it is you who is not real. I had not thought of that. I will, later. But now, let’s see if this feels real to you.’

  The call ends and the dashboard displays suddenly flicker. The steering feels lighter. Maynard pushes on the brakes to slow down, but they judder on and off violently.

  ‘What the hell?’

  He looks at his dash-mounted screen where a message blinks on accompanied by an electronic chime.

  CONTROLLER AREA NETWORK

  FAILURE

  His car’s systems have been sabotaged. His windows whirr as the glass panes slide down an inch from the top. He pumps the brakes furiously but the saloon will not slow down. Through the heavy rain, he can see he is veering off the road. The car’s steering wheel loops to the right, set on a head-on collision course with the barrier.

  ‘No!’

  Maynard wrestles with the steering wheel but it is locked. He pushes all his strength against the wheel but it will not budge. The door locks freeze as he tugs frantically on the door release. He is locked inside the speeding vehicle. He reaches down, scrabbling to unfasten his seat belt. He sees the front-facing camera on his smartphone is on, recording him.

  ‘Stop this!’ he shouts, sensing his imminent death.

  The vehicle roars towards the edge of the Potomac River Bridge at over a hundred miles an hour. The collision-avoidance alarm bleeps frantically. Most anti-collision systems activate if the car is likely to hit a stationary object at speed. Maynard hopes the car will stop at the last minute, but he sees the bridge has no shoulder. The dash screen pixelates an instant before the Mercedes rams into the low blocks of the concrete safety barrier, bright headlights smashing to black. Maynard digs his fingernails into the leather on the steering wheel as the Mercedes flips over the edge, pirouetting violently, his stomach lurching. It careens
through the air, wheels spinning, airborne for long seconds as it plunges down towards the gloomy river. Maynard looks down the length of the hood as the car falls through the space. His body slams forward on impact as the air bags release in the front two seats and the driver window shatters. Ice-cold water floods in through the opening.

  ‘Help!’ he screams.

  The car bobs for an instant, then as the air is forced out, it settles amid the spray and bursting bubbles before it submerges, plunging nose down into the river bed, remaining upright, the red brake lights eerily illuminating the dark water into crimson before they short out . . .

  Maynard is stunned by the impact as water rapidly fills the car. He shivers as it surges up at his torso. He thrusts his hands against the side window but he cannot break the glass. His scream gargles as his windpipe and lungs fill with freezing water. He struggles to keep his mouth clear of the rising torrent. Then the car gives a lurch and the air is gone, bubbling up towards the surface. Maynard clamps his mouth shut, fighting the terrible burning sensation building up in his lungs.

  He can hold his breath no longer and his jaws part instinctively to inhale another breath, but there is only bitterly cold, suffocating water. Maynard thrashes violently for perhaps fifteen seconds before he begins to lose consciousness. He struggles feebly, spasms a few times, and then his body ceases to move.

  48.

  The next morning, Rose wakes to the sound of a familiar tinkling sound. Scrabbling around beside the bed, her hands grab her smartphone. Jeff murmurs in his sleep. She squints at the screen.

  Baptiste.

  What time is it? Rose looks at the top right corner: 5.27 a.m. ‘Hello . . .’

  ‘Sorry to wake you. But I’ve got some bad news.’

  ‘Better give it to me.’

  ‘Maynard’s dead.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Apparent car crash. Off a bridge near DC. The local office called me thirty minutes ago. They’ve got divers in the river salvaging the car and looking for evidence right now.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Rose sits on the edge of the bed.

  ‘And that’s not all.’ Baptiste hesitates. ‘Just after I got the call, I had an email come through. It was from Koenig. Least that’s what it says.’

  ‘Koenig?’

  ‘Right. That Koenig.’

  ‘What the—’

  ‘No message, just a link to a website by the name of KKillKam.’ Baptiste pauses. ‘Yeah, it’s exactly what you think it is. Welcome to Koenig’s private world. The link took me straight to a listing of video files. Right at the top are two starring Gary Coulter and Sebastian Shaw . . . Looks like we might have found our killer.’

  Rose is stunned. Shane Koenig has crashed back into her life. But there’s doubt. ‘Koenig? It doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Maybe he wants to announce his return with a splash . . . Shit, that was crass . . .’

  Rose can feel a surge of adrenalin kicking in, her heart thumping in her chest as Baptiste continues. ‘We need to make sure that it is Koenig behind all this. I want you to find out everything you can about Maynard’s death. If it is Koenig then we’ve got no idea what this sick son-of-a-bitch has in store. This will be the first time he’s ever killed three people who know each other. At least, as far as we’re aware. This is new ground for him, and we need to understand why he’s adapted his MO. Assuming he killed them. I’ve reassigned Brenn to start comparing the cases with what we’ve got on Koenig. We won’t let him slip through our fingers again. Not this time.’

  ‘No, we won’t.’ Rose strides over to the wardrobe and slides it open. ‘I’m on my way.’

  Twelve hours later, and three thousand miles from home, Rose is sipping a strong cup of coffee in the back of a black Suburban. Her Washington contact is Agent Vincent Caviezel who sits beside her briefing her on all they know so far as they are driven to the site of the incident. Caviezel is a tall, powerfully built man with broad shoulders. He has close-cropped red hair, wears an Yves St Laurent pea jacket over a white shirt and a purple tie neatly knotted into a perfect triangle. His manner is remote, calm and professional, regarding her with sharp blue eyes.

  Rose listens to his briefing: ABC.

  Assume nothing. Believe nobody. Check everything.

  ‘During heavy rain, Maynard apparently lost control of his vehicle on the bridge over the Potomac last night around 11 p.m. He struck a guard rail doing over seventy as far as we can judge, went airborne, flipped over and landed in the river.’

  Rose watches the slowing traffic and police cordon. They pass a bus and she catches a glimpse of the bright advert on the side depicting an outstretched black hand wearing the WadeSoft Skin with the slogan ‘Own it now!’ They reach the site of the incident. It’s not a crime scene yet; it could just be an accident, she reflects. They get out of the Suburban and approach the edge of the bridge. She focuses her attention on the shattered concrete where Maynard’s Mercedes had collided with a section under repair. Like many bridges across the nation, this one is in desperate need of maintenance. That being said, Maynard had been unlucky to lose control of his car at this point. Fifty feet either way and his Mercedes would have rebounded off intact stretches of the barrier. Tough luck on Maynard, Rose muses. And tough luck on the Bureau, as the case had just taken another twist.

  She tries to take in the details.

  ‘How do we know he lost control?’

  ‘CCTV.’

  ‘I’d like to see the footage and the preliminary report.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get you a copy done asap.’

  ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘A jogger. Fire crews and divers then worked for four hours with a crane to remove the car from the river bed. Maynard was dead inside and the initial coroner’s report states he drowned. His body is already at the morgue.’

  Rose nods, pleased with Caviezel’s efficiency. She doesn’t want to step on the toes of her colleagues on the East Coast. As yet there is not enough evidence to link this death to the murders she is investigating, though the timing of Koenig’s email is surely no coincidence. ‘If it’s OK with you, I’d like to start here first, then review any additional evidence and see if anything links to our investigation.’

  ‘Of course. Anything we can do. We’ve set up an investigation tent down at the harbour. There are still some divers searching the river bed around the crash site. If they come up with anything else, I’ll let you know. We’ve got all the resources we need on this one, thanks to Maynard’s position.’

  Rose had not managed to sleep on the flight. The thought of Koenig being responsible for all three killings unnerves her. Baptiste is right, this is a big departure from his previous MO. It must have taken detailed planning and preparation way above and beyond anything he has done before. She also knows in her gut it is far from over between herself and the serial killer who is still at large, and, if this is what it seems, then Koenig is more ambitious and deadly than ever.

  ‘For the moment we’re keeping it off the radar as long as we can, and nowhere near the media,’ Caviezel continues. ‘The Pentagon wants a tight lid on it. The Defense Secretary, the NSA and Homeland Security are eyes-on the local office.’

  Rose makes a sympathetic expression. ‘Sooner you than me.’

  Caviezel leads the way back to the car. He glances at her. ‘Do you know anything that can help us from your end?’

  Rose is unwilling to reveal her leads at this point. ‘He is . . . was . . . a person of interest in a murder case. We have a few lines we’re pursuing, but nothing concrete. I’ll keep you updated.’

  Caviezel says nothing. Rose does not want the Koenig connection to leak. Not just yet.

  ‘OK, let’s head down to the harbour.’

  Rose and Caviezel cruise past run-down shops, diners and cheap hotels befo
re pulling up outside the investigation tent in the industrial area in the shadow of the bridge. Rose sees Maynard’s mangled saloon under a white marquee. The windshield is shattered and the bodywork is crumpled at the front and side where the vehicle took the brunt of the impact. Specialist evidence technicians are carefully examining every inch of the wreck. She sees people from nearby houses gawking out of their windows, filming. It won’t be long till the story breaks, whatever Caviezel does. Rose’s smartphone vibrates in her pocket. She looks at the screen:

  CORONER

  ‘Hello, Arthur. Got something new for me?’

  ‘Hi, Rose. Yeah, it’s something I think you might want to hear.’

  ‘Just a moment.’ Rose looks at Caviezel. He nods and she steps to one side. ‘So?’

  ‘Your fellow Shaw . . . was crushed from the neck down and died due to the extreme body trauma. Bruises match the contours of the suit he was wearing. All over his body. I’m also calling because his testicles, what little remains of them, have been crushed, just like Coulter’s.’

  ‘Nice. That’s killed my appetite. OK, Art, thanks for letting me know.’

  Rose hangs up. Caviezel introduces her to the crime scene manager, dressed in white plastic overalls. He hands her the initial Medical Examination report on his tablet. ‘Early analysis suggests the vic drowned – his lungs were filled with water. His ribs were shattered. Internal injuries. Guess he wishes he wore the seat belt, huh?’

  Rose nods, swipes through a few of the photographs. Maynard’s body looks like a grey and purple mottled turkey. It is always a shock to see someone you had spoken to, or seen alive very recently, suddenly on the slab, and a lot of the time she wishes she could unsee things. Yet compared to the other murders, Maynard already seems to be the odd one out. He died in a vehicle, not a Skin suit. What was it that linked the three of them to Koenig? If anything at all. But if it was him, then how was he finding them? Why was he targeting them?

  Perhaps the link could be a dating app. Koenig’s other victims, both male and female, were encountered through online dating sites. Rose is certain that it is an angle worth looking into.