Spy Thriller: The Fourteenth Protocol: A Story of Espionage and Counter-terrorism (The Special Agent Jana Baker Book Series 1)

by Nathan Goodman

  6

  Cade wasn’t exactly solving the server problem. Having Rupert Johnston, a man the size of a modern-day gorilla, standing over him wasn’t helping matters. He tried to concentrate on the endless sea of code spilling across the server log files that were displayed on his monitors. Whatever was causing the servers to yellow line wasn’t going to be easy to find. In fact, it was a giant pain in the ass.

  “Dammit!” yelled Johnston, looking over his shoulder. “There goes another one. What the hell is going on with my damn servers, son?!”

  The iPhone in Cade’s pocket vibrated, then rang. The ringtone was reserved for Cade’s dad, and Cade scrambled to shut it up.

  “Crap, ah, sir, give me a minute, I don’t know. I just need some more time.” Johnston pulled out an actual calculator. One of those ancient HP financial calculators you still see bankers use. Why anyone would carry a calculator is beyond me, thought Cade. Johnston banged away at the thing like a mad scientist.

  “We’re down to fourteen minutes. Shit-fire! This thing is cyclin’ faster than we thought. That server is going to crash.” A red strobe light mounted on the ceiling started pulsing and reflecting off Cade’s monitors.

  “That’s the warning,” yelled Johnston, “we just hit redline.”

  “Fourteen minutes? I thought we had twenty-five . . .”

  “Hush, boy, concentrate. Look at them log files. Tell me what cha see.” Cade noticed for the first time that Johnston seemed to revert back to his stronger southern drawl when his blood pressure got up. But this time he sounded more like a football coach revving up his players for the big game. Cade drew a deep breath and exhaled like he was trying to rid his lungs of a toxin. The pulsing red light bounced off his monitors.

  This server was cycling on a predictable, timed pattern. The processor was now hitting 89 percent capacity, which was definitely in redline. If the pattern didn’t stop—and quick—the box was going to sputter to a halt.

  Cade couldn’t help wondering why there were no redundant servers up here. The pressure was intensifying to stop the server from crashing. But we’re still just talking about e-mail. I mean, no one dies right? It’s just e-mails going out. What’s the big deal? But just then a piercing alarm sounded at the other end of the server floor. The noise was deafening.

  “Oh shit!” yelled Johnston, running towards the lame server rack. People flooded onto the server floor from all directions, and out of the corner of his eye, Cade saw the suits rush back through the door at the far side. They’re running, actually running, thought Cade. The William-Macy-looking one slid to a stop, his leather-soled Johnston & Murphys having no traction on the slick floor. Cade shook his head at all the commotion. People were panicked. Johnston looked frantically back over his shoulder in Cade’s direction; the men surrounded the ill server. Johnston tried to hide it, but his face betrayed an underlying terror. At that moment, Cade knew something was dreadfully, dreadfully wrong. This wasn’t just some e-mail marketing campaign that announced a 30-percent-off sale at Penney’s; this was something far different. Whatever it was, it was serious, and Cade was petrified.

  7

  Cal Williams didn’t qualify for a pilot slot on a fighter; instead he qualified for a role that suited him much better. He could use his technical skills to run radar-jamming equipment and protect other American pilots. And he got to be in the front of everything. Every mini-war that flared up, his unit would be deployed. Since there aren’t many radar jammers, Cal would get frequent deployment orders, and he and his crew would saddle up and fly out to the soon-to-be warzone. They’d fly for up to eighteen hours, refueling in midair to get to the carrier that might be stationed in the Persian Gulf or off the Gulf of Tonkin. From that point on, he had a great job. The best part was that it was rare for anyone to shoot at you in one of these things. Most of the time, the enemy had no idea you were there because Cal would so badly screw up their radar screens; the enemy wouldn’t know where to tell his pilots to go.

  Cal realized early that his son was paying the price for his success. A son growing up with an absentee father doesn’t get off easy. Through different deployments, Cal would return to Dobbins Air Force Base to a local high school band playing a welcome-home greeting. But as he would get off the transport plane and jog across the tarmac towards his wife and child, little Cade would stop. Just stop dead in his tracks and not come any closer to his father.

  There he would be, nine years old, then ten, then twelve. And with each homecoming, it got a little worse. Cade was mad at his father, no question. Mad at him for not being there. Over the next couple of days, Cade would come around, but Cal noticed harsh temper tantrums from Cade during those early years. Like he was lashing back at a father he didn’t understand.

  Cal would respond by over-responding. He would immerse himself into activities with Cade, trying to rebuild the damaged relationship. Cade was a good kid, but he needed something, and that something was his dad. The pattern repeated itself with each deployment. There was Bosnia in 1994, Somalia in 1995, Haiti, also in ’95, back to Bosnia in ’96, Sierra Leone in 1997 . . . the list went on. Many of these deployments were talked about infrequently on the news. Some of them weren’t talked about at all. A lot of the time it involved flying cover for evacuations of American citizens from places that no one really ever heard of. And to make matters worse, Cal often couldn’t talk about where he had been or why he had to be gone. He’d do his best to make it up to Cade, but Cade would have none of it.

  Now that Cal was retired from the service, he had done a pretty good job of reconnecting with Cade. But he carried a guilt complex with him. It was like boarding a commercial flight and having an extra carry-on bag that wouldn’t quite fit into the overhead compartment. But, unfortunately, this was not a bag he could check.

  Cal picked up his cellphone and, even though he was driving, flipped it open and hit *2 to speed-dial Cade. Holding the phone to his ear, he thought about how Cade always razzed him about still having a flip phone, especially since he came out of such a high-tech background. After the second ring, Cal knew he wasn’t going to get Cade to answer. Cade never let his phone ring more than once before answering if he wasn’t busy. After the fourth ring, Cal hung up. Things were still uncomfortable between father and son.

  Cal continued up Cobb Parkway, turned left on Roswell Street, and headed towards Cool Beans, a favorite local coffee shop where grunge was the norm.

  He may have been way older than the kids in here, but that’s what made it what it was. It was a place he could relax. Before any doctor’s appointment, like the one he had today, he would come here, take a cup of coffee onto the back patio, and read his paper or just people watch. Cool Beans had a coffee roaster machine that sat just inside the shop. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee only added to the smooth bitterness that was unique to the bean. Cal sat under the shade trees, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. As the door swung open and closed, the aroma wafted out onto the patio. It was intoxicating. Just take that in. Man, kids today don’t pay enough attention to the little pleasures, he thought. His mortality had been on his mind a lot lately. Hell, I never paid enough attention. Just to sit back, relax, close your eyes, and take it all in. The sounds, the smells. In his mind’s eye, he drifted. This particular aroma took him back to a godsend of a place in Kandahar they nicknamed “the Starbucks of Afghanistan.” Being in such an unfamiliar place was always unsettling. So whether in Kandahar or Kabul, Cal would go down to a local coffee joint, assuming they had one, and in a country where nothing looked, tasted, or smelled like home, he’d get to sip something familiar. The coffee was great. In Kabul, there was this little place called Chaila. Just walking in felt like you were stepping off the surface of the moon and into a café like the one his dad had taken him to in the 1950s. The place had a brick oven, and the pizza that came out of it had Uncle Sam written all over it.

  Cal hung out at the coffee shop for a little while, wanting to stay longer, but that dam
n doctor’s appointment was calling his name. He glanced at a young couple leaning across their table and kissing. They looked to be in their young twenties—a nose ring here, a tattoo there; they melded into the atmosphere of the place well. “I don’t think I knew a single girl with a tattoo when I was that age,” he mumbled to himself, taking the last sip. He pulled out a set of old aviator sunglasses from his top pocket and slipped them onto his nose, then walked off the patio, down the couple of steps, and out to the car.

  This next part was not something he wanted to face. Out loud he said, “They flung you off the deck of a carrier in the middle of a typhoon, and you’re scared to go hear the news from some stupid doctor?” The small lump in his throat turned a little bigger.

  8

  “Three minutes!” came a booming voice from the speaker system overhead. The loud alarm switched to a higher frequency pulse, piercing Cade’s ears. It was like being on a nuclear submarine that had just pitched into darkness, alarm blaring, strobe lights pulsing.

  Cade turned back to the monitors with his heart pounding to each pulse of light. The only thing notable in the log files was that whenever the server usage spiked, it wasn’t recovering. It was as if a new load was put on it, and it didn’t know how to relax itself. He scrambled across the logs, looking for anything. Then his eye caught a series of error codes. Finally, here was something, here was the real problem.

  “Mr. Johnston!” yelled Cade, his voice cracking at first. “You need to see this.”

  Johnston came running, followed by the suits. They all clamored around the cubicle.

  “What cha got, boy?”

  “Sir, look at this. Each cycle of excessive server usage is preceded by this block of code that’s getting executed on the server. I don’t know what that code block is, but that’s it. That’s what’s causing your problem. We just need to shut that code off.”

  “Do it, boy, now.”

  But no sooner had Cade reached for his mouse than a sharp hand crashed on his shoulder. It felt like cold-fingered steel, and it meant business. It was William Macy, the one he’d seen carrying a weapon.

  “Don’t touch that code,” said the fingers. Johnston turned to the man and started to speak, but Macy’s hand rose to cut him off.

  “Don’t touch that code.” The vise grip crunched harder into the shoulder.

  Johnston stammered, “It’s gonna do an auto shutdown. It will cause a cascading failure . . .”

  “Ten seconds!” the overhead speaker blurted.

  But Cade saw the look on Macy’s face; it was resolute. Changing his mind would be like putting chunks of granite into a blender and expecting them to be pulverized into sand. Cade curled in pain under the vise grip. No expression.

  “Mr. Johnston, I’m getting the impression he doesn’t want us to touch the code.” The attempt at levity in a very uncomfortable spot went nowhere.

  “Seven seconds! Six, five, four . . .” screamed the overhead voice across the speakers. Cade didn’t know what to expect. Whatever it was, he just wanted it to end. A second or two passed, but the countdown went silent.

  “Clear!” said the booming voice with the excitement of a ten-year-old on a roller coaster. “We’re clear. Job completed! The e-mail job finished! We’re clear.”

  The vise grip, however, didn’t budge. Cade was still turned, staring at the man, his shoulder throbbing. Whatever it was, it was over now, and the piercing alarm and strobe lights stopped. The overhead lighting flickered back to life. The man stared at Johnston and Johnston stared back. It was an old-school matchup that Cade didn’t want to be in the middle of. Moments later, Johnston’s eyes darted down for a split second. He had conceded and knew he had to bite his tongue.

  Cade winced from the pain.

  “Ah, sir . . .”

  Macy’s head snapped down, glaring at Cade; his eyes were angry. He released his hand and stepped into Johnston’s face. His stare was cold and unsympathetic. Johnston looked away. He was a man who had never lost at anything, and he didn’t know how to act. Macy walked away with a saunter. In his mind, he had reached into the mouth of death and had kicked its ass, again.

  Cade looked at Johnston, but nothing was said. Cade stood up, slid his chair back, and walked toward the corridor and the elevators. When he turned and looked back, Johnston was already gone.

  9

  The smell of the previous night’s spilled ale wafted out of Porter Bar in Atlanta’s Little Five Points area and covered the sidewalk with its staleness. To say the closing crew hadn’t done the best job mopping up the previous night’s froth was an understatement. Porter Bar was famous for seriously dark beer. Their trademarked overfilled steins wreaked havoc on the floor’s aging wooden planks. Customers didn’t seem to mind though. In Little Five Points, the head on beer was considered a food group.

  A bright reflection cascaded through the windows and onto the deep wooden tones of the bar. The bar was adorned with a smattering of half-empty beer mugs, steins, and porter glasses, the odd paper napkin, and a few plates left behind from the lunch crowd. Old-world woodwork dripped from the walls, heavy with ringed stains of cigarette smoke. The place was a virtual time capsule, as if someone in Ireland had long ago slid the narrow pub into a huge box, put it on a container ship, and floated it across the pond to Atlanta, leaving all the tables and chairs in place.

  The bell over the door clinked as Waseem’s clean-shaven face leaned into the pub. New, cheap clothes draped his narrow shoulders, but it was hard to look into his coal-black eyes and make any assumptions. They betrayed nothing other than cold. Still, seeing the dark-skinned Middle Easterner walk into a place like this was reminiscent of a pigeon landing on second base at a major league baseball game—everyone stared. He was clearly out of place compared to the funky, pale-skinned, tattooed, and body-pierced crowd so at home in Little Five Points.

  On weekends, Porter Bar was so filled with an array of tattoos and body piercings that token yuppies who strayed past the door would not stay for long. A clique of truly unique souls defined Little Five Points like no other place in Atlanta. It was like a tiny slice of San Francisco’s Castro district, somehow nestled in the south.

  Bastian Mokolo sat at the bar wearing thick-rimmed shades. He peered at Waseem through the reflection of a large mirror emblazoned with the words “Lagunitas Maximus,” and studied Waseem’s body language. The skin on the beard area was pale in contrast to the rest of the dark features, apparently unfamiliar with the recently applied razor. To Bastian, it was a sign that Waseem was new. The new ones often wanted to keep their thick facial hair, but once they arrived in the United States, they stood out like a man in a four-buttoned suit in the middle of a livestock auction—shaving was just a matter of time.

  At two p.m. on a Monday, the establishment was down to four patrons. The usual lunch crowd had left, having to return to their day jobs. Waseem paused near the entrance and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. His emotionless face scanned the barstools and locked on Bastian who didn’t return the glance but instead studied the half inch of foam still left in his glass. Waseem walked over to him but Bastian didn’t acknowledge his presence. Instead, he held the glass up in the reflecting light, taking more notice of the translucence of the dark beer than Waseem.

  Bastian said, “A damn food group, mon. Dey joke ’bout de head on beer being a food group. Like you cood slice eet and poot eet on bread,” his Jamaican accent as thick as the head on the beer.

  Waseem pulled out the barstool, looking Bastian up and down. Bastian took another sip, paying no mind.

  “Your ass ain’ gonna seet itself, mon. You got to guide eet down.”

  As Waseem eased onto the stool, he gazed at Bastian out of the corner of his eye and then began the first scripted code phrase. “Mon looks in de abyss.”

  Waseem drew a haggard breath. “There’s nothing staring back at him.”

  “At dat mowment, mon finds his charactar.”

  “And character is what kee
ps him out of the abyss.” The passcode exchange between the two confirmed their identities to one another.

  The Jamaican peered over his left shoulder at two patrons seated across the long room, cigarette smoke rising from their ashtray. They paid him no attention.

  “I am toold you wanna speak wit me,” said Bastian.

  “You don’t look like the type of person I’d want to talk to,” said Waseem, turning his head toward the man.

  Bastian’s head snapped, eye to eye with Waseem, dreadlocks bouncing.

  “Don’ hand me dat double-talk crap!” he said.

  Both glared at each other, sizing the other up. Suddenly, Bastian grabbed Waseem’s drab green military jacket by the lapel and dragged him down the hall, knocking over a chair at a nearby table. A man, whose back was to them, spun around, startled. Once in the men’s room, Bastian pushed the light-framed Waseem against the cold surface of the tile wall.

  “YOU called me, mon,” barked Bastian. “I don’ wanna hear none of dat sheet bout you don’ truss me. In fact, why don’ you tell me who de hell YOU are.” His anger was visceral. “What de hell you got unda here, mon?” he asked, searching Waseem’s coat and clothes. “You de heet, mon! You got on a wire?”

  Bastian’s hand vanished into his Rasta hippie-top shirt producing a switchblade, which flicked open with a metallic crack. He held it against Waseem’s already raw throat.

  “Tell me who de hell you is, mon,” said Bastian, easing pressure off Waseem’s throat, allowing him to cough.