by Reece Hirsch
When they arrived at the offices of Disruptive Web Design, Chris walked around to the back of the building with Sarah.
“Make a sound and I’ll have to hurt you,” Chris said.
Chris peered into a couple of windows but the lights were off and the office appeared vacant.
After circling the building, Chris climbed the front steps. He saw no movement through the front window. “Use your key.”
Sarah pulled a key chain from her jeans pocket. A tiny, grinning devil’s head dangled from the chain, metal showing through the red paint where it was worn like bone showing through skin. It was the same image that had been pasted to the flash drive that he had recovered in Middendorf’s apartment.
“Let me see that,” Chris said, taking the key chain. It was in that moment that the realization dawned on Chris.
“You’re Ripley.”
“I was wondering how long that would take,” Sarah said.
Chris gave the keys back to Sarah. She opened the door and they stepped into the lobby. The computer at the front desk was off—a good sign.
To the casual observer, Disruptive Web Design appeared to be a legitimate business, or at least a legitimate front operation for Enigma’s fraud and hacking schemes. The rear of the townhouse was a large room filled with cubicles and computers. The walls were adorned with framed screen shots of client websites.
Before he could search the place, he needed to secure Sarah. She might know where a weapon was hidden or destroy evidence, so he couldn’t afford to have her wandering about. He looked around for some rope. Chris settled on some long extension cords that were lying twisted in a corner.
“Have a seat,” Chris said, motioning Sarah to a desk chair.
Chris tied her wrists to the arms of the chair. The chair had rollers, so he used another cord to tie the undercarriage of the chair to a leg of the desk. Then he used four more cords to bind Sarah into the chair until she couldn’t move.
“I think you’ve got it,” Sarah said. “You want to leave me a little circulation?”
Next, Chris went from desk to desk, looking for something out of place. All he saw were customer order sheets and graphic design books.
He paused in his search. “You helped them track us. You had access. But the tracking device wasn’t in my cell phone, because even after I ditched it, Enigma knew where we were each step of the way.”
Sarah remained impassive, the good soldier.
“What else would you have access to? Something that I always have with me.” Chris removed his watch, opening up the back panel to examine the workings. Nothing.
Chris sat down at a desk and emptied the contents of his wallet, every bill, every credit card, every BART ticket. Then he shook the empty wallet until a couple of bits of dark lint fell out—along with a tiny, round tracking device that resembled a watch battery, smaller than the nail of his little finger. Chris walked over to Sarah and placed the tracking device on the desk next to her.
She shrugged. “Better late than never.”
Chris returned to his search of the office, pausing when a familiar logo caught his eye. Picking up the papers, he saw that they were printed pages from the website for the DefCon hacker conference. A schedule of conference events included panels on topics such as “Julian Assange: Hero or God?” and “The Future of Hacktivism.” Chris saw his own name on a panel about governmental and private enforcement, listed as “Invited.” He was perplexed for a moment, then remembered that Blanksy had elicited a grudging “maybe” from him after hijacking his computer. Chris was certain that the presence of his name in the program drew snickers in certain circles. No one expected him to actually show his face at DefCon.
The front page of the conference brochure, which was covered with biohazard symbols, showed that DefCon was going to be held in Brooklyn on January 13 to 15. Of course. The cyberattack was scheduled to strike New York City during the world’s largest hacker convention, which would be going on right across the East River in Brooklyn. It was far enough away to escape the worst of the disruption, but close enough for a ringside seat.
Enigma and his crew had to be attending DefCon. What better place to take a victory lap in the wake of their mayhem? And what better place to proclaim whatever half-baked manifesto they were espousing? The conference was still three days away, but for all he knew Enigma and his crew had already abandoned the office to travel to New York.
“They’re going to DefCon, aren’t they?”
Sarah shrugged and said nothing, which Chris took as a confirmation. Chris pulled out his untraceable cell phone and dialed Agent Hazlitt.
“Bruen,” Hazlitt said. “You ready to turn yourself in yet?”
“No,” Chris said, “but I am turning someone in.”
As Chris left the office, he glanced back at Sarah, bound to the desk chair in the dark. “I have one more question for you,” he said. “What happened during those two days after I was diagnosed with cancer? You disappeared.”
Sarah shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable in the bindings. “After you were diagnosed, I actually suggested to Enigma that we call it off—at least the part that involves you. Call it a moment of weakness.”
“But he wasn’t having it.”
“No. He won’t stop. You should know that about him. But can I give you a bit of advice?”
“That’s not something I’m really looking for from you, but go ahead.”
“You need to get over your wife’s death. It makes you weak.”
“You’re probably right, but there are worse things to be.”
He heard the sound of sirens in the distance, drawing nearer.
“Sounds like your ride’s here,” Chris said as he closed the door on Sarah.
CHAPTER 31
Agents Michael Hazlitt and Sam Falacci were having dinner in a Barcelona café, trying to figure out how they might pick up the ever-colder trail of Bruen and Doucet. The walls of the café were plastered with yellowing bullfight posters, despite the fact that the blood sport was now banned in Catalonia. Outside, headlights spun ceaselessly around Plaça de Catalunya like a crazed carousel. The restaurant was nearly empty except for some tourists. For the natives, 8:00 p.m. was far too early for dinner.
Their hunt for Bruen and his hacker friend was getting nowhere and Hazlitt felt that his forensic skills could have been put to better use studying the Lurker virus back at Quantico. However, his boss had noticed that he seemed to have unusually sharp recollections of Bruen from their days working together. Over Hazlitt’s protestations, he’d been ordered to stick to his assignment in the hopes that those insights, such as they were, might give him some advantage in the pursuit.
“I’m getting tired of all of these little plates,” Falacci said, picking at his bacalao, a fritter of rice and salt cod. “A great people do not live on appetizers.”
There were days when Hazlitt felt that conversing with Falacci was like driving an eighteen-wheeler—he had to throw all of his weight into wrestling the conversation back onto the road.
“Those hackers at the Hive knew something they weren’t telling us,” Hazlitt said.
“Like your Social Security number?”
Earlier that morning, they had shown up unannounced at the Hive’s base of operations in a burnt-out office building. They figured that Bruen and Doucet might reach out to the group for assistance. But once the hackers figured out that, despite their best threats, the agents were out of their jurisdiction and not serious about prosecuting them, a profound and hostile silence descended.
Hazlitt’s phone rang. It was the phone number that Bruen had used in his last call, the one where he had signed off so abruptly.
“Bruen,” Hazlitt said. “You ready to turn yourself in yet?”
“No,” Bruen said, “but I am turning someone in.”
Hazlitt mouthed “Bruen” to Falacci. After his last call, the FBI’s Operational Technology unit in Quantico had attempted to trace the number and confirmed th
at, as expected, it was a prepaid burner phone.
“Okay, I’m intrigued. So what, or who, do you have for us?”
“In Paris, in the offices of Disruptive Web Design on Rue du Sommerard, you’ll find Sarah Hotchner, also known as the hacker Ripley.”
“Sarah Hotchner is Ripley,” Hazlitt said slowly. “That’s a twist. Is she alive?”
“She’s fine, but you’d better get someone over there soon before she works her way out of her ties.”
“Are you in Paris right now?”
“Don’t tell me you’re still in Barcelona?”
Hazlitt chuckled.
“You’re definitely not going to catch up with me today,” Bruen said.
“But we will eventually. You know that, right?” Hazlitt was surprised that Bruen and Doucet had managed to cross the border into France, but there would be time to ponder that later. “So Sarah’s been working with Enigma.”
“Correct.”
“Just like you, right?”
“You’ve been misinformed. Enigma and his crew are setting me up.”
“Now why would they want to do that?”
“I wish I knew. But I think you know that I’m not exactly popular among hackers.”
Hazlitt changed the subject. He wasn’t interested in giving Bruen any indication that he might be buying his story. “We could tell that was you calling in Eduardo de Lamadrid’s murder to the San Francisco police. How did you know?”
“We were speaking with Ed by Skype when it happened. But we never saw the killer’s face.”
“Or maybe you were responsible for his death,” Hazlitt said.
“He was my friend. I’d like to know how he died, What was in that syringe?”
“Potassium cyanide. It was quick.”
They were silent for a moment.
“I appreciate how forthcoming you’re being,” Hazlitt said. “Is there anything else you want to tell us?”
“Yeah,” Bruen said. “As a matter of fact, thanks to Ed, I have quite a bit of information about the virus.” Bruen proceeded to describe how the Lurker virus targeted Sonnen programmable logic controllers.
“Some of this I’ve already heard from our forensic team, but some of it is new,” Hazlitt said.
“Ed also found the vulnerability in the Aspira system that Lurker was designed to exploit, but he died before he could tell us. You should search his apartment for any notes he might have kept.”
“Oh, believe me, we’ve been over that apartment. But, look, Chris, if you really want to be helpful, why don’t you just stop running and we can get this thing sorted out?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I turned myself in to you, I don’t think your bosses would be able to keep an open mind about me. You know what happens to a person once they’ve been labeled a terrorist. I’d be hustled off to Eastern Europe for a year or two of secret interrogation before I could even ask for a lawyer. And I’d certainly be taken out of the game when it comes to pursuing Enigma.”
“Running from those agents at Tibidabo didn’t help matters,” Hazlitt said. “Why’d you do that?”
“I thought Enigma and his crew were holding someone that I cared about—used to care about.”
“I know. We saw the missing persons report on Sarah that you filed with the San Francisco PD.” Hazlitt paused, trying to decide which of his many questions to pursue next. He sensed that he couldn’t keep Bruen on the line for much longer. “So if that situation has changed, why keep running?”
“I have something to do before I turn myself in.”
“What’s that?”
“Find Enigma and stop the January 14 cyberattack on New York City. It’s the only way we’re going to get out from under this.”
“You know we think that you’re trying to cause that attack, not prevent it?”
“I realize that, but then why would I be doing so much to help your investigation?”
“Maybe you want to send us down a dead end. Maybe it’s just arrogance. Everyone at the DOJ always thought you were arrogant as hell. But let’s assume for a moment that you’re telling the truth. If that’s the case, then I’m just a little insulted by your attitude. Don’t you think we’re capable of tracking down Enigma ourselves?”
“No offense, but no,” Bruen said.
“You always thought highly of your skills.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t really care who gets there first. In fact, I’ve got something else that will improve your odds. I just figured out that Enigma is going to be at DefCon in Brooklyn. The January 14 date is right in the middle of the conference.”
“That makes sense,” Hazlitt said. “In fact, I can’t believe that didn’t occur to me sooner, but I guess I never have taken those DefCon geeks seriously. But why should I believe you?”
“Because I think by now you know that we’re on the same side in this.”
The line went dead. Bruen had hung up on him.
Hazlitt had to admit, at least to himself, that Bruen sounded like an innocent man. And if his information proved out, then it offered their best chance yet of catching Enigma. But none of this was going to cause him to ease up a bit in his pursuit of Bruen and Doucet. He could never persuade his bosses to call off an international manhunt based on a gut instinct. Those sorts of decisions were reserved for higher-ups, such as the Oz-like Louis Vogel at NSA, who was receiving all of their reports.
“Well, what did you learn?” Falacci asked.
“That we’re going to Paris, and then Brooklyn.”
Falacci brightened. “Brooklyn,” he said. “I’m going to take you to a pizza place there that will blow your freakin’ mind.”
Hazlitt shrugged in resignation.
CHAPTER 32
Chris hurried out of the office of Disruptive Web Design and onto the treelined street, the branches overhead like hands with interlaced fingers drawing the darkness near. He headed in the direction of the lights and noise. The police cars started arriving with strobing sirens just as he merged with the throngs of the Latin Quarter.
For a while, Chris allowed himself to drift with the current of pedestrians, stumbling occasionally on the cobblestone streets. He had no idea what the next move was and he feared that he had reached the end of his run. Maybe it was finally time for them to just turn themselves in. Chris had no idea how long he wandered the ancient, narrow streets like that, but after a while he realized that he was exhausted and needed to return to the hotel.
Chris arrived at the shabby two-star Hotel du Moulin at 2:00 a.m. As he climbed the stairs to Zoey’s room, a crippling weariness settled over him. Maybe it was the tension of waiting in the dark for a glimpse of Enigma’s crew or the fact that he had barely slept in days. Or perhaps it was sadness at discovering that, after allowing himself to feel something for the first time in years, he had been duped.
As soon as Zoey opened the door, hair tousled, and blinking at the bright hallway lights, she seemed to see that Chris was at a low point. She was wearing a long nightshirt emblazoned with the disembodied face of Peter Criss of Kiss in full makeup.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
Chris pulled up a chair and recounted the events of the night. Zoey listened from the bed, nodding and occasionally punctuating the narrative with a murmured “No way,” or “What a bitch.”
When he was finished, she asked, “What now?”
“I have no idea how we would get to Brooklyn. We’re on every international watch list. There’s no way they’d let us get on a plane.”
She shook her head. “No, I mean tonight.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’ll get a room and I guess we’ll figure it out in the morning. I can’t think straight right now.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Get another room.”
She grabbed handfuls of his shirt and pulled him toward the bed. They struggled ou
t of their clothes, which was easier for her than him. When they were lying in bed together, the feeling was strangely familiar. Then he realized that he remembered the contours of Zoey’s body from when they had hidden together in the car trunk crossing the French border. Now he realized just how much he had enjoyed that sensation the first time. Chris wasn’t certain that this was a good idea, but he also didn’t want to stop. He had more reasons to distrust Zoey than he’d ever had with Sarah, and look at how that relationship had turned out.
Somewhere outside, a street entertainer was beating an African drum. He wondered why no one stopped him at this late hour. The sound played tricks on Chris’s ears as it echoed across the Latin Quarter. When you listened to the drumming closely, it seemed to speed up, sort of like his pulse as he pulled Zoey beneath him and started kissing her.
CHAPTER 33
January 13
Chris awoke to the smell of coffee. The curtains were open and the air was fresh and cool. From the height of the sun, Chris calculated that it must be nearly noon. There was a cardboard cup on the night table next to him, which Zoey must have set there. She was sitting at the desk across the room, concentrating intently on something.
He peered at her for a while through half-open eyes He liked the way her brows furrowed as she studied her work. She reached up occasionally to thread an unruly strand of her hair over her ear. Despite everything they had been through together in the past few days, he still wasn’t sure if Zoey could be trusted. After all, she had admitted to having worked with Enigma. With what he knew now about Sarah, it occurred to him that Zoey and Sarah/Ripley might have crossed paths. But all of this troubling information had not stopped him from sleeping with her.
Zoey turned around at the sound of his stirring. “I was wondering when you were going to wake up. How are you feeling?”
He ran a hand through his hair, thinking about it. “Not bad, actually.” He had been so tired last night that his entire body ached. “Are we okay?”
