by John Altman
Sam leaned away from the keyboard. “This was thirty-eight minutes ago. No sign of her since—gait or face, street cameras or ARGUS.”
Bach frowned. “Underground passages connect Port Authority with Times Square. Not to mention with the subway: the A, C, E, N, Q, R, W, one, two, three, and seven. It’s the biggest transit hub in the city.”
“Don’t forget the shuttle to Grand Central,” McConnell said. “And from there, the entire lower forty-eight.”
The only response was silence.
The time code read 01:34:17+53.
PART TWO
CHAPTER NINE
Manhattan, NY
Song woke with sweat-spiders crawling over her chest and neck. A man sleeping on the next bench gave a thick snore. She saw no sign of trouble, but her instinct said, keep moving.
She pushed off the bench and walked on.
The view of the Statue of Liberty was postcard perfect. Rowdy laughter drifted from a booze cruise trolling by. The river licked desultorily at dark pilings. A cool, fresh breeze coming off the water dried the perspiration in the hollow of her throat.
A young couple sat canoodling on the grass. A teenager strummed sad minor chords on an acoustic guitar. Gazes lingered for a moment of evaluation as she passed. What did they see?
She walked.
“Hey, Mami,” called a voice from a bench just ahead.
The man wore Carhartts, work boots, and a muscle shirt that showed off biceps sleeved with ink. “Hey, Mami.” Kissy-kissy-kissy. “How much?”
She paused. Letting yourself get picked up in a Manhattan park at 2 a.m. was a risk, of course. On the other hand, getting off the street would be priceless. She had fallen asleep after just sitting down for a moment to rest her legs. Hotels were not safe. In a day or two, she might risk another subway, or car rental, or bus station, or airport. But not yet.
Kissy-kissy-kissy. “How m—”
“Fifty bucks,” she said.
* * *
As soon as they stepped through the door, he grabbed her. His tongue was hot and insistent. His hands moved over her breasts. He stroked her hair, dislodging the wig she had donned in the subway, and then started taking off her top.
“Too rough,” she breathed. “Slow down.”
His fingers paused, then resumed.
Her top was off. He peeled away his sleeveless T-shirt. His chest was a slab of muscle. He smelled sweaty.
He went to rummage through a drawer. She had a moment to absorb the apartment: a tiny studio with freestanding claw-footed bathtub, bonsai tree on window ledge, pallet bed, kitchenette with dishes piled in the sink, yellow crescent moon hanging outside a fire escape.
He returned, picked her up as if she weighed nothing, and threw her onto the bed. She banged her hip against the frame, hard. When she cried out, he grinned.
He worked her zipper and tugged away her jeans. Her sneakers came off. He unbuttoned his Carhartts and fumbled with the condom.
“Hold on,” she said.
She slipped into the bathroom, fast.
Wearing only panties and socks. Fine hairs standing up on her arms, on the back of her neck. Hip throbbing where it had struck the bed frame.
The SIG Sauer was in her bag.
Which would be worse: fucking him or killing him?
She held her own gaze in the mirror for a moment, weighing.
She went back to the studio.
* * *
A phone was ringing.
She blinked into the weak light of dawn. In her dream, a loudspeaker had blared. “Comrades! Gather ’round and hear of our latest brilliant victory! We have infiltrated the highest social ranks of the American hyenas! Our brave and heroic emissary has outmaneuvered the decadent capitalist imperialists at their own game.”
The phone rang again. The man climbed out of bed with a groan. He walked naked into the kitchenette as it rang again.
He found the phone and answered in curt Russian. He listened for a long time to the party on the other end. At last, with an air of conciliation, he said, “Pravilno, batya.” He set the phone down on a counter, then rubbed his face wearily.
He came back to bed. In the light of dawn, she could see his tattoos clearly for the first time. A skeleton laughed. An angel wore a crooked halo. A wandering scrawl of Cyrillic circled one biceps. Batman’s logo was centered between his collarbones.
His penis hung limply from the dark thatch of hair. But it was stirring, coming to life. He kissed her, mouth open, tongue searching. She rolled on top of him, to retain some control. He found another condom in the drawer without leaving the bed. Her hips quickened. Then slowed. Then quickened. His fingers dug into her upper thighs hard enough to leave bruises.
After, she stared blankly at the ceiling.
“So that’s a hundred?” he asked.
A moment passed, and she nodded. She stood, slowly gathering her clothes and bag. She went into the bathroom, limping slightly from the bruised hip. Her heart was thudding hard.
She used the toilet, washed her hands. What now?
A headache throbbed. She found Tylenol in the medicine cabinet, took three, and gulped down water from her cupped palm. She was about to close the mirrored door when another vial caught her eye. Adderall: twenty-milligram tablets. She swallowed two and palmed the vial.
She inspected the mottled purple-and-black flesh on her thighs where he had mauled her. The left hip, where he had thrown her against the bed frame, was swelling.
She took off the wig and splashed water across her face. Pancake makeup peeled off like sloughing snakeskin.
She showered, dialing the water as hot as she could stand and then a little hotter. A curtain of wet hair hung before her eyes. Steam billowed. She breathed deep, braced for his knock on the door. No knock came.
She stayed in the shower as long as she could bear it, and then for a minute longer. Superheated air scalded her lungs. She twisted off the spigots with a gasp.
Better.
The only towel on the rack reeked of mildew. She dressed, still wet. Voluptuous fatigue enveloped her. She felt like a vessel that had been emptied and awaited refilling. But the amphetamine would be kicking in soon.
Sunday morning. In her former life, she would be getting breakfast on the table.
It was the first time she had thought of it as her former life.
She left the bathroom. The man was asleep again.
In her bag, she found a wide-brimmed sun hat to cover her face, and let herself out.
Langley, VA
Reading the message, Bach allowed himself a tight smile. He found an already composed dispatch in his drafts folder. No text; subject line: Alas Babylon. He clicked send.
He went to sit beside Sam. Nodding at the on-screen window that held scrolling lines of code, he said in a low voice, “Send it over to Fort Meade.”
Sam’s eyes flashed. NSA and USCYBERCOM HQ. He nodded.
They had their reply in two minutes. With a keystroke, Sam stopped the shifting lines of data.
Dalia, McConnell, Sonny, and DeArmond blinked awake, as if they all could sense something happening. Bach watched them regain their bearings. Warm sunlight glowed outside the shaded window. On a tray at one end of the table sat coffee and orange juice and bagels from the cafeteria. But attention turned reflexively to the wall-mounted monitor.
“The message sent by the RGB on Friday.” Sam tapped another key with satisfaction.
The plaintext was in Munhwaŏ. Bach translated aloud. The message named William Walsh. It described the man’s habit of taking home attractive young Asian women. Following the addresses of his stalking grounds were the location of the storage facility, and instructions for retrieving and using the data-cloning equipment inside. Once Walsh’s NYMEX pass card was accessed, the data should be secured until further instruction
s detailed delivery to an unnamed contact. Attached was a grainy photograph of the angular face, taken with a long lens.
“A contact.” McConnell stroked his chins. “A sleeper we haven’t found.”
“Which means a server we don’t know about,” Sam said, “sending them orders.”
“Walsh is no collaborator.” Bach faced the screen with a scowl. “He’s a mark. Notify NYMEX of the data breach. Tell them to detain anyone trying to use Walsh’s personal information. Then invite Walsh into Homeland’s New York Field Office for debriefing.”
“O captain, my captain.” DeArmond already had his phone out.
“Song’s our ticket to the other sleeper,” Bach said, still looking at the screen. “When she logs on again for rendezvous information, we’ll see it—yes?”
“Assuming she uses the same server she used before,” Sam said, “yes. But we still won’t be able to geolocate her … unless she’s switched to a vulnerable device.”
Two dozen other windows on-screen gave no promising leads. The Volvo abandoned in short-term parking had offered up nothing. IMSI Catcher had not found the woman’s phone again. ARGUS and Persistics scanned in vain.
Facial-recognition software continued to pore over CCTV recorded in subway stations overnight. Bach knew that the MTA wanted to put cameras on the trains themselves, but civil libertarians had cried foul. One or two more terrorist “events,” though, and the Transit Authority would win out. Until then, they could scan only video of platforms, and follow arriving and departing trains, using Public Address Customer Information Screens.
All through the small hours of the morning, Manhattan had seethed with life. A man coming out onto a platform lost his hat. A girl pushed past him onto the train without looking up from her book. A frat boy vomited into a garbage can. A rat scurried across tracks. A game of three-card monte went into a bag as a policeman approached. A woman in gypsy garb told fortunes from behind a folding bridge table. Another woman, dressed in a flowing ball gown, played a pedal harp. A boy who looked about eight years old used a MetroCard to swipe multiple friends through a turnstile. A woman carrying a huge fern that blocked her line of sight lost her wallet to a pickpocket. A man in a wheelchair wore an overcoat with no shirt underneath. Another man was inexplicably dressed for rain, in oilskin and wading boots. Teenage girls held hands. Workmen carried lanterns. Laughing friends posed for selfies. Bach saw piercings, shavings, Halloween costumes, bare skin, muscles, cuffed jeans, black-tie evening wear, parakeets perched on shoulders, elaborate facial hair. Even through the mute security feeds came a crackling frisson: young, excited, sexy, naughty.
He looked from the monitor to his team. Except for Sam, who was gratified at having broken the encryption at last, they all looked frustrated and weary.
“We’re trying too hard.” Dalia Artzi tilted her head back, considering the monitor down the line of her nose. “A kats vos m’yavket ken kain meiz nit chapen. A meowing cat can’t catch mice.”
A long moment passed.
“You’ve got something in mind?” McConnell asked.
Manhattan, NY
The sunlight felt like daggers. Song pulled her hat brim lower and oriented herself. Across the street to the south, marble steps climbed to shuttered government buildings. To the east, a small park bustled with early risers, running, dog-walking, doing their morning tai chi. Beyond it, brightly colored signs ascended in lopsided ranks, advertising in English and Cantonese grocery stores, restaurants, beauty salons, liquor stores, massage parlors, pharmacies. Distant church bells clanged off-key.
East, she figured. In Chinatown, she would stand out less.
A man was coming around the corner, speaking into a phone or radio. She froze. Too slow. He was on her already.
Then he was past. Just a man.
A car idled by the curb. A teenager sat behind the wheel. Slender, stylishly unshaven, nose ring. He looked at her. She looked away and struck off, favoring her right leg.
Engines revved, idled, passed. People laughed, argued, held hands. Tourists, homeless, children, elderly. Churchgoers in their ill-fitting Sunday best.
She crossed a street, limping slightly, throwing a look into the sideview mirror of an idling car. No sign of pursuit. She entered the park. Old women played xiangqi and mah-jongg. Children nibbled too-hot dumplings. Vendors wielded their zongzi carts like battering rams.
She moved quickly, gait ragged, head down, past a playground and a basketball court. Then out of the park, crossing Mulberry. The morning was sunny and warm. Garbage bins overflowed with feathers and chicken guts and rotting fruit. Signs implored in English and Chinese, no smoking or spitting. Smells were thick: fish, fermentation, smoke, sewage, and, incongruously, blossoms.
She worked her way along crowded sidewalks. Even in her current state, gazes appraised her appreciatively. Nam-nam-buk-nyeo was the saying in Korea—literally, “south men, north women.” Southern men were the handsomest, and northern women the comeliest. To East Asian eyes, she fulfilled a particular standard of beauty. She tugged the sun hat’s brim yet lower and hastened on.
Early Sunday morning, but vehicular traffic was thick. Windows down, elbows cocked jauntily. She might jack a car. Force the driver at gunpoint to bring her out through the tunnel, or over a bridge into a different borough. It was an option, but a desperate one.
She threw another glance over her shoulder. A sea of faces shifted, rose, fell.
Her family would be waking up, finding her gone and the car missing. The doorman would tell them she had left in the middle of the night, with luggage. Mark would surely come up with some story for the kids. But inside he would be reeling, blindsided.
Or maybe not. On some level, he must have known that she kept secrets. He wasn’t stupid.
Surely, he kept secrets of his own. Sometimes, there was an unaccounted-for half hour in his schedule, around work or tennis. So what? This city. Traffic, MTA failures. So she told herself and didn’t let her mind dwell on it. People were only human; life was complicated; marriage was difficult. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Thus did a marriage survive.
Everyone kept secrets. Not on the level of hers, of course, but the difference was of degree, not of kind.
Or was she rationalizing?
Vendors thrust their wares in her face. Lychee, wasabi peanuts, rock salt plum. Swords, fans, umbrellas, live baby turtles. Watches, knockoff handbags, Blu-rays and DVDs, sunglasses and phones, golden Buddhas and cats and monkeys. She passed a restaurant, a salon, another salon. A tiny tea shop, invitingly empty and cool beneath a narrow awning. Without conscious thought, she stepped inside.
Calm air smelled of chrysanthemum, jasmine, honey, and peach. An old woman sat motionless in shadow. A cat lay on a shelf, tail flicking. A younger woman emerged from a back room and gestured encouragingly at teas arranged in faded boxes.
Song gave a meaningless smile and puttered among the shelves. Maybe the Chinatown bus, she thought. Maybe not. She couldn’t think straight. Her head buzzed from fatigue, fear, amphetamines.
She went back onto the street. Past liquefied offal, chicken parts, fish heads, eggshells. Not quite gagging, she walked faster.
Two police, a man and a woman, turned the corner in front of her.
Their gazes were searching. Prodding into storefronts, beneath awnings. The woman consulted something held in a cupped palm.
A knot of tourists blocked the way back into the tea shop. She was trapped.
Parked by the curb, a Ford Crown Victoria idled with the trunk gaping open. A driver had just taken out a suitcase. He stood filibustering, waiting for a tip before relinquishing the luggage. She could not get around him to the driver’s seat.
But the trunk was spacious—empty except for an ice scraper and jumper cables and a ragged old blanket.
Someone would see her.
The cops were yards away.
&n
bsp; Even if she made it into the trunk, she might end up trapped. She might suffocate, or starve.
She climbed inside smoothly, before she could second-guess herself. No one called out. She curled into a fetal position and pulled the ragged blanket over her knees, her body, her head.
Seconds later, the trunk slammed shut.
Her breath felt hot. The air was close. She clumsily adjusted her position, maneuvering her lips as close as possible to the keyhole.
Still no one called out.
A car door opened and thunked shut, making the Ford vibrate. It began to move, then turned sharply.
She slid about like poorly stowed luggage. The ice scraper dug into her back. Her canvas bag was still looped around her neck. The shoulder strap drew tight, choking her. She braced herself against the left wall to relieve the pressure against her throat. Trying to stay oriented, to track the direction they were going. South?
They turned again. Her head bumped. Just outside the car, surprisingly close to her ear, someone shrieked with laughter.
Hard to breathe in here. A memory wormed up. The coal train at Camp 14. She pushed it from her mind. Stay focused. Turning again. West? She was lost already.
She was sweating. Her hair clung in strings to her temple.
The car bumped over a ramp. She heard echoes, squealing tires, and distant voices. A garage.
They came to a stop. The engine died. She had not been aware of its thrumming beneath her, all around her, until it quit.
She shucked the blanket aside and disentangled herself as best she could from the bag’s choking strap. Made herself breathe quietly, evenly, readying herself. When the trunk opened, she would lead with a palm heel under the chin.
Seconds passed. The trunk didn’t open.
A minute passed. Then another.
A bell rang somewhere, not far away.
She managed to get one hand around, up from under her body, close to the mechanism beneath the keyhole. Then against the mechanism. She pushed.
No give.
She pressed. Changed angle, tried again. But it was an older Crown Vic, and the trunk was not designed to open from the inside.
