Die Again to Save the World

by Ramy Vance

  Blah, blah, blah, Canadian investor... Blah, blah, blah, RedBook.

  “The New York office,” Reuben groaned. “That’s all I want.”

  Blah, blah, blah, grew up in both Montreal and Manchester and went to boarding school in Paris. Blah, blah, blah, a whole lot of fancy degrees and schools, knows a lot of Canadian MPs, photo op with Justin Trudeau…

  “I just want to know where this guy works!” Reuben slammed the keyboard. “How hard is it?”

  After more online searching, he kept running across the Trillium Group. The Trillium Group, it appeared, were a bunch of Canadian hotshot investors that funded a lot of New York projects. On the board of the Trillium Group was none other than Alister Pout. Alister had bought in to the Trillium Group by way of his own group, BTI—Better Tomorrows Incorporated.

  Reuben searched for BTI and came up with a long list of investment projects. The latest one was owned by one Tom Dwyer. He searched Tom Dwyer on Facebook and quickly came across a familiar photo.

  “Stephanie Dwyer,” Reuben said. “Julian Schaeffer’s girlfriend.”

  Tom Dwyer was Stephanie’s older brother, a software engineer for a company called S-Wire Media. Reuben scrolled through his photos and thought he could have been friends with Tom in a different life if their paths had crossed. Tom frequented a lot of the same bars he did, as a matter of fact.

  “Shit,” Reuben muttered as he clicked on Tom’s information. Tom had graduated from Columbia during Reuben’s freshman year. “I might have known this guy.”

  Reuben searched through the Columbia alum databases and didn’t find much more information other than an email address. He drafted up a quick email with a cover story of networking for a computer tech job at S-Wire but then thought better of it. If Sven saw that email, Reuben might not have to lie about looking for a job. He deleted the draft email and searched for S-Wire Media. It appeared that their primary output was an online portal called RedBook.

  “What?” Reuben protested aloud.

  It made no sense, and reading the marketing material made less sense. Reuben grabbed a pen and notepad and jotted down what he was finding. Stephanie Dwyer was Julian’s “Boo,” and Tom was her older brother. Tom wasn't just a software engineer. He actually owned S-Wire Media, which was invested in by BTI, Alister Pout’s investment group. Now these people were starting to connect.

  Reuben searched for BTI and couldn’t find an office, but the Trillium Group had a twenty-story building downtown. That was what he needed. He pulled up the traffic cam software and entered the Trillium Group’s address. Just as he did, an Interpol alert popped up on his computer.

  “Interpol has indicated a status of ‘unknown or missing’ on a weapon of mass destruction in Canada, possibly headed toward the US border. Type: Experimental. Please be alerted for further details as the situation unfolds. Assigned Case #U95643E-1.”

  These sorts of alerts happened often. Usually it was the Department of Defense, but sometimes Interpol sent alerts as well.

  They usually went away without any notice, but it meant that the agency had opened a case, and if anyone had any information, they could reference it to that case number. He vaguely remembered the alert popping up the first time. Countries, unfortunately, miscounted weapons and nuclear material from time to time. The different holding bases had to count it all daily and submit the counts on a deadline. If the counts were off at the deadline, an alert would be generated, and a protocol had to be followed. The weapons and material were usually found, and within hours the case would be closed. Reuben knew this one was no miscount.

  This was for real, and if not stopped, that experimental microwave weapon would be detonated on Valentine's Day.

  Reuben zoomed in on the traffic cams outside of the Trillium Group. It was a wet and cold February morning, and the streets buzzed with gridlocked downtown traffic and pedestrians with umbrellas. He zoomed in farther and couldn’t find Pout in the crowd. It was mid-morning, so Pout was most likely inside working. He had to get into the building security camera.

  After a little bit of hacking, he found that the building was secured by the company 952 Grey, which was, of course, owned by S-Wire Media.

  “Geez.” Reuben shook his head. How deep did S-Wire and Pout go?

  Hacking into the S-Wire feed wasn’t difficult. In fact, it was surprisingly easy, and Reuben began to doubt the effectiveness of their pet project, RedBook, especially because of all the data sharing RedBook was designed to do. If a foreign agent were to get into these databases, it would change the landscape of everything.

  He patched into their feed, and he had almost located the signal for the Trillium building when the power went out.

  “Shit,” Reuben said as the lights dimmed all around him.

  A titter passed through the office, even though laptop screens remained on. It would take up to two minutes for the backup generator to power up all the technology, and it might take a couple minutes longer for the Internet to come back on.

  The agent who had been on the power trip now navigated through the hallway lit by cell phone flashlights and laptop screens. He blinked like a groundhog coming up out of the dirt. “Say, it’s pretty dark in here,” he told Reuben.

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Power went out.”

  “That explains it.” Reuben smirked in the dark.

  “Storm coming in,” the agent said. “Can’t control the weather.”

  “Indeed.” Then Reuben took advantage of the situation. “You got any notes on that Schaeffer? I lost what I was working on. It’s not in the system. Damn.”

  “Oh, yeah.” The agent stretched. Without proper lighting and proper brain functioning, the agent didn’t register that Reuben didn’t have the clearance he should have. After all, how else would a low-level security agent know about Schaeffer? “The top brass has known about a breach at a Canadian experimental weapons testing facility for a few days now. Can you believe it! They're trying to keep it under wraps because no one knows if it was nuclear material that was stolen or some high-tech weapon."

  Damn, Reuben thought. The microwave bomb had been stolen on the seventh or the eighth? "But how is this connected to Schaeffer?"

  "They're convinced that Schaeffer is connected to the breach. Especially since he arrived in New York three days ago.”

  “He came to New York three days ago?” Reuben frowned. That was definitely not in the reports on Valentine’s Day.

  “We think so.” The agent popped his back. “It’s the weirdest thing. I swore I saw that name on a plane roster from Delta. He went from Des Moines to New York. But then, just as I went to pull it back up to submit it as evidence, his name was gone from the roster.”

  “Just like that, huh?” Reuben scratched his chin. “Disappeared?”

  “Yeah, oddest thing. I don’t know, I think I might have imagined it, but just between you and me…” The agent glanced around, and in the semi-dark powered by battery-operated devices, the agent made a drinking motion. “You know, I was into the tequila a little bit, so who knows what I saw?” He laughed a bit too loud for Reuben’s comfort.

  “Indeed.” Reuben forced a chuckle.

  “You want a shot?” He pointed in the general direction of his desk.

  “No. I’ve got my own stash. Everyone does.” Reuben didn’t know if that was true or not, but it seemed like something this guy would believe.

  Reuben didn’t have any alcohol at his desk but wanted to keep the guy talking. What this guy wouldn’t remember three days from now could alter the course of Western civilization.

  “I was going to look into it more, but then the power went out,” the agent continued. “We’ve got flight records for him going to Albuquerque on Valentine’s Day. Aunt’s place.”

  That was old information to Reuben. “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Yup.” Suddenly, the power hummed back to life in the building and the lights came back on. The agent blinked. “Time to go back to my desk. Catch
you later.”

  Reuben nodded. “See ya.”

  The agent stumbled back toward his desk in the bright fluorescent light and clumsily tripped and fell on a computer wire. Reuben saw Sven standing at the window of his office, watching the whole thing. The director frowned and picked up the phone.

  So that was what happened to the guy, Reuben thought. He had never seen him before. Now, thanks to his stash of tequila, he would never see him again. But he had his information.

  The agent said that Julian had come to New York three days ago, and apparently the flight records had been erased from Delta’s system. But, Reuben reasoned, if Schaeffer was still in New York, there would be all sorts of records of his visit. He would have swiped credit cards, made hotel reservations, paid for transportation.

  Once the Internet was back on, Reuben used the agency database to cross-reference Schaeffer’s name on credit and debit cards. Why was he going to New York, anyway? He had checking and savings accounts at Chase Bank and a student Discover card. With a little bit of hacking, he tapped into Schaeffer’s online banking.

  The kid ate a lot of fast food, shopped at PacSun, and spent $164 at…Victoria’s Secret?

  Damn, Reuben thought. Go, Schaeffer. Especially considering, according to the direct deposit information, the guy only made about $200 a week. He pulled the cocky-looking photo of Julian back up and rolled his eyes.

  Yeah, this guy could get that kind of action.

  He scanned back through the banking information up until the beginning of the year and didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Regular paychecks, gas… But there was nothing indicating any kind of travel or travel plans or even any recent swipes in New York. He did a keyword search for Delta, and nothing came up. He switched over to the savings account; he had a few thousand in there but no recent withdrawals. This guy checked out on all bank records.

  It took a lot longer for him to hack into the Discover card records, and he couldn’t do it. He had to call his contact at the Discover office. He just hoped that she would help him.

  “Angela, I just need to look into an account,” he told her.

  “I’m sorry, Reuben, I need a warrant this time,” she said. “You almost got me fired last time.”

  “Come on,” he told her. “Julian Schaeffer, he’s a nineteen-year-old student account holder from Des Moines. Just send it to me.”

  “No, Reuben. You can’t just call up here and demand account information. That’s not the way it works. You have to go through the proper channels.”

  “It takes months to go through the proper channels.”

  She was silent.

  “Don’t make me do it,” he said. “Come on, Angela, do me a solid.”

  “Reuben,” she said. “I can’t do it for you this time. I’m serious. I’ll get in big trouble. Get a warrant, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “Angela…don’t make me say it.”

  There was a long silence on the other line before Angela said, “Then don’t say it.”

  “I need this. I will play the card.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Reuben sighed. He didn’t have time for this. Besides, he would most likely die a few dozen times before this was over. Angela wouldn’t remember him being an asshole. “Your ex-husband. The very illegal cyber-stalking I did for you, proving he was cheating. Cyber-stalking and the untraceable proof you needed to get a very, very healthy divorce settlement and the beach house in Malibu.”

  “I bought you a nice bottle of whisky. Oban 18, remember?”

  “I do, and it was delicious.” Another silence. “Listen, Angela, I really need this. This will be the last favor I ask for like this. Ever. I promise.”

  Unless I die and don’t have this conversation next time round, he mused.

  “OK. I’ll print something out for you. No digital records.”

  “Great, I’m coming over,” he said and hung up before she could finish.

  Reuben—Friday, February 10, 11:23 a.m.

  Reuben grabbed his keys and coat and walked the two blocks through the freezing winter weather. He arrived at the tall glass building and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator opened to a large marble lobby with the Discover card logo emblazoned on the wall.

  A tall brunette receptionist greeted him. Other than her, office workers filled in the desks and cubicles lining the floor. Most of them wore headsets or Bluetooth earpieces and paid no attention to him.

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.

  “I’m here to see Angela Steele,” Reuben told her.

  “Absolutely.” She directed him to sign in.

  He scrawled Jim Lewandowski on the sign-in sheet. Jim was one of the alter egos he often used when out in public on agency business—usually just short rides in the tech van to fix a computer or router in one of the CIA's other buildings it owned. It made him harder to trace if anyone outside of the CIA caught on to him. It also helped if he had to get around privacy laws like he was about to now.

  He pointed down the hall toward Angela’s office, although he knew exactly where it was. “It’s back that way, right?”

  She shrugged and pointed through the empty hallway. “Yeah, you can just go back there.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled and took the carpeted hallway down to Angela’s office.

  Angela sighed when she saw him. She was a heavyset woman in her early thirties with wavy dark hair, probably of Hawaiian descent. Right now she was eating a candy bar and washing it down with a Sonic slushie. When he arrived, she surreptitiously glanced through the hall, and satisfied that no one was there, she nodded toward the office door.

  He shut it behind him.

  She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. She silently handed it to him, and he stuck it in his jacket.

  He turned to walk out of the office but paused near the side of her desk. Then he closed his eyes and waited for it. There it was.

  She planted her hand square on his butt, and he grimaced as she gave it a nice, hard, luscious squeeze.

  “That’s enough,” he told her. Man, he could write a book on the awkward situations he found himself in when he went on “tech calls” outside the office. Oh well, the fate of the world depended on her information. Letting her grab his ass was the least he could do.

  She let go.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said.

  “Likewise.”

  They both nodded at each other, and he left the office.

  Back out in the street, he skimmed the file while he walked. The personal details all checked out. Julian Schaeffer, proper date of birth, and he vaguely recognized the social security number and the address in Des Moines, Iowa. He read the account details—a couple of payments and some late fees. There was a six-hundred-dollar charge to a community college in early February.

  “Good for you, Julian.” Reuben nodded. “Go back to school.”

  He’d check the school’s records once he got back to the office to see if he’d enrolled for the next term. This wasn’t completely relevant to the time period, but it would help to build a case that this was a frame job and that Julian was just an average college guy. It also showed that he had plans to stay in town and helped to anchor him to Des Moines, even though the agency had him jet-setting to New Mexico. Although it could be argued that a criminal might have staged the college enrollment for that very reason. But the more he got to know this guy, the more he was starting to like Schaeffer.

  He wanted to save him from the fate the agency had for him.

  The rest was the usual. It looked like he’d had his car repaired, and there were charges to a tire shop and a $200 payment to Nintendo and a takeout pizza.

  Then Reuben laughed.

  He could tell where Stephanie had hijacked his card. More Victoria’s Secret. Bath and Body Works. A nail salon. A spa. The next page was upside-down, and there was a $100 charge to Mr. Sudds? The dry cleaner Martha told him about?
>
  Damn. This case was getting juicier and juicier.

  This also meant that Julian had been in New York three days ago. Unless only Stephanie had come. This was starting to become an interesting frame job, indeed.

  He read the rest of the statement. Nothing else indicated a trip to New York. The only other charge that day was an Uber ride for $29.62. He assumed that must have been the ride from the airport to Mr. Sudds, and if he could find the time of day that had happened, he could use the traffic cam to see what happened.

  With a little bit of hacking, Reuben ran a report detailing all of the Uber charges on that day. It was New York City; there were thousands of them. He narrowed it down to rides costing $29.62. Only about a hundred charges popped up.

  He clicked on the fields, and the names on the charges appeared. He searched for Schaeffer in the name field, but nothing came up. He searched for Julian and nothing came up. He tried Stephanie, but no luck. What about Tom Dwyer? Still nothing.

  Martha texted him. Did you find anything?

  The truth was, he was finding quite a lot. But, damn that CIA security clearance. He couldn’t tell her much of anything. The security cameras were so advanced in that room, they could even read a text. He knew if he told her anything that wasn’t publicly accessible, he’d be fired on the spot. He wasn't due to take a break anytime soon where he could step outside and call her. To cover his bases, he set his phone on the desk in clear view of the camera and texted her, No, we’ll keep looking.

  He hated that he couldn’t help her. She was helping him, but so much of what he knew was classified. Outside of work, he could violate some clearances without getting caught. But he was trying to play it safe by giving her hints and knowledgeably directing her toward publicly available sources. Right now he was mainly following Julian, and she could never know about him.

  Whose Uber account would Schaeffer have put his Discover card on? Suddenly, he had an idea. It was a long shot, but it might pay off. Reuben pulled up Julian’s Facebook page and generated his friends list. Great, he had over a thousand friends. He printed off the list, and one by one, ran the names through the Uber report. After about thirty tries, he found it.