by Mark Nolan
A woman was walking her dog on the sand at the water’s edge. She noticed something up ahead of her that looked like it might be a beached sea lion. Her dog got excited and yanked the leash out of her hand and ran ahead, barking at the strange thing. The woman ran after her dog and called for it to stop, but the dog kept on barking. When the woman reached the supposed sea creature, she realized it was actually a human body.
A dead man was lying on his back. He’d washed up onto the beach halfway, with his legs still in the water. His shirt was torn open exposing his chest. He had strange tattoos all over his upper body, depicting foreign-language words and exotic signs and symbols.
The woman saw that the dead man’s throat had been slashed. His mouth was wide open. Flies were buzzing around his swollen tongue. His eyes had been pecked out by birds. The worst thing was that there was a large and wicked looking knife buried deep in his chest. The leather-wrapped handle was protruding like a warning to others.
The woman started screaming, and people came running to her aid. A man who was wearing a San Francisco Fire Department ball cap took one look at the body, and he immediately called the police. The off-duty firefighter gave a description of the scene to the police dispatcher. His call was routed to the Homicide Department.
Sergeant Beth Cushman was at work early, and she took the call and listened as the fireman described the details. She asked him to send a photo to her phone.
The photo showed a dead man’s face that looked similar to a photo taken of Ivan Zhukov by a hospital security camera. But now his eyes were missing. Beth told the fireman that she and her partner were on their way, and to please tell everyone they were not to touch anything. Beth called Terrell on her phone as she was driving in her police SUV, and they both raced to Aquatic Park.
They arrived quickly, and Beth used her phone to take more photos of the body. Terrell put on latex gloves and slowly pulled the large knife part-way out of the dead man’s chest and heart. It was not the best crime scene protocol, but he already knew what he was going to find. He immediately recognized the knife as a KA-BAR, the infamous Marine Corps fighting knife that had also been adopted by the Army, Navy, and Coastguard.
This particular KA-BAR had a black blade that featured a gold-colored commemorative etching with the words, “Operation Enduring Freedom.” The other side of the blade had an added custom engraving in a smaller script of just one word: “Jukebox.”
“This is Jake’s KA-BAR, no doubt about it,” Terrell said. “We don’t usually engrave our knives, but Jake’s father had this one etched with the word ‘Jukebox’ when he gave it to Jake as a gift. I know he’ll be glad to get it back.”
“So the dead body has to be Zhukov. I’m sure Katherine Anderson will be relieved to hear that he is definitely dead.”
“Everybody will be relieved. Not that I doubted Jake.”
Beth took a close-up photo of Zhukov’s face. “Should I send these pics to that Secret Service Agent, Shannon McKay?”
“Good idea, but send them to Easton and Greene, from our local office here in the city. Let them forward the pics to McKay. They’ll appreciate the professional courtesy.”
Terrell held up his phone so Beth could see the numbers that the agents had given to him at the hospital. Beth forwarded the pics to Easton and Greene. She received a reply from Greene saying they were both in route to Aquatic Park and would be there shortly.
Several uniformed SFPD officers arrived along with the Crime Scene Investigations Unit, the Forensics Photographic Unit, and the Morgue Unit. The uniformed officers set up the yellow crime scene tape to keep the crowd back. The investigators and morgue technicians took photographs and got the body ‘tagged and bagged’ and loaded into the forensics van.
Someone from the CSI Unit found a waterlogged phone in Zhukov’s pants pocket. He put it into a plastic evidence bag and handed it to Roxanne, the Computer Forensics Unit technician. Roxanne smiled at the phone and said, “Come to Mama. Your memory chip is going to tell me all of your secrets.”
Television news reporter Dick Arnold showed up with his cameraman, and they began to broadcast video of the police scene for the media. The camera zoomed in on the KA-BAR knife as a police technician put it into a clear plastic evidence bag. The TV camera feed showed the knife and its custom engraving on live television and on the news website.
Arnold spoke in a hushed dramatic voice to the news viewers as he speculated that the word “Jukebox” on the knife blade was probably the criminal nickname of the attorney assassin that was loose in the city. This dead body that had washed up on the beach was yet another of the killer’s lawyer-victims; perhaps killed on a luxurious yacht and dumped overboard. On the screen below Arnold’s report were the words, “Reporting Live: Benedict ‘Dick’ Arnold.”
Moments later, as Arnold watched a replay of his report, he became angry about how his name was incorrectly listed in the credit line. But then he smiled with malice about how he was finally getting the scoop on Jake Wolfe for once. Arnold didn't realize that he’d just helped his rival get paid the fifty thousand dollars he was owed by Chet Brinkter. Arnold’s news broadcast was providing proof that Zhukov was dead and that Jake had been the one to make it happen.
Unknown to Arnold, back at his office, there was a giant buffalo head hanging on the wall above his cubicle. His nameplate had been changed to read “Benedict ‘Dick’ Arnold.” And there was a memo on his desk saying that he was to report to his boss immediately.
In a faraway computer cloud system, a software program was preparing to help a dead man have the last laugh. It was Ivan Zhukov’s worldwide network of malware-infected machines that had previously been set up to seek revenge.
The botnet was programmed to carry out a sequence of automatic murder and mayhem if Zhukov was ever captured or killed. And since the system had not been contacted recently with the stop code, the computer programs suddenly awakened and the zombie botnet came to life with a vengeance. Algorithms went into motion automatically. Predetermined codes began to execute commands without any human intervention. This was known in the trade as a “dead man’s switch.”
The hacker software program began running through a list of actions predesigned to trigger events that had been carefully preplanned and arranged to occur by remote control in various parts of the world. A series of maps, file photos, and bios of targets flashed across the computer screens in the network.
Target number one was in France. A wealthy and ruthless dealer in priceless art was walking his dog in a garden and smoking a Gauloises cigarette when unknown to him, a hidden weapon trained a green crosshair target on his back.
A video feed of this target was shown on an unmanned computer’s screen in a server room connected to the botnet. Only the video camera could see the circular target with the cross-hairs. It was similar to a sniper scope. Preprogrammed directives guided the actions of the hidden camera, weapon and targeting.
The Frenchman stopped and looked around as if he had a strange feeling that he was being watched. He’d had this feeling a few times lately, but nothing had ever come of it. The computer’s facial recognition software scanned the side of his face from the video feed and got a match. This triggered a code in the software program, giving an electronic command to the weapon.
TERMINATE.
The man was immediately shot in the head. A thermal scan from the hidden high-tech camera confirmed his death. The computer program then moved on to the next target on the list. Ruthlessly, efficiently and automatically.
Across the world, similar pre-planned scenarios began playing out with deadly consequences in every country where a powerful person secretly belonged to the Global Assets Council.
In Russia, the engines on a private jet suddenly stopped working while in mid-air, causing the aircraft to fall from the sky like a stone. Everyone on board screamed all the way down until the final violent impact that left flaming wreckage and dead passengers scattered across a frozen mountainside.
In the United States, a man was seated at his office desk when he heard his mobile phone buzzing. He answered the phone and held it up to his ear and said “Hello.” A voice-recognition software app signaled the phone to explode, sending sizzling hot magnesium shrapnel into his brain and killing him. He collapsed face down on the desk while smoke came out of the holes in his head, his eyes, nose and mouth, as the magnesium continued to burn white hot and sizzle like fireworks inside his skull.
In Belgium, a princess walked out of the grand entrance to her castle and got into her limousine. She pushed a button to close the thick dark Plexiglas privacy window between herself and the driver. As the car drove along, exhaust smoke started pouring into the back passenger area through the many climate-control vents. The woman frantically pressed buttons to stop it, but all of the controls were frozen. Nothing worked, not the privacy screen, the intercom, the windows, doors or climate control.
The princess screamed and beat her fists on the glass screen, but all of the glass was bulletproof, soundproof and darkened. She tried to call the driver on her cell phone, but the display screen said No Network. The limousine’s passenger area quickly filled up with smoky exhaust and the princess choked and died from carbon monoxide poisoning. Her employee in the front seat continued driving along, oblivious to it all as he listened to music.
In Germany, a man who lived in a well-protected country estate, went into his private master bathroom and used the toilet. Unknown to him, a high-voltage electric current had been turned on through a hidden wire, electrifying the water in the bowl. When the man peed into the bowl, the electric current ran up the urine stream and into his body.
He was violently electrocuted in much the same way as someone being executed in an electric chair. He shook like a leaf in a storm, with smoke rising from his skin. His horrified screams brought the security team rushing in to help him, but it was too late, he was dead. They found him on the floor, his body jerking in spasms from the electrical overdose. Sizzling smoke that smelled like burnt bacon was coming out of the front of his unzipped pants.
These and many more men and women of The Council who had believed they were untouchable, were now being murdered one by one on autopilot. The criminal organization was being wiped out by computer-controlled actions, set up by the ingenious Russian assassin named Ivan Zhukov… a man they had all underestimated.
Chairman Banks’ empty limousine was parked at a deserted roadside overlook in the Marin Headlands, the hills just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. Banks was a safe distance away, sitting in the back seat of a Mercedes SUV rental car with his trusted driver Abhay at the wheel. They were parked a mile up the road, overlooking the scene from the hillside above. As they watched the limousine below them, a bomb went off inside of the limo and the vehicle exploded into a twisted steel inferno of flaming wreckage.
“We can be on our way now Abhay,” Banks said.
“As you wish sir.” Abhay began driving back toward the Golden Gate Bridge and the city of San Francisco.
Banks turned his head and watched his limousine burn until they went around a curve on the winding mountain road. “Such a waste of a fine automobile, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir,” Abhay said. “But better the car alone than us along with it.”
“Right you are. Thank you for finding that hidden explosive device left there by our recently deceased Russian friend.”
“My pleasure sir, only doing my duty. I noticed how many times Zhukov checked the car for hidden devices. It made me wonder if he might also have placed one there.”
“You were wise not to touch the device when you found it.”
“Yes I could see that it was rigged to go off if anyone tried to disarm it. And it was placed right next to the gas tank.”
“Now I’ll report the vehicle as stolen and let the car insurance company pay me to replace it,” Banks said. “Oh and what about my cheating wife, how is her day going?”
“Not well at all sir.”
Abhay tapped the screen of a tablet computer that was attached to the dashboard with a holder that stuck to the windshield glass with a suction cup. “According to our intel at the scene, your home in London has burst into flames as well. It is currently burning up along with your wife and her secret lover.”
Banks leaned forward and looked at the news video on the tablet that showed his London mansion on fire. His bugging devices inside the home provided the sound of two people screaming. “Such a tragedy about my home, but I suppose it does save me from having to give away half of my fortune to an adulterer I don’t love anymore. The home insurance policy will pay to have the mansion rebuilt. I never did care for the way my wife had it decorated anyway.”
“All of the council members have met similar fates in the past hour, just as you predicted.”
Banks smiled. “My plan worked out perfectly. I made millions by shorting the investments that the other council members had bet on to go up, but they went down instead. I also became the sole living survivor of the group. That means that the millions of dollars’ worth of gold coins in our numbered Swiss Bank vault are now all mine. I can begin rebuilding The Council with new members, and this time I will serve as the permanent chairman and absolute dictator. Anyone who opposes me will be killed by… oh well, I suppose I’ll have to find a replacement for Zhukov.”
“The only loose end is the surprising survival of that unusual man, Jake Wolfe,” Abhay said.
“True, but he is no longer a threat to me. All he knows is that he was successful in killing Zhukov and thwarting the plans of a mysterious conspiracy. The other members of the group are all dead. Nobody has any idea that I am the lone survivor behind the scenes.”
“Shall I drive to the airport now so we can board the private jet and be on our way?”
“Actually, I’m thinking of staying in the United States for a bit. I have my heart set on stealing vast sums of money from these Americans who seem to trust anyone with a fancy accent,” Banks said.
“Very well. Where to then?”
“At the moment, I want to visit a restaurant in San Francisco that serves Dungeness crab pizza on a sourdough crust. They also offer seafood sausages, calamari steak sandwiches, and a lovely clam chowder served in a hollowed-out round loaf of sourdough bread. I simply must try those dishes along with another half dozen of the California white wines I have on my tasting list.”
“As you wish sir.”
“Killing people and stealing money always gives me an appetite.”
Abhay drove the car onto the Golden Gate Bridge and headed across the Bay.
Banks looked out his window as they approached San Francisco. He couldn’t help but think that it seemed like a magical city of sparkling hills beside blue water, where one always feels that anything is possible. He was going to enjoy his extended stay here very much.
Unnoticed by Banks, a helicopter was flying high in the sky above and behind his vehicle as it shadowed his car. FBI Special Agent Reynolds sat next to the pilot of the helicopter and watched Banks’ rental car through the aircraft’s high-powered surveillance system.
“Whoever designs the seats in helicopters should be made to sit in one every day until his butt goes numb,” Reynolds said to the pilot.
“Your butt has it easy in this multimillion-dollar spy bird… try flying in a Black Hawk at 150 miles an hour through turbulence with a hundred terrorists on the ground shooting at you,” the pilot said.
Reynolds nodded at the pilot. He had a point. She contacted Agent Knight and spoke into her headset. “We have a visual. The target is on the Golden Gate Bridge and heading for the city.”
“Roger that, continue your air surveillance until he reaches the city,�
�� Knight said. “Then I’ll follow his vehicle in my car.”
“Why don’t we put up roadblocks at both ends of the bridge to trap him on it and take him down right now?” Reynolds asked. “Maybe he’ll jump off the bridge and save us all some time and trouble.”
“Director Walker wants us to gather more evidence, to make such an airtight case against this guy that his lawyers can’t possibly beat the charges. Walker wants to make an example out of him.”
“Were you able to hack into his car’s OnStar system and listen in on any of his conversations?”
“No his driver disabled the OnStar and the LoJack,” Knight said. “The next time that car is unoccupied, we’ll install listening devices and GPS beacons. Meanwhile, we’re hacking into the target’s encrypted mobile phone. He has some unusually strong private source encryption on it, but our people will get in, they always do.”
“That’s right, we’re good, and that guy is going down.”
Knight ended the call and sent a text to FBI Director Walker. The Director had a special interest in this case. The tipoff to investigate the man known as Chairman Banks had come from Secret Service Agent Shannon McKay. Her infamous intuition had been accurate once again.
The idea of the FBI and the Secret Service working more closely together was proving to be a very good one. Who had thought of it? Oh, that’s right it had been suggested by Knight’s ornery friend Jake Wolfe.
Knight thought to himself that he was going to have to take Jake up on his offer to sail the Far Niente out on the San Francisco Bay and do some fishing and drink a few beers.
Jake might be a rebellious guy who was always getting into some kind of trouble, but deep down he was a good man who loved his country and had made great personal sacrifices to help protect it. The man seemed to have nine lives and a lot of luck going for him.
