by Mel Odom
Danielle thought about Lizuca again, about the way she had been killed. She’d finally gotten the whole story from another employee she knew in the OneWorld NewsNet offices.
Stolojan hadn’t returned any of her phone calls. His assistant said that he was “unavailable,” but Danielle knew that Stolojan was only “unavailable” when he wanted to be.
So why was he avoiding her?
Unless he was worried that whatever had happened to Lizuca might spill over into the OneWorld NewsNet organization.
That gave Danielle something else to think about. If Lizuca was considered a threat that required assassination, what kept Danielle safe out in the middle of a war zone? The question erased any illusion of safety she had.
Lizuca had died trying to get information from OneWorld NewsNet’s data banks. Didn’t that prove something was there?
The question lent Danielle some enthusiasm and a reprieve from the guilt she felt over the young woman’s death. She hadn’t known that having Lizuca check on the identity of the CIA man would trigger repercussions at all, much less the girl’s murder. If she’d known, would it have stopped her? She thought so, though she knew that, given her nose for news, it wouldn’t have kept her from looking for answers, only from involving Lizuca.
She turned abruptly, watching as Cezar and Gorca started out from under the shade of an awning in front of an empty computer store. She waved them back and said, “Bathroom.”
Cezar waved at her and lit a cigarette. “Take your time. Looks like we will be doing nothing here.”
Danielle walked through the crowd of reporters until she was out of sight of her coworkers and the CIA man. “Paranoia might not be easy to carry around, but it’ll help keep you alive.” Hugh Taylor, the journalist who’d trained her to be an investigative reporter, had told her on day one. He’d repeated it every day of her internship, as if it were a litany, a magical spell that would keep safe the person who said it.
She found a group of reporters she knew from international stories she’d covered before pulling the Turkish-Syrian dispute that wasn’t supposed to get as volatile as it had. Sid Wright was with the British Broadcasting Corporation and had been for the last seventeen years. He was an old hand with wars and the nations that made them. He was of medium height, wide-shouldered but dapper, and wore a hat to shade his face. FosterGrant sunglasses covered his eyes. His hair had more gray in it than brown these days, but he was still one of the best delivery guys working international news.
“Hey, Sid,” Danielle called.
The British newsman excused himself from his cronies and approached her. “Not going live with a piece of this, Danielle?”
“I managed a sound bite and a couple slugs for the evening broadcast in the States,” Danielle answered. “I’m also doing some framing for a small piece that might be used later.”
“Unless something more exciting presents itself.”
“Got it in one.”
Wright glanced up at the helicopter hovering in the smoke-streaked sky. “Something tells me that’s going to happen soon enough, love.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a pack of Players and a Dunhill lighter. “So what brings you over here? Feeling like mixing with the rabble?”
“Actually,” Danielle said, “I’d like to ask a favor.”
Interest flickered on Wright’s face for a moment. “The princess comes begging to her poor cousin? And what would that favor be?”
“I want to use one of your computers with Internet access.”
“And OneWorld doesn’t have enough of them? Or maybe they don’t have the color you fancy? I thought Nicolae Carpathia and his little media empire owned a sizeable section of cyber reality.”
“I want some privacy. That’s something I don’t think you get much of with OneWorld.” Danielle felt bad about positioning her current employer in a suspicious light, but she had to push her personal feelings out of it. Lizuca had been killed and she had to find out how much culpability she had in the young woman’s death. One way or another, she knew the information that the CIA man was being researched through OneWorld’s digital archives had come through the media corporation.
“Ah, but OneWorld does pay the money, don’t they, love? And they have all the toys.” Wright sighed. “And with all the worldwide access OneWorld NewsNet has while the rest of us are standing out in the cold, why, you’d think the CEO made a deal with the devil himself.”
“I just caught a break,” Danielle said, trying to mollify Sid’s wounded ego that she, only a little more than half his age, had netted such a plum job. “I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“The way I heard it,” Wright said, “they went looking for you. Had a corporate headhunter come down and raid you from FOX News.”
“What about the computer?” Danielle pressed. “Is it possible or not?”
“Oh, it’s possible, love. Anything is. For ourselves, we seem to be able to get e-mail in and out just fine for the time being. Just can’t get the news out much past the immediate area. All I’ve got is a dial-up, I’m afraid. E-mail can be dreadfully slow depending on the size of the document you want to send or receive.”
That news didn’t make Danielle happy. “I’m going to need the computer for an hour or so.” Sending the digital picture of the CIA man through a dial-up connection would take at least that long.
Wright led the way to a battered Land Rover sitting in a rubblestrewn alley. He pulled a notebook computer and a cell phone from the passenger seat, connected the two items, and punched in a phone number. Lifting the sunglasses, he looked at her as the computer booted up and logged on to the Internet server. “With you going outside your own resources this way, I have to ask why.”
“I’m an investigative reporter,” Danielle said. “Paranoia is part of my nature.”
“Is it now?” Wright’s light hazel eyes studied her. He wasn’t an easy man to fool or to see through when he chose to hold secrets of his own. “Would this have anything to do with the young woman employee of OneWorld NewsNet who was killed in Bucharest only recently?”
Danielle eyed the British reporter levelly, kept her immediate emotions in check, then lied through her teeth. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Wright waited a beat, then nodded. “Uh-huh. I see. Well, then, love, if you need anything, let me know.” He put his sunglasses back in place and walked away.
“Well, if I find out anything, I’ll let you know.” Feeling bad—a little anyway—about lying to Wright, Danielle focused on her task. If information wasn’t coming from OneWorld NewsNet, then having someone outside the system go to it would be the best choice. That someone would be Mystic, a hacker so out there that most people thought he was a myth.
During an investigative piece regarding corporate espionage four years ago, Danielle had tracked down the person who called himself—or herself—Mystic. During the two months on the investigation, Danielle had come close to unmasking the person. In the end, though, Mystic had proven impossible to ferret out. He or she was a ghost in the system. And it was possible that Mystic was more than one person, according to some of the rumors.
Still, the mysterious person had been sufficiently impressed by Danielle’s tenaciousness that Mystic had set up a connection through a message drop that she could use to contact him or her. Danielle suspected the connection was the person’s means of taunting her for not finding out their identity. Or possibly some young teenager had developed a crush on her.
Over the past four years, Danielle had used Mystic’s resources on three assignments when she couldn’t turn up information she needed. Every time, Mystic had proven equal to the task. However, the risk remained that Mystic would eventually get tracked down by one of the corporations or governments that were targeted and would meet a violent end.
Being in Mystic’s database of regular contacts at that point was definitely something of a risk. Danielle had been highly cognizant of that risk each time before wh
en she had asked for help.
When her borrowed computer was logged onto the Internet, she accessed Mystic’s mail drop. She typed out a message using the unflattering Muckraker ID he had provided her.
Muckraker:>HEY. ARE YOU AROUND?
Mystic:>I’M ALWAYS AROUND. LONG TIME, NO HEAR.
Danielle knew Mystic would be sniffing around the entire connection, making certain there were no viruses or traps attached to them.
She typed:>BEEN BUSY. YOU?
Mystic:>EXPLORING THE BLUE NOWHERE.
The blue nowhere was cyberspace, named that by a number of hackers.
Muckraker:>FIND ANYTHING INTERESTING?
Mystic:>LOL. LOTS. WANT ME TO CHECK INTO ANYTHING ELSE INTERESTING?
Danielle decided to go with a semi-flirtatious response:>CAN’T A GIRL JUST CHECK IN TO SAY HI?
Mystic:>SURE. BUT YOU’RE NOT THAT GIRL. YOU’RE ALL BUSINESS, DANIELLE. NO FUN. BEEN WATCHING YOU ON TV.
Danielle felt slow-witted. Mystic was a resource she’d left untapped during her investigation into the worldwide vanishings. Dodging bullets and advancing Syrian tanks will do that to you, she told herself.
She typed:>DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE DISAPPEARANCES?
The cursor blinked for a short time. It was an uncomfortable silence, and for a moment Danielle thought she had lost the connection or offended the hacker in some way.
Mystic:>NO.
That was the answer. Just a simple no. But it spoke volumes.
Muckraker:>I THOUGHT SOMEONE LIKE YOU WOULD BE INTERESTED IN A GLOBAL PHENOMENON.
Mystic:>I AM. JUST NOTHING OUT THERE TO FIND. LOTS OF CONJECTURE, SUPPOSITION, AND HORSE POOP.
Muckraker:>I’M GETTING THE SAME THING AT THIS END.
Mystic:>WAS THAT WHAT YOU E-MAILED ME ABOUT?
Me, not us. Danielle filed that away. Using I might have been a reflexive use, but me in the context it was used might be more subjective.
Muckraker:>I WANT A BACKGROUND CHECK DONE.
Mystic’s response was immediate, the letters taking shape with staccato regularity:>MUNDANE. NOT INTERESTED. YOU CAN DO YOUR OWN SCUT WORK.
Danielle couldn’t believe the response. She’d thought asking the favor was a slam dunk because Mystic liked flirting with her.
Muckraker:>IS THAT ANY WAY TO TREAT A GIRL?
Mystic:>BLUE NOWHERE’S A BIG PLACE. LOTS OF PLACES TO PLAY. DON’T WANNA LOSE ANY TIME.
Danielle thought quickly, seeking any leverage she might have.
Mystic didn’t owe her any favors. In the past she’d felt like an oddity for whoever was at the other end of the computer link, a passing interest.
Then she typed:>THIS GIG COMES WITH A BODY COUNT. PROBABLY NOT SAFE ANYWAY. TTFN.
TTFN stood for ta-ta-for-now, a cute sign-off a lot of Internet cruisers used. She waited, feeling crass at how she was using Lizuca’s death as bait.
A moment later, symbols appeared on the screen from Mystic:>???
Muckraker:>I HAD A FRIEND CHECK ON THE PICTURE I WANT TO SEND YOU. SHE WAS KILLED ABOUT AN HOUR AGO IN A CYBERCAFÉ IN BUCHAREST.
Mystic:>WHO KILLED HER?
Muckraker:>I DON’T KNOW.
Mystic:>YOU’RE HOLDING OUT ON ME. I CAN TELL.
Okay, you’ve got her or him or them interested. Time to set the hook.
Danielle typed:>THERE’S A CIA CONNECTION. THAT’S WHAT I NEED YOU TO LOOK INTO.
Mystic:>GOTTA LOVE THE SPY GUYS. IT’S GREAT TO BUST THEIR CHOPS. THEY GOOD GUYS OR BAD GUYS?
Danielle knew that there existed a certain moral ambiguity among hackers, but they held true to their own codes. And most of them championed underdogs.
Muckraker:>SHE WAS A FRIEND OF MINE. SHE WAS A GOOD PERSON.
Mystic:>ERGO, THEY ARE THE BAD GUYS BY DEFAULT.
Muckraker:>I THINK IT’S MORE THAN JUST BY DEFAULT.
Mystic:>YOU SAID YOU HAD A PICTURE?
Muckraker:>YES.
Mystic:>SEND IT. I’LL FIND YOUR GUY.
Danielle hesitated before typing:>I THINK ONEWORLD NEWSNET HAS INFORMATION ON THE GUY.
Mystic:>WHAT MAKES YOU SAY THAT?
Muckraker:>MY FRIEND WORKED FOR THEM.
The cursor blinked for a time. Mystic:>OKAY. I’LL POKE AROUND THERE.
Muckraker:>BE CAREFUL.
There was a brief lag in the response.
Mystic:>YOU TOO. I GET BUSTED, WHICH I TRULY CAN’T SEE HAPPENING BECAUSE I AM THAT GOOD, THEY’RE GONNA START LOOKING AROUND. EVEN IF THEY DETECT ME, THEY CAN’T FIND ME. BUT YOUR HEAD WILL BE THE FIRST ONE ON THE CHOPPING BLOCK. THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO GET OUT.
Danielle thought about that, but she couldn’t back away. Not until she confirmed that Lizuca’s death was connected to the CIA man’s picture.
Muckraker:>NO. I’M IN.
Mystic:>GOTTA SAY I’M A LITTLE CONCERNED FOR YOU, BUT I’M GLAD YOU’RE STICKING. YOU’VE MADE ME CURIOUS AND FEEL CHALLENGED. SEND ME THE PIC. I’LL LET YOU KNOW.
Muckraker:>THANKS. WHEN SHOULD I EXPECT RESULTS?
Mystic:>OR WHEN SHOULD YOU START THINKING MAYBE THEY GOT ME?
Danielle hated to appear so blunt, but naked words were a downside to e-mail.
Muckraker:>YES.
Mystic:>ROTF.
Rolling on the floor, Danielle translated the e-mail jargon. Terrific.
Muckraker:>THIS ISN’T EXACLY A LAUGHING MATTER.
Mystic:>TRUE. NOT FOR YOUR FRIEND. BUT I FEEL JAZZED. GOING WHERE NO ONE HAS GONE BEFORE. THAT KIND OF THING. I’LL CONTACT YOU IN THREE OR FOUR HOURS.
Muckraker:>OKAY.
Mystic:>IF I GO BEYOND THAT WINDOW, THEY PROBABLY THREW A NET OVER ME AND PUT THE BODY IN A WOOD CHIPPER.
Danielle didn’t respond, thinking of the hard way Lizuca had died.
Mystic:>SORRY. WASN’T THINKING. YOU LOST A FRIEND. GIMME THE PIC AND LET’S SEE IF WE CAN FERRET OUT SOME GET-BACK AGAINST WHOEVER DID IT.
Muckraker:>I’LL BE LOOKING FORWARD TO HEARING FROM YOU.
Danielle attached the picture of the CIA agent and pressed the Enter button. The menu box told her uploading the picture would take eighteen minutes. She sat and waited, watching the building continue to burn and thinking about the man First Sergeant Gander had taken charge of.
There were a lot of mysterious goings-on. Danielle could hardly wait to find out what the real story was.
United States of America
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 0907 Hours
Major Augustus R. Trimble rose from behind his massive desk as Megan entered his private office in the Joint Services building. He waved her toward an oxblood leather chair in front of the desk.
The office was large, bigger than most Megan had seen at the post. That was a sure sign that the base commander, General Amos Braddock, liked the chaplain.
Shelves containing books covered two of the room’s walls. The other two walls were covered with pictures of Trimble with various political figures, including four past presidents as well as President Fitzhugh. Chaplain Trimble was obviously a man who liked to hang out his political connections for others to see. Only a handful of documents detailing his secular training held any space.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gander. Please, have a seat.” Trimble was in his early sixties and overweight. His army uniform was tailored to be gracious to the twenty pounds he carried that exceeded army regs. A few strands of silver hair stuck stubbornly to his pink scalp. His face was round and his cheeks showed signs of turning bulldoggish. Oval glasses sat at the end of his narrow nose and emphasized how close set his eyes were.
“Thank you.” Megan sat then noticed how Trimble gazed at her jeans a second too long. His dissatisfaction with her choice of dress was obvious. “Forgive the jeans,” she said. “I know this isn’t exactly professional attire, but a lot of the work I’m doing right now is hard physical labor.”
She had volunteered the teens to help with transporting and passing out supplies to the general population of the post. Giving them something useful to d
o in addition to their counseling and grief sessions was part of the overall mental wellness plan Megan and the other counselors had come up with.
More than that, dressing in jeans and loose pullovers helped the teens relate better to her. Right now, the post was filled with guys in uniforms and short attitudes telling everyone what to do and when to do it. Those orders were directed especially at teens because they didn’t have assigned duties and they tended to hang out in the middle of operations to find out more about what was going on. More now than ever, the teens felt ostracized amid all the military comings and goings.
Trimble held up a hand. “I’m not your supervisor, Mrs. Gander, and we’re not here to talk about fashion.”
Megan felt a little better.
“Although,” Trimble went on, “I would like to point out that a uniform, or a professional appearance, is put on for a reason. When you lead people, you need to look like a leader. Not like one of those who need leading.”
Megan bit back an angry retort. Chauvinism tended to thrive in certain pockets of the military. There was an upside to it. A lot of guys opened doors for her. The downside was that some military men felt like women were an afterthought to the overall effort.
“Sometimes,” Megan stated in an even voice, “it’s easier to lead people from within their midst rather than standing on the outside of a group. That way they don’t tend to view you as an outsider. The men you lead wear uniforms. The kids I’m helping don’t.”
Trimble frowned and leaned back in his chair. He put his hands together over his ample stomach. “I’m glad we were able to have this meeting this morning, Mrs. Gander.”
A wall of ice seemed to close around Megan, and she was suddenly not glad about the meeting at all. She waited, letting him take the lead. She wanted to see where he was headed.
“After the incident involving Holly—” Trimble rifled through a yellow legal pad on his desk.
“Hollister,” Megan said in as neutral a voice as she could manage.
“Leslie Hollister.”
Trimble looked up at her over his glasses, then let the papers fall back to the pad, settling in his chair again. “After the unfortunate incident involving young Leslie Hollister last night, especially given the intricacies of your involvement, I was planning on speaking with you anyway.”
