Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller)

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  Megan was sure she had the proverbial stolen-treasure-dumb-look on her face. Why did she have such misfortune at these inopportune times?

  Something about the empty tables behind the stunned giant lord caught her attention. To her own dismay, Megan suddenly knew exactly what the argument had been about. She had brought this terrible event down on her own head.

  The guests in the banquet hall were having a party.

  A party involved food and drink.

  There was no food.

  Megan had killed the cook nearly an hour ago.

  Dang it, dang it, dang it!

  And the icing on the cake was the shrill scream that shook the Great Hall with such volume that it seemed as if the very foundation of the stronghold would crumble. The golem from the vault had somehow freed itself and was now standing at the top of the staircase. Embedded around its wrist like a jagged bracelet was what apparently remained of the vault door, a large twisted square of iron about as wide as Megan was tall. With a broad sweep of its glowing eyes, the beast quickly spotted Megan and entered the Hall with long, thundering strides.

  What to do?

  Duh. Run.

  Megan didn’t waste another moment.

  As the corridors danced in front of her, Megan was truly amazed at how fast one could race when faced with the prospect of being dead. Left, right, left and left again she went, sprinting at full speed back the way she had come. Voices and clanking weapons egged her on as she dashed up the staircase to the administrative apartments. Megan ran into the geisha’s chamber and barricaded the door with the wardrobe.

  “W-what’s going on?” said a weak voice.

  Megan spun around in surprise. The courtesan she had head-butted was sitting on the floor and trying to get her bearings. Megan kicked her in the head and charged for the window.

  The sky was cloudy and dark now. Megan used her climbing claws to slip down at what seemed like an agonizingly slow pace. She had come so far. She had to make it.

  She made it to the ground.

  The roar of the golem echoed in the courtyard. It was near the main gate, running toward her.

  Like a madwoman, Megan dashed for the outer wall where she had left her burglar’s rope. A quick tug verified it was still securely tied to the top of the crenellation. She began climbing. Fast.

  Megan was about halfway up the outer wall when the arrows came. But she reached the top unscathed, and didn't waste any time for her pursuers to get any closer. A swift cut of her short sword freed the burglar’s rope from the crenellation, and holding it tight, Megan jumped.

  The heavy wilderness backpack, filled with supplies that were vital to being able to travel this far north, jerked from the ground just as the golem reached it. Acting as a counterweight for Megan’s body, it flew up and simultaneously slowed Megan down on the other side of the wall until her feet hit the dirt. She gave a decidedly vicious jerk of the rope and caused the pack to teeter over the wall down to her. Megan grabbed her gear and zigzagged away as fast as an overloaded female thief could manage. Which was not very fast.

  Megan reached the gully where she had so carefully observed the timing of the guards’ rounds hours before. There she stopped. Even with the sure knowledge that soldiers would be pouring out in pursuit, she had to rest, just for a moment. Even now she saw a team of horsemen armed with lances was galloping out of the front gate. It would be only a moment before they started to sweep the area.

  But by then, Megan wouldn't be there. It was night. She was a master thief. This was the part of the fight she always won. Megan pushed herself off the ground and disappeared silently into the rocky terrain, carrying a fortune in gold and jewels from one of the most notorious lords in the Haagenan.

  7

  The Town of Silverton, Armchair Safari.

  It was Megan’s biggest haul to date.

  After all the work, Megan had captured nearly100,000 crowns in coin, gems, and jewels from Hutto’s fortress. Amazingly, she had left far more than that behind. A larger party using donkey trains and porters would have been able to take it all. However, that strategy would have allowed time for Hutto to come back in force and probably wipe them out, sending the treasure back the vault and undoing all the hard work to grab the money in the first place.

  Instead, she patted the small, ivory plaque that acted as a receipt from her visit to the Imperial Bank earlier that morning. It said:

  14.37 FEB 17

  4198 7784 5551 0923

  NETERTAINMENT MONETARY EXCH

  SILVERTON IMPERIAL BANK

  TREASURE AMOUNT: CRWN 92,166.00

  CONVERSION RATE: 0.103126

  GROSS CASH ALLOWED: USD $9,504.71

  EXCHANGE FEES: USD ($1,159.57)

  CASH OUT BALANCE: USD $8,345.14

  WIRE TO JP MORGAN CHASE

  ACCT ENDING IN XXXXXXX4983

  BALANCE AVAIL 15.00 FEB 18

  Her way, using stealth and wits, was far better in her book. She now had spring tuition covered.

  The sun shone brightly upon the cold granite walls of the city. Silverton was the largest settlement in the Northern Hinterlands, an old mining town that now stood in defiance against the icy tundra of the northern steppes. Megan rode her horse Wimberly through the bustling streets filled with adventurers, merchants, soldiers, and other, less savory characters. Stout, robotic automatons called Sentinels maintained order, standing on guard throughout the city and ready to dispense justice should an illegal player vs. player match spring up in this Safe Zone.

  Megan found the shop she was looking for off Wizard’s Row, the name of the street where any number of shops and stalls hawked exotic or dangerous magical wares. Potions of healing, scrolls of summoning or protection, nearly anything that had limited uses as a consumable was available for a fee. A remarkable economy had sprung up around enabling others to survive entering harm’s way. And if that harm happened to kill you, your new form would make a fine replacement customer after you respawned back at your stronghold.

  She tied off Wimberly outside and opened the door to the sound of a small bell. The shop was dirty and dark. Boxes and shelves covered every available inch of wall space. She instantly felt ill at ease with the amount of clutter about that confined her movement.

  “Hello, who is there?” said a voice from around a stack of crates. A small, wizened man with no hair and many wrinkles stepped into view and squinted at his visitor.

  “It’s me again,” Megan said.

  “Ah, a repeat customer. Someone who recognizes the best quality of product. You make me very happy coming back again.”

  “Are you sure?” Megan said sarcastically. “That poison gas potion you sold me was a dud. I want my money back.”

  The shopkeeper paused in his walking and peered harder at Megan. His bulbous nose seemed to project from his weathered skin like a giant tumor.

  “What was it exactly that you bought, er, I did not catch your name?”

  “Megan. It was called Billowing Poison Gas.”

  “Ah. That one. I remember you now. Did it not work at all, then?”

  “It knocked a couple orcs out, but they weren’t dead, and one woke up at the most inopportune time. Not at all what you said would happen when you sold it to me.”

  The old man shuffled his way behind the counter. “I must apologize, then, my dear. Sometimes when that stuff sits on the shelf a while it loses a little of its kick. Usually I dispose of the older batches. But, don’t let it be said that I don’t stand behind my products. Whatever you want to buy today—I’ll give you a discount.”

  Megan sniffed her laugh. “What makes you think I would buy anything from you ever again?” she said. “I spend my money on quality products that won’t get me killed.”

  The old man cracked a thin smile. “You’re welcome to shop with one of my competitors if you like.”

  Megan smiled back. He knew he had her. One could not buy a potion like Billowing Poison Gas from just anyone. The more dangerous the articl
e, the harder it was to find—and the more expensive.

  She opened her purse. “I need another one. One that has not been sitting on the shelf very long. How much was that discount again?”

  The shopkeeper shuffled into the back room and left Megan in the lobby of the claustrophobic store. She suddenly felt very lonely. While a thief was presumably comfortable with operating alone, Megan the Student stared at her computer screen with a moment to reflect on her life. Broken home. Abusive father. She was lucky her mom got her and her brother out when she did. But money remained elusive, and money was the key to a better life—starting with a college degree. It was up to her and her alone to fight for everything she got. Megan the Student had to keep getting the money, and if that meant being alone, so be it.

  At last, the shopkeeper returned to the lobby. He was holding a small wooden box with a hinged lid. “Here you are, my dear. I just crated this up last night, as fresh as it gets. And I’ve thrown in a few vials of Extra Healing for you. After all, I want to make sure that you keep coming back, don’t I?”

  Megan walked out of the narrow alleyway back onto the main street with her purchase under her arm. Throngs of citizens mixed with merchants hawking their wares in open stalls and carts. It was noisy, crowded, and difficult to make way in some spots, but the city felt alive and vibrant. The buildings were adorned with gargoyles on the corners of the painted, multi-colored granite blocks. Shop signs intermixed with open windows and a myriad of imagined smells, both good and bad, surely wafted through the open air. Megan walked casually, enjoying the bustle that made her feel like she belonged to something, even if she didn’t know the faces that passed by her. She didn’t notice that one of those faces had begun to follow her.

  As she paused at a street named Knight’s Arms, Megan felt a hand firmly grip her elbow. She wheeled around in alarm.

  “Is your name Megan? Megan the Thief?”

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” Megan’s hand drifted down to the dagger at her belt. Anyone who took too much of an interest in her was typically not up to any good. Not that she felt unsafe, exactly—Sentinels were quick and brutal with those who broke a city’s laws, particularly with robbery or murder.

  “My apologies,” replied a short, balding man with a hooked nose. He released her elbow and took a step back. “No, you do not know me, but I know who you are. If you are Megan. Are you?”

  Megan looked the man over. He didn’t seem like a vigilante out to get revenge for some past burglary. She thought that he must be a messenger of some kind. “Your perception is keen, sir. I am Megan. Who wishes to know?”

  The nodded. “I thought it was you. I spotted you as you left the alchemist’s shop. My name is Jerome and I represent a third party who would like to meet you.”

  “What third party?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. But my client knows your reputation as a fine thief and has asked to meet with you.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “For a business arrangement. I am to request that if you accept, you are to meet my client at the Gryphon Café today at three o’clock for a cocktail and discussion. That is all I am permitted to say. May I tell my client that you accept?”

  Still high on the euphoria of her deposit at the bank, Megan decided to gamble. She had the time. There was no harm in meeting with someone who might have an idea about robbing a fine manor house in the country. What was there to lose?

  “I accept. I must confess that I have not heard of the Gryphon Café, however.”

  “It is located on Mountain Street in the Mining Quarter, on the east side of town. I will convey the good news to my client. You have his regards.” The messenger handed her a small, sealed envelope, then gave a curt bow and turned away, quickly disappearing into the crowds.

  Megan stood on the corner and fingered the letter she had been given. She had never been to the old Mining Quarter of Silverton before. For that matter, she had never been accosted on the street like this before, either. Megan felt uneasy about a rendezvous with someone who knew more about her than was probably safe. But with her curiosity piqued, Megan decided she would just bring usual wariness that had served her so well for so long.

  8

  Bucharest, Romania.

  Extortion used to be such an easy racket.

  There really wasn’t a lot to it. Anton had what he called the Four Rules. First, you had to have some muscle. A couple of mean-looking guys who didn’t mind some fist action usually worked—it usually wasn’t necessary to shove a gun in someone’s face. Second, you picked your target. High-visibility local businesses were best, especially clubs and restaurants. They were the ones that needed to keep their reputations intact, and they had the most to lose if clients got scared and the venues got trashed. Next, it was a good idea to size up the owners: you wanted to find the pragmatic ones that would see the logic in paying a little each month to avoid hassle, inconvenience, or accidents. The ones that didn’t had to be taken to school. Don’t pay? Get beat up. Don’t pay again? Wife or kid gets maimed. Go to the authorities? Your business mysteriously burns to the ground—maybe with you in it. And the Fourth Rule—the most important, as simple as it was—was that your prospective target had to have some money. If there was no money, then there was nothing to extort.

  With a down economy, it was with this last rule that Anton Federov’s men were having the most trouble.

  Rain was threatening to come down any moment as Anton and his three companions sat in the car. His Mercedes E550 was on a side street near Strada Stravropoleos and the city’s Historic Center. Unlike other parts of the Lipscani District, this particular area’s recovery had been cut short by the global market crash. The relics of aborted progress were everywhere. Ugly and squat constructs wore the mantle of Ceausescu’s vision for a concrete, communist Utopia with neglect and empty purpose. Intermixed with them were the fading Neo-gothic buildings of a more prosperous era, their renovation now abandoned by a mass exodus of investors. The air smacked of missed opportunity and wasted hope, the view of a city filled with forgotten dreams.

  It was almost four in the morning and the area was essentially deserted. They had only seen one pedestrian in the past hour—a homeless man who looked half-drunk as he staggered to his sleeping spot in a nearby alley.

  “Fuck, look at this place,” Misha said from the passenger seat. “No wonder he isn’t paying.”

  “Cer used to be the most popular restaurant in this neighborhood,” Anton replied. “Mr. Topolev was a profitable customer for years.”

  Misha stared out the window at the sign above the door. Cer meant Heaven in Romanian.

  “Maybe, but what the hell? Not anymore.”

  “Well, maybe. Or maybe not. That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?” replied Anton.

  The bulky Ukrainian sitting next to Anton looked unconvinced. What was worse, he was nervous and agitated. Misha kept playing with the safety on his silenced pistol, switching it on and off repeatedly with a steady flick-flick, flick-flick. And that was making the boys in the back seat uncomfortable. Johan was sitting forward, the forehead underneath his thinning blonde hair creased with worry, his piercing, bird-like eyes glancing furtively out the window. Dmitri, darker and shorter than Johan but just as stout, stared intently at Misha as if he was expecting to have to dive for cover.

  Anton took a deep drag on his cigarette and listened to the Johnny Cash playing on the stereo. He loved this song, Ring of Fire. Sadly, it was being tarnished by the whining.

  “Misha, relax,” Anton said. “I thought you’ve done this before.”

  “I am relaxed.”

  Flick, flick.

  “Then stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Your pistol.”

  “Oh.”

  Anton surveyed their surroundings. The road in front of Cer was lonely and rundown. Trash was piled up on the corners and orange construction barriers blocked off dangerous holes in the street.
<
br />   “Whose van do you suppose that is?” asked Misha. “I thought this guy drove a sports car.”

  Anton looked out the window at a gray, nondescript van.

  “Who knows? The neighbor’s,” replied Anton.

  “Neighbor? Are you serious?” Misha squinted. “I think someone’s inside it.”

  “Maybe he has a girl back there. Can’t let the wife see, you know.”

  “No. It’s suspicious. I should go look.”

  Anton rolled his eyes. “No, you shouldn’t. You should sit there and be still.”

  Misha went back to glaring out the passenger window. Anton shook his head and took another drag, killing time, killing cigarettes. In truth, he was embarrassed. This was Johan’s territory, the restaurant Johan’s mark, the non-payment Johan’s problem. Johan and Dmitri were more than capable of handling things. But when the boss had insisted that his nephew Misha come along, he had also asked Anton to roll up his sleeves and accompany him. “An old pro to show him the ropes,” Yuri said. What a load of crap. Misha was a big ox that was not bright and not experienced, and Yuri knew it. Anton was there to keep him from botching up what should have been a simple shakedown. It was a bad business decision made in the name of family. And Anton’s name was unfortunately now tagged with this twitchy buffoon who couldn’t keep his hands off his pistol. He hoped that Dmitri and Johan understood the situation. He also hoped that he himself had enough patience.

  “What if Topolev isn’t alone? What if he called the police?” Misha complained.

  Lots of patience.

  “What if the police are in that van, watching?” suggested Johan, the sarcasm dripping liberally.