Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller)

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  But would it work?

  “Do you have any kind of accent when you speak English, DarkZeus?” typed Krystian.

  The chat room was silent again, but Krystian knew that DarkZeus was busily thinking. What he was asking was not a trivial thing. He knew next to nothing about the real personas of the people he worked with in his hacker circle, and they all preferred it that way. In the cyber world they were all kings. They had each crafted a resume of daring exploits, hacks, scams, and crimes, carefully building themselves up their reputations through daring deeds and adventures that sought to outdo the competition. They all craved the notoriety and fame associated with great feats. But to broach the idea of engaging live... was that wise? Even if it was aimed at the prospective mark, it opened up the circle to a new level of risk from the bright, blinding light of the real world.

  But the stakes were worth millions of dollars, and time was short.

  Finally, the chat room window displayed the response from DarkZeus. I do. But it might actually work to our advantage.

  “Can you handle this phone call then?” said Krystian. His palms were sweating.

  Yes. But I want a bigger cut.

  A surge of adrenaline flooded into Krystian’s face. “I’ll arrange it. This is excellent. Okay, so we have the first part of our plan. DarkZeus will be the one to get us the name of the bank. Now, let’s talk about how once we know where it is, what we’re going to do to after that.”

  Pr1mal: How are you going to get someone on the inside to help you set up the withdrawal?

  Krystian took a deep breath. “That’s the part that Anton is going to take care of. I’m not sure what he has in mind, he wouldn’t tell me. But that’s more of his element. Doing... physical break-ins.”

  But he’d eventually have to tell you what he wants you to do, if you’re going to be there and help him. Right? said Pr1mal.

  “Well, I don’t think he plans on my being there hovering off his shoulder.”

  You mean this Anton fellow is going to do the actual robbery without you?

  “God, I hope so,” said Krystian. “I mean, I’m sure I’ll be helping but not while being there physically. I wouldn’t be much help anyway. Besides, someone has to handle the transfers, so that the money is received and then moved again, and that can be done remotely. By me.”

  Doesn’t that seem a bit backward? DarkZeus asked. I would think the most dangerous part of the job would be the one where you’re onsite at the bank. At least, that would be the closest place to where the police would be. But you’re saying Anton thinks you’re the one who’s screwed up and lost all this money, yet he is volunteering to take on the riskiest job? Awfully nice of him, don’t you think?

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, he was plenty mad, and still is,” said Krystian. “But when we started talking about a bank robbery... I don’t know, his attitude sort of changed. I think he liked the idea of doing something daring again. You need to understand, too, what Anton’s reputation is. He has a nickname—the Butcher of Bucharest. He is known for, well, persuading people. So maybe that is what he intends to do.”

  Another lull in the chat room.

  DarkZeus: Uh... okay.

  “What, you don’t believe me?”

  I just think it’s weird, that’s all. But I wasn’t there.

  “No,” said Krystian defensively, “you weren’t.”

  Pr1mal waded in now, changing the subject: So, assuming Anton arranges for an insider to be persuaded out of the goodness of their heart, then what? How does this whole thing work?

  “That’s the other part I need your help with. We need to make an equipment list.”

  * * *

  Austin, Texas.

  It was just after noon, and as usual Stan Matthews was eating at his desk. Today’s menu was Supreme Pizza Hot Pockets, a sleeve of Stax potato chips, and two Dr. Peppers. Lunch was his Cave Time: time to take a break from work and catch up on the news, on Facebook, on Fantasy Baseball. The rest of the day at Netertainment was just too busy and always go-go-go with his important role of Business Analyst II. If he didn’t carve out at least a little time for himself, he’d absolutely go crazy. Plus, trying to have Cave Time after work didn’t sit well with his girlfriend Katy, who always complained that he was being selfish and not spending any time with her whenever he tried to just be a guy in the evenings.

  His desk phone rang. Normally, Cave Time meant No Answering the Phone Time as well, but the caller id said it was from Pia at the Reception Desk. Pia was cute. Stan would answer the phone for Pia.

  “Hello, this is Stan.”

  “Oh!” Pia said, surprised. “Hi Stan. I didn’t think you’d be there. I have a caller for you wanting to talk about corporate banking services.”

  “Banking services?”

  “Something like that. He’s... here it is. Said his name’s Reggie, from the National Association of American Banks. Do you want to take the call?”

  “Oh,” said Stan. He was actually a member of NAAB, which was a non-profit professional association that championed the banking industry specifically, and accounting in general. He even belonged to the Facebook group and had them linked to his personal page. “Yeah, I’ll take their call.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” purred Pia. “I’ll transfer him to you.”

  “Any time,” purred Stan right back.

  The phone clicked as Pia connected the calls. “Reggie, I have Mr. Matthews here on the line. Have a nice day.”

  “Excellent, thank you very much,” said a male voice with a pleasant British accent. “Mr. Matthews?”

  “Yes,” said Stan importantly.

  “Ah, good day to you. My name is Reggie Hague with the National Association of American Banks. I’m wondering if I could have just a brief moment of your time—”

  “Yes, of course you can. I’m a very active member of NAAB.”

  “Excellent, I’m glad to hear of it. Then I’m sure that you know—”

  “I’ve been involved with your group for the past five years. Very excellent association and I must say that I’m always impressed with the issues you’re advocating for, as well as the reforms and oversight needed to the industry overall.”

  “Great, yes, well, we are certainly very active—”

  “Has anyone ever pointed out to you that you have an English accent, yet you’re calling about the National Association of American Banks? Don’t you find that unusual?”

  Pause. “Yes, well, one does not always live and work in the place where one was born—”

  “I mean, isn’t that kind of funny? That you’re English?”

  There was the sound of a throat clearing.

  “Mr. Matthews, I’m conducting a brief survey on globalization and its impact on corporate banking policies and partners, and I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d allow me to gather some information about you and your company. To start, do you currently today use domestic or offshore banking services?”

  “Yes, yes we do,” said Stan.

  “And which kind would it be, then? Domestic, or offshore?”

  “Offshore.”

  “Excellent. What led you or your company to make that decision?”

  “Oh, it was a variety of reasons,” Stan started to explain. “Everything from exchange rates to being a tax shelter. But there were actually a bunch of operational benefits as well. For starters, the bank we picked had a really strong Internet presence and ability to interface into our software. Then there were the people that worked there—very, very knowledgeable bunch that we really just liked a whole lot when it came to finding a partner that would help us grow. Then of course, there’s the fact that by having an offshore bank, we insulate ourselves from potential legislation if our business should be deemed a gambling operation—”

  “Mr. Matthews, might I ask which bank your firm opted to go with?” asked Reggie.

  “Oh, sure, it’s Bermuda Bank of Commerce.”

  “Are they actually based in Bermuda? Have you been
there? I hear that’s a lovely place.”

  “Yes, they are, and no, I wouldn’t know. I don’t suppose that the National Association of American Banks actually sponsors trips to foreign countries to do competitive research or anything on offshore banks, do they? I mean, with your English connections, maybe that’s something you should look at?”

  “Uh... no, I’m sorry, but we don’t currently do that. Just, um, surveys at this point.”

  “Oh. Pity. What were we talking about?”

  “Actually, Mr. Matthews, I think this will do just fine. You’ve been very helpful for us here at the NAAB to understand just a little about what drives some of the financial decisions of American corporations. I do appreciate your time.”

  “Oh, not at all,” said Stan. “Hey, maybe you could tell me, I’ve been looking actually to start a local chapter of NAAB here in Austin, Texas. Is there some sort of charter, or startup funding, that I can get access—”

  Click.

  “Hello?”

  There was no reply. What a shame. He’d just have to go to the website and pursue his interest at a later point. Maybe Stan would actually get somewhere speaking with an American representative of the National Association of American Banks. He chuckled as he went back to his lunch.

  35

  Austin, Texas.

  Jim Palmisano’s home was amazing, but today it seemed somehow less so. The brilliant white limestone appeared shabby and the red tile roof felt worn and dull. The pallor didn’t stop at the house. The afternoon sky was overcast and hung oppressively with thick, gray clouds. A stiff breeze shook all the trees. Derek knew a cold front was just arriving in Austin, and it seemed fitting given the news he had to deliver to his boss.

  Derek parked his Audi coupe in the driveway and walked up to the front door. He took a deep breath before he rang the doorbell. The anticipation was the worst.

  What the fuck do you mean we’re being investigated by the FBI?

  That’s not what I said, Jim.

  I know what you said, and there are Feds poking around in all of our systems! To me, that’s being investigated!

  We’re getting blackmailed, Jim.

  What if it’s all bullshit? We’re working on structuring a public stock offering, and you’re opening the door for Big Government to see our operations. What if they decide we’re an online gambling outfit? Why do you think we do banking in Bermuda, for God’s sake!

  You weren’t the one whose family was being threatened, Jim.

  Then I’ll fucking fire you so you can go into hiding. But stop fucking with my company!

  It would be at that point that Derek lost his temper and said things that would in fact get him fired. And maybe it would be for the best. Removed from the company, he would just go back to Boston and try to repair his family.

  Right now, it was getting through the anticipation.

  Derek rang the doorbell.

  A minute went by with no acknowledgment. Derek rang again. He had called beforehand—hell, Jim had been the one that had invited him out to his house to do it face-to-face. Derek had taken that as a bad sign. But why wasn’t he answering the door?

  Had the same people who had threatened Derek moved up the chain and gone after Jim?

  Finally, a dark shape approached from deep within the house. The lock clicked and Jim swung the door open. Derek walked inside.

  It was dark. With the dim ambient light from the overcast sky outside, it felt like he was entering some sort of crypt.

  “Forget to pay your electric bill?”

  Jim grunted. They walked in silence across the great room, the footsteps from Derek’s shoes echoing emptily against the hardwood floors. The view through the magnificent picture windows was muted and gray. Jim led him downstairs to the den and, without asking Derek for input, poured two glasses of Crown straight up. He handed a glass to Derek and went out onto the back deck.

  Derek followed. Jim sat down laboriously onto a wicker chair facing the lake. The incoming wind did not make for a particularly pleasant outside experience, but maybe it would provide for a quicker death when Jim threw him over the railing.

  “You okay, Jim?”

  His boss just stared out over the water. Finally, he spoke. “What is it that you need to talk about?”

  Derek had rehearsed his update aloud in the car on the way over. Now, sitting on the deck, his preparation felt insufficient.

  “You recall our two million dollars that went missing?”

  “Hmm.”

  “The FBI is involved now. They believe the money may belong to an organized criminal group that had been laundering it through our game.”

  Derek could see Jim furrow his eyebrows, but otherwise he made no sign of hearing. The lack of an explosive reaction was unsettling.

  “The reason the money disappeared,” Derek continued, “is because another player may have taken it. The criminals don’t care and have demanded Netertainment cover the loss, and launched a Denial of Service attack the other week that took us down for an entire day. They’ve threatened my family and me personally and we brought in the FBI to figure out the best way to respond.”

  The wind gusted strongly and prompted Derek to break his monologue. He hadn’t expected to get this far without being cut off by expletives. Instead, Jim continued to stare out over the water. Derek took another swig from his whiskey glass and stood to go back and get a refill.

  “Jim?”

  “Maria has terminal cancer.”

  Another breeze washed over the deck. Derek was jostled enough to topple back down to his chair. And the world seemed to darken even more.

  “Oh, fuck, Jim.”

  Derek stood back up and walked inside, where he grabbed the whole bottle of Crown before returning. He filled both of their glasses to the top.

  “What kind of cancer?”

  Jim took a catatonic swig. “Lung. She’s always been a smoker. I’ve tried to get her to quit, but over the years she’s been too stubborn for even me.”

  “How far along?”

  “We’ve known for about two months. It’s stage four.”

  “Stage four. That means it’s spread to other systems in her body?”

  “Yes. Metastasized to her spine and kidneys.”

  Derek shook his head. “What now?”

  Jim took a long, deep breath. “Hospice.”

  “Jesus.” Derek rested his elbows on his knees. “Where is she? Is she here?”

  “No, no. She’s at the hospital. I’m going to bring her home Saturday. I’ve got all the stuff ready—a medical bed, oxygen concentrator, a nurse for the nights. The doctors don’t know how much longer she’s got. I’m just going to… you know. Be here with her.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jim.”

  Jim stared out into the distance, the darkening sky gradually blurring the lines between water and land. He cleared his throat.

  “You’ve got to take care of Netertainment, Derek.”

  Derek was incredulous. “That’s what you want me to do to help you?”

  Jim gave a mirthless chuckle. “All of our money is in that company, Derek. Mine and a lot of other people’s. Netertainment is either going to make it big—or it’s going to implode in the face of adversity. It needs a shepherd. It needs me. It needs me and I can’t… I can’t…”

  He started sobbing. Derek wasn’t sure what to do. Part of him wanted to turn away and politely pretend not to notice a grown man crying. Somehow, that seemed indecent. The Palmisanos had always been close to him. It was why Derek wasn’t really ever scared of Jim’s angry tirades when things got heated. Derek reached over and put his arm around his boss’s shoulder. Eventually Jim got his crying under control and pulled out a handkerchief to dab his eyes.

  “Sorry about that, Derek,” Jim gasped through his cleanup attempt.

  “No. Don’t be. It’s okay.”

  “Please,” Jim continued. “Please, Derek. Take care of our company. I’ll talk with Bill Tyson. He’ll help you. He�
��s a good investment partner and knows his stuff. If you have to work with the FBI, do it. Just get Netertainment out of danger.”

  Derek felt the weight settling on his shoulders. More responsibility from those who needed him.

  “All right, Jim.”

  They talked for a few more minutes before Derek decided it was best that he get back on the road. Jim walked him back through the house and gave him an awkward hug at the front door. Inside, Derek was a knot. His stress level was already high and he wasn’t sleeping well. The nightmares were a regular occurrence. What was going to happen now?

  The storm was in full effect by the time he was on the highway, with sheets of rain reducing visibility to practically nothing. Upon reaching his apartment complex, Derek drove to his assigned parking spot only to find that some asshole had already parked there. He parked a few spots down, got out and held an old magazine over his head to shield his head. The door of the car in his parking space opened as he approached.

  “Mr. Callahan?”

  Derek froze.

  The man speaking to him was overweight and wearing a trench coat to keep the rain off. Derek decided he didn’t look like a mobster. He hurried over to the relative dryness of the apartment breezeway before he turned and waited. The man shuffled after him.

  “Are you Mr. Callahan?”

  “Maybe. And if I am, you’re in my parking spot.”

  “Here.” The man held out a large brown envelope.

  Not knowing what else to do, Derek took it. The man gave him a curt nod before getting back into his car. Derek stood there wondering what had just happened before he decided he could be just as clueless standing inside.

  Derek’s apartment was as bare and empty as always, and after quickly changing into some dry clothes he examined the envelope again. It had his name and address handwritten in black ink on the front and no return address. It was light, maybe with just a few papers in it, and had almost no creases.