Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller)

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  A sudden, panicky thought hit him. What if it was from the blackmailers? Was it a letter bomb? Was it filled with Anthrax?

  Derek closed his eyes. Get a grip, he told himself. It’s just an envelope. That other dude handled it without much issue. It’s probably some mailer for a free cruise. His discussion with Jim was getting to him. He just needed to relax.

  He opened the end, pulled out the papers, and started reading.

  IN THE Norfolk County Court

  BETWEEN Mrs. Juliana Callahan, Petitioner

  AND Mr. Derek Callahan, Respondent

  Referring to the decree made in this cause on the 7th of July, whereby it was decreed that the marriage solemnized on the 14th of April, 2007, be dissolved unless sufficient cause be shown to the Court within six weeks from the making thereof why the said decree should not be made absolute, and no such cause having been shown...

  Struggling with comprehension, Derek stopped and returned to the beginning. There was a paragraph about dissolution affecting the inheritance of a will. Another section affected appointment of a guardian for Robby.

  These were divorce papers.

  Jesus.

  Disbelief. Then, anger. How could Jules do this? He wanted to crumple up the papers and burn them in the wastebasket. The least she could have done was to give him the courtesy of a face-to-face discussion. They could have talked things through, found some common ground to keep working on, aired what was eating them up and made sure issues were out in the open.

  She’s told you what the issues are. You just haven’t been listening.

  A disheartening shadow fell over him like the sun going behind the clouds. He refused to believe that was true.

  You choose duty over family every time. She doesn’t want that anymore.

  Maybe that was true in the past, but he was working to change! He had told her to move down to Austin. If she still wouldn’t acquiesce, then fine—he would move back to Boston and find another job. He would be there for Robby. And for her.

  You’ve got to take care of Netertainment, Derek. Jim’s words echoed in his mind.

  The apartment was very quiet.

  Derek realized he was between a rock and a hard place. But which did he choose? Did he have to choose?

  Yes.

  He didn’t want to get divorced.

  But can you provide what your spouse needs? There is a difference between wanting and doing.

  I can. I am loyal. I care. I have a son who needs his father.

  You’ll still be Robby’s father whether or not you are married to his mother.

  Juliana needs me, too—that’s what she’s been trying to tell me.

  She’s moved on. But others can’t. Jim still needs you, along with all the employees at your company. Desperately.

  I can’t be a slave to duty.

  Duty is core to who you are. You didn’t choose to be this way. It just... is.

  It doesn’t matter. I’ll quit Netertainment.

  Then you quit yourself.

  Derek walked over to the curtains in front of his patio. He pulled them open and slid aside the glass door to listen to the rain. The warm, humid air rolled into the apartment. Stepping out onto the small balcony, he felt the splash of water from the ricochet of raindrops dampening his skin. It was getting dark.

  He closed his eyes. He felt moisture around the underside of his eyes, but whether it was from tears or the rain outside, Derek couldn’t tell.

  36

  Derek expected that the workload in front of him now would be crushing. In fact, he hoped it would. He didn’t want to think about the divorce papers. Instead, he drove up to the office late Saturday morning, after hardly any sleep, with the full intention of working his ass off. He had to keep his mind focused on what he could control, and off the things that he couldn’t.

  He knew he would have to retrieve Jim’s daily planner. Jim was still old school when it came to using paper. Upon doing so, it was quickly apparent that there was no way Derek could just add all of Jim’s activities to his calendar. Meetings here, reviews there, other events—they all needed to go out the window. Derek would have to call Bill Tyson and ask for help. Shit, had Jim even spoken to Bill about his leave of absence? Derek would probably have to cover that, too.

  Eventually evening came. A rumble in his stomach made Derek realize it was eight o’clock. He tried to keep going, but the fatigue of the last twenty-four hours was catching up. He noticed with a start he was just staring at his computer screen, totally blanked out.

  The finality of the divorce papers was overwhelming. The life he had once hoped to build, the son he had hoped to raise, the wife he had hoped to love—all of it was crumbling to pieces, broken like a dropped dinner plate onto a hard tile floor. Should he have expected otherwise? Their separation was approaching ten months now, ever since he had joined Netertainment. The rift between them had started far longer before that. Perhaps it was a testimony to her character that Juliana hadn’t filed sooner. She had known long before his move to Austin that Derek was a slave to duty. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to dial it back many times, only to ultimately fail in the fight against who he was.

  If Derek had remained in Boston, would anything have really changed?

  If he had fought harder—denied himself of the way that God had wired him, diminished himself in order to elevate his wife and child—would he be happier?

  Was it right to sacrifice himself in order to help others?

  Yes, it was. The team comes before the individual. The Marines taught you that.

  Then he had doubly failed.

  Derek was having a staring contest with an excel file when he heard footsteps out in the hallway. A moment later Roger appeared, appearing surprised to see he wasn’t the only one working late on a Saturday.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Roger asked.

  Derek’s hair was sticking straight up after running his fingers through it multiple times. “Working.”

  Roger stared incredulously at him.

  “No you’re not. You’re trying to delude yourself into thinking you are, though. Come on, man—it’s Saturday night.”

  Derek sighed.

  “You okay?” Roger inched into the office.

  That question was unanswerable. “I don’t know.”

  Roger waited.

  “Jules filed for divorce,” Derek added.

  There was a long minute of silence. Then Roger unshouldered his laptop bag and took a seat in one of the guest chairs. “Wow, man. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Derek sniffed. “So am I. Actually—that’s a lie. I don’t know if I am. I don’t know what to think.”

  Roger watched him silently, thinking. “Actually...” he started, but then clamped his mouth tight as if he had thought better of it.

  “What?”

  “Well... I think a lot of us already figured out you were having trouble at home, man. It shows. Always talking about your son but never your wife. Lucy was wondering at some point whether you were already divorced.”

  “Oh, come on. Do I really telegraph my emotions that much? I’m a man. I don’t have emotions.”

  “You’re human, Derek. Just like the rest of us.”

  There was an extended hush while Derek considered that.

  “We’ve been struggling for a long time,” he admitted finally. “A lot of it is my doing. It’s hard for me to find balance. Juggling career and family. Being away versus being home. It’s very difficult for me to pull back on something so there can be equilibrium. I guess it finally caught up to me.”

  Roger sat motionlessly, listening.

  “The ironic thing is, Roger, it’s kind of a relief. Emotionally, I guess I’ve kind of known that this was coming, based on how things have been with Jules. I still care for her. I still love her. But I guess I’m not in love with her—not anymore, at least. What has me more bent out of shape is what this means for Robby. I always had these pictures in my head of him growing up in a
loving, stable household, with Mommy and Daddy as these omnipresent figures in his life. I don’t know how that’s going to be, now. With divorce filings... well, put it this way, Jules isn’t moving to Texas, and I’d have to turn my back on an awful lot in order to move back to Boston.”

  In addition, there was the whole business with Jim. Derek tacked that on with a quick explanation for Roger just for good measure. Then he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, exhausted from the act of verbalizing what was in his head.

  “Derek, I’m really, really sorry,” Roger said. “And I’m not sure I have much to offer you. For what it’s worth, all I can say is that every time one chapter ends, a new one begins. Life has a funny way of giving us a full set of experiences that get recorded in the novel of our existence.”

  Derek sniffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  “Hey listen,” Roger said. “A couple of us are getting together tonight down south for some drinks. You know, to let off some steam, listen to some music, that sort of thing.” He paused, hesitant. “Why don’t you join us? It might do you some good to be around other people that give a crap about you. At the very least, you can give yourself a distraction.”

  “Thanks, Roger, but I’m not into the club scene. It’s not really my thing.”

  “I’m not talking about a club,” said Roger. “I’m talking about south Austin. And, yes—believe it or not—I think it might actually be your thing, Derek.”

  Derek frowned. He didn’t see how the location of the club would make a difference. A club was still a club. But Roger had an expectant, insistent look that made Derek think he didn’t really have a choice.

  “South Austin, huh?”

  “Yep. And you know it’s gotta be better than doing excel on a weekend, right?”

  Derek sighed. He supposed Roger was right. All he knew was that he didn’t want to dwell on what it was that he kept thinking about.

  “Okay. How about I follow you there?”

  It was drizzling outside, the inky black sky contrasting vividly against the floodlit green of the Hill Country brush. Roger took the lead in the lead in his silver 5-series BMW. They followed some secondary roads that Derek had never been on until finally they pulled into the parking lot of an establishment with a sign bearing the name Norman Pub. A giant, twenty-foot replica of a knight wearing a suit of plate mail armor stood before the entrance, resting his hands on a sword big enough to decapitate an elephant. Roger got lucky and found a parking spot right at the knight’s feet. Derek had to park in the far corner.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” remarked Derek. “Are there wenches waiting to serve tankards of ale inside?”

  “Aye,” Roger replied, “many wenches, many tankards, and a wee bit o’ music.”

  The interior of the pub was packed. The floors and exposed beams were all made of heavy wood timber, with a peninsula bar extending out from the back wall. A low stage filled with amplifiers and musical instruments for the band sat in the corner. The walls were covered with medieval kitsch alternating with vintage posters that advertised live music performances. Several booths lined the walls, and Roger fought through the crowd to one where Lucy, Manmeet, and Dave were sitting. They all looked surprised when they saw Derek. Manmeet broke into a wide grin.

  “Look what I found at the office,” said Roger.

  Manmeet shook his hand. “It’s Saturday. No hobbies?”

  Derek smirked. “I have a hobby. It’s called work.”

  “I told him he should try drinking, it’s easier,” Roger quipped.

  Derek took off his raincoat and squeezed into the booth. Roger and Manmeet were to his right, while Dave and Lucy were across from him. Lucy was wearing a sort of Catholic schoolgirl outfit—tartan miniskirt, blouse, and gray sweater that covered up her arms. Derek discreetly checked her out without trying to be too obvious about it. It somehow fit with the Ye Olde English theme. He tried to make small talk.

  “Aren’t you warm in that sweater?” he asked.

  “It gets cold in here,” Lucy replied dryly.

  Derek looked around. “There are, like, five thousand people in here. How does it get cold?”

  “I don’t know. It just does. Maybe they crank up the AC.” Lucy looked away, annoyed.

  Derek decided he was ready to give up on all women. He changed the subject. “So, who’s the band?”

  Dave Streib was the one that answered. “Danny Santos. A Texas singer-songwriter. Austin has some of the best musicians there are.”

  “The ‘Live Music Capital of the World,’ isn’t that right?” replied Derek.

  “Well, for now. With the cost of living going up, musicians can’t afford to live here anymore.” A sly grin came over his face. “Maybe not as many technology professionals, either.”

  “Sorry, I’m not giving out any raises tonight. What kind of music is this, now?”

  “Sort of a country-folk mix. The bassist has a great big stand-up bass, which is what I like. It’s just a class act all around. They should be starting here pretty soon.”

  They ordered drinks and made small talk. Dave griped about texture mapping. Manmeet relived a pick-up basketball game he had played a few days before, which was amazing since he was only about five-foot-five. They took turns making wry observations about the eclectic patrons getting drinks at the bar. Derek got a whiskey into him, and then another, and gradually started to relax. All the problems of Netertainment, of Jules, of Robby, of email threats, they were all still there, but they shifted into the background. The talk progressively moved toward discussions of each other. Lucy asked Roger about what grade his daughters were about to start. Roger commented on Dave’s Manga comic book collection. Derek had another whiskey brought to him and sat back in the booth. He noticed Manmeet was pensive, staring at him as if he wanted to ask about something, but before he had a chance the band took the stage and started playing.

  There were three of them. The bassist was a tall, skinny man with a mustache and dark, thin hair that hung down in front of his eyes, and he led them off with a string of notes that quieted the room. A second man, older, with a potbelly and long gray ponytail, began to play a riff on what looked like a mandolin. Then Danny Santos started strumming. He was short, with shoulder-length black hair streaked with gray. As he stepped up to the lead mike and began to sing, the song started to come together—a folksy sort of waltz, the lyrics delivered with an occasional yodel. Much to his surprise, Derek found himself entranced. There was something about the way the trio played, an earnest, real vibe behind the strumming and the harmonizing that was hypnotizing. Derek sat and listened, sipping the glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the finger work of the older guitar player on his mandolin.

  The songs came one after the other, framed only by the occasional commentary about the origins of their writing, or possibly a question to the audience about some current event and how it related to the theme of the next piece of music. The tone picked up and even though there were no drums, the beat implied by the strumming more than sufficed. Finally, after about an hour of music, the lead singer announced they were going to take a break after the next song. He launched into a brisk but melancholy tune about a drifter on the road. Derek kept the whiskey flowing and let the sounds of the Norman Pub wash through him. By the second refrain, Derek was lost in his own past—sadness, longing, uncertainty, regret—as Danny sang out the words that seemed to echo in his own mind:

  Lord have mercy on me, Jesus

  For all the bad that I’ve done

  Something in me just makes me crazy

  And it keeps me on the run.

  Finally the first set was done, and the room erupted into applause as the musicians took an intermission. Pockets of conversation started to pick up around the floor. Derek closed his eyes and took in the smells and sounds around him. When he opened them, Manmeet was staring at him again.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, Derek,” apologized Manmeet. “I’m not tr
ying to be rude. It’s just—I know you used to be a Marine. I’ve always wanted to ask you—what was it like to be in combat?”

  “That’s... an interesting cocktail question.”

  “Oh—please don’t be insulted by this. I’ve wanted to ask you this for a long time, but it was always just sort of awkward at work. Let me explain. You see, I see wars and battles overseas as a very American thing. There are no other countries in the world that send troops to run police actions, stop genocides, or run counter-terrorism operations—at least, not without the US going in along with them. They can’t. America is the world’s police force. I love America. You know this. I just want to continue to learn about it and understand it. And the point of view of someone who has had to go participate in some of these very dangerous activities is not something that I’ve had the opportunity to gain.”

  “Um, Manmeet?” Roger interrupted. He had a what the fuck are you doing look. “Our friend here has had a pretty long day.”

  In spite of himself, Derek laughed. “It’s okay, Roger. I appreciate the question.”

  “Thank you,” said Manmeet.

  The whiskey was empty in Derek’s glass, so he just swirled the ice cubes around absently as he thought for a few moments in silence.

  “Combat is a really strange thing,” he began. “On the one hand, you know it’s wrong. I was raised to be peaceful. I was taught to turn the other cheek and love thy neighbor, all that sort of stuff. But sometimes, the extreme application of violence is the only way to bring about that peace. You have to use violence to remove the violence aimed at you. And you have to do it with all your being. It needs to be extreme. If you go half-assed, then instead of extinguishing the fire you just fan the flames instead and it spreads and becomes worse. It’s kind of contradictory that sometimes you need to flip a switch, become Death and everything you despise, in order to bring about a peaceful end. It’s a long, dark tunnel to go through, I guess. Sometimes you don’t get fully out the other end.