“Technically it’s a corrupted version of French.”
“Whatever.”
Haas trudged past her, muttering something about the state of modern education. “Never mind,” he said finally. “We need to get moving. It will take us a bit to cover ground between here and the stronghold, and the path is not easy.”
“I guess that’s why we stopped when it got dark, instead of just pushing on?”
“That’s right.”
Megan followed Haas into the trench. “So we break up camp and then hike over to this place. Then what?”
“What do you think, Megan?”
“I don’t know, Haas. Why should I guess? Just tell me. It’s not like I have a choice in the matter.”
“No, I guess not.”
They reached their camp. Haas began to pack up his bedroll.
“Well?”
“This is the endgame, Megan,” Haas answered. He took his gear over to Maverick and tied it behind the saddle. “Beaumaris is the end of the road. It’s where we make our last stand.”
To her ears, the ranger’s voice sounded like it was full of anticipation. But as another breeze washed through the rocky basin around them, all Megan could think of was the uneasy, prickling feeling of the hairs she felt standing up on the back of her neck.
42
The City of Hamilton, Bermuda.
The phone rang, and Geraldine Pomeroy pushed the answer button on the console that would let her speak into the headset around her ear. “Ace Business Systems,” she announced.
A female voice on the other end was quite perturbed. “Yes, hello? I want to speak to the manager there.”
“Of which department?”
“Technical services!” said the woman. She was clearly very upset, and her voice broke.
Geraldine preened her fingernail, unfazed. “I’m sorry, ma’am, our services manager is currently in a meeting. May I take a message for you?”
“Yes... yes. Tell him that one of his technicians was... was surfing pornography on my computer during a services call!”
Despite not knowing anything about this situation, Geraldine felt a flush of embarrassment. She had an extreme sense of pride and ownership—figuratively and literally—around her company’s reputation. Ace Business Systems was one of the premiere technology services companies in Bermuda, and to have an accusation like this fly at them was terrible. Words, even false ones, could travel fast and something awful like this could have a direct impact on their character. And here this person was talking about an employee of her company. She might not be the manager of the Services Department, but she couldn’t let something like this go unresolved. Geraldine felt compelled to dive in immediately.
She pulled a pen from her office supplies holder to write on her message pad. “Oh my. That’s terrible. Ma’am, can I get your name?”
“Adele Thompson.”
“Company?”
“Bermuda Bank of Commerce,” came the reply. “I’m the branch manager.”
That was even worse. Surfing sex sites while at a bank?
“Oh, my. Mrs. Thompson, that’s a very serious accusation and very terrible. Please, tell me what happened and I’ll make sure it gets in the right hands.”
“I just want to talk to the manager.”
Geraldine tapped her pen on her paper. “Mrs. Thompson, I may answer phones, but my husband is the owner of the company. You can tell me what happened and I will take care of you.”
The tension disappearing on the other end of the phone was almost audible. The caller had found someone with the authority to act. “Thank you. And what is your name?”
“My name is Mrs. Pomeroy. So, please, tell me what happened.”
“We had a computer virus on one of our machines. My machine. Nothing would run except the web browser. I phoned in for a service call and a number of hours later, a gentleman named Johan showed up. He fixed the virus before he left. This was a week ago—last Tuesday. Today, when I happened to notice in the browser history that there were some unusual website names, I clicked on one of them and it was a pornography site. It was not there before Johan came to our bank, and my computer is password protected at all times. It must have been your employee.”
“I see,” said Geraldine. “I’m very sorry that happened, Mrs. Thompson. Can you tell me again the name of the technician who did the service call?”
“He said his name was Johan. He didn’t give his last name. A big, tall, blond fellow.”
“That’s odd. I’m not familiar with him. Is he your usual technician?”
“No, we usually have Gary.”
An involuntary chill went down Geraldine’s spine. She thought quickly for a few seconds on what to say.
“Mrs. Thompson. May I put you on hold for a moment?”
“Yes.”
Switching her phone lines, Geraldine punched in the extension for the technician desk. Even though the manager Ricardo was out on a call, she thought someone would answer if they could.
Ring, ring.
“Technical services, this is Warren.”
“Good morning, Warren. Geraldine. Are you doing well this morning?”
“Yes, mum,” the voice said brightly. “Just working on replacing some hard drives. What can I do for you?”
“Can you tell me, who’s taken on Gary’s clients?”
“Oh, well, that would be me, actually,” said Warren.
“Really?” Geraldine replied, concerned. With jet black hair, there was no way Warren would be confused with the description given to Geraldine on the phone. “Have you been taking all the service calls that might have come in for him, then?”
“Yes, mum.”
“I see. Have you received any service requests from Bermuda Bank of Commerce?”
“BBC? No, mum.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure, yes. Not in the past two weeks, anyway.”
Warren, do we have a technician named Johan working in your department? Maybe doing temporary work?”
“Johan? Uh... no.”
“You’re sure? A tall gentleman with blond hair?”
“I’m sure. Actually, the only person back here I think who has blond hair is Peter, and he’s five-foot-three if he stands on his toes.” A moment passed before Warren added, “Mum.”
“Thank you, Warren,” said Geraldine, and she hung up the line.
Considering what to say for a moment, she tapped her pen against the paper pad on her desk. This was certainly strange, and disturbing.
Geraldine pushed the button on the phone that connected her back to the bank manager.
“Mrs. Thompson?”
“Yes.”
“I apologize for that wait. I need to share something with you that might make you uncomfortable. You see, your usual technician, Gary Coady, he has... disappeared. We’ve gone so far as to file a Missing Persons report with the authorities. But he hasn’t reported to work for two weeks.”
“Okay,” said Mrs. Thompson after a few moments.
“There’s more. All of the services requests from his usual customers have been going to one of our other technicians named Warren. Warren’s been with us for five years and is a very trustworthy person. We don’t have a technician named Johan, and we haven’t received any requests for a service call from Bermuda Bank of Commerce in the past two weeks.”
There was silence.
“Mrs. Thompson?”
“Yes?”
“How do you normally phone in your requests for service?”
“I—I... I usually phone Gary’s mobile number.”
“Not our switchboard?”
Some hesitation. “No.”
“I see,” said Geraldine.
More uncomfortable silence.
“This technician,” said Mrs. Thompson, “the one named Johan... he was wearing an Ace Business Systems shirt... you’re sure you don’t have someone with that name...”
Involuntarily, Geraldine shuddered ag
ain.
“No, Mrs. Thompson.”
“Oh.”
“Mrs. Thompson, with your permission, I’d like to get the authorities involved. I think that perhaps something bad has happened here, and it’s clearly affected both of us and our companies. Are you okay if I make this call?”
“Yes... yes, absolutely.”
“Thank you.” Geraldine quizzed Mrs. Thompson for a few more bits of detail and a return phone number. When she finally hung up, she stared at her desk blankly for several minutes, trying to deny what it was that she knew had somehow happened in her sinking heart.
“Oh, Gary,” she said aloud to herself. Then she flipped through her little book where she kept important phone numbers, found the one she was looking for, and dialed the police.
43
Austin, Texas.
Derek tossed restlessly in his bed. Lucy was snuggled up on his left side, sleeping soundly and holding him with her arm. But Derek wasn’t aware of her—just as he wasn’t aware of the sweaty sheets that were draped over his legs. His mind was reeling in a faraway place, clinging to desperate fragments of command and control. Derek’s body involuntarily twitched as his subconscious fought against the partition of his dreaming mind.
The Bell AH-1 Super Cobra hashed through the air overhead making an ugly, metallic noise with its rotors. Callahan glanced up overhead just in time to see the flash ripping from its 20mm Gatling cannon. A spray of metal tore off the corner of a nearby building.
Callahan returned his attention to the limp body that he had just dropped ignominiously in the dirt behind the Humvee. His fingers worked to get the body armor off Fields but the blood on the clasps made it difficult and slippery. Even covered in the brown dirt of Iraq, Fields looked unnaturally pale.
“Where the hell is Doc?” Callahan shouted. His heard the urgency in his own voice.
“Here, Lieutenant,” yelled Booker as he ran up from behind. Booker took over tending to Fields. Callahan got back up and leveled his rifle from behind the Humvee. There was still fire coming from... somewhere. The Super Cobra had taken out one position but the crack of AK-47s still filled the air. They did not have control of the intersection and the QRF was still not here yet.
Derek kicked involuntarily in bed. Sweat plastered the hair to his forehead.
Running around to the other corner of the Humvee, Callahan scanned for signs of the enemy. An engine revved in the distance and another Humvee surged forward until a chain attached to its rear pulled taut. A cloud of cinderblock debris filled the air near a house thirty yards away.
Movement in a far-off window. Callahan pointed his M-16 and squeezed the trigger. Pop, pop, pop.
“Come on, Ricks, get your ass out of there,” Callahan said to himself.
No one appeared in the hole that was now in the side of the building. Robinson, a huge, commanding shape, dashed from the Humvee with the chain and ran into the hole.
More movement in the neighboring buildings caught in Callahan’s peripheral vision.
“Get suppressing fire onto that roof over there! The two story building with the missing door!” Callahan shouted at the two Marines covering the intersection. Where was the damn helicopter? It had disappeared after that last pass.
An RPG exploded against the building behind Callahan, sending a shower of brick and stone raining down onto the street. It had likely been aimed at the Humvee behind which Callahan and Booker were taking cover. The intersection was about to get hotter as both insurgents and the QRF arrived to contest the area.
Shapes filled the opening in the building where Lane’s Humvee had pulled out the barred window. Callahan could see the larger one, Robinson, on the left, while Ricks was on the right. A figure was slumped between them, struggling to stand but unable to do so on his own.
“Come ON, Ricks!” Callahan said aloud.
Derek thrashed in bed.
Somewhere around them, the noise from the Super Cobra echoed off of distant buildings. The three Marines started to stagger across the street. Callahan scanned the nearby rooftops for enemy shooters while he stole glimpses of the men carrying the wounded Gleeson between them. These were the last men from his platoon and they were going to get them out of there. The Corpsman, Booker, was stabilizing Fields behind him and then he’d be able to work on Gleeson. Then they’d pull back and have Second Platoon pivot around to take over this part of the push. They were Marines. There was no escape for this enemy who set up ambushes and—
Two puffs of enemy fire hit Ricks’s chest and the three men went down hard.
A shriek of rage.
The sweaty sheets flew off as Derek shot bolt upright in bed, his eyes open but not seeing, screaming in fear and fury. He dropped his imagined M-16 and, in the nightmare of his mind, dashed out into the intersection.
With Ricks having collapsed and Gleeson unable to stand on his own, PFC Robinson was struggling to get back on his feet. They were exposed in the middle of the intersection.
Derek grunted as his eyes fixed on his men. He was running hard. He had to get them out of there.
The PFC was a burly African-American and Callahan could see the white of his teeth as the man grimaced with exertion. Robinson couldn’t get back up...
Shouting filled the room around him. Derek ignored it all. He had to save his men.
Callahan charged to cover the distance. The men were still thirty yards away.
Derek had his pistol ready in case anyone tried to stop him.
Pockmarks of AK-47 fire dotted the unpaved road. The gunfire was marching toward the pile of Marines as the shooter tried to find his range...
He was almost there...
Callahan reached the fallen Marines. Ricks was face down in the street, unmoving. His friend.
Derek roared.
Robinson was on his knees. Callahan dove into the men, hauling Robinson up and wrapping the Marine’s arm around Gleeson, who was trying his hardest to no avail to walk on his own. He pushed the two of them to get them moving toward the Humvee. Then Callahan grabbed Ricks’s arm and hauled the limp body around into a sitting position so that he could get a good grip on his harness. His ears were ringing with the sounds of shouting and gunfire and the flood of adrenaline. With monumental effort, Callahan started pulling—taking the weight of Ricks, his pack, his body armor, all of it, by himself, oblivious to over two hundred-fifty pounds, it was irrelevant—and started dragging him back to cover. His legs burned at the effort and his fingers protested the strain. They were both exposed to enemy fire and moving far too slow. But Callahan was not going to let his friend die. He couldn’t die. No, he couldn’t. Ricks, goddamnit, don’t die....
There was shouting, only it was a woman’s voice.
Derek blinked.
He was in his apartment—that was the first thing he noticed. Slowly he realized things weren’t right. He was standing against the wall of his living room, panting, soaking wet. His furniture... his breakfast table was turned over, the chairs scattered. One of them was broken with the backrest completely torn off from the seat. The sheets from his bed were snaked out in a long, winding rope from his bedroom door as if they had been dragged off the mattress. Someone was cowering at his feet. Derek looked down. It took him a moment to realize that it was Lucy. Her mouth was bloody, with a deep red lining the edges of her teeth and dribbling down her chin. Eyes wide with fear stared up at him from where she sat curled up on the carpet. Her entire body was trembling, her lips quivering out a barely audible whimper that had replaced her panicked screams.
Derek stood there clutching her wrist. In his other hand Derek was holding the Beretta pistol he kept under his pillow. The safety was off.
Jesus Christ.
For a moment, Derek did nothing. Then the reality of the dream he had acted out hit home. He looked again at his pistol and somehow had the wherewithal to engage the safety before it slipped from his trembling hand. Tears were suddenly sliding down his cheeks as he sank down against the wall. He reach
ed out for Lucy and grabbed her—not roughly, as he had done when dragging her from the bedroom, but gingerly, tentatively... apologetically. Huge sobs racked through his body, and he clung on to her for dear life, trying to grasp what he had done, mortified that he had injured her. Terrified of himself.
They cried together for a long time.
44
Derek and Roger sat in his office looking at the month’s financials. Enrollment was up 6%, quite a good jump considering the recent launch of competing games like Football GM Pro Online and Timber Wolf Wizard. In-game revenues were up as well from existing players upgrading their defenses. Profit had just recently crept above break-even, which was good considering how many programmers were working on tightening their security.
“All in all, a really good month,” Derek said. Sometimes it was hard to believe that with all the drama going on there was still a business to run. He flipped through the papers in front of him. “And look. Those new stronghold defenses that Streib’s team came up with? They’ve shot to the top of Most Frequently Purchased Options. Tell him to keep it up.”
Roger smiled. “I think they had some bets going on around which designer would come out on top.”
“Looks like... the Inner Moat Acid Bath should be the winner then,” said Derek, reviewing the Pareto chart.
“Yeah, that could ruin your fuckin’ day,” Roger agreed. “But the thing is, each trap has a sort of fatal flaw—we don’t want to make them impenetrable. No one would want to adventure.”
“True. What’s the flaw for this one?”
“Throw baking soda into it.”
Derek laughed. “Right. Add a base to an acid. No, really, what is it?”
“I’m not joking.”
“Huh?”
“Every Wizard carries baking soda as a spell component. You throw baking soda into the acid moat and it will be neutralized for 60 seconds.”
Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller) Page 40
