Armchair Safari (A Cybercrime Technothriller)

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  Krystian was begging, screaming, pleading through the duct tape.

  “Life’s lessons, eh? What? No, look... stop. I get the feeling you’re not listening to me, Krystian... Krystian. Krystian. Stop screaming. Will you stop—Misha, I don’t think I’m getting through, do you?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Krystian, I might not kill you unless you don’t shut up, in which case I will definitely kill you. So—shut up.”

  Krystian let his frantic terror subside into a sort of intermittent bleating.

  “Good, good. Now, as I was saying... life’s lessons are hard, Krystian. They’re hard. Anton liked to teach lessons to those who crossed him, so that they never did it again. Did you know that?” Dmitri smiled and looked at the ceiling as if reminiscing fondly about a favorite nephew. “He was a bit of an artist about it. You see—he liked to try and find something near and dear to what made someone tick. If you were athletic, say, a runner, he’d focus maybe on your feet. If you liked to read, he might make a point to pay attention to your eyes. And then—this is the best part, Krystian—do you know what he’d do?”

  Krystian was wide-eyed, silent.

  “You can shake your head or nod, Krystian. Do you know what he’d do?”

  Krystian shook his head.

  Dmitri leaned down close to Krystian’s face.

  “Do you know what he’d do? Want to guess? No?”

  Dmitri leaned back and winked a smile.

  “He’d cut off that body part.”

  Krystian stared at the Russian sitting next to him.

  “So... what to do with you then, eh? You’re a computer whiz-kid, so they say. Your fingers? It is very difficult to get by without fingers... typing and all that. Eating. Or maybe the eyes, given that you need to look at a computer monitor? What do you think, Krystian? What would be a fitting body part to lose as punishment for being careless, and sending my friend to prison?”

  The room was tensely silent. For a fleeting moment, Krystian glanced over at the other Russian sitting in his chair, his foot raised up on his computer desk, resting it. Unconsciously Krystian’s eyes slid upward to the poster over his computer monitors. It had always been one of his favorites, a woman with her legs spread eagle and doing suggestive things with her fingers. If he was going to go blind, it might be the last time he ever had a chance to look at it.

  He became aware of the first man, Dmitri, watching him. The Russian’s eyes traced his gaze over to the wall. When he looked back at Krystian, there was a sardonic smile on his lips.

  “Yes,” Dmitri said, satisfied. “I think that’s perfect.” He put a heavy, iron-like hand on Krystian’s crotch.

  And Krystian screamed.

  Key West, Florida.

  From where he sat on the beach house’s balcony, Derek could hear his cell phone ringing back in the living area. The sun was getting lower in the sky, casting a warm, orange glow across the clouds that hung over the water. The surf was crashing on the sand just a hundred feet away. It wasn’t a setting that Derek really cared to leave and it was debatable whether or not it was worth answering the phone. Derek wasn’t getting that many calls as of late. But his glass of whiskey was empty and he needed another anyway, so he lifted himself out of his chair and went inside.

  It was Roger calling.

  “I’m not available,” Derek said after pressing the answer button.

  “Hey there, buddy!” came the familiar voice. “Who says you were any good when you were available, eh?”

  “At last—you have me figured out,” Derek said, smiling. “How’s it going?”

  “You know, Derek, it’s not nearly as much fun being the CEO as I thought it would be. Just a bunch of headaches.”

  “That’s why you earn the big bucks now. Have you heard from Palmisano?”

  “Jim’s been great, considering. I think he’s relieved to just be a consultant now instead of being on the hook to run everything—which is ultimately what he had me and you doing anyway. But at least now he’s able to spend most of his time with Maria, as he should, and when he needs mental health breaks he engages with me about strategy and other bullshit.”

  “Good, good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  There was a pause on the phone.

  “We miss having you around, Derek.”

  Derek smiled. “Don’t start that again. Somebody had to take the fall. My resignation was necessary to get some closure on the whole thing—the theft, the FBI, the blackmail, the hacking.”

  “It’s fucking bullshit, Derek.”

  “Listen to you,” Derek scoffed. “I thought you once said there was no such thing as bad publicity?”

  “What I said was—”

  “Netertainment has had a ton of press thanks to our little incident, Roger. Come on. ‘Hackers Foiled in High-Tech Heist.’ ‘A Modern Day Safari.’ ‘Online Gamer Wins the Lottery.’ Weren’t there something like 6 million YouTube hits for that video of you and Jim presenting that big-ass cardboard check to that player... what was her name? Megan Evans? Even if the stolen money went to the FBI, so what? Paying out those winnings from our own account was probably the best advertising we ever could have paid for.”

  “You should have been there with us,” Roger protested.

  “I’m still there in spirit, my friend. Don’t worry. Tyson’s taking care of me. I’m on contract directly with him and the rest of the VCs. He has a ton of assignments for me to pick through in their portfolio as a consultant. I think he has a man-crush on me the size of Texas.”

  “He still remembers that meeting we had with him where you spilled the beans. I thought I was going to puke on the floor when you brought up the FBI.” Roger chuckled. “Which is why you should be in this CEO job. Not me.”

  “Whatever,” Derek shrugged. “It’s okay. You’re perfect for it, Roger. I did my part. I need my space from Netertainment anyway. Too much... stress.”

  Roger’s tone turned serious. “Yeah. How is that going?”

  Derek thought about that for a moment. “It’s going fine, actually. Lucy pushing me back into therapy was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. I mean, it’s been hard. A lot of dredging up of old issues. But I feel... good. Really. As a matter of fact, the day after we get back from this little vacation I’m supposed to go up to the VA hospital for my next session. I’m kind of looking forward to it. It helps talking to other combat vets.”

  “So you two are still getting along?”

  Derek thought back to his exchange with Lucy back at the bank in Bermuda, how she had literally been shaking just from being in the same room with him. That was one of the lowest points of his life. But when he had dejectedly walked back, bloody and defeated, after losing Anton Federov in the old fort down the road, she had thrown her arms around him and broken down sobbing. He did some sobbing of his own, too. It turned out they needed each other more than either one of them realized. And who could have guessed that a late night discussion-slash-sleepover in his villa about their future together—where his usual restlessness had sent him to curling up on the floor, like he had long done to cope with his demons—had ended up saving his life.

  “We’re doing good, Roger. Really good. Lucy’s a special girl.”

  “Damn straight, and don’t you forget it. When are you coming back again? I’d really appreciate having my CIO returned to me.”

  “Ha. You’ll get her. I promise. Next Tuesday.”

  “All right,” Roger said. “Next Tuesday. I’m glad you’re doing okay, my friend. You of all people deserve a break.”

  “No doubt.”

  “You’re a good man, Derek. I mean it.”

  “Thanks, Roger. That means a lot coming from you.”

  “Goddamn right it does. Now get back to drinking your drink or whatever the hell it is you’re doing on the beach out there.”

  “Got it. Take care.”

  “You too,” Roger replied.

  Derek hit the End button and stared reminiscently at
the display.

  “Who was that?” Lucy said from the other room.

  “Roger.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, he was just checking up on when you’re going to get back,” Derek teased. “Said he had a bunch of crises that he needed immediate help on.

  Lucy stepped into the doorway. “He did?”

  “No, not really. He was checking on me, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. You know.” Derek stared.

  “I do?”

  “I, um... yeah. He wanted to make sure I was ok.”

  Lucy was walking toward him. “Are you?”

  “Uh—yes! Definitely. I think? What was I talking about? I don’t know.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. Seems I can’t remember... you’re, uh, very distracting.”

  “I am?” She was standing in front of him now.

  “Yes. Extremely. I’m having trouble concentrating on pretty much anything right now.”

  “You are?”

  “Very much. I mean, I like the bathrobe... it looks very soft. And comfortable—that’s always a bonus. Especially when you wear it open like that. With no bra. Very, uh, likeable. I like it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do like it. Definitely. And definitely more when you are—ah... straddling me like you are. And when you’re putting your fingers in my hair, like you are. And... looking down... at me.”

  “Like I am?”

  “Like you are.”

  “I’m glad you like.”

  Derek put his arms underneath the bathrobe and wrapped them gently around Lucy’s waist. “I do. Thank you for staying with me. For believing in me.”

  Lucy smiled, the sun dipped below the horizon, and their lips melted together.

  Las Vegas, Nevada.

  “Why don’t we just stay in tonight?” Mark Frasier was saying into his iPhone. It was his and Katie’s 1-year anniversary since they had met, and Katie hadn’t been able to shut up about wanting to do something special. “I can make you a nice dinner and we can, you know, hang out?”

  “Mark, I don’t want to just hang out tonight. That’s all we’ve been doing lately! I want to do something special. Don’t you even care about our anniversary?”

  “Of course I care, Katie. Why does celebrating have to involve going to some expensive restaurant? Isn’t it more meaningful for us to do something together—cooking together or—”

  “No, Mark,” fumed Katie, “I don’t want to have to cook tonight... wait, is that what this is about? Not spending money?”

  “Of course not—”

  “It is, isn’t it... oh, Mark, I can’t believe how cheap you are. You used to not be like this. Oh, fuck... just forget it...”

  “Katie—”

  The other end of the line went dead. She had hung up.

  That’s just great.

  Mark shook his head in frustration as he tossed his phone onto the kitchen counter. Relationships weren’t supposed to be this hard, were they? Why did a celebration have to involve dropping two hundred bucks for slow service and mediocre food? Wasn’t it supposed to be about camaraderie and closeness?

  That’s when opening the pantry revealed perhaps how unrealistic even cooking a fine dinner might be. Cereal boxes, ramen noodles, cans of beans. Mark knew that the inside the fridge wouldn’t be much better, just beer and an empty pizza box.

  Well, it was going to be another lonely solo flight tonight, Mark thought. He took off his coat, grabbed the pile of mail he had brought with him from outside, and flopped down on his couch. A couple clicks of the remote and Sports Center was playing in the background.

  “What important junk mail do we have today?” Mark mused. “Maybe a ramen noodle club?”

  Discount tires. Trash.

  Under Armour catalog. Too pricey, at least, too pricey these days.

  Credit card bill. Keep that—reluctantly—for later.

  Address labels with a nickel taped just inside the clear plastic window of the envelope. Give money to further the cause of cancer research. Trash.

  An envelope addressed to him by name, from... Netertainment? Mark slid his finger into the corner and ripped the paper open. The envelope contained two sheets of paper tri-folded together to fit inside. He opened and read them:

  “Haas,”

  Netertainment would not give me your name or address due to their privacy policy, but they did offer to forward some correspondence that I insisted they help me communicate to you.

  I’m sure you probably saw all the press about the big payout I received from our adventures together. It was pretty awesome, I have to admit. It’s not every day that someone like me, or anyone else for that matter, gets an amount of money out of the blue that can be so life-changing. At the time I am writing this letter, I am even receiving requests to appear on morning talk shows and talk about Armchair Safari and online gaming. I expect it will die out before too long but for whatever this fifteen minutes is worth, I intend to enjoy it as much as possible.

  What you probably don’t know yet is that, privately, I have arranged with Netertainment to distribute my “winnings” six ways amongst our party, according to the spirit of our original agreement set up by Kalam. I did not earn this money; rather, WE earned it together. My parents raised me to honor commitments and respect relationships and that is what I intend to do. (I did modify what Kalam is getting to just one share, though, given the circumstances of some of his duplicity and what you and I ultimately had to go through to survive. I decided to keep that extra share for myself. He didn’t complain.)

  There’s more. If you recall, anyone who died was supposed to get their share reduced by a quarter. Well, everyone died but me, and so there was extra money in the pot that was supposed to go to me. I’m not keeping it. I’m handing that amount over to you. You deserve it more than anyone else I can think of.

  You had me terrified for a lot of the time that we were together, “Haas,” but in the end you saved my life in the game and you showed me a glimpse of who you really are. I cannot thank you enough for being there with me and standing by me when it mattered. I believe you are a good person and I’m grateful to be able to share this good fortune with someone who deserves it.

  Netertainment’s accountants tells me that to avoid taxes, the best way to transfer the money is by keeping it within the game environment – something about “unrealized gains”– so keep looking in your account balance until you see the transfer show up. The crown exchange rate varies but it should be in the neighborhood of $330,000 or so. That’s the result of over $1.2 million, divided into 7 shares, with 5 of them reduced by a quarter and added to your share. I’m told it will be complete near the end of the month.

  I do not know if or when we will cross paths again, “Haas.” Truthfully, I don’t know if I have the emotional strength to keep playing at all. But regardless of if we meet again, I wish you the best of luck in life and in happiness.

  Thank you.

  Megan Evans

  Mark stared at the letter, cradling it in his hands as if it were made of the most fragile glass. He didn’t move for a long time. When he did finally stir, he simply stood up in his living room and paced back and forth, without direction, next to his coffee table as the television droned on about basketball.

  It had been hard getting wiped out by a clever thief who had broken into his stronghold. It had taken every penny Mark could scrape together to replace those funds and recover his skill level. He had spent months developing his vengeance. Then he had let himself get killed yet again. He had never felt so angry and broken before. And now, because of that final gesture... he wasn’t.

  “Thank you, Megan,” he said finally, almost in a whisper. He wasn’t sure whether the wetness in his eye or the smile curling up the edge of his lip was going to win.

  Mark grabbed his coat and hit redial on his phone.

  “What?” snapped the voice on the other end.

  �
��Katie, I’m coming over. You were right. We have an awful lot to celebrate.”

  Author’s Note

  This story is a work of fiction, which means 99% of what you just read is completely made up. A lot of work goes into crafting and refining a story. It takes a lot of research, a lot of iteration, and it is easy to get blind to the details without extra sets of eyes helping out. So to my friends and family that lent their time and support to this project, keeping me on the straight and narrow with their advice and counsel—thank you, as there’s no way I could have done it without you.

  Then there’s the matter of the remaining 1%.

  On 13 November 2004, a platoon of Marines engaged armed insurgents inside a nondescript house in the Jolan District of Fallujah, Iraq. The enemy fighters, radicals from Chechnya who despised ideals like freedom and equality, came to Fallujah with the sole purpose of killing Americans as part of the ultimate hate crime. These were hard, tough terrorists of the same stock that thought taking 750 school children hostage in the Russian Caucasus just months before was justified to drive a political agenda. They were, in any practical and at least Westernized view of the moral compass, the definition of “evil.”

  Now they were in Iraq, and would gladly slit the throats of any civilian that got in their way.

  Urban fighting is brutal. There is a lot of hard cover behind which enemies can hide and plenty of spots to lay in ambush from prepared positions. But someone has to assault those positions to clear the enemy. That means a greater chance of casualties, which is exactly what happened when several Marines became trapped under heavy fire in the house with the Chechens. Wounded men were left as bait to lure in more Marines into a hail of gunfire and grenades. The house had become a killing zone.