The End Game

by Tod Goldberg

“All that’s missing are the feathers,” Sam said.

  “You overcook scrambled eggs,” Walt said, “you lose all the iron.”

  Sam didn’t think that was true, didn’t even know if eggs contained iron, but at this point didn’t even really care. Two Tums from now and this whole nauseating aspect of the experience would be rectified. Besides, there wasn’t a better computer security guy in all of Miami than Walt, even though by the looks of him now, in his country club windbreaker and yellow polo shirt, he was probably spending most of his time on a putting green. He was one of those guys who looked like he was fifty when he was twenty-five, from all that time spent sitting around dark rooms, analyzing data on a computer screen, which made Sam wonder just how old Walt really was, since now the poor guy looked damn near dead, albeit relaxed, in his new retired state. He noticed Walt even had dentures now. Weird, because the last time they’d done work together was just a few months previous, and the guy had a full mouth of god-given teeth.

  “Listen, Big Walt,” Sam said, “I’ve got a top-secret mission I need some help on.”

  “If it’s so top secret,” Walt said, “why are you coming to a private citizen like me?”

  “That’s how secret it is,” Sam said, “even people in government are suspect.”

  That seemed to satisfy Walt, or at least found a spot in his ego that was sufficiently inured from actual truth. Anyway, working with ex-NSA guys was always a bit of a pain in the ass. They just knew a lot more than other people. But that was okay, Sam thought, since it gave someone like Walt something to be proud of in addition to his penchant for eating, essentially, the moderately warmed ovum of a chicken. And it wasn’t like Walt was feeding information directly to Rumsfeld back when they were both still employed, anyway. Walt’s job was your basic low-level computer security gig at the NSA, like tracking minor threats on things like the Eastern Interconnected System power grid and calls about suspected terrorists with MySpace pages. Nine to five, no weekends, no direct knowledge of Dick Cheney’s whereabouts at any given time, but a business card that said NSA, which was pretty good for getting people to waive late charges at Blockbuster.

  Sam showed Walt the Web site and the video, which Sam noted had been updated since the night before. There was even more footage now.

  “Don’t tell me this is some kind of pornography,” Walt said, shoving Sam’s laptop away at the first sight of the woman and child.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Sam said.

  “Because I’m here to tell you that pornography leads to terrorism. Studies have proven this.”

  The other pain-in-the-ass aspect of working with ex-NSA is that a lot of them were desperately odd people who’d spent their best years scared out of their minds by the shit they’d witnessed, even if they witnessed it on the computer or through secondary reports.

  “Agreed, totally,” Sam said. Sometimes it’s just better to not argue over the peccadilloes of the retired. Sam explained to Walt the bare bones of the issues-which is to say he decided to just make everything up. “The woman in this video is the princess of Moldavia, as you know,” he said, “and we have reason to believe that she’s being tracked by Carpathians intent on harming her and her crown. But it’s not entirely certain where these evildoers are currently operating out of.”

  Walt nodded and took another mouthful of egg and then broke off a piece of toast and dunked it into the liquid. “Interesting,” he said. “Haven’t seen anything on the news about this.”

  “Very hush-hush,” Sam said. When he’d done some work with Walt in the past, he was upset to learn that Walt was one of those people who liked to lecture others about alcohol consumption before certain hours, which was too bad since Sam now couldn’t get it out of his mind what an injustice it was that he was up this early and couldn’t reasonably order a Bloody Mary without drawing undo attention. Sam thought it would make this meeting a lot less mentally taxing, never mind dulling the sounds of Walt’s chewing, which included a troubling amount of whistling. “I need to get some tracking on this site, get an idea of who is viewing it, who is uploading it, access points, whatever you can find out. The safety of Moldavia depends on it.”

  Sam couldn’t remember if Moldavia was a real country or if it had something to do with the Ice Princess from General Hospital back in the day, a brief addiction he’d unabashedly had while recovering from a bullet wound. Anyway, it didn’t seem like Walt knew, either, since he took Sam’s laptop and started typing absently on the keyboard with one hand, the other still busy with breakfast. After about ten minutes of this one-handed show, which also involved Walt making a weird clicking noise with his tongue against the roof of his dentures, he set the laptop aside.

  “A decent IT guy will see someone breaking into this site in fifteen seconds.”

  Sam was afraid of that. Technology has a way of passing you by if you’re busy getting dentures and playing golf. He really had to ask him about the denture thing. It was quite curious, since the NSA had a helluva health plan. “I understand,” Sam said. “You know someone else I could talk to?”

  “No need,” Walt said. He pushed the laptop across the table. “I already got you the information.”

  Cagey bastard.

  Sam clicked through the files. It was a pretty extensive array, considering Walt managed to literally get it all with one hand.

  “Impressive,” Sam said. There were almost fifteen pages of information stored now, but Sam couldn’t figure out what he was looking at, as most of it consisted of lines of letters and numbers that reminded him of launch codes.

  “You don’t just lose it,” Walt said.

  “What do we have here?”

  “Everything. Lots of stuff for you to chew on.”

  Sam considered that for a moment in light of all the information he’d gleaned just by looking at Walt. “What happened with your teeth?”

  “Got tired of ’em,” he said. “One less thing to worry about. That’s the great thing about being retired. You get to make your own decisions about what you want to spend your time obsessing about. Mark my words. Day you retire, you’ll start thinking about getting rid of your chompers, too.”

  Sam found that hard to believe. If he was going to get some kind of body modification, he might go for a robotic arm that fired missiles, or see about what a hollow leg would actually cost, or just go straight toward the Superman route and get X-ray vision, which would be pretty useful living in Miami. But his teeth were staying put. In the spirit of being fraternal, however, Sam thought he’d ask Walt for the name of his dentist at some point so Walt wouldn’t feel like Sam was just using him for his technological expertise.

  “Tell me something, Walt,” Sam said. “This system you just cracked. How much would someone spend to set something like this up?”

  Walt ran his tongue over the front of his “teeth” and thought about it for a moment. “Whoever did the work on this was pretty sharp,” he said. “And getting through the Italian was a challenge. Don’t Moldavians speak Moldavees?”

  “Usually.” Sam was beginning to sense that Walt was slightly more versed in world history than previously assumed. “But they are a crafty people. Heavy on the linguistics.”

  “Whoever set this up had decent training,” Walt said. “Even had a good idea of how an attack might come. Very interesting in terms of the flanking they did, but it’s about six months out of date. Lots of holes, if you know what to look for. But then, I’m former NSA.” Walt’s voice rose when he said former NSA, which Sam thought was probably a good way to get comped desserts and such. He made a mental note to play up his SEAL experience next time he was a little short on cash at a restaurant, see if he couldn’t get some sugar for his troubles.

  “My guess?” Walt continued. “Whoever did this had some serious coin behind them. I cross-site scripted the mother without much problem, but I’ve got full faith and credit behind me.”

  If you’re not interested in a long-term campaign of technoterrorism, o
r aren’t interested in finally learning if the truth is out there concerning the aliens, JFK and the existence of Bigfoot, and merely want to track the movements of those behind the screen and anyone who might be visiting the Web site you’ve staked out, the best way is via cross-site scripting.

  If you’re trying to break into the CIA, it’s unlikely cross-site scripting will help you, because they already have it on their site to track you, but if you’re attempting to sneak inside open-source platforms like blogging shells or social networking sites, or a Web site set up by kidnappers to show a single video, you have a better chance of getting in and out without detection at least once.

  All you have to do is inject a line of malicious code into a part of the Web site that you know is being viewed. Once the object is viewed-in this case, the video-the code leaches information from the viewer. A porn site might just want to know your e-mail address so it can bombard you with messages for penis-enlargement surgery, but a gambling site might start rooting through your computer for banking information; an identity thief might want to inhabit your life entirely.

  Since the Web site with the video was a closed circle, it was easy for Walt to put the code inside the video player once he was able to slide past the security checkpoints, which Sam figured he did about midway through a mouthful of hash browns, and find out who else was viewing the site apart from Gennaro… Or at least where they were viewing it from.

  “Can you give me an idea what I’m looking at here?” Sam asked.

  Walt exhaled hard through his mouth, which sounded like the opening strains of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” as it whistled through his gum line. “You’ve got three users on this Web site,” he said. “Four counting us.” He sounded frustrated, like Sam should have been able to figure that out on his own, which maybe he could have if he’d not bothered to have a life all these years. That was one other thing about working with these ex-NSA computer guys, Sam realized; they used their geek factor against you. “Two of them are in Miami using the same wireless IP. One of them, the person actually maintaining the site, is smart enough to use a proxy server, but not smart enough to use a good proxy server.” He typed a few things into the laptop again and then smiled. “Corsica. The other person is in Corsica.”

  Mounting an armored assault on the island of Corsica didn’t seem like a real possibility, so Sam chose to focus on the two people in Miami.

  “Can you pinpoint where, exactly, the people in Miami are?”

  Walt sighed, like he couldn’t believe Sam would ask him such a stupid question. He had a lot of ego for a guy with no teeth, but a few seconds of clicking delivered Sam the answer he was afraid of. “This is the IP for the Setai Hotel.”

  A part of Sam sort of wished it was Madonna who was putting the screws to Gennaro, but he had a pretty good idea that the Material Girl wasn’t in the kidnapping business. But then he couldn’t imagine anyone else with the cash to stay at that hotel who would be, either.

  “One other thing,” Sam said. “In light of the recent information here, and as it relates to the safety of Moldavia, could you sweep into the Setai’s reservation system and get me a list of names of the people staying there?”

  “That’s illegal,” Walt said.

  “No, no,” Sam said. “This has all been cleared by the top levels of Her Majesty’s Royal Guard. We have nothing to worry about. So quick like a bunny, before the princess dies, get me that list, will you?”

  A few seconds later, and after much heavy breathing from Walt, as if he were really exerting himself and not just typing, Sam had a list of more than a hundred names open on his computer, along with all of their salient information. He recognized a few names-Madonna was staying on the eleventh floor and had ordered a lovely lobster ravioli for lunch; Al Pacino was on the fifteenth but was checking out this afternoon, which was good since he was already three hundred dollars in the red on valet fees; and Carson Daly was staying on the twenty-first, which seemed silly compared to the relative fame of the others, but Sam figured maybe Daly required less oxygen to survive-but no other names jumped out directly. He’d get a buddy at the FBI to run the list, anyway, see if anyone showed up as wanted for anything interesting.

  He wasn’t even sure who he hoped to find on the list, since it’s not as if there were bands of famous kidnappers floating around. Sam couldn’t even think of anyone who did it regularly and with much success apart from, well, Hezbollah, but he didn’t think they were in the market for Italian heirs.

  He scanned back over the list one more time and landed on one curious name: Nicholas Dinino, Gennaro’s father-in-law. Nicholas was staying in the other penthouse suite just adjacent to Gennaro’s, which made sense. It didn’t mean anything insidious. They were family, after all, but in the scope of the information Walt had just delivered, it felt… curious.

  “Quid pro quo,” Walt said, and Sam immediately cursed the existence of that Hannibal Lecter movie that taught everyone the term quid pro quo. More than fifteen years later, and half the universe was still tossing it around like it meant something. Combine that with “Man up!” and “Wassup?” and “You go, girl!” and Sam was pretty sure that most of the people he came into contact with only said things parroted from morons and beer commercials. Not that there was anything wrong with beer commercials conceptually, just that they weren’t especially deep with philosophical thought and nuance.

  “Sure, Walt.”

  Walt smiled, which made Sam recoil. Man, those teeth looked strange. They were just too white, and his gums were too pink and his tongue, well, his tongue was too gray. Sam made a mental note that when he retired he was going to brush his teeth three times a day, just to make up for whatever karmic tarnishing was going on this day. “You think you could take out my neighbor’s parakeet? It chirps all night long and keeps me up like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I’m not in the assassination business,” Sam said, and Walt seemed disappointed.

  “Well, next time,” he said.

  Next time, Sam thought, he’d ring up a different buddy.

  Sam’s original plan was to make some phone calls about the list of names, but it was too damn early. It wasn’t even seven thirty a.m. by the time he got out of Roasters ’n’ Toasters, which just wasn’t right. Who retires so they can wake up at the ass-crack of dawn? He’d go to the Carlito, but he still had another three and half hours before the doors opened and the scenery picked up.

  Besides, he had a niggling sense that something just wasn’t adding up about the names on the list, even before calling on them. If Christopher Bonaventura were in town, wouldn’t he be staying at a place like the Setai? Sam didn’t think a guy like Bonaventura would have the moxie to set up a Web site as first-rate as the one he’d just viewed, nor did he really think Bonaventura was behind the kidnapping in the first place, but he figured that getting a jump on the other side of the problem with Gennaro would solve some issues later on, so he called the one buddy he knew who might be up at this early hour and who might know where to find visiting mafia dignitaries.

  Darleen worked organized crime in New York when Sam first met her, and he was pretty sure they had a night of passion right around the turn of the millennium, back when everyone- especially everyone who was privy to inside information about what they feared was likely to be the total destruction of the American infrastructure-thought they could write checks that would never be cashed. Fact was, he just wasn’t 100 percent certain about it. It was a long night. There were several bottles of champagne involved, and all of it happened in an unmarked building in Newark that housed an alphabet soup of secret agencies. Nothing good ever happened in Newark, though technically, neither of them were even there. Anyway, she’d never mentioned it and he’d never mentioned it, and that was okay. Sam didn’t think that if his performance had been notable there would be this silence, so he thought not poking a stick into the issue was likely to keep the specter of disappointment away from both of them.

  At any rate, Darleen w
as now working in Miami, proctoring the old-school five families, the new-school Russians and Cubans, the executive branches of the Bloods, Crips and Mexican Mafia, and whoever else came along through the Port of Miami wanting to organize and do crime. It meant she had a lot of late nights that looked like early mornings, so he wasn’t too worried about calling her before eight. Though as he dialed her number, he tried to figure out what she looked like at eight a.m. from his previous recollection, but just kept coming up with the sensation of pain in the back of his skull, which was likely a champagne hangover flashback and not anything exciting or acrobatic being conjured.

  “Sam Axe,” Darleen said, “I must say I wasn’t expecting a call from you this fine morning. You locked in a cell in Kabul or something?”

  “No, no,” Sam said, “I’m just picking up a protein shake and then heading off for my morning ocean swim.”

  “I’d like to see that,” Darleen said.

  Sam wanted to believe she was being flirtatious, but he got the sense that she was being facetious. Maybe he was wrong about that night. That whole “partying like it was 1999” business did tend to dull the old cerebrum. “Listen, Darleen, small favor.”

  “Small?”

  Hmmm. Now he really wasn’t sure. There was a lot of subtext to this woman. A lot of levels. A lot of ramps. He started thinking of her like a parking garage and realized it was really far more than he could reasonably be asked to deal with before noon. Tough to be really smooth when Regis and Kelly are still on in most houses. Never mind he’d already spent far too long talking to Walt, which was like intellectual antifreeze.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Tiny.” Be humble, he thought, just go with it. “I’m trying to track down Christopher Bonaventura. You got any idea where I might be able to find him this week?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, a change in the energy of the phone call, and Sam recognized that dropping Bonaventura’s name into the middle of a nice chat that may or may not have been reflective of a brief sexual liaison about a decade ago might have been a surprise. “You’ve got no reason to be looking for Christopher Bonaventura.”