Cyber Warfare

by J. S. Chapman

  “Vikki,” she said, pulling the door shut. “Let’s just say a little birdy tipped me off.”

  He raised his eyebrows in question and then waited, having learned long ago that the less he said, the more the suspect talked. Except she wasn’t a suspect. She was a woman with purpose.

  “I heard something curious.”

  He tipped back a water bottle, drank, capped the bottle, and returned it to the console tray. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve been told Coyote broke the terms of his release and is considered a fugitive.”

  “Somebody’s got a big mouth.” The leak had to have come from inside the department.

  “It’s been said,” Kidd said, looking up at HID headquarters, “that murderers always return to the scene of the crime.”

  “Except the scene of the crime is his townhouse.”

  “But he’s not there, is he? And if he’s not there, the next best place to look for him is here. This,” she went on, “is the real scene of the crime, where everything began.”

  “Where Coyote and Ms. Whitney got it on?”

  “Now you’re being silly.”

  “And you’re being serious?”

  “Dead serious.”

  She fluffed her hair, using the opportunity to study him. Her stare made him feel uneasy, an emotion he rarely experienced, except perhaps with his wife of eighteen.

  “According to DNA evidence,” she went on, “a man other than Coyote was with the girl when she was killed. And there’s no such DNA evidence pointing to Coyote. Do I have my facts right?”

  “No comment.”

  “Then it’s true.”

  He inhaled a steadying breath, wishing he hadn’t said anything. “Facts can lie. Besides. It doesn’t let Coyote off the hook. Not by a long shot.”

  “But it does put a wrinkle in your closed case.”

  “Is that why you sidelined me, ma’am? To tell me I put the wrong man in jail?”

  “Before going to print, I needed confirmation. You just gave it to me.”

  He swore under his breath, shaking his head, holding his temper.

  “Something else you may or may not know. Sources inside government won’t talk. Not on the record. Or off the record. The wall of silence has gone up. Why do you suppose that would be? After all, the man’s been accused of murder. Why would they clam up about something like that? Why wouldn’t they openly excoriate Coyote and turn him into a political poster child? Since you ask,” she said, smiling, “I’ll tell you why. They’ve closed ranks. Why have they closed ranks? Because they’re scared, that’s why. The wall of silence may also explain why Coyote chose to break the conditions of his release. If his only crime were murder, and the evidence pointed to his innocence, he had every motive to stay put and wait for the court to fully exonerate him.”

  “Maybe they were in it together.”

  “Coyote and the victim, you mean? I’ve heard the theory floated. The question remains. In on what?”

  “Theft.”

  “The fifty million.”

  She was too well informed. Though rumors of the embezzlement had been floating around, the exact amount was never made public.

  “If so, why was he left to take the rap for her murder? And if there had been an accomplice, or two accomplices actually … the victim and the DNA match … and Ms. Whitney is no longer here to defend herself … why didn’t Coyote put all the blame on them and portray himself as an innocent victim? But he didn’t. For a reason.”

  “Being?” He waited for her coup de grâce.

  “Whitney and Coyote were both victims.”

  He had walked straight into her trap, damn the woman. “Victims?”

  She looked up at the building. “Of the company they kept.”

  He shook his head, chuckling. “Pardon me for saying so, ma’am, but I think you’re full of it.

  “Oh, honey, you’ve got a lot to learn about the real world.” She fluffed her hair, a feminine tell that she was the one to touch a nerve and not the other way around. “Let me clue you in on this fine organization. The Homeland Intelligence Division. It’s the shadow government of conspiracy theorists. Overseeing sensitive and often clandestine activities on behalf of other federal agencies without the direct knowledge of Congress and in violation of the Constitution. And does it by colluding with foreign powers, sweeping up domestic communications, and operating black op sites for purposes of rendition and torture, everything off budget.”

  She let that sink in as they sat beside each other, two individuals most probably on the same side but with different goals.

  “So why are you here, Sergeant? I’ll tell you why. Coyote might want to talk to one or more of his colleagues. I’ll tell you something.” She leaned close and whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “I don’t think he’d walk in the front door.”

  Jaime would have given her a round of applause if his pride hadn’t stood in the way. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

  Sparing him further embarrassment, she took the conversation in a different direction. “You must have heard the rumors. About security breaches popping up at HID and a few other notable agencies that shall go unmentioned.”

  “Then he’s a murderer and a traitor.”

  “Except he’s the one they hired to investigate the breaches. Oh, didn’t you know? That’s why they’ve been spreading rumors, planting stories, botting the internet, feeding news outlets with conspiracy theories about him being a spy for the other side, turning him into a serial killer and other inanities, all to make him look as dirty as they come. Think about that for a minute. Think about the power they have. And the power Coyote doesn’t have. You may think him a murderer. I think he might be a hero.”

  “It doesn’t change a thing.”

  “You are an intractable son of bitch, and I mean that in the best sense. He’s pissed you off. He’s made your department look bad and you look ridiculous. You have a duty to perform, and damn it, you’re not going to let anything stand in your way, not even the truth. Irrespective of your damnable macho pride, what was on the video?”

  She had caught him unawares. He looked at her askance. “Video?”

  “I meant to say two videos. At the nightclub where Coyote picked up a mysterious woman. And at the train station where a woman was pushed to her death.”

  He swore under his breath before saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She sent him an amused look before saying, “The human experience is made up of two kinds of people. Those who believe in the goodness of men but listen to their own counsel. And those who believe whatever a good talker tells them. And so it goes, most of us living out our days listening to the liars. We’re born alone, we die alone, and nothing from birth to earth makes much sense. Unless we choose to separate the truth from the lies, and the facts from the theories. You stand in judgment, Sergeant Benedicto. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “God stands in judgment.”

  “But not in a court of law. Or even in the court of public opinion. Only men stand in judgment of other men. Most times they’re right. Often they’re wrong. The only thing more pointless than putting our faith in an unknown deity is putting our faith in men.”

  “To be honest I find little evidence of God in my line of work. Otherwise, innocents wouldn’t die.”

  “But you still believe, don’t you? In a merciful God?”

  “If not, how could I get up in the morning and do my job?”

  “You’re a better man than I.”

  He sniggered lightly. The woman hadn’t convinced him of a goddamn thing, but the sparring was entertaining.

  “Has the other man been identified?”

  He slid his eyes sideways. “Not yet.”

  She smiled. “Then you do have videos. I’d like to see them if I could.”

  She took it for granted that he would agree. “I’ll see what can be arranged.”

  “Have a nice evening, Sergeant.”
After getting out, she glanced up at the building. “And good luck with your surveillance.”

  He waited a good five minutes before radioing Argyle and telling him to call it a day, after which he followed his own advice and headed home.

  14

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Friday, July 25

  FIVE MINUTES AFTER closing time, Nell left the club through the back door. She looked done in but not so done in as to register pleasure upon seeing Jack step out of the shadows. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  She was a beacon to his cynical eyes. “Not if?”

  “When.”

  He stepped forward. At the same pace, she met him halfway, a seductive hitch to her hips. She skimmed her hands down the length of his arms, leaving behind tingling sensations, and there lingered. With determined mindfulness, she stretched her spine and left a welcoming kiss on his mouth.

  Her place was a few miles away in a walkup not far from the bay. She let him in, took him by the hand, and with a welcoming smile, led him upstairs to the third floor. The deadbolt was located high up on the door. She unlocked it with a brass key, reached down to the doorknob, and pushed the door open with a kick and a thrust. “I keep meaning to have the super fix it.”

  Once more she took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. This was no time for foreplay. The contract had been struck. She was his for the asking.

  He had always wondered about women who become emotionally entangled with murderers on death row. Their attraction to condemned men flew in the face of societal norms. Maybe it was an overriding temptation to flirt with danger. Or they were just lonely. Or thrill-seekers. Being associated with a powerful man might have made them feel powerful themselves, like coming on to a rock star. Because the men were lonely and isolated and down on their luck, it could have brought out their motherly instincts. Or maybe, just maybe, being in the presence of someone who had taken a life was electrifying.

  Nell seemed to be a natural woman with strong sexual desires unimpeded by hang-ups or rules. The mutual peeling away of their clothes brought them quickly together. The caresses and kisses in between erased all cares, leaving behind just a man lying next to a woman, each taking what they could to forget their loneliness.

  Even if he didn’t fully understand her motivations, Jack understood his own. It was basic. He simply needed an understanding woman to bring him home like a lost puppy and tell him everything would be all right. But in the back of his mind, it was baser than that. It came down to a twisted psychological need to reenact the night when he had been duped, but this time anticipating a better outcome. There was yet another reason, the age-old reason of all men everywhere. To make damn sure he was still capable of making love to a woman, and afterwards, feeling safe in her arms.

  After separating, their hearts beating as one, they clung to each other and fell asleep.

  He drifted off and visited a time when his grandfather—the father of his mother—took him into the mountains and there taught him the old ways. The family’s surname had come down from his seven-times grandfather along with the whimsical legend that as a young boy, he found a motherless coyote pup and brought it into the tribe as his brother-friend. They played together, hunted together, slept together, and ate together until one day, having reached maturity, the coyote bid goodbye to the boy and returned to the mountains where he was born, there to spawn pups of his own. When he reached his own maturity, the boy was given the name Big Gray Coyote. Afterwards he adopted his namesake as his personal totem to give him protection, guidance, and power while hunting, in battle, and during spiritual quests. Over the years, the boy-turned-man often climbed the mountains and there sought out his coyote brother, hunting with him as before, until it was time for them to part, each to their own kind. The coyote, Jack’s grandfather told him, was a trickster who assumed the form of man, especially at night on a full moon. He was known for his quickness, his deviousness, and his humor to win the day against those who would do him harm. The patronymic came down through the generations, all the way to Jack, and with any luck, to his son.

  He still remembered the family ranch, the desert air, the cold water he drank straight from a mountain stream, the placement of every saguaro on the land, and the map of every narrow trail into the mountains. He yet heard the coyote’s howl, saw his proud form silhouetted against a full moon, and envisioned the Milky Way circling about him in the night sky. One day he would bring his son home to the desert and teach him the old ways as his grandfather had taught him. First he would have to outmaneuver and outrun his enemies.

  In the morning, Nell looked out the window. “You have friends.”

  Standing off to the side, Jack peered below. A black SUV was parked across the street. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Know them?”

  He hurriedly slipped into shirt and slacks, gathered up his things, and headed for the door.

  “Take the fire escape. How will I get in touch with you?”

  “You won’t.”

  “How will I know you’re okay?”

  “By reading the papers.” He was almost out the door when he came back, gave her a brisk though thorough kiss, and said, “Wish me luck?”

  “Luck,” she said breathlessly.

  15

  Athens, Greece

  Saturday, July 26

  BALTSAROS GEORG NIKOLAIDHIS arrived in Athens in early July. He had been born in Greece and carried a Greek passport even though he was a naturalized American citizen. He passed through customs without incident.

  He had unlimited funds at his disposal and unlimited time to do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased, and with anyone he pleased, one day passing like the one before it, with no responsibilities, no worries, and no past, only an unknown future. He stayed on for a few weeks, making plans. Now he was nearing the end of his respite, the interval between what had been and what was about to be.

  He had taken a room off Nikodimou Street, where traffic was ceaseless, talking constant, food basic, and the parade of beautiful women invigorating. He easily blended in with natives or tourists, depending on the language spoken, and could often be found at any one of the local taverns or sidewalk cafés, sipping ouzo at his leisure, tearing chunks of bread from loaves of horiatiko psomi hot from the outdoor wood-burning ovens, and dipping them into sauces or marrying them with side dishes. Such as tzatziki, made of yogurt and cucumber. Melitzanosalata, cooked with fresh eggplant, garlic, scallions, tomatoes, and a touch of lemon. Saganaki cheeses, fresh from the farm and heated in a frying pan with pepper and lemon juice. And tyropitakia cheese pies, flakey or crispy, either would do.

  Even though his name marked him as a Greek, his accent identified him as an American. Since countless Greek-Americans regularly traveled back to the place of their births, he was just one among thousands. Natives accepted him as they accepted all strangers … with open arms. Some even treated him like a conquering hero, as if he had been a great success in America but never forgot his native land.

  Nick was born in Lemnos, the site of the oldest known settlement in the Aegean Islands, where archaeologists unearthed stone tools going back to the Epipaleolithic Period. In Lemnos the people lived out their lives in simplicity, gathering from the sea and the land just as their ancestors had before them, grateful for their bounty, and when drought or flood or famine arrived, praying to their gods and surviving as they had since the beginning of time.

  The Grecian islands were sacred to the god Hephaestus who fell on Lemnos when Zeus threw him out of Olympus. According to legend, the women of Lemnos were deserted by their husbands who traded them for appealing Thracian girls. The wives would not have it. After imploring their husbands to come back to their beds to no avail, they stripped off their clothes, built a fire, and called on the gods for revenge. Then they dressed in skins and furs, returned to the village, and killed every last faithless man in his sleep. Their sons, the women decided, would be raised to be better men, respectful of their mothe
rs, faithful to their wives, and reverential of their daughters. These would be the new ways. Though their sons and daughters remembered the lessons, their grandsons and granddaughters would soon forget. Yet the legend lived on from generation to generation as it had for Hephaestus who, after being nursed by a Thracian woman, spawned a tribe destined to live beneath the Mosychlos in those days when the mountain spewed fire and ash upon the people, the ultimate punishment for not following the strictures of their jealous gods.

  Since arriving, Nick had found an agreeable bistro in the Makriyanni district. There, he could squirrel himself away in a shaded corner of the terrace and watch a parade of people go by. While envying their camaraderie, he had no desire to be in their company. He was beyond small talk and easy laughter. The women were fleshy and beautiful, gay and lighthearted. Some even looked his way. But since he telegraphed aloof signals, they soon dismissed him. Even so, Grecian women were lovely to look at—hardy, muscular, and tanned—their thick hair interlaced with mahogany and ebony, inviting enough to stroke.

  The Mosychlos had become inactive eons ago, but Nick’s father enjoyed telling the story of how, as a lad of twelve or thirteen, he climbed to the summit and upon arriving, looked down into the crater only to discover the fires yet burned as a smoldering caldron, a dire warning should the men of his village ever again disobey their wives. Even as he told the tale, his father’s eyes sparkled, his lips curled, and his throat gurgled with unspent laughter, knowing full well the story was a fiction, a fanciful telling and retelling of a myth that had come down through the ages. His face stamped with the map of Greece, Baltsaros the senior, or George as everybody called him, bragged to all who would listen that one day he would return to the country of his birth a rich man. It was never to be. When his father lay dying on the hospital bed that would be his sarcophagus, Nick vowed he would make the pilgrimage in his father’s stead and climb the mountain as his father and his father’s fathers had done before him. The promise was soon forgotten and the vow broken.