Cyber Warfare

by J. S. Chapman

  “The election is two years away.”

  “He’s a patient man. But we shouldn’t talk here. They’re about to go into dinner. Ah, there they go. Ten-thousand dollars a plate for a banal speech spoken by a banal man.” She motioned outside. “I drive a red sports car. I know, I know, not very redneck,” she said, accentuating her Southern drawl. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. Give me ten minutes.”

  “What if I don’t come?”

  “Arrivaderci, baby, and good luck.” She sauntered away, clutching her man by the arm and disappearing into the crowd.

  21

  Washington, D. C.

  Saturday, July 26

  AFTER THE BALLROOM began to empty out, Dominic gave Liz a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Sure you don’t want to me to take you home?”

  “Very sure.”

  Girding herself, she made her way out of the ballroom, soon taking refuge in the powder room where she freshened her lipstick, fussed with her hair, and studied the face of a woman fallen from grace. It had come to this, being turned into the pawn of a man who ransomed her pride with an X-rated video. Ironic that it should have come to this. She was usually careful about everything. This time she had met her downfall by sucking up to a powerful man.

  Taking a deep breath and once more stiffening her resolve, she went to meet her rendezvous with fate.

  On the eighteen floor she followed a maroon runner decorated with golden fleur-de-lys. Dim wall sconces followed her progress down the length of the corridor, casting her many silhouettes onto the wall. When she reached the designated room, she rapped lightly. Stirring came from within. Heavy footsteps followed. The peephole darkened before the door opened with a wide flourish. The man in the doorway acknowledged her with a curt nod, his face unsmiling. He ushered her inside with a polite wave of his arm. She crossed the threshold and entered the palatial suite. He closed the door. They faced each other, pretending to be strangers even though they intimately knew one other, intimately being the signifying word.

  He enfolded her face within the palms of his hands and left a kiss on her lips. “I thought we had a date that night.”

  “Which night?”

  “Don’t play coy with me.”

  They first met a year ago at a political event, just a chance encounter, or so it seemed at the time. Brandon asked Liz to cover for him, saying he had a fire to put out, did she have anything else going on. She hadn’t. The man who faced her now had picked her out of the crowd and introduced himself to her. They struck up a conversation. He was solicitous and polite, charming and affable. It didn’t hurt that he was also quite good-looking, though twenty years her senior and married. She already knew his name and political stature, having seen him give interviews inside the Capitol Building rotunda or exchanging pithy comments with Sunday morning talk-show hosts. He mentioned his thirty-foot sloop and offered to take her out for a sail one day. He was eager to impress her. He didn’t have to try so hard. She was impressed with him on their first handshake. When the evening wore down, he invited her for a nightcap. One thing led to another, and they wound up in bed together. It was a mistake on her part and a calculation on his. She was more than a little bit enamored and he was more than a little bit drunk. Though her attraction to him was powerful, she knew it would be a mistake to get involved with someone like him. They parted the same way they met — as perfect strangers — or so she thought.

  He stroked her hair, his eyes locking onto hers. “What happened?”

  “I was held up.”

  “It wasn’t that.”

  “What was it then?”

  Several weeks later, he had given her a jingle. He was the last person she ever expected to hear from again. Didn’t even think she made that much of an impression, assuming their night together was just one more conquest. He said he wanted to see her. She agreed to meet him at a public place, safety in numbers, but reconsidered and stood him up.

  I’m not trying to strong-arm you.”

  “Sure you are.” She was furious at Brandon for having put her in this position. And very happy to take it out on this arrogant fool.

  “I thought we had something going.”

  She could see in his eyes the signs of fatigue along with something else. Shyness perhaps. Or uncertainty.

  But then the shyness disappeared and the uncertainty reasserted itself as arrogance. “Are you playing hard to get? You didn’t that night.”

  “I was an easy lay, so why not snap your fingers again. She’ll come running.”

  He had the decency to look embarrassed. “You’re right. I’m a cad. I didn’t mean to offend you. I only wanted to tell you that I found you extremely attractive. I enjoyed your company. And also―” He left the obvious unspoken. He was a man of pride, after all. He didn’t want to beg. He burrowed his eyes into hers, trying to get past the shield she had erected. “I thought about you. Often. We seemed to hit it off.”

  “At an intellectual level?”

  “Now you’re being condescending.”

  “Just honest.” She was mad as hell. Infuriated. Insulted. Yet she could see in his eyes an emptiness of being, perhaps the same emptiness existing inside her.

  He drew closer and inclined his head, taking her in anew as if they had never met or danced in the dark. From the steadiness of his eyes and crispness of his speech, she knew he wasn’t drunk. His expression changed from serious to slightly amused.

  “Your wife must be wondering where you are.”

  “I put her in a cab.”

  “Then your supporters.”

  “They can wait.”

  As incensed as she was at having been put in this position, she couldn’t be angry with him anymore. There was a little boy quality about him, quite endearing in its way. He was man enough and sincere enough to bring her into his arms. But she was stubborn. She wouldn’t go lightly. She wouldn’t be a willing pawn. She could tell Brandon to fuck off. She could call his bluff and tell him to release the video, for all she gave a damn. She could go home to Georgia, sign on with a small company, start over, find a boring husband, and get pregnant. But then, like the remnant of a dream or the fading afterimage of an intense flash of light or the diminishing memory of a face once loved, she saw longing in this man’s eyes, and a petition for understanding.

  He tilted his head and kissed her, a light kiss, and undemanding. She accepted the kiss but did not embrace it. He drew back. “Whatever you think of me, okay, I can accept it. If you want to go, then go. I’ll never bother you again.”

  “Is that a promise? Or a threat?”

  “Both.” With a boyish grin, he crossed his heart. He was one of those one-in-a-million charismatic men, explaining why he was successful. Men like him didn’t necessarily have to be intelligent, but they did have to be shrewd. And he was a clever man who commanded other men and women with charm and self-effacement while beneath his pleasant mien lay a calculating mind. If he wanted something, he went after it and thought about paying the price when it was more convenient. “You’re very ambitious, aren’t you, Ms. Langdon?”

  “No more than you.”

  “Except you have principles. Like not getting involved with a married man. That’s why you stood me up. You wanted to come, but your conscience stopped you. You don’t have to defend yourself. Or explain. I understood then. I understand now.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself.”

  “A man in my position has to be. I admit it. Like you, I’m ambitious. I also have weak moral fiber. When I saw you this evening―” He shrugged the helplessness of shameless men everywhere. “I decided to take matters out of your hands and into mine. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I mind very much. It’s manipulative. It’s underhanded. It’s contemptible. It’s―”

  “Go on,” he said smiling. “I can take it.”

  “Did I say despicable?”

  “She’s prideful, too.” He leaned down and covered her mouth with his, speaking words of endearment between each
kiss while pressing his advantage.

  She gave into him. Not because she was compelled to by that other despicable man whose name she did not want to speak. But because she wanted Wallace Reed as much as he seemed to want her.

  He reached down, picked her up, carried her lightly to the bed, and there seduced her.

  22

  Washington, D. C.

  Saturday, July 26

  VIKKI TOOK A wild ride through the streets of Washington, wind whipping her hair while the roaring engine nearly drowned out her words. “I’m used to driving pickup trucks, but this’ll do.” She knew how to handle a stick shift, had since her daddy taught her at the age of thirteen, first on a tractor and then in a 4x4. Her eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. “Someone’s following us.”

  “Black sedan or white?” Coyote asked.

  “Black side-panel with tinted windows.”

  “Not us. Me.”

  She squinted into the rearview mirror before giving him a lively look. “The macho man with the barrel chest and pencil mustache? His appearances on TV don’t do him justice. Ever notice how he hesitates when questioned, gropes for words, mutters into the camera, blinks like an escaped convict trapped under prison yard searchlights? A little secret between you and me. Underneath the gruff, he’s a very shy man. He doesn’t like the limelight. But in person? Different story. He’s sheetrock nailed over two-by-fours. If I didn’t already have a sexy Latino warming my bed, I could go for the good detective.”

  She reached above the headrest. Alex gripped her hand from the cramped back seat. They had a good chuckle.

  To Jack, she said, “Why’s he after you?”

  “To put me under lock and key.”

  “Thought you were out on bail.” She thought about it. “Ah, I see, you’re playing hooky. If I may be so bold as to ask, how did you manage it?”

  “Destroyed government property.”

  “The ankle bracelet?” She laughed. “You made him look like a fool. He won’t like that. Want me to lose him? Course, you do.”

  She kicked the sports car into warp drive, ripped down the boulevard, hung a left, plowed down a cross street, slammed the car into reverse, ripped down another street, executed a J-turn, sped off in the opposite direction, and immediately hung another left onto a side street. She shoved the car into a parking space the size of a beehive, doused the headlights, and let loose a war whoop. Her passenger wasn’t impressed. He looked like he wanted to upchuck. She joyfully backhanded him across the arm.

  “Where are your balls? Better get a pair if you’re going to come through this alive.” She glanced back at her partner. “You okay back there?” From the side mirror, she made out the panel van roaring down the thoroughfare in hot pursuit. “After he figures out what happened, he’s going to be fucking pissed. We’ll just sit tight for a while, if it’s okay by you. It’ll gives us an opportunity to powwow. No offense … Mr. Coyote.” She released the seatbelt and shifted her position to face him. “Something fishy about what happened to you, if you don’t mind me saying so. Something that doesn’t pass the smell test.”

  He assumed a pretense of innocence mixed with confusion, as if he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about when it was obvious he did. “Go on.”

  “Go on, he says. Sure. I’ll go on. Reliable sources tell me you went to bed with a woman you picked up at a bar but woke up with your friend. True?”

  “Go on.”

  She smiled. “Except for the supermarket rags, it’s been kept out of the papers. Officially the prosecutor isn’t buying it. I asked her pointblank, but she demurred, which told me something important. Maybe you would like to confirm or deny.”

  He looked away. Smiled slightly. Looked back at her, this time with mild respect. “True.”

  “And you didn’t accidentally overdose. You were drugged.”

  He nodded.

  “Now you’re on the run.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Why are you still in town?”

  He considered the words he would say and how he would say them. A very cautious man was he. “If it weren’t for me, Milly would still be alive.”

  “Oh, my.” She crossed herself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I didn’t do it, but I might as well have.” Her voice had become harsh. She hadn’t meant it to. She preferred shaking him until he blubbered in her arms like a baby. At least then, she could kiss the boo-boo away and make it feel better, the way she had with her son when he was eight. But Coyote wasn’t a boy. He was a man. An exhausted man. And a beaten man. Both physically and mentally. Something bad had happened to him between the time she dropped by his house and tonight. The damage could be seen on his face but also in the way he moved, favoring physical injuries unseen. But there was something else, something that knocked the fighting spirit out of him and put him on a more perilous path than before, which God knows was perilous enough. He didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, he let his body language do the speaking for him. She considered him once, considered him a second time, and decided to give him a gift. “Even the strongest of men can break.”

  “I don’t have anything left to fight back with.” The words rolled off his tongue as if he didn’t give a damn. He sure as hell gave a damn.

  “Until the Challenger exploded, taking off in a spaceship was considered the safest form of travel ever devised by man or beast. Which only goes to show there’s always a first time.” Deciding she had groomed him well enough, she went in with double barrels. “I know the company you work for, what they do, and how they do it. It’s been the grist of whispering campaigns for years. They’re insular, secretive, and careful. No one has the guts to stop them. But you found something, didn’t you? Something big.”

  He shook his head but said, “I’m not sure.”

  “Sure, you’re sure. You just don’t want to tell me.” The streets were relatively quiet for a Saturday night in Washington D. C., in this part of town anyway. “Question is, do you have the goods to expose the Firm? And the guts?”

  He seemed to shudder inwardly. Down the road apiece, this man must go it alone. He must face himself and take inventory. He must be a hero, or if not a hero, a brave coward. Only then can he prepare himself for the worst.

  “Or does it go deeper than just the Homeland Intelligence Division.”

  When he didn’t answer, she said, “What do you have?”

  “That would be telling.”

  She considered his reticence, even understood it. If she were sitting where he was sitting, she would be as secretive as a cat. “This is a dangerous world. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. You’ve become a liability. You were snooping around. Asking a lot of questions. I’m also guessing you have evidence in your back pocket.”

  A mischievous glint lit up his eyes but faded almost as quickly. “You’re chasing a story,” he said. “For me, it’s personal.”

  “Your friend. I understand. But you’ll have to add another factor into the equation. Something like life, death, honor, payback, exoneration. And the big one ... justice. They say you’re Apache. True?”

  He nodded.

  If she were to pick him out of a crowd, she wouldn’t have guessed. But he had the mahogany hair, the wide face, the tanned almost bronze complexion, the athletic but trim build, the straight nose and flared nostrils, the intelligent brow and strong chin, the flat cheekbones and inscrutable expression. And something else. A word came to mind. Apartness. “Are you on the reservation? Or off? I don’t mean in the geographic sense.”

  “On or off, my people have always been free spirits.”

  “Full-blooded? No, I don’t think full-blooded. But enough DNA to satisfy nosey people like me.”

  “What exactly are you getting at, ma’am?”

  “I’ll let you think about it. Not that you haven’t already thought about it. But I’ll let you think about it some more.” Like any man, he wouldn’t want to be penned up in a cage with no hope for tomorrow
. But there was more. Had to be more. Something like vindication. And retribution. “If you’re smart, you’ll pick off whoever did this to you one by one until you find the bastard who sent out the order.”

  “You’re not the first to make that suggestion.” Something other than defeat was hidden behind the placid face after all. A fighting spirit.

  She had gotten what she came for. Putting the car into gear, she checked the rearview mirror and eased out of the parking space. Several city blocks passed in review. She had turned off the A/C and lowered the windows, letting the night air blow away the bad vibes.

  Minutes passed before he finally spoke. “Assuming I have information that would be valuable, and assuming I give it to you, what would you do with it?”

  She wasn’t surprised by his question. She was expecting it. “I’m freelance. I don’t work for any single news organization. If the Washington Gazette wants a story, they pay for it. If they don’t, I sell it to the Washington Post or the New York Times. I’ve built a reputation. I have credibility. Earned every penny of it. They won’t ever know who my sources are. With my track record, they don’t particularly give a shit. After the paper gets its exclusive, I can syndicate it. If it’s explosive enough, the networks pick it up and I make the publicity rounds. If the story’s a blockbuster, it goes international.”