Cyber Warfare

by J. S. Chapman

  “Isn’t that what I was hired to do?” He said it innocently but with a trace of humor.

  “You know what I mean.” Her voice was soft as velvet but laced with menace. She turned her head away but looked at him askance as if she didn’t really want to see the plain truth. “What on earth possessed you?”

  She already knew the answer. There was no reason for him to spell it out or defend his actions.

  “Because you were onto something,” she said, surmising. “Something more than just security breaches.”

  “And …?”

  “Because you wanted to find the evidence.” She didn’t want to assign incriminating words to her fears but had little choice. “Not only of security breaches … but breaches of trust … inside HID.”

  “And outside,” he said.

  She blanched. Everything she believed in had been destroyed with those two simple words. Her innocence—whatever was left of it—visibly withered. She was thinking and making certain assumptions. “Did you preserve it? The evidence?”

  He said nothing, an admission of guilt.

  Everything clicked then. “But that would mean―” She stopped herself from saying more.

  “I got out of jail, but they can’t have that. In a day, maybe two, I’ll be implicated for another woman’s murder.” He knew what was coming. They were coming for him. He was almost resigned to his fate … but not quite. “If that doesn’t work, they’ll try something else.”

  “You’re insane. You don’t really believe that.”

  “Think about it, Liz.”

  She looked like she was going to be sick. Her breaths came in panicked gasps, bringing her close to tears. “What are we going to do?”

  “You’re not going to do anything. I’m going to find out who did this to me.”

  “This other man. What did he look like?”

  “Tall. Wiry. Stronger than he looked. Dark complexion. Crazed eyes. He goaded me. Used the woman as bait. He wanted … I don’t know what he wanted,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe to send message. To hurt me, but not to kill me.”

  “Hold me, Jack,” she said, shivering. “Just hold me.”

  They made love while the sounds of the city filtered through the windows. Eventually they collapsed into each other’s arms, exhausted. They slept through the morning and ate a late breakfast, both glum, exhausted, and short of words. It was well past noon when Jack prepared to leave. Liz was sitting on the edge of the bed, toes flexed on the carpet, hands folded over her knees, and looking prim and proper even while deliciously naked.

  “I need a favor,” he said, zipping up his jeans.

  She set her eyes upon him with quiet reserve. “If I can.”

  “A name. Someone on the organizational chart who’s safe to talk to. Cameron? Prendergast? Maybe Dovecot?”

  She shook her head at the mention of each name.

  “What about our boss?”

  “Sessions doesn’t have a political agenda like the others do, except to keep his nose clean, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I saw you go into his office.”

  She hesitated, thinking it out. “What … what do you mean?”

  “The other night.”

  “You were there? You saw me? Fucking asshole. What were you doing there? How did you get in?”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I work there, remember?” She was still struggling for an excuse, any excuse that sounded plausible. “Don’t trust anybody, Jack. Including me.”

  “Has someone threatened you? Brandon or―?”

  “I’m in too deep. I know too much. I’ve done things I’m not very proud of, even if they had to be done. I’m no angel. I’ve probably endangered you just by knowing you. My advice? When your legal troubles are over, leave town. Start somewhere else. Pretend none of this ever happened.”

  “You know I can’t do that. You know they won’t let me.”

  There was nothing she could say. Nothing he could say. But then she challenged him with a look, her eyes flaring. “You still don’t understand, do you? We’re in the business of protecting America.”

  “At what cost?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “If you don’t already know the answer to that, I guess you never will.”

  She rolled over, turning her back on him, now and forever. “Leave the key on the kitchen counter. I don’t want to have to change the locks.”

  Before going, he rummaged through her evening bag, inserted a memory card into her cell phone, downloaded her contacts, pocketed her car keys, and left. Minutes later, he exited the elevator at the garage level, beeped for her car, climbed into the driver’s seat, and engaged the ignition. He turned on the radio, flipping through stations and listening to news reports. There was only one mention of an escaped felon. It was old news by now.

  Before driving away, he called into his roaming phone number and checked for messages. Rupert had left a voicemail.

  “Found a bank account,” he said in his usual droll voice. “Smaller amount than the others. A mere million. Transferred from one of those five-million-dollar cuts. Wired to a local state bank and deposited in a trust account. The trustee and grantor are the same. Name of Janice Brodey. Lives in Jackson County, Virginia. Remember me mentioning a hacker. Simon Brodey? She’s his wife. Here’s the kicker. Simon H. Brodey drowned off Virginia Beach in the early morning hours of the Fourth of July. His body is conveniently missing. Ladies and gents, we have our Elite.”

  24

  Washington, D. C.

  Sunday, July 27

  JACK DROVE OUT of the garage beneath slate-gray skies. Gulls winged across the broad expanse. The sweet tang of wet earth freshened the air. His reflexes were riding on pounding ocean waves. Every sound was high-pitched and staggering. He could barely breathe for the keening of his senses.

  He spotted a black SUV parked across the street, engine running, two men sitting up front, their outlines indistinct behind darkly tinted windows while traffic zipped by in both directions. It could have been the same van he noticed outside Club Seven. Or the one tailing him and the journalist. Or a different one. He couldn’t be sure.

  Jack made an easy righthand turn, cruised to the end of the block, turned left, and kept going.

  At a crowded café, he ordered their special of the day and a beer, dined on the sidewalk terrace beneath a maroon umbrella, and read the latest edition of the Washington Gazette. Pedestrians strolled chattily past and cagey characters came under his scrutinizing eye. Since his release from jail, pieces to the puzzle were starting to fall into place. The picture, though, was far from complete. Maybe this Janice Brodey could shed some light.

  After finishing his meal, he drove to an address in western Virginia. The clouds had finally parted. The sun was already on its descent but still hot and brilliant under country skies. The place was hard to find. More than once, he had to double back. On a winding two-lane road, he spotted a handmade sign with the number 1273 branded into a weathered wooden plank. A rusty chain was strung across the access road, easily removed or driven around as shown by recent tire tracks on the muddy incline. He unhooked the chain and urged the car onto an unpaved road. Tall pines encroached upon the narrow track. The road veered right, ran past a fishing spot along a lazy creek, and petered out before reaching a broad field of scrubby grass. Tucked away on a wooded lot at the end of the lane, the property and the house fit the trappings of a mercenary and a loner, someone who didn’t expect company or want to be found.

  Jack pulled onto a parking pad layered with a scattering of small stones and bordered by rough-hewn logs. Wild turkeys and ducks waddled about. Purple coneflowers planted long ago propagated in careless fashion. Swallows and warblers sailed in galactic spirals, chirping a deafening chorus to usher in feeding time. At the edges of the property, lofty oaks and firs rose like soldiers, crowding out the citrus sky. A split oak, one arm curtseying low toward the L-shaped ranch, stroked the roof wit
h jealous fingers. Fog crept over distant lowlands. Prairie grasses glistened in the rays of a declining sun. A For Sale sign swung off a broken hinge. A utility vehicle was parked in the asphalt driveway. A swing set was set off to the side, the curved child-sized seats moving lazily back and forth in alternating rhythm, chains creaking. Cicadas sang their summer songs in overlapping harmony.

  Flat-footed steps answered the doorbell. When the door cracked open, Jack had his first look of the wife of Simon Brodey. She was haggard and barefooted, her expression bland and nearly lifeless. Surrounding her were the rich and heavy scents of stale vodka and cheap perfume. She had opened her door to a stranger and wasn’t afraid or the least bit curious. Just the opposite. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.” Absently gazing down at the threshold, she swung the door shut.

  Jack braced it open with his forearm. She jolted back as if he had struck her. “Mrs. Brodey? Mrs. Janice Brodey.”

  His words jarred her, confused her, spread fretfulness over her otherwise blank face. “Who are you? What do you want?” She spoke the words hastily, her voice shrill.

  The door was only half ajar, blocking a full view of the interior. Jack made out hardwood floors, beamed ceilings, and the sliver of an adjacent dining room, made sunny from western windows. Woodland birds twittered at his back, making a racket. The pine-fresh fragrance wafting through the open doorway were at odds with the staleness of the house. An indefinable odor told him she wasn’t alone.

  Jack tried to look harmless. He was pretty good at it. He had a loose way of holding himself and one of those open, boyish faces that invited trust, even while gripping a semiautomatic at his back. “I wanted to speak with your husband.”

  Seeming to awaken from her malaise, she took a tepid interest in him. She glanced quickly to the rear as if listening for something before turning back to study him more closely. She was thirtyish, but an old thirtyish, a dowdy thirtyish. Probably she had never been a beauty, but life had wiped away the superficiality of youth, the sugarcoating of innocence, and the open and trusting nature she might have once possessed. Her dirty-blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her sallow eyes and narrow lips hadn’t smiled for ages. Her taut skin reflected the sheer delicacy usually seen on newborns. She was fragile as a porcelain figurine.

  “Your husband is Simon Brodey, isn’t it?”

  “Was. Not is. Don’t you read the papers? He’s dead. Drowned. A riptide pulled him under.” She rattled off the facts absent emotion. The crescent moons beneath her blank eyes were bruised with fatigue. She didn’t wear any makeup. The flowery tie-waist blouse and faded Capri pants did nothing to flatter her gaunt figure. Bluish bruises marked a spot on the point of her chin and another beneath an eye. Her milky eyelids opened a fraction while her wispy eyebrows arched a tad.

  Jack said, “His body was never recovered.”

  She had to lick her lips before quietly saying, “No.”

  “You don’t find that suspicious?”

  Her answer came quicker this time, and louder. “No.”

  “I don’t think he drowned, Mrs. Brodey. I don’t think he’s dead. I think he’s alive and well. I think you know it, too. And I think you know where he is.”

  “He’s dead, I’m telling you. Now go away and leave me alone.” She started to close the door, but he pushed it back with the thrust of his hand. She lurched away, her eyes skittering sideways as if looking at something … or someone. “If you don’t go, I … I’ll call the sheriff on you.”

  “I don’t think you want to do that, Mrs. Brodey. Otherwise, they might get suspicious. About your husband. And where he is.”

  She pressed the flat of her hand to her chest, unable to catch her breath.

  “He’s a hacker, isn’t he? It’s what he does for a living.”

  “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was starting to panic, panting through pinched nostrils, eyes darting about.

  He could have forced his way inside the way they do in the movies and slapped her silly until she squawked like a hen. But he was no Bogart and she was no Bacall. And he didn’t know who else was in the house. “Did he always keep you in the dark, Mrs. Brodey? About what he did for a living?”

  She began to visibly tremble. “What … what do you want?” Fear was choking her.

  “I just want to talk to you. Can I come inside? My name is Jack Coyote. I’m a securities analyst with the government.”

  “Government? You’re with the government? My husband works … worked … for the government.”

  “What did he do for them?”

  “He―” She stopped herself from saying more. Janice Brodey wasn’t a stupid woman. She was a careful woman. She was looking him over with wariness and trying to think her way out of an uncomfortable situation. “How did you find us?”

  “The newspapers said your husband was a consultant.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Her tone was confrontational, but there was something else in her voice. Fear.

  “He’s a hacker, like I said before, isn’t he? I think he hacked me.”

  She almost tumbled backwards but took a counterbalancing step to check the momentum.

  “The trust account set up by your husband? It’s fraudulent. The money was stolen.”

  Her face became ghostly. “How … how do you know about that?”

  “A million dollars is a lot of money, Mrs. Brodey. Did he tell you that if anything happened to him, you would be provided for, that you wouldn’t have to worry about a thing?”

  She sucked in a breath. “I think you should go now, Mister. Before I call the cops on you.”

  “Do that, Mrs. Brodey. Call the police. And tell them how you came into a fortune after your husband staged his own drowning.”

  She was on the verge of crying, but probably Janice Brodey had been on the verge of crying for years. “One million dollars doesn’t replace a dead husband.” She was hiccupping, hyperventilating, sucking gulps of air.

  “Your husband isn’t really missing, is he? I think you know where he is.”

  “The police. They found his clothes, his ID. He’s gone, I’m telling you.” She was grasping at excuses and explanations, anything to convince herself as much as this stranger at her door. “There were witnesses. They saw him go into the water. They didn’t see him come out.”

  “Was your husband a strong swimmer, Mrs. Brodey?”

  “He―”

  “In fact, the paper said he was on the swim team in college.”

  “He’s not the kind of man to―”

  “I don’t think you’ll ever be able to spend that money. I think you’re in danger. I think the people he’s running from will come for you and find out everything you know about your husband’s whereabouts. Someone who isn’t as nice as me. Someone who won’t stop at anything to get what he wants.”

  “You’ve came to the wrong house, Mister,” she said in a loud voice, her eyes shifting. “You’re looking for the Andersons. They live down the road apiece. Just go out the way you came, turn north, and look for a blue house on your right.” She was doing him a favor. Telling him it was dangerous to be here and to get the hell out while he still had the chance. She also told him something else … she needed help.

  She started to close the door again, but he slammed it open and stepped inside. His position gave him a wider view of the hallway, formal dining room, and front room. Arched doorways led to the back rooms. A skylight and floor-to-ceiling windows let in abundant light. Yet with all the openness, the house seemed closed off. Spooky. Even haunted.

  “When was the last time you heard from your husband?” Jack asked. “Was it the day he drowned? Or did he stop calling long before then?”

  She backed away from him. Her gray irises brightened with understanding. She licked her lips, but even after licking them, they stayed as parched as her face, a face that should have been sweating from the summer heat blasting through the doorway but remained dry as
a desert. In a whisper, she said, “How did you know?”

  “My friend was kidnapped and murdered on the Fourth of July. I think your husband had something to do with it.”

  She replayed the words in her head while her mind formulated a defense for a man who almost certainly hadn’t been in touch with his loving wife for weeks. Her anxiety turned into irritation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You better go.”

  “Like I said before, ma’am, my name is Jack Coyote. Maybe you recognize me. My face has been in the newspapers. My name’s been on the news.” He didn’t know why he kept talking since his words didn’t seem to be registering. Or maybe they were. Maybe they were registering too well.

  Recognition touched her waxen expression. “You’re that killer, aren’t you? When they let you out of jail, I knew it was a mistake.”

  Janice Brodey was a woman who kept secrets. They were eating her up alive. Pushing her too far could be risky. Forcing his way past her would be reckless. His best option was to leave and never look back. But the plight of this defenseless woman mesmerized him. He couldn’t just leave her to her fate. He had to see it out.

  “You’ve been waiting for something like this to happen,” he said. “For months. Maybe for years.”

  As if he had landed on a profound truth, she slapped both hands to her beating heart. Two fingernails were shorter than the rest, torn and jagged. “I think you better leave.” She grabbed the doorknob and closed the door into a narrower angle, an invitation for him to go.

  “The million dollars? It’s blood money. But you already know that, don’t you? Are you hiding him? Is he in the next room? Listening to us? Has he told you what to say? What to do? How to act?”

  She glanced back and swung the door wider to show him no one was there. “Like I told you, he’s not here. He’s dead. Now get the hell out of here and never come back.” In quieter tones, she said, “Before it’s too late.”

  An upright piano sat flush against the back wall of the front room. Family portraits of father, mother, and young daughter were propped on either side of the fireplace mantel while an old-fashioned grandmother clock occupied the center. Heavy furniture dominated the middle of the room, armchairs set off against each other for friendly conversations, a Navaho-themed throw rug spread beneath. Everything appeared bland and normal, exactly the way every house of every family in every community should appear. But he could still feel it … the frangible atmosphere of a dispirited household.