Cyber Attack

by Bobby Akart

  If you only knew what my friends have.

  “Are you worried about your family?” asked Steven. “Is that why you want out?”

  “No, they worry about me, if you can believe that. They can take care of themselves as it relates to food, water and medical needs. I’m worried about those who might try to take what my parents have—whether its bands of thieves or the government. My experience would make a difference.”

  “Bands of thieves or the government.” Steven laughed. “Sounds like the same thing to me. Let’s talk about this some more, but we need to get down to business.” The communications system interrupted their conversation.

  “You boys awake up there?” The voice of Sharpie came across the comms.

  “Fuck yeah, it’s almost showtime,” replied Steven. Steven watched as the operatives closed in on Johan Fuersberg, a senior trader of collateralized debt obligations, CDOs, for Deutsche Bank. “Good ole Johan shit in the wrong mess kit. Time to pay the piper. Let’s call in some air support, shall we?”

  “Air support? So dramatic,” said Slash.

  Steven laughed. “Control, you copy?” asked Steven.

  “Naturlich,” replied the Frankfurt-based Aegis Team in their native German.

  “Let’s liven up this party and provide some cover for my friends,” said Steven, now immersed in his role as Nomad. “Watch here.” Steven tapped on a monitor providing an aerial view of the Debit and Credit towers.

  Aegis, via its contacts at DHL—Germany’s express-delivery company, developed a drone that was initially designed to carry urgently needed packages such as medicines to remote locations. The white and sky blue octocopter, known as the Paketkopter, carried a payload compartment as well as several cameras, allowing surveillance of the targeted area.

  Steven and Slash watched the drone wind its way through downtown Frankfurt as it approached Deutsche Bank. Keeping a careful eye on his team, Steven provided them a countdown as the Paketkopter approached. Bugs and Sharpie closed on the mark. Bugs would make the hit as Sharpie covered him.

  “Drop the payload,” said Steven. “Gentlemen, on your ready. See you at the rally point. Control, we’ll need an image uploaded upon completion.”

  “Verstanden.”

  Approximately two hundred feet above the crowd, the payload doors of the drone opened and thousands of newly minted Deutsche Marks filled the air like confetti. As chaos ensued, Bugs deftly moved in on the German banker and inserted the knife in the base of his skull. An instant kill, and symbolic, as instructed. The printer inside the van came to life within seconds, revealing Fuersberg’s lifeless body in a pool of blood. As the worthless money fell from the sky, none of the frenzied customers of Deutsche Bank noticed the assassination.

  Chapter 18

  May 25, 2016

  Der Junge Haus

  Frankfurt, Germany

  “This disgusting piece of shit needs to die!” exclaimed Slash as he thumbed through the dossier provided by Aegis. “We should just go inside and take all of these sons of bitches out!”

  “Calm down, buddy, you’ll get your chance,” said Steven. “We have some info to gather first. Orders, remember?”

  Bugs drove the van across the Main at the Baseler Strasse Bridge. “Five minutes, boys.”

  “All right, listen up,” said Steven. “This place is in a residential area, high density. Regardless of our feelings, there are kids in this house.”

  “Young boys!” exclaimed Slash. “Sick fuckers!”

  “I’m with you, Slash, but you gotta keep your head on straight,” said Steven. “We’re in and out. Grab and go. I’ll fire two rounds in the floor to scare the piss out of ’em. We’ll get our guy and then do our jobs. Questions?” The van was silent, but the tension was deafening. Steven hoped Slash wouldn’t massacre every adult in this whorehouse for pedophiles—Der Junge Haus.

  Bugs navigated onto Rheinstrasse and then left onto Savignystrasse. Curb appearances would never reveal the horrors inside this stately European home. The wrought-iron fence contained a gate with cherubs adorning the posts.

  “This is the place. Guards are in front. Silencers for them,” said Steven.

  Sharpie hopped out of the front seat and casually approached the two guards. They were dead in seconds. Steven and Slash exited through the rear and hopped over the short fence next to an overgrown rhododendron tree. They approached the entrance.

  “Casually, Slash. Let’s clear the first floor before we go bustin’ into rooms,” said Steven. They climbed the concrete steps and entered through the double doors. The interior was filled with red velvet furnishings and a variety of patrons, young and old, but all male. Music was playing to a festive crowd—Elton John, of course.

  Steven’s eyes darted around the room, assessing any threats and looking for Karl Ferdl, head of Global Transaction Banking for Deutsche Bank. More importantly for the client’s purposes, he was the Chairman of the Bilderberg Steering Committee. The Aegis team was dispatched to this cesspool to abduct Herr Ferdl and extract the sought-after information. The overall purpose was to deliver a clear message—don’t fuck with John Morgan.

  “Upstairs,” whispered Steven. The two men made their way back to the foyer and up the winding staircase. “I’ll take left, you go right. If anyone raises hell, fire off a round to get everyone’s attention.”

  Door by door, Slash and Steven made their way through Der Junge Haus. Steven found it interesting none of the doors were locked. Was that for the protection of the boys in the event the staff required access? We should burn this place down on the way out!

  Let’s see what’s behind door number three. Steven carefully entered and was momentarily sickened by what he saw. Fuck me!

  “Keep your pants on, you fat fuck!” exclaimed Steven. Steven heard Slash running down the hallway in his direction.

  “Was hat das zu bedeuten?” asked Ferdl.

  “Shut up and put on your pants!”

  “I’ve got this,” said Slash, pushing past Steven, and then he immediately bloodied Herr Ferdl’s nose with the butt of his pistol. “Hose auf!”

  The naked, young boy was curled up in the bed, attempting to hide his nude body. Steven threw a blanket over the boy and pointed a gun at Ferdl’s head.

  “Mach schnell, asshole!” said Steven.

  “Nice,” said Slash. “Where did you learn that?”

  “The Dirty Dozen.” Steven pushed Ferdl through the doorway towards the stairs. A few heads poked out of the rooms, but Slash stared them down with his weapon and that scared off any witnesses.

  As they led their captive down the stairs, Slash shouted instructions in German. His mother, born in Berlin prior to World War II, taught Slash her native language when he was a child. He retained a pretty large vocabulary but rarely had an opportunity to use it. Steven was glad Slash had the ability to communicate with the crowd forming below.

  “Blieb zuruck!” exclaimed Slash. “Stand back! Schnell!”

  They made their way out of the house with their overweight patron. Sharpie waited for them with the front gate open.

  “Thanks,” said Steven. “How’d you get the gate open?”

  “Our friends helped,” said Slash, kicking the legs of the dead guard further under the bushes. He turned his attention to Ferdl. Slash withdrew a syringe from his pocket and injected Ferdl with phenobarbital to insure his cooperation during the ride to the Aegis interrogation house. “Guten Abend, fuck face!”

  Chapter 19

  May 25, 2016

  AEGIS warehouse

  Frankfurt, Germany

  The ride north to Eckenheim took only fifteen minutes by design. After the high-profile assassination of Fuersberg earlier in the day, and the very loud abduction of Ferdl, the Aegis team wanted to get what they came for and get out of Germany.

  Bugs and Sharpie remained outside of the building to stand watch. Sharpie was comfortable they weren’t followed because he utilized several driving techniques for escape and evasion. T
heir primary concern was the amount of noise their guest would make during questioning.

  “Wake up, asshole,” said Steven as he poured water over the face of the German banker. Ferdl was strapped to a large pallet and tilted against a bench. As he awoke, he struggled against the harnesses holding him tightly in place.

  “Lass mich gehen!”

  “Nope, not gonna happen,” said Slash. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere.” Slash threw another bucket of water on his face, causing Ferdl to cough and spit out the excess. Steven and Slash towered over Ferdl, whose frightened eyes searched the men for an explanation. In broken English, he spoke.

  “What want sie from me?”

  Steven took the lead. “You’ve upset my employers,” said Steven. “We need information.”

  “Ich verstehe nicht,” said Ferdl.

  Steven looked at Slash.

  “He says he doesn’t understand,” said Slash. “Let’s see if he understands this!” Slash brought both fists down hard on Ferdl’s belly, causing him to gasp for air. Slash followed this with another bucket of water to Ferdl’s face.

  “Nein, nein!”

  Steven gestured for Slash to hold off. He needed Ferdl to stay alive long enough to get two things. The first was a commitment. Steven retrieved a resignation letter to be signed by Ferdl.

  “Translate for me, Slash,” said Steven.

  Slash nodded his head while staring intently at Ferdl.

  “Herr Ferdl, you must resign your post as chairman of the Bilderberg Steering Committee,” said Steven. “If you do not, we will be back. Understand?”

  Ferdl looked to Slash, who repeated the statement.

  “Warum?” asked Ferdl, earning another bucket of water in his face from Slash.

  “Because he said so, verstehen!”

  “It’s gonna get wet in here,” said Steven.

  “I’m just gettin’ started,” replied Slash.

  Steven continued. Over the next several minutes, Steven and Slash interrogated Ferdl about a series of financial transactions he conducted in February prior to the collapse of the Eurozone. Without the knowledge and consent of John Morgan, Ferdl siphoned off millions of dollars into investment instruments held in Bilderberg accounts at Societe Generale, a French multinational banking group based in Paris. They were a primary conduit for Bilderberg financial activities. Ferdl, using trust powers granted to him by the Boston Brahmin, invested heavily in Bilderberg-sponsored CDOs. After the collapse of the Eurozone, the account was supposedly lost. Morgan learned the funds were actually transferred into cash accounts and the money was used to increase the cash reserves of Societe Generale. Morgan wanted their money returned and demanded to know who instructed Ferdl to take the action.

  “Sie werden mich töten,” pleaded Ferdl.

  “I will kill you right now if you don’t tell me!” replied Slash. Turning to Steven, Slash was clearly tired of waiting. “He won’t talk unless we make him.”

  “I agree. Let’s get on with it.”

  The two men abruptly grabbed the pallet to which Ferdl was bound and dropped it to the floor. Then they elevated it slightly so his feet were above his head. Ferdl’s eyes stared wildly and he thrashed his head back and forth.

  Steven grabbed a small towel and soaked it in a bucket of water. He looked up at Slash and nodded. Steven looked into Ferdl’s eyes while covering his nose and mouth with the soaked towel. Slash began slowly pouring water over the towel from about twelve inches away. This continuous application of water lasted for about twenty seconds until Steven removed the towel.

  Ferdl gasped for air and flailed uncontrollably.

  “Nein, nein! Bitte!”

  Steven reapplied the towel and the process continued. Waterboarding was first used during the fifteenth century. The Spanish Inquisition, instituted by Catholic Monarchs in Spain, was intended to ensure converts to the faith of Christianity from Judaism and Islam remained true to their new Christian faith. A similar technique to waterboarding was just one of the many tools used by the Monarchy. Simply burning heretics at the stake was a more favored option.

  After the fifth round lasting nearly forty seconds, it appeared Herr Ferdl was ready to provide some answers. Steven turned on the voice recorder of his iPhone to insure accuracy. He uploaded the recording to Control and awaited further instructions. He and Slash walked out of earshot of Ferdl.

  “I don’t care what they say,” said Sharpie. “That waterboarding shit works.”

  “Yeah. The fear of getting killed is a terrifying experience,” said Steven. “They used to train the SEALs on how to survive waterboarding. They had to stop because the SEALs couldn’t pass it. And that was in a controlled environment. Make no mistake, waterboarding isn’t simulated drowning—it is drowning.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Sharpie. As the men walked back to Ferdl, he appeared to have passed out.

  “Let’s go, Ferdl. Party’s over,” said Steven. Ferdl was unresponsive. Steven leaned down and felt for a pulse. “Fuck me. He’s dead. Heart attack maybe.”

  “Good, pedophile deserves it!” said Slash. “What are we gonna do with the fat fuck?”

  Steven called Control with the sitrep. The intel they received from Ferdl was accurate. Good news. They wanted his body taken back to Der Junge Haus. Bad news.

  “That cesspool will be crawling with Stadtpolizei,” said Slash. “Let’s just take him to his car. Dump his dumb ass there.”

  “Too risky,” said Steven. Steven summoned Bugs and Sharpie from outside.

  “What happened to him?” asked Bugs.

  “Too much bockwurst,” replied Slash.

  “Wasn’t there a park not too far back?” asked Steven.

  “Yeah, about halfway,” replied Bugs.

  “Let’s dump him on a park bench with his pants around his ankles,” said Slash. “He deserves it.”

  “With his pecker hangin’ out?” asked Sharpie.

  “Why the hell not? He won’t need it anymore.”

  Chapter 20

  May 26, 2016

  100 Beacon

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Sarge rode up the elevator with a sense of relief after an extremely hectic semester. He posted grades today and was pleased with everyone’s performance. He was coming into his own as an educator, both within the Harvard confines as well as on the speaking circuit. His book, Choose Freedom or Capitulation, America’s Sovereignty Crisis, was a New York Times best seller for four consecutive months and Sarge was in high demand for speaking engagements. His publicist was now earning him a lucrative fee as well as high-quality travel arrangements. He scheduled a few trips with Julia in mind and he hoped she could accompany him.

  He hated being apart from her. Over the last six months, since that fun evening at Stephanie’s in December, they were inseparable. She moved in with Sarge—but not just in a this is your dresser drawer sort of way. He loved her very much and needed her even more. He wanted to make this permanent and contemplated marriage all the time. I guess it will happen when the time is right.

  As the doors opened to the Great Hall, he was immediately struck with the smell of braised beef and George Gershwin’s An American in Paris. Julia was pulling out all of the stops tonight, including the stunning black cocktail dress. What did I forget?

  “Hi, honey, I’m home,” announced Sarge. “Sargent, party of two?”

  “Come here and kiss me, smartass,” said Julia. She wrapped her arms around him while he struggled to hold the bags of produce she requested from Whole Foods. “I missed you today.”

  “I see that. I love you and missed you too. School’s out for the summer and I’m all yours. Well, mostly.”

  “How ’bout some wine?” asked Julia. “I popped open a bottle of Beaujolais.”

  Sarge nodded as Julia poured the glass. He set the grocery bags on the island.

  “Listen, I am a boy and forgetful about certain things,” said Sarge.

  “Like what things?” asked Julia tea
singly.

  Oh shit, what did I forget? “You know, couple things that men tend to forget but women always remember.”

  “Relax, Sarge, I knew you wouldn’t remember what today is, but I did. I won’t hold that against you as long as you hold me against you.”

  “Deal! What did I forget?” he asked.

  “Ten years ago today, we had our first date. Do you remember now?” asked Julia.

  “Of course I do, darling. John Morgan invited us to the Garden of Flags event on Boston Common and he sat us next to each other for dinner in his home that night.”

  Every Memorial Day weekend, the Massachusetts Military Heroes organization planted a garden of thirty-seven thousand flags in front of the Soldiers and Sailors Monument on Boston Common to commemorate the service members from Massachusetts who gave their lives to defend the United States. Morgan had a private dinner at his home that evening. Sarge and Julia were seated next to each other at the table. This event came towards the end of Sarge’s relationship with Abbie and it was obvious Morgan was nudging Sarge in Julia’s direction.

  Sarge continued. “That seems like a long time ago. I always wondered if Morgan had an ulterior motive.”

  “He always has an ulterior motive, as do I, Henry,” said Julia, using his given name. She bowed and handed him his glass of wine.

  “I love it when you talk dirty to me, Lady Hawthorne.”

  Julia emptied the contents of the Whole Foods bag and looked perplexed.

  “Whole Foods wasn’t able to confiscate your whole paycheck this time?”

  “No. In fact, it was eerie,” replied Sarge. “The shelves were bare and the produce department was decimated. One of the employees told me their produce trucks were not running on a regular schedule.”

  “I’ll call DeLuca’s on Newbury Street and have them deliver what I need,” said Julia.

  “Don’t bother. I drove by DeLuca’s, but they closed early.”

  “Who is buying up all the food, Sarge?”