by Vince Milam
I supposed I had been. Off the grid, no social media, with fake driver’s licenses and passports.
“I guess so. Had no idea.”
“Banks and credit companies and governments coming to a theater near you call that character and capacity thing ‘behavioral scoring.’ Economic guilt-by-association. But it goes a lot farther than that.” He sipped coffee and reached for a nearby sanitizer bottle. “We each leave a trail of digital exhaust. Well, I don’t. But everyone else is a digital sensor. Leaving a digital trace. At its essence, each of us becomes nodes on the information network. Let’s say you take a walk.”
“A walk. Okay.”
Fascinating and scary stuff, but a drift away from Alaton intel. I’d attempt a rudder change shortly.
“Yes. A walk around the neighborhood. A simple act. But you have your cell phone with you. Your walking speed and distance covered is tracked, data collected. Data that is cross-checked with your medical records. So you receive a little note via IM, while you’re walking, that you should pick up the pace and cover another two miles. Or your social credit score gets dinged. How about if you and your wife stop purchasing birth control. A knock on your door soon follows and a sincere bureaucrat, full of goodwill, explains the two kids you have are sufficient. Have any more, and you get dinged. It’s real, dude. It’s now.”
Server fans hummed as Hoolie paused and sipped coffee.
“I kind of get it. Horrific stuff. Scares the hell out of me.”
It did. I didn’t want to live in a world where the lever-pullers of power tried controlling my life. With individual choice and individual responsibility relegated to a collection of morons who knew what was right for me. And even spookier, what was right for my fellow citizens as a whole. Jeez. More than disquieting, and I reminded myself why I sat here.
“Okay. I get it. It makes my gut tighten. So what about Alaton? You sure they’ve pulled together all this data? And you’re inferring their clients are mostly governments.” The same line as Jules. I wasn’t convinced. “Not a lot of Chinas around, Hoolie.”
“You don’t think so? We’re talking visions of the anointed. No government is immune from this if the people at the top think they know best.”
He had a point. Maybe. It stretched credulity, and I attempted to keep the conspiracy door under containment while I focused on the mission.
“Alaton. Global big data collected. Governments as the clientele. Is this what I’m hearing?”
“You’re hearing what I suspect. What I know deep inside. But like I said, I can’t crack into their systems. And if I can’t—and no disrespect—you can’t.”
“Agreed. But I’m meeting with Krupp. Tomorrow. In Hawaii.”
I could have left the Hawaii location out, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt. Hoolie shot straight up.
“You’re meeting with Elliot Krupp? Dude! He has a place in Hawaii? There’s no record of it, man. I’d know. But ownership could be hidden under several layers of fake companies. Offshore corporations. Who knew? Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“Just did.”
He began pacing. The overhead light reflected off his bald pate as he waved immaculate hands and spoke.
“Right, right. Okay. You’re meeting Krupp. Right. Tell him you work for a government entity. Very secret. Get his interest.”
“Already crossed that bridge.”
He paused, pushed his glasses back up his nose, and continued pacing. I sipped coffee.
“Right. Okay. Ask for a reference. Another client. I can break into their systems and see what’s going on. Where are you meeting him?”
“Hoolie, I’ll handle the meetup. And I’ll let you know what I find. Which is liable to be diddly-squat. We’re meeting at his house near Kona. The Big Island. What I need from you is a thumb drive. An extractor virus. A program that can pull information from his laptop and shoot it out.”
“No. No, dude. I mean sure, can do easy, but his home device won’t hold what you need. He might use it on occasion to access the main systems. Maybe. But I doubt it. Too risky. No. He’s got his own private data center somewhere. No one knows where. There are hundreds of them in the Bay Area.”
“Meaning it’s close to his house in Palo Alto,” I said. “He’s not the kind of guy to put up with a lot of traffic on his commute.”
“Maybe. Maybe.” He stopped pacing again. “Or Hawaii. How much time does he spend there? It would be the perfect place. It’s a huge island. He could have it tucked away somewhere nearby.”
“I don’t know about that. Active volcanoes would make it high risk.”
“The Big Island is huge. Several thousand square miles. He could locate it a far distance from geological activity.”
Hoolie plopped down at a computer terminal with three screens and began a frantic search.
“I don’t usually care about physicality. The location of things,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me. It does to you. You’re an on-the-ground guy. Which is cool. Primitive, but cool. Very retro. What’s his address in Hawaii?”
I told him, and told him I’d already checked it out on Google Earth. Not a house as much as a compound. Several acres that jutted into the Pacific with high cliffs separating the three main structures from the pounding surf. While he stared at one of the screens, I asked him if a small data center could be inside the compound.
“No, dude. No. Plus he’ll have employees. I’d guess forty or fifty people. Analysts, data engineers. A few hardware guys. He could set them up with housing in Hawaii. A strong allure for them and an isolated troop of engineers for him. No rubbing elbows with the Silicon Valley crowd. Loose lips and all that.”
He continued searching, shoulders hunched as screens flashed websites and data strings.
“What are you looking for?” I asked and stood to fetch more coffee.
“Where are you going?” His head snapped my direction.
“Coffee.”
“Put your cup down on a desk. I’ll get it.”
He did, ensuring I didn’t spread my personal germs near his operating-room-clean kitchen area. He placed the now-full cup back on the desk. Another sanitizer squirt, and he sat back down.
“So what are you looking for, Hoolie?”
“A data center near his compound.”
“Satellite images?”
He smiled and looked up.
“You really are old school. I’m not kidding.”
“So tell this old school dude what you’re looking for.”
He remained silent for a full ninety seconds.
“Speaking of old school,” I continued. “I could just follow him. Tail him and see where he goes during the day.”
Another minute passed.
“There. It took longer than I thought. You don’t have to follow him, dude. Give me a little more time. Follow him.” He chuckled. “Man, that’s rich. Like a nineties cop show.”
“What took longer than you thought?”
“Breaking into the power company’s billing records.”
“What power company?”
“The one on the Big Island.”
“Okay. You want to tell me why?”
Another two minutes passed in silence.
“Right, right. I’ll segregate all the large resorts. They suck juice pretty heavily.”
“Hoolie?”
“Hold on.”
Several more minutes passed. His fingers flew, his clean-shaven head swiveling between large screens.
“Maybe,” he muttered. “Maybe, baby. Let’s go old school again.”
I stood and approached his collection of computer screens.
“No, dude. No, that’s okay. You stay put. I’ll print these out.”
He didn’t want me breathing near him as I stared at the screens. Welcome to Hoolie-world. A minute later he slid several satellite photos toward me across another desk.
“What am I looking at?” I asked. There was a close-up of a half-buried structure with an adjacent smalli
sh parking lot. Multiple light poles stood scattered across the property, and an obvious razor-wire-topped fence surrounded what appeared to be twenty acres or so.
“His data center.”
Hoolie sat back, a satisfied grin on his face, hands crossed across his belly.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You want to elaborate on that, bud?”
“Data centers, even medium-sized ones like this, suck a ton of electricity. Cooling for all those servers, plus the juice to power servers themselves. I sorted the power company’s largest monthly billings from high to small. Eliminated the resorts. Then one popped.”
“Popped?”
“One of their customers. It’s not a resort. The name on the bill is ‘A Corp.’ Sound familiar? Payments are automatically withdrawn from a bank in the Channel Islands. One of those maps shows the route from his compound to the data center. Fifteen miles.”
For all the weirdness and freakish mannerisms, Hoolie was good. One of the best. Now I required a last item or four.
“Well done, you. Now I need some thumb drives. Four should do.”
His face fell, and he spun his office chair toward me and leaned forward.
“That was fun. Alaton’s data center located. Cool. But the road dead-ends there. You have to get inside and unless you’re some super-duper burglar, some Mission: Impossible dude, you won’t get in.”
“Let me worry about that.” I placed the coffee cup down, leaned forward, and locked eyes. “Now this is important. The thumb drives only acquire and send out Alaton’s business model. Clients, types of data they have, packaged data offerings—that sort of thing. No personal information. On anyone. Period. I mean it, Hoolie.”
“You won’t get in there.”
“Don’t sweat that part. Let’s be clear on what information I want extracted. A corporate topology. Only. No personal data. No deep-dive finances. High-level stuff, Hoolie. And I’m dead serious about that.”
Bottom line—the break-in and collection of data bothered me. A lot. Yeah, I’d get a high-level overview. A sense of what Alaton did and for whom. But I wasn’t prying into personal lives. There was enough of that crap at play, and I wouldn’t contribute.
“I could do a lot more,” he said. “A lot more.”
“Yeah. I know. But you’re not going to. I’m more than serious.”
“You still require data center access. And if you pull off that little feat, the information has to go to me, via multiple encrypted dark web routes. Slipped from the data center on the internet, buried deep. You won’t understand it. I’ll relay it to you once I’ve deciphered it.”
“Fine. That works. Here’s what I want.” Man, the trust factor had become paramount, but my options were limited. But given the identification of the data center, a plan solidified. A tactic pulled from rubbing elbows with spooks all those years. “When someone, anyone, plugs the thumb drive into their computer, I want vacation photos to appear. Use stock images. Generic. A family on vacation. Your bug can work behind the scenes.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You don’t have to. Just do it, please.”
He shrugged and nodded.
“Fine.”
“High level acquisition, Hoolie. No personal data. I’ve got to trust you on this.”
He sat back and displayed mild disgust.
“Are we in agreement on what your virus will collect?” I asked, our eyes still locked.
“Sure, dude. Sure. But you still have to break into his data center.”
I smiled.
“No, dude. No, I don’t.”
Chapter 4
An encompassing salt breeze triggered a Pacific island sense and feel at the open-air Kona Airport. I was a late-night arrival after two substantial flights and too many cocktails. No more cold, biting wind or seeking shelter—shorts and T-shirts the dress code for both day and night. An easy slip into island time, island culture. Adios, winter.
I rented a small car and drove twelve miles north. I’d snagged a room at a resort on the Kohala Coast. Pricey, but rooms were in short supply, and Global Resolutions never barked at expenses. That said, a seed of guilt at the cost took root. I weeded most of it away with a when-in-Rome attitude.
A glorious dawn heralded a busy day: observe Alaton’s data center, make a purchase in the town of Kailua-Kona, contact Joanna Krupp, and schedule a sit-down with her. And the biggie—meet with Elliot Krupp, MOTU.
Plenty of what-ifs nagged—a renewal of self-doubt about this job. Send me into war-torn areas, deep jungles, the world of mercs and spooks and conspiracies. No problem. Been there, done that, and succeeded. Every time. Well, gradients of success, for sure. But success nonetheless. Now, Case Lee Inc. was entering a different realm, one where previous physical training and the ability to shoot straight held little coin. But I had an action plan, a takeoff point.
I shoved my pangs aside and relished the moment. From my room’s balcony, the dark blue of the Pacific. A nearby beach, empty at the early hour, where the water shallowed and deep blue changed to rich, inviting aqua. Within view in the opposite direction, inland, was a flat-topped 14,000-foot mountain: Mauna Kea, a dormant volcano, mantled with a dusting of snow. The warm offshore breeze rattled palm tree fronds, birds called, and a mongoose scurried across a nearby patch of lava rock.
Man, I was blessed. Through it all—the ups and downs and sideways—I remained healthy, had a loving family with Mom and CC, and blood-brother bonds with Bo, Marcus, and Catch. Any way you shook, rattled, or rolled it, life was good. I cast an upward look into the fathomless sky and mouthed a sincere “Thanks.” I bathed in the moment—eyes shut, filled to the brim with gratitude and the knowledge I could do a helluva lot worse.
A large mower working a nearby golf course broke the reverie, and after a quick shower I headed out the door. Khakis, a loose polo shirt, untucked, and sneakers. The Glock tucked inside my waistband. A small backpack with water, field medical kit, and high-end Zeiss compact binoculars rounded out the ensemble. Good to go and on the job.
Hoolie’s map provided ample detail for the data center’s location. I took one of the few paved interior roads, passed through Waikoloa Village, and turned right onto a gravel road. After several miles through lava fields interspersed with brown bunchgrass, an entrance appeared on the left with an automatic gate across the drive. An automatic gate with a key card required for entry. Expected and planned for. I continued another mile, found a wide spot in the road, and parked it.
I knew I should have brought hiking boots. Jet-black and rust-red lava rock fields, with knee-high bunchgrass disguising the contours. It made for a tough hike. Sprained or broken ankle turf, for sure. A slow go, but I had a bit of time before data center employees arrived for work. Cresting a small rise, I hunkered among the basalt rocks. Below was a large depression with the data center half-buried, protected from the sun. A high hurricane fence with concertina wire across the top. Another badge-activated gate opened onto a small parking lot. The AC system and two massive backup generators occupied one side of the building’s exposed portion. I focused the binoculars and waited. Two vehicles sat already parked—either the night shift or early risers. Soon enough, more vehicles filtered in. I kept an eye peeled for Krupp—with the binoculars I could ID him from photos. An hour later, and with no sign of Krupp, I headed back toward the vehicle. All good, and I crafted a doable plan, requiring a purchase in the small city of Kona.
Back in Waikoloa Village I pulled over and called Joanna Krupp. Her phone was clearly encrypted. My phone failed to perform an electronic handshake with hers regarding identity. Her voice was washed with hesitancy and, maybe, a touch of fear.
“Ms. Krupp, my name is Case Lee. I’m investigating Alaton and would appreciate a short meeting with you. I’m here in Hawaii.”
I’d given a fair amount of consideration to my opening line with Joanna Krupp—and after slicing it six ways from Sunday, I’d made the decision t
o go with the truth.
“What is your number, Mr. Lee? I’ll have someone call you back.”
Nothing brusque within her response nor any discernible suspicion.
“Ma’am, I’d prefer not to speak with one of your lawyers. You’re one of the reasons I’m here on the Big Island.”
But she’d been delivered a script, and she followed it.
“I’m instructed not to talk with anyone I don’t know. That sounds terribly antisocial, and I apologize, but my advisor is adamant. Please give me your number.”
I did. And laid another truth card on the table as an effort to sidestep the intermediary.
“Ms. Krupp, I don’t work for your husband. I represent a client interested in Alaton. This has zero to do with personal matters.”
A long pause.
“Mr. Lee, I’ll have my advisor call you. She’s not a lawyer. And that’s all I can say. I’m sorry.”
At some point you call it good. I’d chat with her advisor, whoever and whatever the hell that designation meant. We each signed off with a polite “Thank you,” and I headed into the Waikoloa grocery store for a few personal items and a bottle of Hawaiian rum. When in Rome, indeed.
The phone rang as I slid back into the vehicle. Another unlisted and perhaps encrypted number. Man, this crowd played it close to the vest.
“Mr. Lee? I’m Jessica Rossi. I understand you wish a meeting with Joanna Krupp?”
Her voice contained a strange mixture of good humor and the trace of a Carolina accent. Inland North Carolina my best bet.
“I do.”
“Would you mind sharing with me the big why?”
I delivered the same truth I’d relayed to Joanna Krupp.
“So you’re a fellow private investigator?”
“I suppose. Maybe a bit more on the side of due diligence for my client.”
“Goodness, you must carry an interesting business card. Case Lee—Maybe A Bit Of Due Diligence For Hire.”
Delivered with a touch of humor layered over no-nonsense. I eyeballed the rum bottle protruding from the front seat’s grocery bag. It had a potent allure at the moment.
