by K NILSSON
James helped me put the proposal together and posted it as a password protected .pdf on their cloud server.
I waited and waited. I let James sleep in the anteroom on a futon I'd set up just in case. I waited until midnight when the ping of the notification made me jump. It was a response to the proposal. I pulled out my phone and messaged James.
Me: Ping me when you’re up.
James: I’m up.
Me: We got it. Let’s discuss.
James: Now?
Me: I’ll put the coffee on.
It took half a day to get a response to the proposal we’d written for the job. While we waited, James surfed for more prospects and I fielded typical PI inquiries generated by our website. Coffee was our lifeblood. We’d just gotten a sandwich delivery when James looked up from the computer and said we got the case. The job was intriguing; the parameters were clear cut. It involved espionage and theft.
After signing the non-disclosure agreement, the client, Nathan Miller, hired me to recover software stolen from his company, Tech-Key. He gave me the name of the person he suspected committed the theft, another software company owner, Byron Rathmore.
The stolen program was a data mining virus. This product was a bad idea until I thought of the various ways they could use it. Despite the number of data mining viruses, there was something special about this one. Nathan wouldn’t tell me why in an email. He included instructions on where to pick up a pre-programmed burner phone to discuss the case.
Chapter Ten
Max
Los Angeles
I hopped into my treasured lime green Humvee I’d named the Hulk and took off for the airport. A hoodie was the perfect foil, and I took it with me as I ran out of the loft. I put my phone on vibrate, stuffed it in my jeans and pulled the car into traffic. The traffic was as thick as molasses. The airport’s arteries overflowed with incoming and outgoing passengers. They could use more tunnels for the travelers to move from terminal to terminal and leave the streets open for people like me.
A nondescript building on a side street near the airport held the lockers and that’s where the burner phone was left. I parked the Hulk near the entrance and sprinted inside. The lockers stored all sizes of suitcases. They spanned the length of the walls on each side of the room. Freestanding lockers split the room into quadrants like dividers. I'd memorized the locker number and the access code.
After looking around to see anyone watching. I opened the locker and removed the phone. It vibrated as soon as I held it in my hand. An incoming text told me to go to my car and call from there. New pre-paid phones, also known as burner phones, are untraceable but it doesn’t mean they are un-tappable. A car can function as a Faraday cage with limitations, keeping electronic signals from tapping into your burner.
The parking lot was busy with travelers and cabs. It was a foggy day, and the humidity, high. I got in the Hulk and moved it away from the entrance. Out of habit, I glanced at my rearview mirror and the side mirrors. I didn’t want someone to press their face against the window trying to look inside. As if on cue, the phone buzzed with an incoming call, an unknown number.
“Mr. Carson.”
“Hello, Mr. Miller,” I said.
“Do you have questions about the job?” he asked.
"Yes, I do, sir. What does the program do?" I asked.
I heard him sigh. "Why don't contractors just do the job and not ask questions?
“The name of the program is KEY-BOLT, but I doubt you’ll hear the term roll off someone’s tongue. KEY-BOLT is a virus that can infiltrate servers, collect specific data, and funnel it to a cloud. Anyone trying to remove it triggers the software to replicate itself. BOLT is the only anti-virus that could stop the KEY virus in its tracks and reverse the damage by destroying the stolen data from the cloud.”
It was a perfect program. The immediate question was, if the BOLT stopped the virus and reversed itself, what was the point mining data someone could destroy the same way they mined it? He was withholding information.
“Why was this program a good idea?” I asked.
"We don't question why the clients want a program nor their ethics. Someone paid us to design it this way. The program specifications were concise. When we finished the design, it disappeared.
“No one knows better than me the risk that technology poses in the hands of megalomaniacs. We believe Byron Rathmore has it in his possession. There is no telling what he plans to do with it."
I was familiar with Byron Rathmore, having run across his name in various technology journals.
“Do you have a plan of attack, Mr. Carson?” he asked.
“Call me, Max, please,” I said.
I was working on the details of the operation, but input from the client would make the result happen faster.
“I have a plan, but, a few things need ironing out. Do you have a mole inside?”
Miller gave me the name of one Misha Unger, a security specialist working for Rathmore's company. What had me baffled is why my client didn't use Unger for this assignment?
"Is Unger one of your people or a walk-in?" A walk-in spy is someone who walks in off the street and offers information.
Miller was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Yes, he was a walk-in.”
"Can I count on him for help if I need it?" I asked.
"If you are in a situation that compromises him, no. He spent many years close to Rathmore. He's where I want him."
Fuck. I didn’t like Unger already.
"So why should I contact him?"
"Ask him how to get Rathmore to hire you. You have his number on the burner phone,” he said. "I thought you were a smart man, Carson. Don't disappoint me."
Click.
I took the burner with me. My phone was charging on the console. I tapped in James number.
“Yo,” answered James.
“Heading back. I’ll bring lunch,” I said.
“If you go by In-n-Out, I’ll take the usual.”
I grinned. You will.
Then, I pulled up my playlist for traffic. First up, “Bitter Sweet Symphony” by the Verve.
The traffic got heavy. I took a less traveled route back to the office. I’d go past In-n-Out Burger on the way and pick up food for James and me. I knew what to order for him. It’s always the same thing, an animal style burger, which includes a mustard-grilled patty, onions, and extra sauce. James likes his fries extra crispy, and he'd sell his mother for a chocolate shake. I ordered a double, double, two patties, two slices of cheese, topped off with lettuce, tomato, onion, french fries, and lemonade.
The drive-through lane wound around the building and out onto the feeder road. The car in front of me blared a Flo-rida song.
I had time to think about speaking with the client. I didn't know if the person on the phone was Nathan Miller. Why would he look for a private contractor to steal his property back? All I knew for sure was that he had proof of funds to pay for the job.
I evaluated, classified, and synthesized our conversation and concluded that when I find the KEY, I'm not handing it over until I know who or what the game is, not until I know it will be in the proper hands.
The drive home was an orgy for my olfactory senses. To keep myself from pulling off the road and eating my burger, I tackled the fries, wiping my fingers on the hoodie when I had to keep both hands on the wheel. I pulled into the garage, grabbed the bag of burgers, and took the steps two by two.
“James... I got your lunch.”
As planned, James, and I got comfortable in the command center, the spacious office suite in my loft, to dig up what we could on Byron Fucking Rathmore and Nathan Miller. James had arranged the computers to his liking. He sandwiched the workhorse between the conference table and a bank of smaller computers behind him. He dedicated another wall to organizing plans, photos, diagrams, and maps. The printer moved to the anteroom with the futon.
By the end of the day, we sorted through and cataloged information, made a list
of data we needed and where to get it. My sources and I have a don't ask, don't tell policy. If I can't get information on my own with my broad-reaching network, I have sources who can get any information I ask for, and I won't tell anyone else where I got it. Call it professional courtesy. I should ask for information on me so I can plug the holes, but I'm afraid of what I'd find.
We called it a night when I dozed off, and my fingers almost erased a file I needed. James crashed on the futon and was already fast asleep. I readied the coffee maker, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.
The last thing I remember was her spread legs, the soft erotic moans, and her begging to come. I awoke to the smell of coffee and a fight with morning wood. I single-handedly beat it.
Chapter Eleven
Max
Venice Beach
James scratched his matted hair. I swear he reminded me of a cartoon character, Shaggy, the owner of Scooby Doo, except he was not a slacker like Shaggy. He was a hard worker, loyal, and reliable.
James pushed his glasses up on his nose and blinked, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes. He'd been sleeping on the futon and hadn’t drunk his first cup of coffee.
"Get some high octane... and a shower while you're at it. I'll let you borrow one of my T-shirts." He smelled like someone who thought clean laundry was optional.
Rathmore's personality profile showed that nothing would keep Byron from getting what he wanted. He’d offered a big payout to anyone who could deliver the software. Stealing software was not an easy thing to do. Technology thieves used several methods to steal proprietary software, but KEY-BOLT was top secret software that had Agency fingerprints all over it, although I couldn’t say for sure.
James returned, hair plastered to his head from the shower and toothpaste in the corner of his mouth. He had a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a bowl of Frosted Flakes in the other. He settled himself in front of the computer and showed me the open tabs on Nathan Miller and his company, Tech-Key. We reviewed it together.
“Nathan Miller said KEY-BOLT was commissioned software. Can you find out who wanted them to create it and why?” I asked.
“The article I read said the company was ready to announce the launch of a new product. The details were top secret,” he said, sliding his glasses back up his nose.
I tilted my head back and looked at the ceiling.
“Someone let the cat out of the bag. Why would you announce something if it was a secret?” I said, thinking aloud.
“Yep,” said James.
“I wonder who it was,” I said.
James mimicked my gaze, rubbing a hand along his scruffy chin.
“I wonder who developed the software.”
James brainstormed with me. Opening his desk drawer, he got a handful of markers and started writing on the dry erase board we use for things like this:
Who made the product?
Are signed NDAs on file for examination?
When was the test phase?
Suspects: software designer, industrial spies, aka, contracted testers
I walked up to the board and picked up another marker, drew more arrows, wrote notes and then with a deep sigh, I made a guess of what could have happened.
“Tech-Key required non-disclosure agreements from anyone with whom they did business, from vendors to contractors. Even though the industrial spies got temporary employment, they signed the non-disclosures and mined company data. They offered the resulting information, reports, emails, and text documents to Byron for a price. No one would do it for free,” I said.
“You got that right,” said James, his arms crossed in front of him as he stepped back and looked at scribbled notes on the board.
“I’ll go through the list of employees, cross-check the NDAs, and see if I can find a suspect.”
“I need more coffee.” I strolled toward the kitchen, wishing I hadn't skipped my morning workout.
When I walked back to stand next to James, he was running his hand through his hair repeatedly, as if in a trance.
“James...” He didn’t answer. “James...”
"Let’s look at what we know about Byron Rathmore," I said. James already had it.
“Byron Rathmore hires industrial spies to keep their eyes open and bring new product acquisition opportunities to him. He gave them a grocery list of targets. Tech-Key was a small software firm on that list,” said James.
“How did you find out?” I asked.
“Tech forums,” he replied.
I’m so glad James works for me.
After digesting the data, my next focus was how to get inside Byron Rathmore’s organization.
"James, what do you have for me?"
He set up a slideshow of Rathmore's staff that included bodyguards.
"Look at these men... " He jerked his chin toward the wall of sliding images. Then he slipped away leaving me time to study them. “Most of them disappeared in recent months," he hollered from the bathroom.
The photos had different bodyguards except for one guy. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and was tall, tan, and fit. The hair was short and sparse. He sported not just a five o'clock shadow, but heavy scruff. I couldn't tell the shape or color of his eyes. He wore sunglasses in every photo. It could be my client's insider.
I picked up the burner phone and contacted Miller's insider, Misha Unger. The call went to voicemail. He called back in five minutes.
"Allo."
He spoke with an accent, but I couldn’t place it.
I gave him my alias. "This is Maximillian Stone. Who is this?"
The response was clipped. “Who you look for?”
"They programmed your number into a burner phone I got from a locker."
That someone could only be Miller, or, not. Miller told me he had a mole inside Rathmore’s company.
"What you want?" he asked.
“Someone said Rathmore is looking for an expert in system security. You are head of security. I'm an expert in systems.”
There was a pause. Didn’t Unger know I would call?
“I do. Who told you?” he asked.
“Someone who knew.”
He grunted. That’s a yes.
"Can you get me in?" I asked.
"Yes,. I get you in. Come Friday to meet boss."
"Do I need to supply paperwork?"
"No, not yet. If the boss likes you, everything okay. If not, walk away."
Not on your life.
"Anything else I should know?"
"Don't talk. Just nod unless he ask question."
"Right."
Click.
Chapter Twelve
Ben Rosenberg
Pacific Palisades
Devyn sat barefoot and cross-legged on the couch. My home is a rambling modern villa, nestled in the Palisades landscape overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Floor to ceiling tinted windows offer unimpeded views of the ocean.
"I have a good mind to send you home until you’re able to return in a more committed frame of mind. I wouldn’t cross the street with you in your condition. I should get you tested for ADD."
During the self-defense exercises in a gym in Venice, my protégée Devyn was metaphorically missing. Her body was here, but her attention was elsewhere. She was off-kilter, disordered, and out of step. It was unusual for her to arrive late, but she kept me waiting for thirty minutes, and during practice, I nearly flattened her. Part of the edge of Krav Maga is the element of surprise. I surprised her every single time. It should be the reverse!
“What’s going on with you?” I shouted, slamming my water bottle on the counter.
Devyn wore the face of a shiatsu puppy who got caught peeing on my cereal. The blue eyes were red and her nose was stuffy from sniffling. Devyn's messy bun was more messy than stylish. I handed her a box of tissues. She unfolded and wadded pieces of tissue, trying to wipe her tears and blow her nose with it.
"I went out for my birthday with Candace. What started out to be a great evening, ended up… I en
ded up…" She wailed, her nose stuffy.
I stilled. “Did something happen?” I asked, refraining from using the word rape.
“No! It’s not what you think.” She glared.
I sat across from her, wondering who I’d have to kill and where to hide the body.
“I had a one-night stand that didn’t last all night.”
Her face was the deep red of humiliation.
Before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out. “Oh. I’m not good at this, sugar. It’s too much information.”
Devyn’s like a baby sister and I was ill-equipped for this conversation. She nodded, pulling another tissue from the box.
“I understand. It’s hard for me to verbalize as it is. When I got home, I took a shower, but I couldn't wash the shame away. I couldn’t sleep either, so I drank coffee. The more I drank, the faster my mind raced.”
Scratching my beard, I trod perilously close to asking what happened, but I didn’t want to know. Really, I didn’t.
“So… what are you going to do?” I asked.
She turned those watery blue eyes toward me, spreading out her arms as if encompassing the room.
“I want to work. Working will take my mind off this,” she declared, seeming to pump herself up.
I have reservations about placing our client’s life in her hands right now. She’s never had a missing person case where we must go undercover to do it. The missing person cases she’s handled before involved computer surveillance, talking to friends, family, and employers, and making phone calls. She would not run the show on this assignment. A young man’s life is in the balance, and I don’t want her thinking about… whatever happened.
“I won’t let you work on this case until you have your head on straight,” I said.
Devyn looked at me. “I’m sorry I wasn’t focusing on sparring. I was thinking about last night.”
