“What am I looking at?” Archive asked.
“I have a bot following all of the transactions that have happened subsequent to the thefts from our Bitcoin accounts a couple of days ago,” Vaneesh explained. “I’ve seen a pattern develop: rapid transactions, with the money staying in a single account for only a couple of seconds before being sent on to a brand new ‘wallet.’”
Archive nodded. “It’s the continuous laundering operation we discovered earlier.”
“Right. I’ve learned how to identify those kinds of transactions in the global Bitcoin market, and I’ve built a graphical representation of all of this type of activity.”
Archive studied the chart. It increased linearly at first, which made sense to him. As the thieves stole more money, they had to use more accounts to launder the money by keeping it in constant motion.
But in the past day, the graph began to increase at an exponential rate. “What does this mean?” he asked.
“There are vastly more accounts involved in the laundering operation today than yesterday,” Vaneesh said. “But the transaction sizes are roughly the same as before. They’re still moving very small fractions of a Bitcoin in each transaction, but there are many more transactions going on every second.”
“That means there’s more money in play today than yesterday,” Archive concluded.
Vaneesh nodded. “Exactly. They’ve grown their operation.”
Archive sighed heavily. “I was afraid of that. Is the operation still centered in New Jersey and Seattle?”
The computer ninja shook his head. “That’s a bigger worry,” he said. “Before, they were using just a couple of computers and an address-masking program. They used the IP mask to make it look like a bunch of computers were involved in the theft, but the timing of each transaction made it clear to us that there were just a couple.”
“And now?” Archive asked.
“Transactions are distributed evenly with population.”
Archive blinked a couple of times, not grasping the significance.
“They must’ve found a way to package the Bitcoin theft program in a virus,” Vaneesh explained. “My guess is that it has infected thousands of computers already, and is spreading fast. That’s why the amount of stolen money in constant motion has increased so rapidly over the past day.”
Archive’s eyes betrayed the weight he felt. “They’ve created an army of computerized thieves.”
Vaneesh nodded. “Essentially, yes. And that army is growing by the second.”
Archive was silent for a moment, his eyes moving between the bad news and worse news depicted on Vaneesh’s computer screens. A sickening thought struck. “How much market share do the thieves have?”
“Market share?”
“I mean, can you estimate what percentage of the total global Bitcoin market these guys have stolen?”
Vaneesh pondered a moment, then turned to operate the mouse and keyboard. “I can do better than that,” he said. “The total number of Bitcoins on the global market is public information. And I’ll just add up the total value of all of those rapid Bitcoin transactions…”
It was a remarkably simple script, and it took Vaneesh less than a minute to produce the answer. “Thirteen percent.”
“Jesus,” Archive said.
“Up from six percent yesterday.”
Archive grimaced. “We’re in trouble,” he said. “When one group wields that much economic power…”
Vaneesh smiled darkly. “You get the Fed.”
Archive nodded gravely. “The thieves already have enough to buy half of Europe.”
“Or all of America.”
Archive laughed in spite of himself. “Quite so,” he said. The dollar was now more valuable as wallpaper than as currency. It was exactly as he and his group of co-conspirators had designed.
But they hadn’t counted on such a devastating upstart arriving on the scene so quickly. “We’ve enabled this situation,” the old man said. “We must do something to reverse it.”
Vaneesh nodded. “I started working on a destructive code snippet to disable the theft algorithm,” he said.
Archive brightened. “You can stop the thefts?”
Vaneesh shook his head. “No. Not yet, anyway. It might not even be possible, depending on how the theft algorithm is constructed.”
“But there’s a chance?” Archive asked.
Vaneesh held his thumb and forefinger close together. “About that big. And that’s just to get one computer to stop stealing Bitcoins. Now there are thousands.”
Archive mulled. “You’d need to construct a virus.”
Vaneesh nodded. “And it would have to spread exceptionally quickly. I mean, it would have to be the highest infection rate since…”
“Last Tuesday?” Archive’s eyes twinkled.
Vaneesh caught on immediately. “Holy shit! Why didn’t I think of that?” Vaneesh’s pseudo-quantum code-breaking algorithm had been the payload inside Trojan’s computer virus. In an irony that Vaneesh found utterly delicious, the virus had spread along the communications infrastructure that the NSA had built to spy on the world’s internet and email traffic. Two hundred million computers were infected within a day. The infected computers devastated the banking system and destroyed the dollar.
“Hidden in plain sight,” Archive said, still smiling. “Have you heard from Trojan lately?”
“Dialing now,” Vaneesh said, phone in hand.
Protégé walked in, interrupting Archive’s response. “Monopoly Man is ready,” he said. “And I need to talk to you.”
Archive nodded and followed Protégé out of the computer room and down the hallway to the bunker’s media room. “Let’s get the video distributed as quickly as possible,” he said. “All the usual outlets.”
“Of course,” Protégé said. “They haven’t discovered the trapdoor, so we still have complete access.” Archive and his group had hijacked television broadcast media on a number of occasions since last Tuesday’s plot unfolded, and had used the pirated airtime to broadcast cartoon videos of Monopoly Man, the chapeau-wearing mascot of the popular board game.
The cartoons urged patience and cooperation, and emphasized that while it seemed like everything had changed in the aftermath of the financial crisis, in reality all that had changed was the agreement between people. Dollars used to lubricate commerce, Monopoly Man suggested, but dollars had become corrupted. So it was time for the people to find a new agreement, one that was free of manipulation and exploitation by the Establishment. That was the message, and that was also the heartfelt belief held by Archive and his band of barons-turned-revolutionaries.
“We’re ready to broadcast,” Protégé said, holding the door open for Archive. He followed the old man into the media room.
“But first, you should see this,” Protégé said. He pointed a remote control at the wall of televisions and pressed play.
Archive sighed. Protégé had earlier urged him to watch less television, as the reports of gloom and doom were sensationalized and largely inaccurate. He wondered what could have changed Protégé’s mind.
He didn’t wonder for long. Adjacent to a familiar talking head was pasted the headline “Administration Castrated by Crisis.” With a grave expression, the announcer relayed that Americans were rapidly losing confidence in their government, which had so far proven itself incapable of restoring order, and had recently resorted to violence to control crowds.
The broadcast cut to a senator representing the opposition party, who demanded the president be impeached. “His negligence is criminal, and that alone should be sufficient cause to remove him from the most important office on this earth,” the agitated Southern senator said. “But the President’s fascist crackdown against peaceful citizens is an absolute abomination,” he went on. “It’s a cowardly abdication of all that it means to be American.”
Meanwhile, the talking head explained, Americans were taking matters into their own hands, organizing
grass-roots militias to restore law and order, and installing barter systems to transact goods and services. “According to federal law, however, such activities are illegal,” the announcer said. “Federal troops have been dispatched to enforce these and similar laws, and have been given authority to use lethal force, if they deem it necessary.”
Archive shook his head. He was chagrined but not surprised.
“One thing is clear,” the announcer concluded. “Conflict appears inevitable.”
Protégé stopped the playback. “This kind of stuff is on all the major news outlets.”
Archive nodded. “That’s not surprising. The media seems to move en masse.”
Protégé chuckled. “You’re surprised? They’re all owned by the same guy.”
“I need to talk to General Williamson,” Archive said. “He has got to stop his goddamn soldiers from shooting civilians. Otherwise, we’ll have ten thousand casualties by Saturday.”
“Two steps ahead of you, boss,” Protégé said. “I talked to him while you were catching up on some sleep.”
Archive arched his eyebrows.
“He says they’ve run facial recognition software on all of the soldiers who were caught on camera committing violent acts against the civilian populace,” Protégé said.
“And?”
“They’re not in anybody’s biometrics database.”
“Meaning?”
“The Defense Department stores biometrics on all of its people, including Guard and Reserves,” Protégé explained. “These guys — the ones shooting civilians — aren’t in any biometrics database, anywhere.”
Archive looked incredulous. “What are you saying?”
“They’re not American soldiers,” Protégé said.
27
Daylight waned as the Facilitator boarded his Gulfstream. It was outfitted with all the usual trappings, and then some. It was as much necessity as luxury. Security demanded constant motion. He remained anonymous by remaining on the move.
Through various straw men and shill corporations, he owned luxury properties on five continents. Many of them earned money on the rental market, part of the elaborate cover story that had become so practiced, so routine, that it was virtually indistinguishable in his head from the real story. Most properties were fully staffed, and all were exquisitely maintained.
He often stayed as a guest in his own properties, the management agency and staff never knowing that the real owner was in their midst. He could be anyone that the exigency of security demanded, could tell any tale that convenience allowed, as long as the clues he left behind in people’s minds pointed anywhere but true.
He was completely unknown in all but the smallest of circles, and those were not terribly social circles.
It was the way of things. The world’s most powerful men were, almost without exception, also its loneliest.
He sat heavily in the plush leather seat and dutifully strapped himself in. One of the stewards handed him a martini. Gin, up, olive. The first sip burned a little on the way down, not unpleasantly.
A second steward handed him a folded slip of paper. The Facilitator took it wordlessly, barely acknowledging the steward’s existence. He read the message: LIMITED successful. WIDESPREAD now underway.
His expression softened, but only slightly. It was what passed for satisfaction on the Facilitator’s face. Not everything was up in the air. The most important thing was right on track, and right on schedule.
Twenty-five percent, the models said. He’d need no more than a quarter of the world’s Bitcoin to secure the kind of reach and influence that, heretofore, the Consultancy had only dreamt of. Undoubtedly, they already swung the hammer of the gods — quietly, of course, as pomp and circumstance were the domain of amateurs. Real power moved unperceived, and remained imperceptible to everyone but the illuminati. But the Facilitator had seized the opportunity of the millennium, and by week’s end, he reflected, the few will have established unprecedented control over the many.
Two more days, at most. The infection rate of the theft virus was high enough that they would have to be very careful not to overwhelm the market. It would do him no good to steal every last Bitcoin on the planet, because then there would be no functioning market to dominate. He would be the undisputed king, but he would rule a kingdom of one. In order to exercise his will and exert his authority, he needed regular market activity. Everyday commerce was necessary, ironically, to facilitate his absolute dominion over the political and financial system.
Twenty-five percent. It was a big number, to be sure. Big enough to shift the world on its axis.
But small enough to be in his pocket before the weekend.
He pressed a button on the arm of his aircraft seat, and the television screen mounted to the front bulkhead came to life. He hadn’t tuned to any station other than the Continuous News Network in years. But he’d rarely seen news reports as thoroughly satisfying as the ones he now witnessed.
They should be satisfying, he mused. They’d cost him enough. But Mandrake, that mercurial little media magnate, had come through in spades. Impeachment, even. Such a nice touch. The Facilitator hadn’t even needed to hint at it. Mandrake was so thoroughly devious that it occurred to him simply as a matter of course. The man was truly a genius. In addition to being a pompous prick.
Speaking of pricks. He hadn’t heard from the fat bastard he’d sent to Honduras to take care of the entrepreneurial hacker. How tough could it be? One little hacker. It was a thirty-minute job, but it was coming up on the third day since the Facilitator had dispatched the sweaty oaf to Central America.
And he’d yet to hear about the little soiree with the entourage of Homeland agents. They were well off track, from what he understood. In the wrong damned country, even. But things were in a fragile state, and one couldn’t be too careful. The job needed to be completed. The absence of a progress report was disconcerting. Sloppy. He’d never have stood for it.
But he’d long ago learned never to launch Plan A without Plans B and C waiting in the wings. The Homeland agent would be taken care of, one way or the other.
How much can change in a week, he thought as he typed a text message into this week’s burner phone. He’d gone from riches to rags and back again in a matter of days. And now he stood on the verge of something truly extraordinary. Far too extraordinary to allow a rogue arm of an otherwise impotent federal agency to screw things up.
He sighed. It was obvious that he had some housecleaning to do. The past week had been rough on his roster, and he lacked confidence in his remaining talent. It would take time to rebuild.
But there would be plenty of time for that, he reflected as he pressed the send button. He would begin as soon as the big pieces had settled themselves.
The jet’s engines spooled to life, and the pilot announced that they would be taxiing momentarily.
The Facilitator looked at his watch, fished a sedative and a blood thinner from his jacket pocket, and washed the pills down with a healthy swig of gin. With any luck, he’d sleep all the way to Rome.
28
Sabot peered cautiously around the doorjamb and into the hallway, holding his breath and listening carefully for any signs of his captors. Finding none, he stepped quietly out of Fredericks’ cell, the fat, balding man following closely behind. Sabot ducked into the next room, the place he’d awakened earlier with a splitting pain and all sorts of crazy images in his head.
Zelaya still lay comatose on the floor, tranq darts protruding from his chest, a bluish pallor to his pockmarked face. Sabot stepped over his limp form and examined the medicine cart’s contents.
It contained bandages, scissors, surgical tape, stitching, and hook-shaped needles in the top drawer. The next drawer contained pharmaceuticals. “Diazapem,” Sabot read. “Paramescaline-B. Any idea what these are?”
“Hell if I know. Do I look like a doctor?”
“Maybe we can sell them,” Sabot said. He pocketed a few of the vials, and grabb
ed a handful of hypodermic needles, but thought better of placing them in his pocket. Instead, he grabbed a pillow from the bed, liberated the pillowcase, and stashed the drugs and needles inside, taking care to tie shut the opening.
“I thought you said you left him alive,” Fredericks said, kneeling over Zelaya’s body with his fingers pressed against the comatose man’s neck.
Sabot turned white, and felt a surge of fear and dread. I killed him? He’d never killed anyone in his life.
“Just kidding,” Fredericks said, amused at Sabot’s reaction. “He’s alive. But aren’t you quite the tough guy!” Fredericks barked a loud, insulting laugh.
“What, you’re some kind of ninja assassin yourself?” Sabot shot back.
Sabot caught a momentary smirk on Fredericks’ face. It made him wonder. “What exactly did you say you did, again?”
“Private security,” Fredericks replied.
Sabot snorted. “You’re a night watchman?” He looked over at Fredericks, who was patting down Zelaya’s body.
Fredericks found something near Zelaya’s ankle, and raised the comatose man’s pant leg to reveal a holster and small pistol. “Hardly,” he replied, unstrapping the holster from Zelaya’s leg and fastening it to his own. “Personal security.” He removed the gun from the holster, checked the clip, chambered a round, and set the safety. “Corporate CEOs, visiting dignitaries. That sort of thing.”
Sabot didn’t quite believe him. If this guy ever had to haul ass, it would take two trips. He imagined Fredericks waddling after some bad guy. Stop, or I’ll eat another donut. He smiled for the first time in what seemed like forever.
He looked up and saw Fredericks watching him. “Let’s get out of here,” Sabot said, his smile fading. “Time’s wasting.”
They returned to the hallway and made their way to the doorway at the end. It didn’t have a room number on the door, but neither did it have a doorknob. Sabot searched Zelaya’s key ring for an unmarked key. There were half a dozen of them, and he tried them sequentially in the lock, this time remembering to try them both directions before moving on to the next key.
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