by C. G. Cooper
Fortier’s eyes darted briefly, the first hint of nerves he had shown. He looked up at the video camera, motioning with his eyes.
“Perhaps we should have this conversation in a more private location, say my office?”
“And you’ll destroy the footage you’ve already taken.”
“You can watch me do it.”
Fortier nodded.
+++
Jonas Layton was halfway across the Atlantic, stretched back in his roomy white leather lounger in first class, reading the latest edition of Fast Company when his phone rang. “Lucas?”
“Hello, my friend. I take it you’re flying home comfortably?”
“Yes, thanks to you.”
“Ah well, it was an easy thing to do for someone to which we owe so much. Can we speak on this line?”
“It’s fully encrypted.”
“Good. I found out where they were taking you, but not why.”
“Where?” Layton put a finger to his lips, wondering if his hunch had been right.
“You were first to be transported to your hotel to retrieve your belongings and then driven to a villa outside Reims.”
“Did they say who hired them?”
“The man in charge of the team mentioned overhearing his employer talking to someone on speakerphone who was obviously an American. He thought he heard the name Geoffrey. Does that help?”
Layton entire body went rigid. He’d had his suspicions, but this was too much to ignore. “It does. Thank you, Lucas. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to return the favor.”
“Completely unnecessary, my friend. Let me know if I can be of further assistance.”
Layton ended the call and pressed the button for the flight attendant. A pretty brunette in knee high stockings and a blue skirt suit that perfectly contoured her body walked down the aisle and asked how she could help.
“A double whiskey on the rocks, please. No, make that straight up.”
The stewardess nodded and left to fetch his drink. Jonas Layton looked up at the white ceiling and thought about who he could ask for help.
Chapter 38
Washington, D.C.
9:37 a.m., March 8th
“You took care of it?”
“I did.”
“And you did like I told you, hard to find, but not too hard?”
“Come on, pal, I know what I’m doing, okay?”
“I know. Just making sure. I’m wiring you the funds now.”
“Cool. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Congressman McKnight removed the voice modulator from the pay-as-you-go phone, pocketing the modulator and throwing the cell in the construction dumpster being used near the Washington Monument as he walked. He smiled, his eyes gleaming behind black Gucci sunglasses. It was so easy to find good, cheap help.
+++
The Secret Service investigator sat in what he wouldn’t even call a bedroom. One larger room was crudely cut into four by wire strung curtains, typical of low-paid government workers living in the city. There was a mussed single mattress, clothes thrown haphazardly around the curtained off space. Luckily he’d brought a camp stool and sat on it as he pecked away at the laptop belonging to the now deceased Santos Lockwood. All the recent files seemed harmless. Another team would go into greater depth later. He was there to get immediate results.
There hadn’t been much security to keep him from nosing around until he found a file marked NMP stashed in a random location with copied internet articles. He double clicked the folder and a password screen popped up. Rather than lock himself out, he pulled a thumb drive out of his pocket and plugged it into the computer’s USB drive. The connection registered on the screen and he waited for his personal icon to appear, a parrot wearing a skull t-shirt. As soon as it did, he clicked and dragged the parrot, repositioned it over the locked file and released. The little icon pecked away as it worked, circumventing the protocol in less than a minute.
The file opened and the front line hacker quickly sorted through the jumble, the pointer soon hovering over an unnamed file. He double-clicked it. A moment later, his eyes went wide.
“Hey, Jake,” he said over his shoulder, “I think you better come take a look at this.”
+++
Paris, France
Geoffrey Dryburgh was about to blow his lid. Those Lion Security idiots had lost Jonas Layton, and no one could seem to find him. “How on God’s green Earth could your men not find one pathetic little computer geek?”
Dryburgh listened to the excuse from the CEO of the company he’d hired to dispose of Layton. He never should have included the genius, should’ve known he’d go snooping around. That was just his nature. Rather than blame himself, something he never did, Dryburgh railed against the security contractor, who only knew him as a foreigner named Geoffrey. “You’re not getting a fucking penny from me, and you better return my goddamn deposit today. We’ll see if you ever hear from me again.”
Dryburgh slammed the secure phone down, hoping he’d break it, but just causing the receiver to fall off the cradle. He stared at it angrily, breathing in and out like a raging bull. Something had to be done, but what?
A crazy idea popped into his head a moment later, his crisis management mode enabled. He picked up the phone again. Referencing a small green notebook he always kept in his right pants pocket, he dialed a number and waited for the pickup.
“Hello?” came the bored answer.
“Igor, it’s Geoff. We need to talk.”
+++
The White House
Agent Brett Stayer stepped into the Oval Office, his appearance so common that none of the three men looked up when he entered. “Excuse me, Mr. President.”
Zimmer glanced up from where he sat deep in conversation with Travis and Gen. McMillan. “What’s up, Brett?”
“Sir, we have an update on the investigation.”
The president and Travis both looked at McMillan. “Would you like me to leave for a moment, Mr. President?” asked the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
Zimmer thought it over. While he didn’t want it getting around that someone had been poisoning him, a fact that he and Travis planned to keep quiet, who better to tell than a Marine five-star whom he trusted completely? To help make the decision, Travis nodded his assent.
The President turned to McMillan. “General, we’ve recently uncovered a plot to, well, I guess you’d say poison me.”
The normally unflappable Marine’s face went red and he almost stood up, as if going for his sword to protect the king. “What? How did that happen?”
“Long story short, it was someone in the White House, who is now dead, but it looks like we may have a lead. Brett?”
“Yes, sir. The team that went over to Lockwood’s apartment found something on his laptop. Mr. Lockwood was possibly coerced by a former Russian scientist now living in Brazil. We found copied emails and shipment reports between Lockwood and the Russian’s organization detailing the threats to Lockwood’s person and family, along with the particulars on where the drug would be sent, and how it should be administered over time.”
“A Russian?” asked Travis.
“Yes, sir. We’re working with the CIA and FBI to see if there’s any connection with the Russian government.”
President Zimmer couldn’t believe it. First the affair in Lithuania and now they were trying to poison him? It sounded like something out of the Dark Ages. “Who else knows about this?”
“Our people and you three. We didn’t tell the other agencies what the query was about, only that we needed it ASAP.”
“Since we’ve got you here, General, what are your thoughts?”
Gen. McMillan took an extended moment to respond, obviously weighing every angle like a commander evaluating the battlefield. “Sir, the Russians do have a history of this sort of thing. Remember the ex-FSB officer, Alexander Litvinenko? He’s the guy that fled Russia and got asylum in the UK.”
Zimmer did
remember. “Right. He was the one they allegedly poisoned with radioactive material.”
“Yes, sir. Polonium-210, if I remember correctly.”
“And let’s not forget all the poisoning the Greeks and the Romans did. Jeez, are we going back to that?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them, Mr. President.”
Chapter 39
New York City, New York
1:08 p.m., March 8th
Cold calling companies had been a complete waste of time. The second the company got a whiff of what Cal and his friends were after, they retreated inward like a Greek phalanx. Most directed their inquiries to investor relations, another dead end.
The team of four, including Leo Martindale, who would occasionally step into another room to take a call, had been over and over different scenarios, the three whiteboards one of Leo’s assistants had delivered being the proof. Lines, notes and scribbles intertwined for a web that would make a spider dizzy. After close to four hours of investigating, they were no closer to the answer. Each company was unique, rarely sharing more than a pinch of similarity with another corporation whose stock had tanked and then recovered. How did a textile company relate to a pharmaceutical company? Or a natural juice company and a healthcare software company? It didn’t make any sense.
To make matters worse, there was no evidence of insider trading, no major stockholders moving in to take advantage of the stock plunge by short selling or selling to avoid a larger loss. It all seemed too coordinated and yet completely ignored. Not even SSI’s resident genius Neil Patel could establish a pattern.
Cal stood up from the grey leather armchair and stretched, trying to piece it all together as his eyes bounced from white board to white board. What the hell was going on?
+++
The White House
“Sir, I have the Secretary of State on the phone,” came Ellen’s voice through the speaker phone.
“Patch him through, please.”
“Mr. President?” Dryburgh asked, his voice sounding rushed.
“I’m here, Geoff. Are you on your way back from Paris?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, I have some things I need to run by you. What’s--”
“Sir, I have some news.”
Zimmer took a deep breath. “What is it?”
Dryburgh didn’t answer immediately. “It’s the Russians.”
The president sat up in his chair. “What now?”
“Sir, I don’t know how to say this. I just got a call from them.”
“And?”
“They said they’re calling our debt.”
Zimmer was confused. Dryburgh couldn’t be talking about the U.S. investments held by every major country in the world, the standard for modern currency. “What do you mean they’re calling our debt?”
“They say we have seventy-two hours to pay back every penny we owe.”
+++
Neil Patel loved a good puzzle. As a child his father had given him daily riddles to solve. That had progressed to mathematical equations and questions with no right answers. Neil was used to the unknown, used to bending the rules to make something work, to see how something ticked.
The stock manipulation was something else entirely. He’d looked at it from twenty different angles, trying to make sense of it all, but so far he couldn’t. His team had meticulously tracked every trade to see if they could find some correlation between the trader and the resulting drop in stock price. They’d sifted through reams of news searching for any little scrap that could explain it. Nothing.
Neil knew most people thought the stock market was like going to Vegas and putting fifty bucks on red, but he knew better. The entire system was highly complicated, yet prone to the rise and fall connected to national emergencies, war or even public sentiment. Hell, there’d been more than one stock that had skyrocketed because their YouTube video raked in millions of views in a single day. It was easy for people to dismiss the stability of the market because of such outcomes, but in the end, as long as whatever had precipitated the change went away, the stock price would level out. That was the reason most financial advisors told their clients to take a long-term approach to investing instead of tracking it day-to-day.
But the stock market was still the stock market. It could be manipulated in subtle ways, but Neil had only heard of rare cases where a stock was so completely controlled like the twenty seven they were tracking. It aggravated the tech genius, not because someone was doing it, but because he couldn’t figure out how.
He reached under his desk to where he’d installed a mini fridge, opened it and pulled out another diet energy drink. It was going to be a long day.
+++
The president called in Travis and gave him the news. After standing in shock, Travis suggested they call in the necessary cabinet members. They’d arrived within the hour, disturbed by the urgency of the request.
The Situation Room buzzed with nervous energy, some sipping coffee, others simply waiting for the President to speak. They’d learned quickly that Zimmer was not a man to mince words. If he had something to say, he’d say it.
When the last cabinet member arrived and took her seat, the President spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, just over an hour ago I received a call from Secretary Dryburgh, who is now on his way back from Europe. He’d just gotten a call from the Russians. It seems that they’ve got their panties in a wad over something. Long story short, they, along with four other countries, are cashing in their U.S. investments.”
As expected, half the room exploded in questions, some sat in shock. The President held up his hand. “Let go around the room one at a time. Let’s start with treasury.”
The Secretary of Treasury’s face was red and he could barely put the words together, so flustered was he by the President’s revelation. “Mr. President, do we know why they’re doing this? I mean, they know what this will do to the global market. Every currency in the world will be affected. It’s suicide.”
“We haven’t been able to reach the Russians. It looks like they’re hunkering down for the time being.”
“Sir, if this gets out, we’ll probably have to shut down the stock market.”
Zimmer knew that was right where the treasury secretary would go. It was true. If even a whisper of U.S. debt being called made it into mainstream, or even not so mainstream, news, the effects could be devastating. Not only would Wall Street take a hit, everyday Americans could see their retirement savings wiped out.
“I know. Let’s hope it doesn’t get to that point. Does anyone have any ideas of why the Russians would do this?”
“They’ve been hinting at some huge oil and gold reserve they found a couple years ago,” offered the peevish Secretary of Commerce. “Maybe they think they’re strong enough to stand on their own.”
The President shook his head. “That wouldn’t make any sense. They’re not North Korea. They’ll be affected by this too, no matter what they think. They’re part of the global economy.”
“What about the situation in Lithuania, sir?” asked the Interior Secretary, an old cowboy who sported the weathered look of the original Marlboro man. “Could this be in retaliation to the action we took to get them out?”
“I just don’t know. Until we get someone on the phone from Moscow, we’re just guessing.” More murmurs around the room. “I need you all to handle this delicately, no leaks. Let’s try to find out why they’re doing this, and if they go through with it, what the impact will be on us. I want a plan in place before this inevitably hits the airwaves. Let’s not get stuck with our pants down, people.”
With the meeting officially ended, every department head rushed to start their confidential inquiries. Travis watched them go, the President taking notes on a yellow lined legal pad. He was proud of Zimmer. His body and mind were getting back to where they should be after Lockwood’s coercion, and aside from the initial shock from Dryburgh’s call, Zimmer had conducted himself as a president should.
&
nbsp; Travis knew that with Zimmer’s confidence on the rise, they would have a much better chance of sticking it to the damn Russians.
Chapter 40
Chicago, IL
3:40 p.m., March 8th
Every window in the one bedroom loft was covered, only the occasional ray of light seeping in from a rustling curtain. The air was a precise sixty eight degrees, the smell of orange peel floating through the space from the small burning William Sonoma candle sitting on the rarely used black granite kitchen countertop.
Jonas Layton hadn’t left the kitchen table since he’d arrived at his private retreat earlier that day. He didn’t want to take the chance that someone would be waiting for him at either his place in Denver, his beach house in Florida, or his penthouse in New York City. His current girlfriend, a six-foot model from Finland, was still on the road, and he had the key to her place. It would be hard to track him to where he sat clacking away, searching.
He’d left his cell phone on the airplane, tucking it into the waste basket in the restroom. Who knew if he was being tracked? He couldn’t take that chance. Cell phones were becoming the world’s easiest way to snoop on people.
Computers were a different matter. He always carried his custom built laptop, something an old friend did for him at least once a year. It had the ability to remain hidden, all public protocol constantly changing. To anyone searching for him, it looked like just another one of the millions of residential models used around the world.
Layton had started putting the pieces together. His specialty wasn’t hacking. His specialty was using everyday information that was readily available on the Internet to make his predictions. Most fans thought Layton had some kind of super-secret program he used to dig into encrypted databases and compile troves of classified information. How else could he be right time after time?
