The Red Files
Page 28
“One of those asses is the governor,” Lauren protested. “Another is his lieutenant. A third his chief of staff!”
“I know, kid, I can read. But did they have to be from Nevada? Christ, not even a California scandal! You do know we’re an LA paper right?”
“Frank, they were being bribed by SmartPay to get their product endorsed and promoted all over the country from supposedly unbiased high-level clients. And SmartPay is being rolled out here. Next week in fact.”
“Yeah, yeah. I suppose. Well. All right. Maybe it’s something we can use on page five.”
“Five!” Lauren gasped.
“Three if you’re lucky. Must say, I’m pretty disappointed. And what’s with these nameless thugs intimidating businesses? You didn’t even get where they’re from?”
“No proof, so no,” Lauren said. “We can only speculate. Sorry.”
“Well sorry doesn’t get the Boy King off my ass when this runs. Is this seriously all you had?”
“No,” Ayers said, speaking for the first time.
“Ayers? What the hell? King I’d expect wouldn’t know her ass from her elbow when it comes to news, but what’s your excuse?”
“Frank, high-level political corruption is not some filler story.”
“Sure—if I was in Nevada, I’d be creaming my shorts right now. But like I said, we’re not. So what else is there?”
“A story so big we can’t even tell you about it over a burner phone.”
“And when am I going to see this mythical wondrous story? By tomorrow’s deadline?”
“You’re not going to see it at all. Because we can’t prove it. But there was a lot more to this than meets the eye. By comparison it would have reduced Watergate to being as newsworthy as an obits page filler. King does know news when she sees it because she was the one who found this. And it’s incredible.”
“Proof or it didn’t happen, Ayers.”
“And that’s the problem.”
He grunted. “Look, I’m being called into yet another of Harrington’s our-future-is-online meetings. Do us all a favor and prove this legendary bullshit story of yours by tomorrow night or stay the hell out of my sight for the rest of your contract. Okay, Ayers?”
Ayers’s nostrils flared.
“Well?” he repeated.
“We heard you, Frank,” Lauren cut in. “But like Catherine said, we can’t write what we can’t prove—”
The phone clicked dead.
Lauren and Ayers stared at each other.
“Just great. What’s next?” Ayers spat. She flicked her pen viciously across the room.
“Well, ah,” Lauren said weakly, watching the pen clatter under a bookcase, “I forgot to mention earlier, but you’re my date this evening for this thing I have to go to.”
Ayers’s eyebrows shot heavenward, and her mood seemed to darken. “What thing?”
“A retirement party for Mariella Slater’s husband. Ah, Harold. Well, anyway, apparently refusal’s not an option. She told me you have to come, too.”
Based on the incendiary look fixed on her, Lauren felt exceedingly glad she wasn’t flammable.
* * *
“Sweeties!” Mariella said and air-kissed them at the door. “Oooh my favorite wine, Catherine, thank you! How did you know?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she ushered them inside.
Ayers stepped forward first, giving Lauren an impressive view of a very desirable ass clad in slim-fitting tailored pants. She moved with effortless grace, and Lauren followed enviously after her.
Lauren glanced around curiously. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of party noise. Or people, for that matter.
“Are we too early?” she asked. “We got the day right?” She laughed nervously.
“Come with me,” Mariella said with a mysterious smile and drew them downstairs into a part of her home Lauren had never before been to.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“The guest wing,” Mariella replied.
“Um, why?”
Mariella offered her an indulgent smile. “A couple of nights ago, I had three unexpected guests on my doorstep, looking worse for wear, scared, and feeling very sorry for themselves, seeking somewhere to lay low. Now what am I, if not a humanitarian? Especially when one of said asylum seekers only this month gave me a divine, faux-crocodile, lilac clutch to match my favorite Christian Lacroix.”
She knocked on a door and opened it.
Three boyish faces which had been staring at a computer swung around. Snakepit, Duppy, and Josh.
“Lauren!” Josh said and ran to her and gave her a hug. “Thank god. I thought they were going to start another game of gay warlords.”
“They’re not gay, dude,” Snakepit objected. “They’re fearsome beast killers.”
“Loin cloths, leather, and pecs,” Josh countered, winking at Lauren. “I just call it how I see it.”
She looked at Mariella questioningly.
“They told me the whole story,” she said quietly. “About finding the red files bribes and the secret spyware built into SmartPay’s dongler thingies. And two men chasing them. It’s a scary thing you’ve got yourself caught up in, sweetie. But knowing you, you won’t care about that. You’ll want to finish it.
“Joshua here seemed convinced of that too. And Snakepit thought Harold’s retirement party would throw any eavesdroppers off the scent. And this one…” she pointed at Duppy. “Apparently just wanted to look at Catherine’s ass again.” She smirked. “So welcome to research night.”
Duppy blushed but didn’t bother denying anything. Ayers and Lauren shot him matching glares.
“So is Harold not really retiring?” Lauren asked in confusion.
“Oh he is,” Mariella says. “He’s entertaining a few colleagues upstairs. I’ll bring you up later if you want to say hello.”
“Thanks, Mari,” Lauren said and gave her a grateful hug.
“Now, now, no rumpling the taffeta.” She tsked, but looked pleased. She met Ayers’s steady gaze. “For god’s sake don’t get yourselves hurt over this. No story is worth that. I have a guest upstairs for you who I was just sorting out some drinks for. I’ll send him right in.”
“A guest?”
“You’ll see.”
She left them, and Lauren and Ayers perched gingerly on the edge of a long sofa.
“So,” Lauren said, studying the two hackers. “Can you prove it? The virus on the SmartPay dongle?”
“Even better,” Snakepit said, just as the door opened again.
A man entered cautiously. He was in his mid-forties, wearing a suit and tie. He was holding a bourbon and looked serious.
“This is them?” he asked the trio, eyeing the reporters.
“Yep,” Snakepit said. “That’s Lauren King, and she’s Catherine Ayers. And this is my MIT professor of computer science, Javed Singh. He can verify everything. He also got shortlisted for a Nobel Prize last year, so, you know, no one can call him a crackpot.”
“You brought us an expert witness?” Lauren said, stunned.
Professor Singh shook their hands. “Mrs. Slater explained to Gerald and Simon how newspapers work, that their word alone would likely not be taken seriously,” he said, indicating the hackers who instantly reddened at their real names being used. “So they gave me a call. And I have to say my former protégé was not exaggerating the gravity of what he found. I’m greatly disturbed. I’m here so you can quote me for your story.”
“But how can we prove it’s SmartPay’s virus?” Lauren asked. “Doesn’t it erase itself off dongles after it copies to a computer?”
“Yes,” the professor confirmed.
“So don’t we need a sealed one to test it and prove it?”
“Indeed.”
“But we don’t have one,” Lauren said, confused.
“But we do,” Professor Singh said and studied her. “Did Mrs. Slater not tell you? Her husband donated his dongle to us. He won’t need it since he’s reti
ring. They only issued them at his workplace last week.”
Lauren blinked. Harold, as a government worker, would of course be subject to SmartPay.
“He told us he brought his retirement forward three months,” Snakepit interjected, “when he found out he’d have to use one of those dongles. I guess we pretty much put the fear of electronic god in him over dinner every night this week.”
“Wow,” Lauren whispered. “And now you have a new dongle to test.”
“Yeah,” Duppy said. “We videoed the professor as he cut open the packaging and then as he tracked and identified the worm in the SmartPay source code. No video edits—so no one can say the virus was added by us later. Then we also got proof of the thing hopping. It’s all here.”
He handed them a DVD. “Don’t worry, it’s just a copy. But you can put it on your paper’s website.”
“So,” Professor Singh began, “what would you like to know? How this insidious little spy worm would be the downfall of freedom across the globe if it’s unleashed? Or the worst abuse of governmental power ever witnessed?”
Ayers reached for her handbag, pulled out a digital voice recorder and a notepad, and then moved to the desk near them. “How about options A and B?” she asked, face lit with excitement.
Lauren took one look at her and grinned. Then she caught sight of Josh’s knowing look and her smile evaporated. He bounced over to the sofa and plopped down beside her and whispered, “Oh honey, you’ve got it so bad.”
She shot him a venomous look.
“Oh don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t breathe a word to a soul—although it’ll cost you.”
“What do you want this time? I still don’t have tickets to that Wolverine vs Predator film.”
“I want my designer socks replaced. They were shredded when I scampered out the window when a pair of gorillas burst in on us while we were virus hunting for you. It was terrifying. So much pilling.”
“I’m so sorr—wait, pilling? The socks getting hurt you found terrifying?”
“You never did understand fashion, did you? Such a lost cause.” His gaze flicked over to Ayers who was deep in conversation with the MIT professor. “So tell me, what’s it like kissing the Arctic queen? Any frost bite?”
“Josh!” she hissed. “Cut it out.”
“I will. So, size eight. Marc Jacobs. Scarlet. Cashmere.”
“Blackmailer.”
“No argument. So, any tongue? Soft sighs? Moans? Growls? Boob grabbing?”
“What size did you say?” Lauren choked out.
“Eight.” He grinned and patted her knee. “You’re looking well, by the way. Unresolved sexual tension agrees with you. Suits kitty Cat, too.”
“How did you know?”
His smile widened. “You just told me.”
“I hate you.” She said sourly, earning a snicker.
* * *
“Oh my god,” Lauren said as she kicked off her shoes when they got home. “That was surreal.”
Ayers smiled, radiating satisfaction. “It was. It was,” she repeated. “Did you hear when the good professor called the government culpable of a crime against its people that’s more devastating than if it had set off a nuclear bomb in every capital city? And that, just because they didn’t make the worm, buying it or even bidding on it makes them an accessory after the fact.”
“That man was born for this moment,” Lauren giggled, still feeling a little lightheaded.
Ayers led them upstairs. “Let me just drop off my notes and we’ll have a nightcap to celebrate.”
“Sure,” Lauren smiled and followed her. They headed into Ayers’s office, and as usual, her eyes were drawn to the beautiful view. The lighting in the gardens twinkled, and the outside lights illuminated the room enough to not bother putting the interior light on. An odd shadow in the ferns caught her attention, and she stepped forward for a better look.
“Man, we’re going to blow the top of Frank’s head off with this story,” she said as her gaze followed the shape.
“Funny you should say that.” A masculine voice cut through the silence. Ayers gasped, her bag slipping from her fingers to the floor. A man stepped out of the shadows and pinned them both with a cool stare.
“You’re not going to run your story,” he said matter-of-factly. “Either of them.”
Lauren stared at his features, wondering why he seemed vaguely familiar. Then she noticed the Italian suit. Dolce and Gabbana. One of the men Sands had noticed following him.
“Who are you?” Ayers snapped. “How did you get into my house? You realize my security firm will already be on its way—”
“Bransky Security is a little short staffed right now. For several reasons.” He smiled, and Lauren was struck by his perfect set of Hollywood teeth. What was it with this town?
He slid his hand pointedly into his pocket. It bulged. A surge of adrenalin flooded Lauren, and she did the first thing she could think of. She lunged.
She’d seen a domed glass paperweight on the desk and rushed forward, fluidly scooped it up, and pitched it toward his head with her deadliest fast ball. It was heavier than a softball, the wrong shape, and she hadn’t exactly warmed up. But her muscles remembered, and the throw scorched like a rocket—powerful and screamingly fast.
Gabbana was faster.
His head flicked out of the way by the barest of margins, and the paperweight smashed into the wall behind him. She heard Ayers’s breath hitch behind her.
The man looked unshaken.
“Ms. King I presume? The softball star turned party writer. Your father and brothers must be so proud.” Derision dripped off his voice.
Lauren heaved in a breath and tried to collect her racing thoughts. “How do you—”
“Who are your superiors?” Ayers interrupted, placing a stilling hand on Lauren’s arm.
He ignored both questions. “Your digging into a certain matter is putting national security at risk,” he said. “This is a fluid situation, so I can’t give you operational details. But your government is asking you to put the good of your country ahead of your need for a scoop. Let us do our job.” He gave them both an alligator smile, all glittering teeth and implied threat.
“We can’t do that,” Ayers said icily. “This story is in the public interest. We have to report it. That’s our job.”
“I have asked nicely,” he said, his voice becoming menacing. “But this is not a request.”
“This is how you deal with national security stories now?” Lauren asked incredulously. “Break into journalists’ homes without even showing ID and threaten them? Hell, I smell another scoop.”
“Ms. King,” he said with a condescending smile that was mostly oil, “why would you want to stand in the way of your government keeping you safe and instead aid and abet our enemies?”
Lauren paled at the implied threat.
“You’re going to paint us as traitors?” Ayers asked in disbelief. “No one will buy that for one second when they see what we’ve found.”
“That’s what Edward Snowden thought. But who is he now to average Americans? To your readers? They think he’s some computer guy who sold secrets to the Russians. Come on, you know how these things go. Especially you.” He swivelled to look at Ayers. “Michelle Hastings?”
She looked at him blankly.
He snapped his fingers. “Oh that’s right. You might know her as Stephanie. Now she knew how to spin a story. All about the things she’d found in her boss’s locked drawer. She was really quite the actress. Could have fooled anyone. Well not anyone. Just you.”
Lauren felt her stomach clench at the blow and it wasn’t even aimed at her. Ayers’s jaw tightened, and her expression shifted from stony to murderous.
“So I have to ask,” Gabbana continued with faux concern. “Are you really sure about your facts this time, Ms. Ayers? Prepared to risk what’s left of your reputation and the future of this innocent young woman who has placed her trust in you?”
She subtly stroked the fingers until Ayers’s grip eased a little.
Gabbana observed the action. His calculating eyes gleamed briefly, which did not go unnoticed by Ayers. Her hand returned to an almost pincer grip on Lauren’s flesh.
She tried not to wince.
“What do you want?” Ayers snapped.
“I’ve already told you. Your story doesn’t run. And don’t bother doing an end run around your publisher again. We’ve enlightened him as to how he should be more vigilant of his staff going rogue. He’s being surprisingly helpful in agreeing with our position.”
“What have you got on him?” Ayers asked.
“Got on him?” the man repeated. “Ms. Ayers, your publisher freely chose to take this course of action. Mr. Harrington fully understands the importance of national security. And, well, he does own a generous amount of SmartPay shares. Be it patriotism or greed, he made a very intelligent decision. We’re expecting you’ll make the same decision. Now, one last question. Where’s the laptop? The pink one.”
“Never heard of it,” Lauren said. She folded her arms.
“Is that so?” A photograph came out of his pocket and landed on the desk between them. It was of Lauren holding the laptop as she left Sands’s house.
“I don’t have it.”
“I’m aware of that. Your two friends do. They were tracked to your neighbor’s apartment. Joshua Bennett. Where are they now? Where is the device?”
Lauren shrugged. “Haven’t seen it since the CIA took it. Or they might have been NSA. Hard to tell.”
He paused just for a moment, but the flicker of doubt was there. “Don’t lie.”
“You’re not with either of them,” Ayers said in dawning realization. “Who are you?”
“An interested party from DC. And this is your only warning.” He tilted his head, assessing her for a moment, and then something shifted in his expression. Suddenly he lunged, taking Ayers by the neck, hauling her around and against him.