by Reece Hirsch
“You won’t catch her.”
“We’ll see. Gabriel is very good at what he does.”
Salas made a motion, and the man in the suit, Gabriel, advanced on Damian. He grabbed the back of the chair and turned Damian around to face the opposite direction with a scraping of chair legs on the tile floor.
Damian found himself staring at Roland, Serge, and Maria.
Each bound like him to a chair.
Each with a neatly slashed throat, the curved cut resembling a wide red smile. Large pools of blood extended toward him from each of the members of his crew, as vivid, smooth, and perfect as scarlet nail polish.
A moment later Damian felt a sharp, momentary pinch across his throat and found himself smiling back at his former partners as the blood streamed warmly down the front of his shirt.
37
When Zoey stepped off the flight, she wasn’t sure what or who was going to greet her. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she had been met by the Sinaloa Cartel or the agent who had shot up their offices and killed Becky and Ira.
As she exited the jet bridge, she scanned the terminal for any signs of a greeting party. It probably helped that she had chosen to fly into the smaller regional airport in Puebla, a tired-looking facility eighty miles from Mexico City. Still, she was alert to every stranger who looked her way as she strolled past the rows of gates. No one attempted to stop her.
Zoey eyed the Federales as she waited in the taxi line. She would not be able to relax until she was away from the airport and headed into the city. While she waited for a taxi, she used her burner smartphone to access an IRC chat room frequented by hackers.
She knew a hacker based in Mexico City who might be able to help her hide out. Zoey could have simply checked into a hotel, but she feared that the cartel would be able to locate her if she took such an obvious approach.
Zoey posted on the message board, “This is ZBot. I’m in Mexico City looking for GhostFaceCoda.”
As she crept to the front of the taxi line, she stared at her screen, waiting for a response, and it finally arrived.
GHOSTFACE: Z-baby-bot! Been a long time!
ZBOT: Too long. You available to hang off-line?
GHOSTFACE: Do I even exist off-line? Evidence is contradictory.
ZBOT: I’m willing to find out. Let’s take this private, OK?
GHOSTFACE: Sure.
GhostFace responded with an email address, and the conversation resumed.
GHOSTFACE: What part of town are you in?
ZBOT: Coming in from the Puebla airport. Where you at?
GHOSTFACE: Meet me at Mercado del Chopo. It’s near the Metro Buenavista subway station. You can’t miss it. Just you, right?
ZBOT: Are you asking if I’ve got a boyfriend?
GHOSTFACE: Totally innocent question. Just wanted to know if I’m going to have your undivided attention.
ZBOT: How will I know you?
GHOSTFACE: I’ll know you.
ZBOT: How is that? We’ve never met in person.
GHOSTFACE: You’ll be wearing a gold lucha libre mask.
ZBOT: Oh, will I? And even if I were to go along with that absurd idea, where would I find such an item?
GHOSTFACE: Clearly, you’ve never been to Mercado del Chopo.
The two-hour bus ride from Puebla to Mexico City was largely spent in a staring contest with two twin girls around age six two seats in front of her. After turning around once to check Zoey out and assess the threat level, the mother was content to let her twins stare away, clearly relieved to have them occupied.
On its outskirts, Mexico City was a big, dirty, sprawling city. Like LA, it at first seemed haphazard, unplanned, and just plain butt ugly for sizable stretches. But then came the majestic Centro Histórico, with its buildings dating to the colonial era. Before boarding the subway to her rendezvous, she paced around the Zócalo, an expansive plaza presided over by the baroque Catedral Metropolitana and its twin bell towers. Walking in the cool, bright afternoon among the masses of locals and tourists steadied her nerves.
Exiting the subway, Zoey saw that GhostFace had been right—the Mercado del Chopo was hard to miss. The street was closed to cars and crowded with pedestrians wandering from one stall to another. The wares on display included vinyl records, punk and bondage gear, Rastafarian paraphernalia, and, yes, lucha libre masks.
Zoey stopped at a stall with a long table adorned with a row of mannequin heads all wearing the wrestling masks. She chose a gold one with spangles and teardrop-shaped eyeholes and peeled it off the mannequin.
“Never unmask a lucha. That’s serious juju,” said the proprietor, a big-boned woman with a Bride of Frankenstein streak of white at her left temple.
“How much?”
The vendor paused a moment and then said, “One hundred and fifty pesos.”
Zoey did the conversion in her head and figured that ten bucks was reasonable enough. “Sold.”
After the transaction was complete, the proprietor asked with a suppressed smile, “You gonna wear it out?”
Zoey pulled on the mask, tucking her dyed-blond hair up in back. “As a matter of fact I am.”
“You are luchadora.”
Winding through the crowds alongside Mohawked punks and dreadlocked Rastas, Zoey attracted less attention wearing the mask than she might have expected. The mask felt hot on her face, and it impeded her peripheral vision. She kept turning to see if someone might be approaching.
Zoey felt a rising paranoia. She had exposed herself, however briefly and under an alias, in the chat room, and her pursuers, the federal government and the Sinaloa Cartel, both had the resources and the vindictiveness to track her in ways that she could not afford to underestimate. She began to suspect that she might have made a crucial mistake by turning up in the chat room.
She felt a tap on the shoulder and spun around to find a pudgy, flat-faced man about a foot shorter than she. He was looking up at her and grinning.
“GhostFace?”
“Accept no substitutes.”
“Thank God,” Zoey said. “I need to take this thing off. Wasn’t the idea to not attract attention?”
“Nah, we got a different standard here in Chopo. Anyway, it looks good on you.”
“This nylon doesn’t breathe.”
“They have leather ones too.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’m done. Can we get off the street now? I’m feeling a little paranoid.”
“So you’re not just here to hang out?”
“We should talk about it in private.”
“C’mon, I just live a few blocks from here.”
They walked on through the Mercado del Chopo, past a young punk band snarling and spitting on a small sunlit stage.
“Some music just isn’t meant to be played in the sunshine,” GhostFace said.
Once they had left the roiling throng of the market behind, they entered a quietly funky residential neighborhood. GhostFace led her up the narrow steps of an apartment building that was ornamented with a Day-Glo mural that combined ancient Aztec kings and queens with anarchy symbols.
Inside, the mattress was on the floor, and cardboard boxes were everywhere. By far the nicest objects in the room were the computer and plasma flat-screen TV.
Zoey began by explaining her predicament to GhostFace, leaving out the most sensitive details. GhostFace gave a low whistle. “Chica, I knew you were an outlaw, but I had no idea.”
“Am I still welcome here? I understand if you need me to move along.”
“Chica, I’m deeply offended. You’re a guest of Casa de GhostFace, and I won’t hear another word about it. Sorry things are a little disorderly. I was just evicted from my last place two weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
“The landlord didn’t like the noise when I play Call of Duty.” He pointed to his stereo system. “I go for the full-surround experience. It’s like Damascus on a bad day.”
Zoey surveyed the new apart
ment. “Looks like it all worked out for you.”
“Oh, yes. In fact, it led me to a new and rewarding line of work.”
“And what’s that?”
“Ransomwaring law firms.” Ransomware was a type of malware, typically known as CryptoLocker, that seized control of a server and locked a company out of its data by encrypting it. The hacker then demanded a ransom and, if it wasn’t paid, the encryption key was deleted, effectively rendering the data permanently inaccessible.
“How’s that going for you?”
“Excellent,” GhostFace said. “Really excellent. I started with my landlord’s law firm. They were so rude to me throughout the eviction process. But when they paid up, it was so satisfying that I just kept going with other firms.”
“Didn’t they know it was you? Since they had just evicted you and all?”
“That’s the beautiful part about targeting lawyers. Everyone hates them, so they have no way of narrowing down the suspects.”
“Have you ever done Reynolds, Fincher & McComb?”
“No. Should I?”
“No, no, please don’t. It’s where I used to work. Actually, I’m sort of between firms. I might end up going back there.”
GhostFace nodded. “Gone legit. That’s kind of impressive.”
“You don’t hold it against me?”
“Zbot, you’re being pursued by the NSA, or some kind of shadow version of it, and the Sinaloa Cartel. Your credentials as a badass are unassailable.”
GhostFace motioned her over to his computer, where the monitor displayed a ticking countdown clock that read 10:00 and counting. “Come over here, Z. You’ve got to see this.”
“What am I looking at?”
“My latest ransomware. The target is a US law firm, Devereaux and Stone. It’s showtime. If they don’t wire the funds in the next . . . oh, eight and a half minutes . . . they lose all their electronic client files. You know, you’d be amazed at how little is maintained in paper these days.”
“Do they always cut it this close?”
“Usually. I only give them twenty-four hours total, so they spend just about every minute of it abusing their IT staff, hiring outside security experts, trying to figure out who I am.”
A sharp ping sounded, and GhostFace went to look at another monitor. When he turned back around to face Zoey, he was grinning.
“They paid up?”
“Big time. Eight hundred thousand dollars.”
“How did you arrive at that number? Sounds kind of arbitrary.”
“Trial and error. If I ask for five million, some of them will take the risk that I’m bluffing and lose the data. But eight hundred thousand dollars—if the firm is relatively large, they pay out every time. You know it’s very hard to defend a malpractice lawsuit if you don’t have any files.”
“What are you going to do with all that money?”
GhostFace waved a hand to display his dumpy apartment. “Wallow in the lavish lifestyle to which I have grown accustomed.” His smile faded. “Actually, I’d like to give some to you.”
“I can’t take your money.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to give you that much of it. But you should take a hundred thousand dollars. You’re going to need it to run the way you’re going to need to run.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You shouldn’t. Coming to Mexico when the cartel is looking for you was not the best idea.”
“I’m trying to connect with a friend. We’ll be able to face this better together.”
GhostFace crossed the room and looked out at the street. “Look, I don’t care who your friend is. This is not the kind of thing that you face down. This is the kind of thing that you run like hell from.”
“You don’t have to tell me I’m in trouble.”
“The Sinaloa Cartel is not trouble—they’re the Deepwater Horizon of evil. If AIDS, cancer, and Ebola had a baby, that’s them. If they like you, if they want to give you a dignified death, they decapitate you. And that’s the people they like.”
“Are you finished?” Zoey said. “Because you’re freaking me out.”
“Good,” GhostFace said. “You should be freaked out. That’s why you should take my money and just go.”
“I appreciate the offer. I really do. But like I said, there’s someone who’s coming here to find me.”
“That all sounds very romantic,” GhostFace said with a wave of his hand. “You two will make a beautiful target together.”
38
It had been a long ride from Zipolite to Mexico City, and when the bus pulled into the modern Terminal Central del Norte, Chris felt like he had touched down on another planet. Quiet, funky, nudist-populated Zipolite had seemed like a throwback to the ’60s, but Mexico City and the airportlike bus terminal felt decidedly of the present.
After devouring tortas from a stand in the terminal lobby, Chris and Ian sat down on a bench with their laptop and finally secured a Wi-Fi connection. Chris accessed the secure site to leave a message for Zoey.
CHRIS: We’re in Mexico City. Are you here?
Only ten minutes later the laptop pinged, and they got their response.
ZOEY: I’m here.
CHRIS: Are you safe?
ZOEY: Yes, I’m staying with a friend.
Chris allowed himself to breathe.
ZOEY: How about you? Are you safe?
CHRIS: Yes.
ZOEY: I can’t believe we’ve made it this far.
CHRIS: Don’t say that.
ZOEY: Where can we meet?
Chris turned to Ian. “Where should we meet her?”
Ian stepped over to a rack lined with tourist brochures and held one up to Chris. “Here. This place.”
Chris studied the brochure. “Really?”
“Yeah, centrally located, easy to find. And look, there’ll be a corrida tomorrow, so we can get lost in the crowd. It’s perfect.”
Chris shrugged. “Seems a little overdramatic, but okay.”
CHRIS: Meet us at Plaza México, the bullfight stadium. We’ll be inside at the main ticket counter at 3:00 p.m. tomorrow.
ZOEY: Really? I hate the idea of bullfighting.
CHRIS: I know. Ian’s idea. But there should be a big crowd, so it’s a good place to meet. If something goes wrong, there will be plenty of escape routes.
Chris gave her the number of his current burner phone so that she could call him if they didn’t spot one another in the stadium crowds.
ZOEY: So you want me to buy a ticket and go inside?
CHRIS: Yes, it’s less conspicuous than standing out front.
ZOEY: Okay, but I’m not going to watch a bullfight.
CHRIS: Understood.
ZOEY: Looking forward to seeing you.
CHRIS: Me too. Stay off the street until then.
ZOEY: Things may be bad, but I’ll still feel better when we’re facing this thing together.
CHRIS: Yeah, me too. See you tomorrow.
When Chris closed his laptop, Ian asked, “So it’s on?”
“It’s on.”
Ian rose unsteadily and hurled his torta into a nearby wastebasket. When he was finished retching, he wiped his lips. “That’s what happens when I cut back on the tequila,” he said. “Fortunately, I know a cure for that.”
Chris wasn’t sure that alcohol withdrawal was all that was affecting Ian. There was something wild in his eyes, and it looked a lot like fear. Chris took it as a good sign that he appreciated the gravity of their situation.
Sitting at the long blue glass bar of the Camino Real Polanco hotel, drinking a margarita, Corbin smiled.
His mobile phone had received an email from Rajiv Gupta at the Working Group. Bruen and Doucet were communicating again through the secure site, and the trio had reached Mexico City.
This was going to be over soon, and what an appropriate setting for a killing: Bruen, Ayres, and Doucet all in a public place where he could take them out at once. With any luck he would
be on a flight home by early evening.
With Sam Reston taking up residency in Russia, Corbin had been concerned that his mission might be canceled before the job was done. But the Working Group still wanted Bruen, Ayres, and Doucet dead. They were the only ones in a position to accuse the Working Group of killing Becky Martinez and Ira Rogers. The Working Group would come under intense public criticism if it was discovered that they were engaging in excessive, warrantless domestic surveillance, but people would go to prison if it came to light that the agency murdered innocent citizens to cover it up.
Corbin finished his drink and considered the task at hand. In the back of his subconscious, Werner Herzog muttered something ominous and fatalistic, but Corbin ignored him. He hailed the bartender for another round. This news was just too good.
39
Sam answered a knock at the door of his Moscow apartment and was greeted by Vladimir Grishin, “special adviser to the president” and likely SVR operative, bearing a cardboard carton with bagels and coffee.
“Forgive the intrusion, but I hope this helps make amends,” Grishin said.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “Come in.”
“Do you have everything you need? Are the accommodations acceptable?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Good. Very good.” Grishin took a seat on the leather couch and motioned for Sam to sit opposite him. “I think it’s time that we talked.”
“Yes, I would like to move forward with releasing my files to the press—the Western press.”
Grishin leaned forward. “I was under the impression that you would disclose the materials directly to us, to SVR.”
“I can’t do that.”
“And why not? Have we not been good hosts?”
“Yes, you’ve been very helpful. But these disclosures must be made by an independent and trusted Western media outlet. That’s the only way they will have any validity. That’s the only way that they will change things in my country. If these revelations are announced by the Russian government, then this will be all about embarrassing the US on the world stage and not about internal reforms to the intelligence apparatus.”
