Leaving the thief in place somewhere within JPI was not an option. The Voice would continue to steal information and put the new software at risk. He mulled over the possibility that Maxim Blax had been the thief. He had full access to everything at the company including all its servers except those in outsourced data centres. He knew what the other side would pay for. Finishing his coffee, Jackson stared into the empty cup. He dismissed Blax as the thief.
There was little doubt Blax had been affected by the brain tumour. He was a completely different person from the one Jackson had recruited in the previous year. There was no other reason why Blax had become a petty tyrant and Trump-like narcissist. While the tumour could have caused him to take any weird actions, the theft took too much organization, too much caution and contacts Blax was unlikely to nurture given his state of mind.
But, Jackson figured, Blax’s illness was responsible, in part, for the theft. The CEO had not retained security measures that would have stopped the theft in the first place. He refused to act after Barry and Jean had discovered the theft. He, in fact, fought against any action and forced Brownley to go behind his back to protect JPI as well as he could.
Did someone use Blax? Did the thief put the fierce resistance into Blax’s mind? And who was the ‘her’ he was saying sorry to? Was there any connection?
Jackson’s mind was still going through permutations as he went home and turned in for the night. The coffee kept him awake for several hours and, in the morning, he felt as tired as when he had fallen asleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
As Jackson was having a late breakfast, Petrenko was waking up on his couch. He had fretted late into the night after the intrusion by Jackson and his security men. He wore the same clothes as he had the day before and had a four-day growth of whiskers. His hair was greasy and he smelled of sweat and fear.
There was a banging at the door of the rental. ‘Not again,’ thought Petrenko. He rummaged through the junk thrown about the living room until he found his Glock. The gun had no bullets in it but no one else knew that. He also found a knife and flicked it open. He went to the door.
As soon as Petrenko released the lock, the door was pushed open and Petrenko was shoved back into the hallway. For the second time in a few hours the apartment was being raided by men but, this time, it was Petrenko’s depleted crew that entered.
“Hey. Stop it,” yelled Petrenko recognizing the two Russians in the lead with the Jamaican following on their heels. “Are you crazy?”
The Jamaican closed the door behind him while the two Russians continued to shove Petrenko into the living room. The three crew members looked like patients escaped from a prison hospital. Each had bandages on arms or legs or both. The Jamaican had one heavily bandaged arm in a blue sling. He had the other arm behind his back.
“You got one million dollars,” one of the Russian men screamed at Petrenko. “Where is our share?” The second Russian shoved Petrenko onto the couch where the Ukrainian fought against the soft cushions trying to rise again. “You give?” The Russian was red-faced and spittle shot from his mouth as he shouted a stream of invective in Russian.
“That is my money,” Petrenko yelled back in the same language. “You did nothing.”
Clarence, the Jamaican, was thoroughly confused since the others were screaming at each other in Russian.
“He’s a shit, mon. He never gives us nothing but crap.” The Jamaican’s free hand appeared from behind his back. It was wrapped around a machete. The black man shoved Pavel aside and moved toward Petrenko.
“No. Okay, I give you money,” Petrenko screamed. He pushed himself back into the couch. He put his hands in front of him as he stared in terror at the machete in the Jamaican’s grip. He continued in Russian. “I give you everything. You can’t…”
The machete rose and fell with a thunking sound as it cut into one of Petrenko’s wrists. The Ukrainian screamed again, this time in pain. The furious Jamaican yanked the machete out of the horrific wound and swung it again. The large blade cut into Petrenko’s neck and blood began to pump out onto the couch and floor.
“Aw, Christ,” said Victor. “It’s getting all over the place.” He looked at the blood in disgust and stepped quickly away.
The Jamaican pulled the machete away from Petrenko. It had cut through about half of the man’s neck. The pulsing flow of blood slowed and stopped as Petrenko’s heart gave out.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, mon,” Clarene said. He grabbed a shirt from a pile of clothing that had been tossed on the floor by Jackson’s men. He wiped the blade of the machete and wrapped the weapon in an undershirt he found in the pile.
The three men left the apartment as quickly as they could. There was no one in the hallway leading from Petrenko’s apartment but several neighbours behind their bolted doors were dialing 911 to report the screams.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Captain Vasily Zaytsev received the call from The Voice on Thursday morning. “I want to have our meeting today,” The Voice told Zaytsev through the very efficient voice changer.
“Are you ready to tell me your name?”
There was a pause. Zaytsev studied a mole on his hand wondering if it would turn into a cancer some day. After a minute or more, The Voice returned. “Yes. But not you.”
“What do you mean?” Zaytsev was careful not to be too aggressive.
“I’m not a fool,” said The Voice in an equally level tone. “You are GRU and you won’t be my ‘handler’ if we do a deal. I want someone less …” Pause. “… less military and more permanent.”
Zaytsev reflected that JPI executives dealt daily with military customers; they knew who GRU were. The Voice, doubtless, was a high-ranking person at JPI.
Zaytsev put his ego aside. “Yes. That makes sense. How about …” The GRU officer thought for a moment. He had limited resources to call on without a long string of approvals from the Ambassador and the GRU generals. “Petrenko’s handler at the consulate… Serge Sokolov?”. Sokolov was also GRU but Zaytsev didn’t jump into that briar patch.
“Fine,” The Voice agreed quickly. “Him.”
The Voice spent a short time dictating the terms of the meeting and turnover of the source code on its SD card. The thief would meet Sokolov in the lobby of The Westin Harbour Castle hotel on Harbour Square, a short distance from the JPI H.Q. Zaytsev thought the meeting place was uncomfortably close to the scene of the crime but he wasn’t going to dispute anything at this stage. A hotel anywhere would be acceptable because of people going back and forth, holding short meetings, chatting in the lobby and passing things back and forth.
“Okay,” Zaytsev agreed reluctantly.
They set the time for 3 p.m. the next day. That would give Sokolov time to be briefed by the GRU team and to set up surveillance to make sure The Voice became The Face and The Name. Enough with nicknames.
Zaytsev put his men on alert and called Sokolov at the Russian consulate. “Sokolov,” he ordered. “You will accept the package tomorrow on our behalf.” He was being cryptic. “You know what I mean?” The young man breathed a sigh of relief as he received the instructions on his consulate phone. The task meant that he would live another day and, if lucky, would see his job as a ‘handler’ go on.
After talking with Zaytsev, Sokolov called Petrenko. He wanted to make certain The Voice had not made any alternate deals with The Ukrainian. He also wanted to make sure Petrenko would keep his distance from the consulate, The Voice and the GRU men while they were in town. Sokolov was protecting himself now there was hope on his horizon.
“Detective John Chambers.” The man answering Petrenko’s phone was matter-of-fact. Sokolov was stupefied.
“Petrenko. I want to speak to Mr. Petrenko,” Sokolov said before fully comprehending the man’s reply.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“I think I have the wrong number.” Sokolov punched his cellphone screen to disconnect the call.
Detective Chambe
rs noted the ID of the caller and wondered why the Russian Consulate wanted to speak to his victim. Petrenko, of course, was in no shape to take a call now or ever again.
Sokolov shuddered as he hung up. He looked at the phone wondering if he should inform Zaytsev that police were answering Petrenko’s phone. No, he told himself. Let Petrenko explain it. Sokolov’s job was to get himself in shape to finally meet The Voice tomorrow.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Jackson Phillips burst into Payne’s office just before 9 a.m. Payne was on a phone call but made short work of it as his friend plopped himself in a visitor’s chair in front of Payne’s desk.
“Hey Jackson. Don’t break my furniture.”
Phillips bounced up again, like a 20-year-old, and began pacing across the office and back. His hands were behind his back. Payne thought he looked like a slim Winston Churchill.
“Get Bill in here,” Jackson said in a cheery voice. “I’ve got something for both of you. And get me a coffee, will you, Payne?”
Payne gave him a tortured look but summoned a young man from the reception area to get them all coffee. He added a big “Please.”
As Jackson roamed around the office picking up and putting back books, photographs and various decorative pieces, Payne and Bill Brownley moved to the conversation area and began drinking their coffee. A television set was mounted on the wall and Brownley looked up at the screen. The sound was muted but the set was on, tuned to CBC’s news channel.
“Hey,” said the startled man. “Look at this; Petrenko’s dead.” The eyes of Payne and Jackson shot to the screen. The crawl at the bottom of the screen announced the death of Roman Petrenko in ‘a home invasion’ at his downtown apartment. A following line said ‘businessman’ Petrenko had been stabbed.
“You didn’t…” Brownley looked hard at Jackson. Payne followed the look and was aghast.
“Not us, Bill. He was alive and well when we left. I’m sure your guys would have told you if we had chopped him up.”
Payne shuddered but Brownley was relieved. “Okay,” the security chief said. “But who?”
“The Russians. His own guys. A stranger. Our thief…” Jackson threw up his hands. “Take your pick.” He thought for a moment. “We took care not to leave any trace of our visit, Bill. I doubt if anyone will come after us. If they do, I’ll take the heat but I’m not volunteering anything because we don’t know any more than they do.” He gestured at the tv screen and the CBC anchor.
Jackson took up his coffee cup, spilling a few drops over the rim and onto Payne’s expensive rug. The news had shaken him.
“Hey. Careful. That’s real money.”
Jackson ignored Payne’s protest. “Bill, can you get Leona and David working…” Over the next five minutes, between gulps of coffee and a refill from the young man with the forced smile, Jackson explained what he wanted done by the A/V experts. They were to scan video and audio recordings going back six months of all A/V from cameras aimed at the sidewalk in front of the JPI building. They were to employ the JPI software that analyzed various characteristics, mannerisms and actions of people using the sidewalk.
The functionality of the current software was marvelous even though it was Version 2.0. It was built to recognize any person who exhibited nervousness, unnatural mannerisms like sudden shivers, excessive sweating, wiping brows, trembling hands and many others. It would analyze the clothing and body shapes of persons looking for bombs, guns or even knives hidden under clothing. It would look closely at the gait of each person. Using technologies like infra-red, vibration monitors, radar and some so secret they didn’t have recognizable names, the software could determine threats at considerable distances - beyond typical blast ranges.
“We’re not under threat,” Payne remarked at one point, confused and a bit alarmed by Jackson’s enthusiasm for the process he was describing.
“We could be.” Jackson was enigmatic. “But the main point is to find the thief.”
Jackson explained to Payne and, particularly, Brownley, that the thief was no doubt a senior executive or technology leader at JPI. No one else could have access to company servers and archives without being identified by the monitors. The thief likely worked at headquarters for the same reason. If this were true, reasoned Jackson, the thief would likely know of the cameras set around the building. “It wasn’t a secret from the higher echelons,” he said. “It was a point of pride to them.”
“But,” asked Brownley, “how does that help us?”
Jackson went on to say that any executive or technology officer with a guilty conscience or something to hide would find it hard to walk past all these cameras every day without an errant glance at them or concerns about being observed. He pointed out that there were key dates such as the days during which the theft occurred, the days on which Petrenko actually spoke with the thief who was using the voice changer.
As well, Jackson told Brownley to have his team check the cameras set at Blax’s condo building. Have them check the last couple of weeks for a person or persons determining the positions, directions and ranges of the cameras. “Someone would want to see where camera surveillance stopped so they would be beyond that distance when they … he … pushed Blax into traffic. That was only a few blocks from his home,” Jackson reminded his companions.
“We could see who shows up on both,” Brownley mused. “This is going to take time though.” Jackson frowned. “A couple of hours, at least.”
“Now we’re cooking,” enthused Jackson.
Payne grinned and told his friend, “Good for you, Jackson. Right out of the 1980s.”
The time went by quickly as Payne and Jackson worked on budgeting the first round of development on Version 3.0.
Payne invited into his office Rebecca Rollins, JPI’s Marketing VP, and Mariah Belo from PR.
Mariah was too buoyed up to wait for Payne to start the meeting officially. She began the moment everyone was seated by extolling the work of her social media staff. “They are everywhere, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and the rest. And Barry’s blogs are doubling and redoubling followers on a daily basis. And the news conference is all over YouTube…”
Not to be outclassed, Rollins talked in an excited voice about the reaction of the marketplace to the announced development of Version 3.0.
“It’s going to cost clients a fraction of what they would have to spend over the next, say, three years in upgrades followed by a new version down the road. In fact,” she added, “we’re getting calls and visits from clients of other providers wondering if they can switch to JPI without complete retools.”
Payne had thought for minutes about that. “We could,” he suggested, “create a conversion pathway for them. We’ll have our strategic partners handle the changeover. We’ll charge the partners to train them to do the work; then we’ll take a cut of their service charges from the new clients on top of full price for 3.0.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Rollins. “How about you working for us in Marketing?”
Mariah reached over and patted Payne’s arm. “Me first, Payne. You’re too smart to be an accountant.” Payne grimaced and looked to Jackson for a comeback but the acting CEO was too busy scribbling on a notepad with his Montblanc pen.
It was nearly noon when Bill Brownley called Jackson to come to the A/V room. Jackson rushed to the security unit and entered the control room where David and Leona were punching and pulling levers, buttons and switches on their panels.
“We have a number of candidates,” said Brownley pointing toward the monitor screens covering one wall.
Jackson groaned as he took a seat on the leather couch. Payne settled in beside him and Mariah, who had tagged along, took the end cushion on the sofa.
“However,” Brownley smiled as he walked up to his operators and put a hand on David’s shoulder. “… we have a winner.” He stood back to take a longer look at the picture on one of David’s monitors. It was the only sidewalk shot among a collection of screens sporting nothing
but the JPI logo.
There was a collective gasp from the couch sitters. “It can’t be,” said Mariah in her throaty voice. Her eyes were wide and blazing in the dim light.
Payne and Jackson, obviously fighting to get their emotions in check, peered studiously at the monitor.
“It’s hard to believe, I know.” Brownley spoke in a quiet voice. “But it’s the only person that showed clear signs of distress when looking at the cameras around H.Q. at least half the time. And this is the only person, except for Blax, who we caught looking around near his condo building. We have several longish looks directly at cameras and a couple of glances at the far reaches of our cameras on the day Blax was pushed into traffic. It’s pretty obvious, the subject was checking the camera layout without realizing how we’ve continually updated the system to be super sensitive.”
Brownley attempted to be professional in his reporting but there was no mistaking the man’s pride in the system he had maintained and improved in spite of Blax’s orders to ignore the whole network. He was getting a measure of revenge.
Jackson pondered for a few minutes as the others drew closer to the monitor. “You said,” he addressed Brownley, “… that the subject was caught looking around his condo. Ever go into the building?” Brownley nodded. “Yep. I was going to mention that. A couple of times. But we don’t know what apartment.”
“When?”
“In February. We only went back six months but there were three times with two in February and one in March. That’s all we saw.” Brownley glanced at Phillips to see if he was satisfied by the answer.
Jackson was deep in thought. “I have to make a call,” he said abruptly. He launched himself off the couch and left the room with his colleagues staring after him.
Finding a vacant chair in a reception area near the security unit, Jackson sat down and dialed a number. “Detective Kumar? It’s Jackson Phillips.” He asked the detective sergeant if she had leads on the person who had pushed Blax into traffic. When she refused to discuss the case with him, he said, “We may have something for you. If we could meet.” She agreed.
The Russian Crisis Page 17
