by January Bain
He straightened in his seat as the driver pulled into the curving driveway with the English gardens standing proud in an oasis of breathtaking grandeur nestled between the entrance and exit. Focus on right now, feel the earth beneath you and breathe deeply. He reminded himself of the mantra recommended by a website for those experiencing moments of stress. Too bad they didn’t have something to improve his disposition, as well. He always did better when he had something important to focus on. He prayed there would be lots of action in Vancouver—that was, if he took the job.
He over-tipped the guy, hauled out his duffel bag from the back seat and watched the yellow taxi spin its wheels getting away.
Okay. A visit with an old friend might improve his mood. He thought over Jon’s eclectic interests—everything from computers to fine art. Their university days had sunk the roots deep for a solid friendship based on sharing an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, information and research. A rare commodity, he’d since discovered.
He ventured up to the front door and rang the bell. A cat joined him on the top step, rubbing against his pant leg. He leaned down and patted its sleek coal-black head, scratching behind its ears as it reared up against him, purring loudly. “Hey, boy, you looking to get in, too?” he asked just as the door opened. The cat skirted around Jon and into the house, making his friend look down.
“Hey, Jon, good to see you. Hope he’s a friend of yours?”
His friend’s head came back up and his tired, worried eyes met Cole’s. Cole had meant the cat, but it took a moment for the question to register with Jon. Cole could see it in his slow reaction time. What was wrong? His gut tightened. It was not the norm either for Jon to answer the doorbell and an eerie quiet in the dark hallway behind him gave the sense no one else was home. The Sterling household tended to bustle with activity—his daughter, Sara, filling it with her many friends, much encouraged by her doting father. It had made it hard for Cole this past year to visit the family, though, he never would say so. His friend deserved his happiness.
“Hey, Cole. Yeah, Teako San belongs with us.”
The two men hugged, an awkward moment, before pulling apart. Jon looked unkempt, not his usual well-groomed self, even giving off a slight pungent smell, so unlike his friend. Cole breathed deep, recognizing it. Fear. Oh, God.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, all his senses on high alert. He rubbed the back of his neck in an effort to ease the tension.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that. This is me you’re talking to. I know you too well. Something’s wrong and it’s not just you working too hard. You’ve always done that. I warn you, I’m not leaving here until you tell me what it is.”
Jon ran a shaky hand through his hair that had gone grey almost overnight, pushing the thick waves back from his face, then pinching the skin on his throat, drawing his dark eyebrows together. He didn’t look Cole in the eye, but kept his glance flitting around the room, as if he were looking for something. Cole’s gut tightened. He’d never seen his friend so distracted. At Yale, Jon had been the guy he’d have voted for never losing his cool. Or his witty sense of humor. Many a night had been spent playing poker, drinking beer and joking around, trying to out-do the other’s outrageous remarks. Studious they might have been, monks never.
“Come in. We can talk inside.”
Cole dropped his bag onto the black and white chess-patterned marble floor in the foyer and turned to follow Jon, who was beckoning him down the hallway.
“I don’t want Rose to be disturbed. She’s resting, not feeling well,” he said by way of explanation as he preceded Cole into the study, heading straight for the bar set up near his desk. His laptop stood open on the desktop, amid a jumbled mess of paper, and an ashtray half-filled with cigarette butts completed the odd picture. Maybe Jon wasn’t the neatest guy in the world, but his wife would never have sanctioned this. If she had taken to her bed, it made some sense, at least. Maybe Jon was worried about her health?
“I’m sorry about Rose not feeling well. Please give her my sympathy.”
“Thanks. Want a drink?” Jon poured himself a stiff whiskey from the array of crystal decanters laid out on the cart with its fancy globe-like lid rolled back to expose the contents. His friend had always had great taste, preferring to buy something only once and of the best quality, even in university. The same philosophy Cole applied to his tech acquisitions, but not so much in his private life, at least not anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought something new, something that gave him more than a second of satisfaction, except for the tools of his trade.
“The same poison and add some water, thanks.” He kept himself from remarking on the time of day and just accepted the glass handed him, observing for the hundredth time the excellent rendition of Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory, on the wall. Jon had once told him that he’d bought it not because of the investment—it was the only one in his home not an original piece of work and banished by his wife to his own space in any home they’d occupied—but because it spoke to him on another level.
The concept of time and how it could be manipulated and managed fascinated his friend. And Cole had to admit, it intrigued him, as well, though, the artist had always insisted he hadn’t painted it with thoughts of Einstein’s theory of relativity in mind, but rather with the idea of a camembert melting in the sun. Every time he viewed the famous painting, Cole found himself fascinated by the same thought—would time ever prove to be truly malleable by humans? Even today, with dark worries pressing in on all sides, he felt its energy.
“I should give you that painting,” Jon said. “Rose hates it. Says it lacks continuity and goes against the Chinese tradition of art. I just think it’s because we didn’t buy it together.”
Cole shrugged, not used to Jon criticizing his wife, who had spoken his wedding vows stating the sun and the stars rose and set upon her, and, until now, nothing in his actions disproving the truth of his words. “I like it because it makes me think outside the box.”
Jon grunted and took another large swig of his whiskey, turning away from the print and slumping down into his office chair.
“Have a seat.” Jon gestured at another chair by his side.
“I didn’t know you’d taken up smoking again.” Cole kept his voice noncommittal as he sat. Jon had given up the vice at university when he’d met Rose.
“Rose doesn’t know, but I’ve never been able to give it up entirely. Kind of got out of hand last night, I guess. I’d better flush the butts before she sees.” Jon looked around as if spying the desk top mess for the first time.
Cole’s gut tightened further, his mouth going dry. “So, spill it.” Cole took a swallow of his drink, winced slightly at the strength of the whiskey lacking enough water and set it down between two stacks of papers. He needed to keep his wits about him, thirsty or not.
Jon took a deep breath, his eyes focused on the computer screen. “I didn’t want to share this, especially with you—God knows it’s not right, considering all you’ve been through. It’s bad, Cole, and I’m worried it might be best to keep you right the hell out of it. It’s not fair to you. I shouldn’t have called you. I don’t want to cause you any more pain.”
“Fuck. Just show me. I won’t leave here until you do, anyway,” Cole threatened. Nothing was worse than not knowing.
“Okay. But you need to prepare yourself. Here—read it.” He turned the laptop to make it easier for Cole, his misgivings clear on his face.
The short hairs on the back of Cole’s neck sprang into action as he read the terse message. And his stomach dropped to the floor, filling with the heavy weight of dread that only a man who had been through what he had could know or understand.
Phone this number at exactly seven a.m.
A phone number followed and a photo of Jon’s daughter Sara was attached. Her white prom dress soiled and torn and her dark hair disheveled, she looked frightened, her eyes wide and staring at whoever was sna
pping the picture. The background was blurry, giving away nothing about the location.
“What the hell? When did this arrive? What was she doing last night?”
“Last night. After midnight. She’d gone to her prom. I thought she was safe—she went with her usual group of friends. I thought she was too young, but Rose insisted it would be okay going with a group of friends, rather than a date. But you know kids, talking it up online. Everyone knew about the event. She looked so pretty when she left in her gown—like an angel. My God, what’s going to happen to her?” Jon’s face turned horrified once again. Cole had to keep him focused. Get every detail out of him.
“You’ve located the source? And called the number? Brought in anybody else? Authorities of any kind?” Cole shot off the questions. Don’t think of anything else. Just focus. Get the answers.
Jon nodded, regaining control as he relayed the facts. “Yes. I recorded the phone call. Burner phone was used. Impossible to trace. I haven’t located the location yet of the email—it’s been bounced all over the damn place. And I haven’t called the authorities—not yet, anyway. What are they going to do? They can’t write the damn code.”
“What code?” Cole demanded.
Jon made a couple of key strokes on the laptop and a strange voice began speaking with a slight Asian accent, his tone business-like and serious. He spoke the words with perfect enunciation, the speech either written down or memorized.
“I think you can see by the attachment that we are involved in a very serious undertaking. We have a business proposition for you and your company that will be very profitable for all of us long-term. We require you to write a computer software program that’s undetectable and will drain bitcoins from every wallet from every company worldwide and relocate them to an account that will be provided. You have five days if you wish to see your daughter alive again. Sara is safe for now at a foreign location where it is—I promise—impossible to find her. Not even if you had months of lead time could you hope to do so. I suggest it would be far better to spend your energies on doing what we ask than trying to find the needle in the haystack. Be warned. We are watching you, your house, and know everything being said. Do not go to the authorities if you want to see your daughter again. You have five days. The clock is ticking. Use the time wisely. Otherwise, what happens to Sara will be out of our control. We will be in touch.”
“That’s impossible—” Jon’s voice began speaking over the phone, but a loud click could be heard over the recording as the person hung up.
“Christ, what a clusterfuck.” Cole pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes in thought, feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach by a giantslayer. He had to keep it together for his friend’s sake, though, the situation sickened him to the core and could throw him back into the deepest pit of hell if he let it. He knew that place all too well. The acid pain that lashed and burned a soul with endless torment until time became a second-to-second battle just to stay alive. To draw one more breath. He knew it because he’d spent endless months there. In living hell. No. He had to hold on, believe he could help in some way. “Let me have a look at this. Have you discovered the source?”
“Christ!” Jon rubbed at his forehead, his agitation clear. “I’ve been so busy working on the bitcoin solution, I’ve neglected the fucking obvious.”
Jon pushed the computer closer to him, his eyes dark with a bottomless anguish. Cole began searching the operating system to follow the breadcrumbs left by the email, making himself focus only on what could be done in the moment and not the dark past. Nothing was hidden. Not when he knew where to look. Not even on the dark web, the illegal underground web that threatened to steal lives and souls.
“Aha, here we go.” Cole frowned at the black and white screen filled with scrolling strings of source code, forcing him to focus. “The damn thing originated from an IP address in Vancouver. Can you believe it? I’m headed there now.”
Cole turned to his friend. “Can you do this thing that’s being asked? Have you got the resources? The programmers to hack into either the original program or into one of the companies providing the service?”
“I don’t see how this can be done, though, that’s all I’ve been working on, even with my bank of supercomputers. The original program is nearly flawless. Only been tampered with once. August 11, 2013, when a bug in a pseudorandom number generator within the Android operating system was exploited to steal from wallets generated by the apps. It was patched within forty-eight hours. Far, far easier to hack into a service provider. It’s been done numerous times already. But that’s not what the guy is asking for. He wants a drain on the original system, not a hack that can be discovered. He’s thinking bigger and longer-term than that, but fuck, five days—it’s not possible in the slightest.”
Jon shook his head, his expression bleaker if possible. He raised a trembling hand to pinch at the skin on his throat. “I’m not certain it even can be done. Their dual public and private key cryptography and advanced mathematics were designed specifically to prevent it.”
Cole held his tongue. Should he share what he knew? Or would it only offer false hope if he couldn’t pull it off? No. I can do this, goddamn it. Somehow. No other child dies on my watch.
“I might know someone,” he began, ignoring the bell ringing in the back of his mind, telling him he was venturing into difficult territory. Unknown territory that could come back and bite him on the ass remembering how vehement ‘Satoshi’ was about not ever being coerced for any reason, ever again into getting involved with the shit politics and policies of the underground network, remembering the exact words he’d used on his last visit, which seemed a lifetime ago. But his friend was screaming for help, no matter how slim it was, he had to offer hope.
“Who? Fuck. Spill it. Anything. If you know anyone that can help—please, please, say, for the love of God. I need help, Cole.”
“The ghost behind the original program who washed his hands of the whole operation a few years back. Felt his vision was being exploited by the institutions he had built the program to keep out. The guy’s obsessed with the ideology of how the balance of power between corporations and governments one hand and the individual on the other is essential to maintain a free society. A strict hardliner who wants big business out of the process of gathering and selling info on the individual. Too idealistic for this world, though I admire his attempt at a utopian society.”
“Mr. Satoshi Nakamoto? You know who he is?” Jon sat up straight in his chair as he comprehended the magnitude of the information. No one in the free world was known to have the identity of the man responsible for bitcoins. Journalists had long speculated on his identity and even the country of his origin.
“This is in the strictest confidence, but yes, we go way back.”
“Oh, my God, that’s—I don’t know what to say.”
“I can’t promise you anything, but I will try, you have my word.”
“Please, anything, tell him anything I have is his if he will help my little girl! She’s so innocent—I never thought anything like this could happen.” Jon’s eyes filled with unshed tears and he turned away, his shoulders shaking as he struggled to keep his emotions in check.
Cole cleared his throat. “In the meantime, something else fortuitous is in the works. I’ve been offered a partnership in Vancouver by a man starting up a new company, the TETRAD Group, and I think helping Sara is something they’re going to want to be in on. Their mandate is to help those unable to go to the authorities. And if this doesn’t count, I don’t know what does.”
Jon got up and strode over to the bar and poured a glass of water from a crystal decanter, his expression thoughtful.
“I’d like one, as well,” Cole said.
“Yes, of course. Or maybe coffee?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
“You should talk. At university, you could drink the best of us under the table.”
Thank God. His friend was bac
k. Now, he had to pray that this thing could be done. Five days. Fuck. It sounded damn near impossible to him as well, but he’d never let Jon know that or ever give up. Sara was coming home no matter what it took. He’d get down on his hands and knees and beg ‘Satoshi’ if he had to.
* * * *
“You a rat?” Uncle Chang demanded, a well-thumbed book held open, a forefinger marking his spot on the page. He glanced up from studying it to bore his gaze into the young man seated across from him.
Tommy’s head swiveled halfway around on his scrawny neck, his dark eyes widening as the older man locked glances with him. Uncle’s constant blank stare gave nothing away. In the back of the café that bore his uncle’s name, Tommy’s full attention had been focused on the new waitress gliding between the small group of tables, making the unexpected question a jarring force throwing him far out of his comfort zone. He swallowed, hard, the action visible in his bobbing Adam’s apple as he tugged at his few chin whiskers. Still, it was very satisfying that his whiskers were black, seeing how gray Uncle’s had turned in the past year, though his hair was still black, combed straight back from his high forehead and sharp cheekbones. Getting on, old man.
“What? Me? A rat?” Sweat trickled from his armpits, soaking his black T-shirt. He always wore black. As a member of the BTK, short for Born to Kill, it seemed a wise choice. Black hides bloodstains.
“Yeah, you born in 1996, right? Year of the Yang Fire Rat. Makes you ambitious, hard-working and thrifty, with very good intuition. This is your year—if you don’t fuck it up. Phttttt—” Uncle slowly shook his head at the great tragedy. “The young today. Wasted. Think all those fancy gadgets make them something. Think you can buy the answers. Makes you idiot if you let everyone know your business.”
Tommy’s stomach rolled once and settled. Uncle gave nothing away, though Tommy suspected the man knew all too well what he was doing. He forgot the waitress, instead giving his uncle his full attention. His uncle might be stuck in the past, with his money laundering and skin trade and his foolish dislike of all things technological. He even insisted on still doing all business face-to-face! But, Uncle’s name carried serious weight in Chinatown and without the family connection, Tommy understood he would be cut out of the business. Yes, he needed to keep Uncle onboard, had to demonstrate his own goodwill now more than ever, working at keeping the excitement from showing on his face as he recalled the recent phone call with its potential to change his life. Could be my golden ticket. Then we’ll see how much technology sucks. Make me a lion, not a rat, old man.
