"Where?"
"D.C. area code."
"Got him in a mirror?" Meyer said.
"Yeah, you want to see what he looks like?"
She nodded, then followed Kline through a maze of corridors and into a room with a window looking through a two-way mirror into the interrogation room where Sultanovich was being held. He looked like the picture on her wall, just older. Not a good thing. He was gaunt, with a severe face and clear eyes, those eyes a very light and piercing shade of blue. She could see how he might have been a decent-looking man fifty years ago, but now? Max Sultanovich was one ugly, evil-looking sonofabitch. Wrinkled, papery skin stretched across a skeleton.
A light rap on the door, and a young man stuck his head in the door. "Got a guy in the lobby says he's Sultanovich's attorney."
Meyer let out a long sigh. "Let's go meet this asshole."
THE THREE STOOD in Kline's office. Both Meyer's and Kline's mouths were literally hanging open. After a few seconds, Meyer got her wits about her. "You cannot be serious."
Bykov gave a little half shrug. "You see the papers."
Meyer stared at him. She wanted to rip his five-thousand-dollar suit off him and shove it down his throat. She looked back down to the document in her hand, a letter from the Ukrainian embassy in D.C., identifying Maxim Andreyovich Sultanovich as a “Special Envoy of Ukrainian Culture.”
She looked at Bykov, then to Kline. "We need to verify this…status." She left the room and Kline followed.
As they walked down the hallway, they heard Bykov say from the doorway of Kline's office, "Excuse me? I assume Mr. Sultanovich will be released immediately?"
Meyer stopped walking and spun to face him. She jabbed a finger in the air at him. "You—"
Kline pulled her hand down and said in a whisper, "Don't. Come on." He continued walking and after a few more seconds of rapid breathing through flared nostrils, Meyer followed.
CHAPTER 65
SPACE
THIS WAS IT. The room was stark, devoid of anything cosmetic, a concrete work chamber filled with computer workstations arranged on cheap folding tables. Each workstation had a standard folding metal chair, most of which were beat to hell and back. The lights were off, the room lit only by the assorted screensavers on the computer monitors. I went to the nearest computer, sat down, and moved the mouse to clear the screensaver. As expected, I got a password prompt. The machine was running some flavor of Linux, also not a surprise. The final non-surprise was the bothersome one: the Cyrillic characters staring back at me. I didn't know enough about Russian and Ukrainian to tell the two apart, so it could have been either one. No matter. I went to work.
IT TOOK ALMOST forty-five minutes, but it was done. I had managed to get the computer set to English, then I'd defeated the password. I was in. I leaned back and stretched, then plugged a thumbdrive into the USB port on the front of the computer and started recording information that I would need later: IP addresses, MAC addresses, and a host of other configuration information. With that data stored to the thumbdrive, I installed a spy app. It would record every keystroke made on that computer, every screen, every anything done on the machine. It was the stealthiest such app on the planet, so there was little chance of it being discovered.
Next, I had to be sure I could access this computer later, and that the spy app could covertly deliver its payload outside the bunker network. From my location inside the hackers' network, setting up that access wasn't a major challenge, and within five minutes it was complete. I switched the computer back to its original language, which had turned out to be Russian. I'd wait to be sure it went back to the screensaver that had greeted me when I got here.
While that wait ticked away, I walked the room, smartphone in hand, shooting photos of anything and everything. That done, I stepped off the room in both directions and recorded the approximate measurements that resulted. It felt like I was on a recon mission from years back. The room was smaller than I'd expected and it was hot. Rooms full of computers always are if they don't have additional cooling in place to handle the heat output of the electronics. By the time I made it back over to the workstation I'd used, it was back on the proper screensaver. Time for me to boogie and take care of the last step.
IN MY ROOM, I fired up my laptop and went to work. I had previously located the surveillance computer on the bunker network, by tracing the network address the cameras “talked to.” Within minutes, I had control of that computer. The perfect solution would be to insert the footage of empty corridors I had recorded the night before. Except that's movie bullshit, for a host of techno-reasons. Next best thing? Be sure they had no footage at all for the time frame of interest. Hopefully they'd shrug it off as a glitch, but even if they didn't, they still wouldn't have anything to identify me.
I studied the surveillance computer on my screen. It had two hard drives, one that ran the computer, and a separate one to store the video footage coming in from the cameras. The video storage drive had three folders, CAM-A, CAM-B, and CAM-C. Inside each folder, video was stored in files that contained fifteen minutes each. In each folder, I wiped the files containing video between 12:00 midnight and 1:30 a.m., well before I got there and well after I'd left. That done, I disconnected my laptop from the bunker network and closed the lid.
CHAPTER 66
MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE
COURTNEY MEYER
AFTER MIGRATING Bykov to an unoccupied office far enough away that he couldn't eavesdrop, Meyer and Kline stood in Kline's office on a concall with the State Department, Meyer's boss Tom Belt in Manhattan, and the deputy director of the FBI in Washington.
"With all due respect," Meyer said, "I can't believe what I'm hearing. Sultanovich is known by law enforcement throughout the world to be the kingpin of a crime syndicate based in Eastern Europe. How can he have diplomatic immunity?"
The robotic-sounding flunky at State said, "Special Agent Meyer, I can only confirm that Maxim Sultanovich's diplomatic papers have been verified, and that does indeed grant him diplomatic immunity. He must be released."
FBI Deputy Director: "How long has he had this status?"
State robot, after some clattering on a keyboard: "Well, this is interesting."
FBI Deputy Director: "Explain."
State robot: "Two days."
Meyer: "So as soon as he knew he was coming here, he magically became a diplomat?"
FBI Deputy Director: "Are you able to tell who signed off on this status for Sultanovich?"
State robot, after more clattering and a subsequent long pause: "The president of Ukraine."
NYC SAIC Tom Belt: "Sir, pardon my language, but this is horseshit."
FBI Deputy Director: "Agreed, but I don't see what we can do about it at the moment. Agent Meyer, release the prisoner."
Meyer: "Sir, if we can just have a little time, perhaps—"
FBI Deputy Director: "Release him, Agent Meyer. And let's end this call. Goodbye."
After a series of beeps, the IN USE light on the speakerphone winked out. Seconds later, the phone rang. Kline answered, "Special Agent Kline, Memphis."
It was the deputy director. "Agents, hold while Tom is patched back in."
Moments later, Belt announced himself on the call.
The deputy director said, "Listen to me. We do have to release him, but I want him covered so tightly with surveillance that he can't turn his head without seeing our people."
Meyer said, "Sir, the moment we release him, he'll flee the country. He has a private jet at Memphis International."
"I'm aware of that, Agent Meyer. And that plane is about to encounter difficulty in obtaining clearance to take off. Let's get busy, people. We're not going to lose this guy."
MEYER DELIVERED the news to Sultanovich that he was being released. The old man looked up at her from his seat with a leering smile. His teeth were yellow, too small for his mouth, resulting in lots of visible gums. He was as disgusting in appearance as he was in character.
"I kn
ow who you are," he said, wagging a finger toward Meyer. "You are the one who has been interfering in my business, and I think that interference will soon end."
Meyer walked to the seat at the conference table that was directly across from him, leaned forward with her palms on the table, and said with her own smile, "I'm just getting started, Mr. Special Envoy."
The smile disappeared from Sultanovich's face, leaving behind a mask of hatred. With one corner of his mouth turned up in a sneer, and vertical threads of saliva connecting his blanched lips as he spoke, he said, "You fucking cow. You march in here with your fat ass and try to play with me? You will disappear from my life. One way or the other."
She tried not to let it show, but there was no mistaking the fact that she was looking into the eyes of pure evil.
The Ukrainian embassy man, Bykov, looked mortified. "Mr. Sultanovich, I think we should—"
Sultanovich leapt from his seat with speed that belied his withered husk of a body and was in Bykov's face before anyone could blink, poking him in the chest with a bony finger. "Close your mouth, boy."
Bykov did.
Sultanovich turned back to Meyer and cracked another yellow grin, then walked out of the room without another word.
CHAPTER 67
SPACE
DARIA BODROVA
DARIA WAS at her computer by 7:00 a.m., as always. She was the first one in the room, as always, ready to do her job and do it well. Not because she liked it. She hated it. Not because she was well paid for it. She was not. Not even because they might kill her if she didn't do it. They might. No, it was none of these things. There was only one reason: Anya.
Daria had looked back a thousand times and wondered why it didn't occur to her that it was strange to be required to take so many tests of her computer skills, at a dating agency. No matter now. Daria could not lose Anya to these animals, and their words had been plain: Do as she was told and her sister would be returned to her safely. Make trouble, and Anya would die.
Every morning since she arrived in the United States, she left the house she shared with all the other girls, took a bus to the casino, made her way to the back of the building and down into the tunnel that eventually delivered her here, to her computer. The man Dmitry had watched over them as they worked, slapped them on the head if he decided they weren't working hard enough, screamed for no reason. Until two or three weeks ago, when Dmitry left the room with a piggish man named Mikail, and never came back. A day or two after that, the man with the dead eyes had come. He did not slap heads or scream. He only looked at you. And that was worse. Much worse.
After a few days with Dead Eyes, a new man arrived, a supposed American called Alex. This man Alex, no matter what he said or how good he spoke his English, was Slavic. Dead Eyes announced that Alex would be their new supervisor. After that, Dead Eyes was there sometimes, and sometimes he was not. Alex was there every morning at 8:00 a.m. and stayed until they left at the end of the day. He was nicer than Dmitry, and of course nicer than Dead Eyes, but how nice could he really be when he did the bidding of such criminals? Or had they taken someone precious to him, like with Anya?
Alex had noticed that Daria was there every day when he arrived, and he assigned her a chore of looking at the camera recordings from the night before, as soon as she arrived each morning. It was boring, because all the cameras ever recorded were empty cement hallways, but it wasn't difficult work. She logged on to the camera computer, ready to scan through the recordings and get it over with. What she found as soon as she connected to the computer, however, was a box flashing an error message.
WARNING - EXPECTED FILE RANGES NOT FOUND!
VIDSTOR1CAM-A 12:00:00AM.VID - 01:29:59AM.VID
VIDSTOR1CAM-B 12:00:00AM.VID - 01:29:59AM.VID
VIDSTOR1CAM-C 12:00:00AM.VID - 01:29:59AM.VID
DARIA WENT to the file directories and looked through the file listings. The error message was accurate. The video files containing the recordings from midnight to 1:29:59 a.m. were not there. Unusual, but not surprising. Computers failed all the time. She would mention it to Alex when he arrived. After clearing the error message, she played the rest of the recordings at ten times normal speed and, as always, saw nothing. Then she moved on to the second step of her morning bore.
In addition to the mounted cameras, each computer screen in the room contained a built-in webcam. Daria suspected the webcams were there to allow their overlords to watch them while they worked, but she had no proof of this. These cameras also had a night mode: Each webcam would activate whenever its computer entered the screensaver mode. While active, if the camera saw movement, it captured a still photo once per minute until the movement stopped, and saved those photos to the system drive on the camera computer. Stupid. No one was here at night in this little cement prison, so what was there to photograph?
Still, she would do as she was told, whatever she was told. For Anya. She opened the file directory where no photos were ever stored, and her breath caught in her throat. There were many photos! Of a man! With her heart beating strong and fast, she began to look through the photos.
They were all taken on the same computer, one near the door. The time stamps began at 12:23 a.m. and ended at 1:10 a.m. There were also a few others at random times, with the last one at 1:19 a.m. The man in the photos was wearing a dark shirt and a dark casino cap that was pulled low on his brow, keeping his features in shadow. The webcams were not good ones and the photos were dark and of poor quality. But there was one photo that clearly showed his face. It had been taken at 1:04 a.m. and the man was leaning back, away from the computer, stretching his arms.
The look on his face was one of satisfaction, as if he had just accomplished something important. The corners of his mouth were turned up just a little, almost a smile. His eyes were obviously looking at the computer screen, not quite in line with the camera. He had long, dark eyelashes, and despite the almost-smile on his lips, Daria thought there was something a little sad about his eyes. One thing she knew for sure: He was very handsome.
CHAPTER 68
FBI - NEW YORK
SASHA MASLOV
SASHA KNEW when the FBI woman walked into the room that something was wrong. Her face was wrong. He said, "Miss Agent Meyer, you do not to have Max, do you?"
She shook her head. "We're working on that, but you're safe here."
"Safe?" he said. "From Max, when Max is not inside the prison? You funny woman. Zuyev, you hear this funny woman?"
Zuyev did not smile. Sasha thought maybe Zuyev had never smiled in his life. Maybe not capable. Maybe something wrong with muscles in his face.
Chrissy said, "What happened? You said you had him?"
"Do any of you know anything about him having diplomatic status?" Meyer said.
Chrissy looked at Sasha. Zuyev looked at no one.
"Max is not the diplomat of anything, but he can say to be whatever he want to be in Ukraine. You understand me?"
"No," Meyer said. "I don't."
Sasha stood and paced, exasperated. "Politicians. All will do what Max says. He, how you to say in English, he owns them. Now you understand this?"
"Yes, got it."
Chrissy said, "What now?"
"You stay here," Meyer said. "This building is secure. We're working on the diplomatic issue. I just wanted you all to hear this from me." She turned and left.
When the door closed, Sasha looked at Zuyev. "We go now?"
Zuyev nodded. "We die here if we do not."
CHAPTER 69
SPACE
I AWOKE with my daughter on my mind. I lay in bed a couple minutes to let the sleep fog clear, then picked up my phone and texted her:
HEY, sweetie. Just thinking about you. Love you.
I ORDERED room service and had them deliver it in a bag so I could take it to my workroom with me. There I sipped coffee and ate the delicious ham, egg, and cheese croissant while working through my email. That done, I started the billing clock and got to work
on the case.
First I made a stealthy connection to the bunker computer I'd worked on the night before and checked for activity. It didn't look to be in use yet. I couldn't do much, because the last thing I needed was to set off an alarm down there, but I didn't need to do much. I planted a tiny script, a mini-app of sorts, that would slowly and carefully propagate the spy app throughout the computers in the bunker. It paid to still have access to an arsenal of the U.S. government's swankiest software. No, I shouldn't still have that access all these years later, but it's not my fault that some dumbass had left my username and password active on an FTP server that held some of the coolest tech on the planet, is it? Nope.
The spy app was configured to deliver its reports to me every day at midnight. When midnight rolled around tonight, I'd know how complete the propagation was by the number of reports I received.
My phone buzzed a stacatto pattern, ten quick hits, and bounced lightly on the conference table. Text message. I picked it up and saw it was from Ally: hey dad, can u talk 2 mom abt this school thing? rather come live in the grt outdoors w/u n johnny. love u2! af
I smiled and answered: You hate bugs and snakes too much. Study!
CHAPTER 70
SPACE
DARIA BODROVA
DARIA SCROLLED through the photos of the man while Alex leaned on his knees and looked over her shoulder. When she got to the one that showed his face, she stopped. She also heard Alex take a quick breath when that photo appeared. Did he know him? She sure would not ask, but that breath was very curious.
"Show me the rest," he said.
She scrolled through the rest of them and turned to look at him. His forehead was wrinkled, his face cloudy.
"Go back to the clear one," he said.
She did.
"Print thirty copies of that one."
She nodded.
Alex stood and said in a loud, commanding voice, "Listen up!" All the keyboards in the room went silent and chairs squeaked as the workers turned to see him.
Unallocated Space: A Thriller (Sam Flatt Book 1) Page 16
