Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  The train is waiting for us, and we hand our tickets to the attendant. We are directed down a couple of cars, and when we arrive where we’re supposed to, we encounter another attendant and again show our tickets. He points to the left, and we make our way down an aisle. This is not what I expect, and when Spencer stops and pushes a door open, I am surprised. It’s a small compartment with two seats, a long steel counter with a sink facing them.

  ‘The seat pulls out to a bed,’ he says. But then adds quickly, ‘There’s a bunk that pulls out over it, so there are two beds. I thought about two compartments, but it might be better if we share.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, although I’m not sure I mean it. I could use a little time by myself to sort everything out, and the space is very tight. I pull on a door and see an enclosed toilet and shower.

  There is space for our bags, but it’s good we only have the two carry-ons. I suppose there’s a place somewhere on the train if someone has a larger bag.

  ‘There’s someone who comes and pulls the beds out at night,’ Spencer’s explaining. ‘All our meals are included, too.’ He raises his eyebrows and gives me a grin. ‘It’s not a bad way to travel.’ He plops down on the seat and pulls one of the laptops out of his backpack.

  I yank the blue accordion curtains closed over the door’s window so no one can see inside before I sit next to him, curious. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  He’s already in the deep web, using his own wireless hotspot router. He looks up at me and grins. ‘Let’s get ourselves an invite to a carding forum.’

  TWELVE

  ‘We don’t have anything to sell,’ I try, but I admit I’m intrigued by the idea. Immediately, I tell myself I should walk away. I loved all those years on Block Island, under the radar, living my quiet existence, meeting Steve on Friday nights for burgers and onion rings, hiking Rodman’s Hollow, taking in the Mohegan Bluffs on a brisk, autumn day. I need that kind of life again. I was happy. Content.

  Spencer doesn’t have a clue what I’m thinking, because he doesn’t know what it’s like to live without a computer. Even after he got caught, he went underground and stayed online.

  I thought about it every single day.

  ‘We don’t need something to sell,’ Spencer’s saying. ‘We could say we want to buy a dump.’

  By ‘dump,’ he means credit card information. Names, addresses, Social Security numbers, bank account numbers, phone numbers, security codes, answers to security questions, everything associated with the card.

  ‘Do you know how this works?’

  ‘We can’t do anything until we get an invite,’ he says. ‘We have to find Tracker.’

  I freeze at the sound of his name. Spencer notices and smiles but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘So where do we find this carding forum connection?’ I ask.

  ‘Do you not pay attention in the chat rooms?’

  I remind him that I haven’t been on a computer for six months, that I have only had my laptop since this morning. He gives me a look that tells me he doesn’t quite believe me. It’s not worth arguing.

  ‘Are people actually talking about being in a carding forum in the chat rooms?’ I ask. ‘Wouldn’t that be something you might not want to advertise?’

  He rolls his eyes at me. ‘And you call yourself a hacker.’

  I don’t have a chance to respond because he’s rummaging around in his pocket and produces a joint.

  ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here,’ I tell him.

  He hasn’t considered that. He jumps up, shoving the laptop onto the cushion next to him. ‘I’ll be right back.’ And he disappears out the door, shutting it behind him.

  I’m finally alone, although only because Spencer’s addiction is worse than my own. I eye the laptop, which is still powered up and hooked up to the wireless hotspot router. As I reach for it, I feel the train jerk underneath me, and it starts to move slowly on the track. I vaguely wonder exactly where Spencer’s disappeared to, where he thinks he’ll be able to smoke.

  I pull the laptop onto my lap and hit one of the keys to get it out of sleep mode. Spencer has rigged it so I need to use a password to get in. I don’t have time to try to figure out how his mind works. I take my laptop out of my bag and push his aside. Within moments, I’m online and inside the chat room.

  I don’t expect to see Tracker here. I don’t expect to see anything about a carding forum. I’m here with another new screen name; I’m going to have to make a list at some point to remind myself who I’ve been so I don’t begin to repeat myself.

  I lurk a little, but there really isn’t anything of interest, proving that Spencer’s pronouncement that carding forum discussions are out in the open might not be quite the truth. Again, I wonder where Spencer is. I would have thought he’d be back by now. How long does it take to get stoned, anyway?

  When I turn back to the screen, what I see makes me stop breathing for a second.

  ‘Le soleil brille aujourd’hui,’ I read. The sun is shining today. It’s the French phrase that Tracker and I devised in order to identify ourselves to each other. But Tracker hasn’t posted it. Instead, it’s someone called d4rkn!te.

  I hesitate. Other people have found out about our phrases and have used them to trick me into downloading a remote access Trojan. I don’t know for sure that this is Zeke – Tracker – or someone else connected to Tony DeMarco who wants me to make another mistake so he can find me.

  The message isn’t directed to anyone in particular. It’s just there, in the thread of public messages, taunting me. Daring me to engage.

  My hands are literally shaking. I desperately want to find out if this is Zeke, but I can’t take that chance.

  I contemplate the screen name: d4rkn!te. Dark night. It’s not very creative, since nights are dark. Nothing about it gives me any clue as to his identity.

  A knock at the door startles me. I hesitate, but pull the curtain aside to see that it’s the attendant. I open the door. To his credit, he doesn’t step inside, just stands on the doorjamb. He’s an older man with gray hair and smile lines around his eyes.

  ‘I’m Harry; I’ll be your attendant. Can I show you how things work?’

  For a moment, I’m confused, and then I realize he wants to show me around the tight space that Spencer and I will be habituating for the next twelve hours or more. I glance over at the laptop. ‘I think I’ve got it.’ I say.

  ‘The bed can be tricky,’ he says, but he finally senses that I am not paying complete attention to him. ‘I can come back in a little bit.’

  ‘Yes, that would be great. Thanks,’ I say.

  The smile fades for a second, and he gives me a look I can’t read, but then, ‘Perhaps I can come back when you’re at dinner.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ I am too distracted, and he finally steps to the side. I close the door, wondering again where Spencer is. I stand, staring at the laptop that’s still open. The screen is dark as it’s gone to sleep. But in my head, I can still see the French words that are emblazoned in the thread.

  If I respond, d4rkn!te will give me a link – I’m sure of it – to a private chat. That’s how it works.

  I take a step toward it, but the door swings open behind me and I catch my breath. I expect it to be Harry, coming back because he forgot to tell me something about the bed or something else about the compartment, but it’s Spencer. He stumbles in, a goofy smile on his face. ‘Sorry I was so long,’ he says, collapsing on the seat. He spots the open laptop. ‘Find anything?’

  I nod, sit and hit a key to bring the screen back to life. The message is still there, but there are even more below it now so it takes a moment to find it. I turn the screen toward Spencer.

  He frowns. After a moment, he says, ‘Maybe you should respond.’

  ‘Do you think it’s Zeke?’

  Again, he hesitates. ‘Not sure,’ he says.

  ‘If it isn’t him and I respond, who’s to say there isn’t a remote access Trojan i
n the link?’

  ‘You can create a link for him. You don’t have to follow his.’

  He’s got a point.

  ‘And we can turn the tables.’

  We can try to trace d4rkn!te, rather than the other way around. I get it now. But I’m still leery. If Zeke is undercover, then he’s really undercover. He wouldn’t come out like this on a public chat; he’d find another way to contact me. This can’t possibly be him. I say as much to Spencer.

  He nods. ‘Yeah, maybe. But aren’t you just a little bit curious about this dude? I mean, he’s trying to lure you out. Everyone else is looking at that French shit and saying, what’s up with that? But this guy knows that if you’re there, you’ll see it, too, and maybe he’ll—’ He stops and frowns, like he’s just this moment realizing what he’s saying.

  A joint is dangling from the corner of his mouth, but it’s not lit. He notices me noticing. ‘It’s how I work.’

  I ignore that, and say, ‘So, you think that this is some sort of trap?’

  Spencer shakes his head. ‘I have no clue what this dude is up to. But he’s got a message for you. Let’s find out what it is.’ He grabs his own laptop. ‘But if you’re nervous about using your laptop, we can use mine. My encryption might be a little more intense than yours.’ He’s got a point, since I haven’t done much to safeguard my laptop since I bought it this morning. Although I would argue that I haven’t had the time.

  Spencer logs in with his password and within moments is in the chat room. D4rkn!te’s message is now on both our screens. He pushes the laptop toward me. ‘Do your thing.’

  Despite my hesitation, I admit that I am curious. So I type: ‘Non, le ciel est nuageux.’ No, it’s cloudy. I don’t send it immediately, though. ‘I need a link.’

  ‘You need a link with a remote access Trojan,’ Spencer corrects me. He takes the laptop now and inserts a URL into my message, but not before I see him embed the code for the RAT in it. And then he hits send before making his way into the chat room where we wait for d4rkn!te to find us.

  We stare at the screen for a few minutes. He begins to sway a little, the joint bobbing up and down in the corner of his mouth. He’s trying to take a drag, but it’s not lit, and he gets frustrated and pulls it out of his mouth and tosses it on the small table. I am about to tell him that maybe he should take another walk when we see d4rkn!te come into the private chat room.

  But instead of saying something, we see an image appear on the screen.

  ‘What’s this?’ Spencer leans closer to see the image better, but I don’t have to.

  It’s a photograph of me.

  Boarding this train.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘He’s here,’ I whisper. ‘Whoever it is, he’s on this train.’

  I don’t know who he is. Is he someone sent by Tony DeMarco or is he someone Madeline Whittier sicced on me at her house? Could those two people be the same person?

  Spencer’s shaking his head as though he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. ‘No, that’s not right.’

  ‘What isn’t right?’ I ask. ‘That he’s uploaded a photo of me getting on the train? This train. No, you’re right. That isn’t right at all, and we have to get off. Now.’ But as I say it, I realize that he probably knows which compartment we’re in. He’s probably lying in wait outside, maybe even right outside our door.

  Remembering how Spencer left me alone sends a chill down my spine. He could have gotten to me then. He could’ve pushed his way inside and … What about Harry, the attendant? Is he really the attendant? I opened the door for him. But if Harry were d4rkn!te, he might not have left. He had his chance, so maybe he’s really the attendant. That means, however, that d4rkn!te is still here somewhere. Which means I can’t stay. I have to get out of here.

  ‘What’s the next stop?’ I demand.

  Spencer’s shaking his head. Maybe he’s more stoned than I thought, because he seems to be having a very hard time with this. From the time that he picked me up in the Cadillac, he had been in total control. He was more like the Spencer Cross he used to be, when he really was in control. Now, though, he’s merely the stoned hacker I met in Miami with the dark fabric over the windows, paranoid that the feds would discover his hiding place.

  I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down, sorting it out again in my head. If it is someone associated with Tony DeMarco, why would he post something in the chat room rather than just breaking in here and killing me? Tony wouldn’t play those kinds of games, and I doubt a professional hitman would, either. Not that I know much about professional hitmen.

  More likely, this may be someone associated with Madeline Whittier. She knows I’m in the city, and she knows that I’m a hacker. She had a lot of lead time to set everything up before I arrived for tea this afternoon.

  ‘Have you ever seen d4rkn!te in the chat room?’ I ask Spencer, who’s still puzzling over the picture on the screen.

  I half expect him to say no, that d4rkn!te is a stranger, but he looks me straight in the eye and says, ‘Yes.’ That’s all he says, though, before going back to the screen.

  This is why he was so hesitant when I showed him the message. I tug on his arm and push the laptop away. He reluctantly meets my eyes again.

  ‘Who is it, Spencer? Do you know?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m not sure, but I think he’s got something to do with Tracker – I mean, Zeke.’

  ‘Something to do with him in what way?’ I ask carefully. Spencer reaches for the laptop, but I stick my hand out and cover his. ‘No. Answer me.’

  ‘Well, he knows about your French phrases.’

  ‘So did the shadow that was in my computer last year.’

  He shrugs. ‘He’s been around the chat. He’s actually the one I was going to reach out to for the invite to the carding forum if Tracker wasn’t around.’ He pauses and frowns, as though he’s thinking out what he’s going to say. It’s not going to help to push him. Finally: ‘I think he and Tracker set up the forum.’

  I’m trying to wrap my head around this. ‘But Zeke is FBI.’

  ‘And he’s undercover,’ Spencer reminds me. ‘I don’t think d4rkn!te is a fed.’

  ‘Why don’t you think he’s a fed? I mean, if Zeke can be plausible as Tracker, then why can’t d4rkn!te? And anyway, he’s posting a picture of me getting on the train, telling me that he’s physically here. Not just hiding behind a screen name somewhere. Why would he do that?’

  ‘He doesn’t have to actually be here, you know.’

  I think about the implication of what he’s saying, and he’s right. D4rkn!te could have an accomplice. Someone who sent him the picture. Or if there are cameras at the train station, the image could be extracted from those. Any hacker might be able to get into the system to pull the video. I’d rather the latter, because with the former, someone is here. Watching me. But either way, whoever it is knows my location.

  This is worse than when I discovered the shadow in my laptop in Quebec. The shadow didn’t know exactly where I was.

  Spencer is quiet, his feet tapping against the floor. He’s fidgety. He’s got a theory, and he is uncertain how to tell me. ‘When Zeke left, he was in touch. I didn’t know where he was but we chatted online. I haven’t heard from him in four months, though.’

  I begin to do the math in my head, counting backward to when we left Miami. He sees me working it out and waits for me. ‘That article I found online,’ I say slowly. ‘That was four months ago.’

  ‘And the video I found, where he’s getting into the car owned by Tony DeMarco, was the same day,’ Spencer finishes. ‘I haven’t heard from him since.’

  ‘So you were in touch. Before he vanished.’ There are so many questions pinballing around in my head. ‘What were you in touch about?’

  He rolls his eyes at me. I get it.

  ‘Me. You were in touch about me.’

  ‘He told me to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘But you didn’t talk about anything else?’
>
  ‘It’s not like he could talk to me about his work.’

  ‘Why not? He didn’t ask you for any help with what he was doing? I mean, he knows what you can do. Who your connections might be.’

  Spencer shrugs. ‘No. We’ve got a code.’

  I resist the urge to laugh. ‘A code?’

  ‘He stays out of my business and I stay out of his.’

  ‘Except when it comes to me.’

  He eyes me for a second. ‘Yeah. That’s right. He worries about you.’

  The way he says it makes me take pause. ‘He worries he won’t find me again,’ I say softly. ‘That’s what it’s all about.’

  His silence confirms it.

  ‘He’s the one who left this time,’ I point out. ‘Not me.’ I let that sit between us a few seconds, then add, ‘You weren’t worried, though? I mean, that you hadn’t heard from him?’

  ‘I knew he was undercover. But I was starting to get concerned. And then when you called about the article …’ His voice trails off, but I can see there’s something else.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whatever Tracker’s working on, I think he’s in trouble.’ Spencer is visibly uncomfortable now. ‘The DeMarco thing, getting into the car. You’re right. DeMarco knows who he is, and the fact that he hasn’t been in touch …’ His voice trails off as he glances toward the window, where the landscape is passing us by.

  His words underscore my worry and knowing he’s got the same concerns makes it worse. Despite being FBI, Zeke’s not infallible, as much as we might want to think he is. We’re not just going to Paris on a whim to escape the police here. We’re going because Spencer thinks Zeke needs our help, although I’m not quite sure how we’re going to do that. We also don’t know for sure that he’s still in Paris, but we have to start somewhere.

  Spencer interrupts my thoughts. ‘You need to get off the train. But no one can know. No one can know where you are.’

  No one knew where I was until today. Is it a coincidence that today is the day Madeline Whittier confronted me with my past?