Betrayed

by Karen E. Olson

  I still don’t understand. I don’t have any data. I say as much.

  ‘It’s data from that laptop you had last summer.’

  My heart quickens. A shadow had infiltrated my laptop with a remote access Trojan and demanded two million bitcoins in ransom, threatening my friends’ lives if I didn’t pay up. I transferred the bitcoins, but we were unable to trace them – or trace the ransom demand back to DeMarco, even though we were convinced he was behind it.

  Zeke continues. ‘The messages about the ransom are on the laptop we found in the bike shop. There were other files on it, too. Software that would allow you to get into the deep web. Software that someone like you would know about.’

  Someone like me – or like him. It must be Tor – The Onion Router. The federal government set it up for its own purposes; however, anyone who wants to be anonymous uses it, not just for selling drugs and guns or human trafficking or hiring hits, but journalists protecting sources, whistleblowers. It’s easy to download.

  ‘But the laptop can’t have anything that directly leads to me,’ I say. ‘Otherwise that Agent Tilman would have arrested me instead of just asking me questions. Right?’

  Zeke nods. ‘The moment I saw what was on the laptop, I knew it was targeting you. Whoever is doing it also knows your screen names, the ones you use in the chat rooms. I couldn’t get to you before the FBI did, but they don’t know who you are, so I figured you’d be fine.’

  I almost laugh. I’m not fine. ‘Why didn’t you tell them? About me, I mean?’

  I am afraid of what he’s going to say, and my fears are confirmed.

  ‘I want you to help me find out who’s doing this.’

  Although I know it’s for my own benefit, I am still uncertain about teaming up with him. It’s not so much about the FBI, but it’s him. Zeke Chapman is Tracker, my long-time online partner. I’d harbored fantasies about Tracker, who he was, what his life was like. I’d idolized him; he was my mentor. But this man sitting across from me – he is not even remotely part of that fantasy.

  Ever since Zeke told me he was Tracker, thirty-four days ago, I have been grieving for the one person in the whole world I felt I could trust, my best friend, the person on the other side of the screen who looked out for me and helped me in so many ways.

  I will never look at Zeke Chapman and see Tracker.

  What makes me so angry is that he knows this. He understands. Like Tracker would.

  He sees my hesitation. ‘Whoever did this knows you work in the bike shop, Tina. Knows who you are, because of those things on the laptop. The FBI hasn’t connected the dots because I never told them about the shadow or you specifically; I only told them that I was working with an informant, a hacker.

  ‘I’d like you to reconsider. Work for me. Work with my team. Under the circumstances, it’s in your best interest to find out who tried to kill Tony before he finds out that you might be involved.’

  A shiver runs through me. ‘I’m not a team player.’

  ‘You’re being framed, Tina, and we need to find out who’s framing you. As soon as possible.’

  I see nothing but sincerity in his eyes. But I also see something else, something I can’t pinpoint.

  ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘What’s really going on?’

  He hesitates a second, then says, ‘The trail doesn’t only lead to you. It leads to me – to Tracker – too.’

  FOUR

  My first thought is that someone has managed to set up both me and Tracker, a feat that at one point I would have believed was impossible.

  But then something dawns on me. It sounds as though he has not told the FBI about his alter ego. ‘Why don’t you tell them that you’re Tracker? They’ll believe you that there’s someone setting us up.’

  He narrows his eyes at me. ‘You don’t get it, do you? They already think that whoever uses those screen names is behind the hit on DeMarco, and they’ll see the connection between us. They’ll think that you’re setting me up. Unless we find out who it actually is and can hand him over on a silver platter.’

  ‘But you could tell them, couldn’t you? That I can’t be behind it.’

  Zeke takes a deep breath and runs his hand through his hair. ‘There is enough said in those ransom notes to lead back to the bank job.’

  ‘You’re afraid they’ll find out about your role in that, aren’t you?’ He helped get me inside the source code to find the account numbers I needed to transfer the money.

  ‘It’s complicated, Tina. You don’t know the whole story,’ he says softly.

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘OK, so why don’t you tell me? The whole story.’

  He stands, coming so close to me that I can physically feel him without touching him. ‘We don’t have time.’

  ‘Short version.’ I struggle to keep my voice steady; I can’t let him know that he is unnerving me.

  He backs away, circles around the coffee table a couple of times. ‘OK, OK, long story short.’ He runs a hand through his hair again and begins to pace in front of the fireplace. ‘I was like you when I was a kid, Tina. I was online; I was hacking. But unlike you, I got nailed. I hacked into a place I shouldn’t have and got caught.’ Even though I’m curious, he doesn’t elaborate, merely continues. ‘They were lenient with me, said if I helped them online, I could wipe my record clean. So I did. That’s when I met you.’ He stops pacing. ‘I was fifteen.’

  I was seventeen when I met Tracker online; we had eight years together.

  ‘You were so good,’ Zeke says. ‘I couldn’t believe it. We didn’t do anything really illegal for a long time. Not until …’

  His voice trails off and I finish his sentence in my head. Not until I asked him to help me get into the bank accounts. ‘Why did you do it?’

  He gives me a small smile. ‘You need to ask?’ He is close again, closer than before, and I remember how he looked when he first showed up at my father’s house all those years ago. I thought he was there about my father – the FBI had been watching him for years – but it had been about me. When I realized that he suspected me – without knowing who he really was – I fled to Paris with Ian Cartwright, the man I’d done the job for.

  Zeke followed us and asked me to run away with him. He said he’d even left his wife for me. But Ian had a gun, and I ended up accidentally shooting Zeke. I thought I’d killed him. I left Ian to clean up my mess and disappeared to Block Island, off the coast of Rhode Island, where I lived for fifteen years before Ian found me, demanding that I steal for him again, since he never got any of the money the first time.

  It clicks then, what happened. ‘The accounts were frozen,’ I say slowly. ‘That was you, wasn’t it?’

  He doesn’t say anything, and I know I’m right. ‘There were news stories about it, about the bank job. Someone told the papers that the FBI suspected me.’

  ‘Ian said it was you. But there wasn’t any real evidence. And you disappeared. We didn’t have any real evidence against Ian, either, and then he went to work for DeMarco, so we kept an eye on him and used him for information.’ He hesitates.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t continue his story. Instead, he says, ‘I’ve been living and breathing this. The sooner we get Tony DeMarco, the better.’

  ‘I thought this was about finding out who ordered the hit on him,’ I say softly.

  ‘That’s right,’ he says, startled by my words. He realizes he screwed up.

  It strikes me then, a possibility I never considered. What if he is guilty of this? What if, since he couldn’t catch him online, he ordered the hit instead?

  He’s studying my face, and I shift uncomfortably. It’s as though he knows what I’m thinking.

  Tracker and I were always in sync.

  He had the proof, the evidence, against me. He held my fate in his hands, and instead of turning me in, he came to Paris and offered to run away with me.

  He is still protecting me, and I owe him for that.

  He has not moved aw
ay from me, and in that moment, I see him for the first time as Tracker. I put my hand up to his cheek before I can stop myself, and he leans in and I feel his lips against mine.

  It would be so easy not to stop. But in a second of clarity, I see the truth. This man is Zeke Chapman, FBI special agent. He wants my help. Someone set me up, too. I was guilty once, but I’m certainly not guilty now, and I do have the skills to help.

  I pull away and take a step back. Now it’s my turn to circle the coffee table, keeping it between us.

  ‘Tina,’ he says, his voice husky with a passion I remember.

  I hold my hand up. ‘No, Zeke, we can’t. There’s too much baggage here.’

  ‘OK. I get it. It’s a lot to process.’ He tries a small smile on for size.

  I vowed to hate him forever for his betrayal. I gave him my laptop and I said never again.

  Yet here I am, considering this.

  ‘I gave it up.’ He knows what I’m telling him.

  ‘Consider this a relapse.’

  ‘A one-time thing?’ Living without a computer is so much simpler. I feel freer, as though a weight has been lifted. Yet the idea of navigating the deep web, crawling around the codes and catching the person who framed me is like a magnet, drawing me into Zeke’s plan. I don’t know if I start up again that I will be able to walk away again.

  He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes moving around the room. There is something else going on.

  I am almost afraid to ask when he finally takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye. ‘Tina, I need to be honest with you.’ He pauses, and I stop breathing as I wait. ‘I don’t know any other way to say it but straight out. The statute of limitations on the bank job ran out after ten years. We never charged you, never arrested you.’

  I’m not quite sure what he’s talking about, but then I focus on the words ‘statute of limitations’ and the pieces begin to fall into place. Before I can say anything, he continues.

  ‘You’re not a fugitive. You’re as free as I am.’

  FIVE

  I can’t speak. My brain is on that time delay again. It’s as if I’ve had a stroke and I have to learn how to think all over again.

  The statute of limitations ran out. I was not arrested, charged. I’m not a fugitive.

  I’m not a fugitive.

  I think about all the years I’ve been hiding. All my years on Block Island, the year in Canada, my months here on Cape Cod. All the aliases I’ve used, the identities I’ve taken.

  Rage surges through me, and I feel my face flush with the anger. ‘You didn’t think to tell me before now?’ I ask, my voice low, deep, strangely calm despite my emotions.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I was going to tell you in New York, but you took off on us. And then when I found you here, I decided that I would tell you first about me, and you were so angry, you threw me out before I could say anything.

  ‘I have to tell you now, because this thing with DeMarco could change everything for you. He knows what you did with the bank job. If you’re tied to the hit, if you’re linked to another crime, the FBI can come after you for everything, even the bank job, since you were a person of interest. Statute of limitations would mean nothing. And then there’s DeMarco. If he thinks you’re trying to have him killed, he will kill you first. Or at least try.’

  My head is reeling. For five seconds, I was safe. I was free.

  Zeke is still talking. ‘You have amazing survival skills, Tina. Use them now. Help me find out who’s setting us up. You can put all of it behind you if we can catch him. You can start all over again; you can come out of hiding.’

  I blink a few times, trying to bring it all into focus, but the anger still simmers. I take a step backward and bump into the bookshelf. Zeke instinctively reaches out, but I hold up my arm, wave him off, and stumble up the stairs. I hear him follow, but I don’t stop. I go into the bathroom down the hall and shut the door behind me. With only a moment to spare, I lean over the toilet bowl and retch.

  I haven’t had any breakfast, no coffee, so there is little to come up. When I feel as though I’m done, I sit back and lean against the wall, still on the floor, my head in my hands.

  I barely register the soft knock at the door, and it opens a crack.

  ‘You OK?’ Zeke peers around the door, a worried expression on his face.

  I shake my head, and he comes in, drops down on the floor in front of me. There isn’t much room, and he has to keep his knees up. His hands cover mine, and they are warm, slightly calloused. I don’t want to feel comforted; I want to stay angry, but the emotion dissipates the longer we sit like this.

  ‘The FBI came after me in Block Island,’ I whisper.

  ‘No. They followed Ian there. It was all about Ian, not you.’

  The memory of my panic is still so vivid.

  ‘I should have told you.’

  ‘In New York.’ It had been a shock to find out he was still alive. I finally look up at him, forcing myself to get back to the matter at hand. ‘You should have told me then.’

  He nods. ‘Yes. But I thought—’

  ‘That I would help you get Tony if I was still running, if I still wanted to protect myself.’ I pull my hands out from under his and tuck myself further into the corner, away from him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tina.’

  I peer at him out of the corner of my eye. He does look sorry, and I hate him for that. For being sincere.

  ‘But now I’m stuck again, aren’t I? I have to help, or I really will be running.’ I am so tired of it; the idea of being able to be me again is overwhelming. But then it strikes me. Who am I, really? I feel as though I left Tina Adler behind so long ago that the idea of being her again is foreign to me. Amelie Renaud was a brief moment in Paris; Susan McQueen was desperation in Quebec. Hélène LeBlanc and Helen White are one and the same, and the person I am pretending to be now.

  Nicole Jones was who I was on Block Island and the only identity I’ve ever had that I was completely comfortable with. When I was Nicole, I was happy.

  But can I get her back again? Can I ever be Nicole again?

  The bigger question is: Can Nicole Jones be a hacker and still be happy? Because underneath it all, despite the different names, the different lives I’ve lived, I am still a hacker at heart. I can’t change that part of me.

  I may have quit, but the addiction is there. And I am suddenly struck by the truth: I don’t want to give it up. I never did, or I never would have gone back. It is who I am.

  Zeke is watching me sort this all out, waiting for me.

  ‘You pretended to be dead,’ I say, remembering that he’d told me the FBI planted the story in the newspapers so they could smoke me out. ‘They must have known about me.’

  ‘They just wanted to question you.’

  ‘But why did you have to be dead?’

  He shifts uncomfortably and doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘I went undercover for a while.’

  ‘How long?’ I ask.

  ‘Two years.’ He doesn’t elaborate, and I can tell by the way his jaw is set that I’m not going to get any answers if I push.

  ‘You going to be OK?’ he asks softly.

  I hate it that he can see through me, that he can see into my head so easily. I want to separate Zeke and Tracker, but it’s futile. They are one and the same, and I have to try to get used to it. I swallow hard and nod. ‘Guess so. Don’t have much of a choice, do I?’ I make an attempt at a chuckle, but it comes out garbled and I sound as though I’m choking.

  ‘So you’re on board?’

  Maybe if I do this, I can walk away, set up a life somewhere. I can leave Helen White behind. Start afresh. No one coming after me – not the FBI, not Tony DeMarco.

  Not Zeke.

  ‘Yeah,’ I whisper. ‘I’m in.’

  ‘So, about the team,’ he says, all business now, even though we are still sitting on the bathroom floor. ‘You’ll like them.’

  I doubt that. I like the anonymity of being online, shroud
ed by a screen name, no one knowing who I am. But then I think about my screen names. How someone has managed to discover my identity despite my best efforts. ‘So I would actually meet this team?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I open my mouth to object, but he puts his hand up. ‘We’ve got a place. Everyone needs to be on the same page.’ He pauses. ‘I know hackers aren’t team players. I know you’re not. Team building is not something we do, but my hands are tied. I’ve got funding, and I need to submit reports.’

  He wants me to believe that he is being forced to play along with the bureaucracy, but he doesn’t seem too upset about it. If he were, he’d go undercover as Tracker and leave it all behind. I can only surmise that he likes being FBI, and he likes running this team.

  ‘When?’ I ask. There has to be a deadline. They will want closure soon – and if not the FBI, then Tony DeMarco.

  He confirms this. ‘Soon as possible.’

  ‘How involved are you?’ I ask.

  He knows what I’m getting at. Can he be Tracker and Zeke Chapman at the same time? Can he show his cards as a hacker?

  ‘I told you, they know about me, but not about Tracker.’

  My thoughts are pinballing. ‘How do I know I’m going to be safe?’ My voice trails off as I try not to think about the repercussions, how Tony DeMarco has his own form of justice.

  ‘No one knows where my team is, and it’s going to stay that way.’

  Zeke’s eyes meet mine, and in them I see him again: Tracker.

  ‘We’re all like you, Tina,’ he says. His tone is so soft that I barely hear him, but I do hear what’s behind the words. What he’s trying to tell me about his team.

  It’s not that we’re all hackers.

  We all have something that we want to hide.

  SIX

  ‘So tell me how you got into that laptop. What led you there?’ I ask.

  Relief floods his expression. He knows now for sure that I’m going to help. ‘There are conversations.’

  ‘Conversations about what?’

  ‘A hit. On DeMarco.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? There are actual messages discussing this?’