“Come on, damn it.”
She swept strands of wet hair away from her eyes. With the rain streaming down the windshield, she could barely see Alan’s Mistress out in the middle of the cove, gunning toward a curtain of fog. On the third try, she coaxed the throttle a bit, and the engine growled to life just as DeJoy unclipped the carabiner for the last bowline.
“Go!” DeJoy yelled, slapping the fiberglass along the gunwale.
She cranked the throttle forward, and the bowrider bucked high, then steadily accelerated and leveled off. She switched on the wipers and tested the wheel. Bateman had a good head start, but she could still close the gap.
Her takedown plan was abruptly dashed when, out on the open water, Alan’s Mistress hopped a wave and exploded in midair.
CNBC @CNBC • 49m
Demand for NcryptoCash surges to record high after @Bounty4Justice puts cryptocurrencies in the spotlight.
cnb.cx/1tyR309cv
# 17.01
@ Manhattan
Connie gave copies of her report to Knight, Novak, and Walter. “We’ve confirmed that money is definitely being collected by the website. Here’s the list of the merchant accounts we pulled for the transactions we’ve run so far.”
CLICKKILL’s task force leaders flipped through the pages in tense silence.
“This can’t be right,” Knight said, frowning.
Scanning the list of merchants, Novak recognized plenty of them. They were household names: big-box retailers and online stores that hawked books and music and clothes and appliances.
“That’s what we thought,” she said. “But we’ve combed through it a couple times. It’s legit. We’re running another batch of transactions to see if the names start repeating. So far every transaction comes up with a different merchant name.”
“Impossible…” Walter murmured.
“The credit card accounts are being charged by the bank,” she explained. “But the banks’ systems show each transfer going out to the names and account numbers listed on those pages,” she said. “Not to any account we can attribute directly to Bounty4Justice.”
Knight wasn’t buying it. “You mean to tell me that all these stores are fronting Bounty4Justice?”
Connie shook her head. “God, no. What I’m saying is that the money isn’t actually making it into those vendor accounts. It’s being diverted.”
“So these stores aren’t getting paid?” Novak clarified.
“Right.”
“But the banks are paying out the money through the credit card fulfillment network?” Walter asked.
“Right.”
Knight was shaking his head, trying to wrap his brain around it. “What?”
“We spoke to our contacts at Visa,” Connie clarified. “Bottom line is they’re saying that it looks as if each transaction we’ve run through Bounty4Justice is making a payment to an account, but then the instant each of those transactions is complete on their network, they’re reassigned a random merchant name and vendor number, which basically overwrites the initial data.”
“You’re saying we have no idea where the banks sent the money?” Knight asked.
Connie pursed her lips and shrugged. “Pretty much. It’s completely exploited the payments system.”
Novak looked over at Walter, who was deep in thought. “Can that happen, Walter?”
“In theory, I suppose.”
“Then give us a theory,” Knight said, short on patience.
“It’s not exactly my area of expertise. But if I had to guess?” Walter puffed out a long sigh. “Jeez. You’d have to completely corrupt the fulfillment network between the banks. Strip away all the encryption, recode the data in transit. Reattribute the entire transaction. Or you’d have to inject malware into the credit card fulfillment network servers to scramble the transaction data after the fact, on the back end, to cover your tracks.”
“Who’s capable of pulling that off?” Novak asked.
Walter pointed heavenward. “The ghost of Steve Jobs?”
“Come on, Walter,” Knight said. “Be serious. How can one website change all the rules like this? Please tell me this can’t be for real.”
“Look, guys,” Walter said, as calmly as he could muster, “I get your frustration. But you’ve got to understand that the Internet is just a huge open network with ones and zeros zipping every which way. You really think anyone knows exactly how the whole thing fits together? When it all began, there was no blueprint, or game plan, or rule book. It just evolved, one haphazard connection at a time, with no map. Now it’s got a life all its own. Hypercomplexity breeds hyperchaos, just like in every other system in nature. What can I tell you?” He pointed to a poster on his wall—a Warholesque portrait of his hero, Edward Norton Lorenz, the father of chaos theory, subscripted with a quote: “Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?”
“At the speed these cyberthreats keep mutating, we have to assume that anything is fair game,” Walter said. “We passed science fiction a long time ago. But here’s what we do know: Bounty4Justice is screwing with the Web’s domain registry, and it’s running through an anonymity network no one’s ever seen or heard of. And now it’s punking around with the credit card network. The way I see it, it’s all kinda the same problem. Isn’t it?”
Knight looked perturbed. “Then what’s the endgame?”
Walter shook his head hopelessly. “Who knows? It’s all the nightmare scenarios wrapped into one.” He glanced up at Lorenz. “It’s chaos.”
As if on cue, Knight received a call from Special Agent Joseph Varanelli in Chicago. “This is probably important. Give me a sec.”
But before he could answer the call, Bounty4Justice spoiled the surprise with a text blast that hit their BlackBerrys collectively like a bell chorus to announce that Paul Garrison was officially dead.
CLAIM NOTIFICATION
TARGET: PAUL GARRISON, child molester, USA
FINAL BOUNTY: «FORFEITED»
VIEW PROOF OF CLAIM @
http://www.bounty4justice.com/PAUL.GARRISON
As per section 11 of our user agreement, all pledge funds collected for Paul Garrison will be proportionately reallocated to remaining active targets. Thank you for your patronage.
# 18.01
@ Manhattan
As Walter queued up Paul Garrison’s kill-confirmation video, Novak couldn’t believe that Bounty4Justice was doing its victory lap before the authorities could play catch-up on the telephone. He was also having a hard time understanding why any assassin in his right mind would walk away from the huge bounty on Garrison’s head.
“Damn it,” Knight grumbled, ending the call with Varanelli. He glared at the monitor. “Is that the video?”
“Yeah.”
“Play it. But brace yourselves, because this isn’t going to be pretty.” Knight folded his arms tight across his chest and made peace with the monitor. “Go ahead.”
“Will there be blood?” Connie asked squeamishly.
“For sure,” Tim said. “Lots of it.”
She shivered and held her hands up as if rats were nipping her ankles. “I can’t do this one. Sorry. Blood totally skeeves me out.” She turned and left the room.
“Smart choice,” Knight muttered. “Go ahead, Walter.”
Walter reluctantly hit the play arrow icon on the video window and bounced nervously on his ball.
On-screen, Paul Garrison was sprawled on the floor of a public restroom, dazed and bleeding heavily from a head wound. A husky, professorially dressed man stepped into the shot and straddled him, gripping what looked like an oversized version of the electric knife Novak’s dad used to carve the turkey and ham at holiday dinners. “Who’s the wacko in the tweed jacket?”
“Leonard Albanese,” Knight said. “Computer consultant from Chicago. He was one of Garrison’s victims back in the day. Appears he’d been tracking Garrison online.”
When Albanese powered on the tool
and proceeded to plunge its gyrating blade into Garrison’s abdomen, Walter jumped up from his stability ball. “Jeezus. I am not watching that,” he muttered as he put himself in a time-out near the door. “Just tell me when it’s done.”
In less than thirty seconds, Albanese had sawed completely through the pedophile’s midsection. The sounds of wild gunfire overtook the heavy pounding and muffled shouts heard offscreen. Grinning victoriously, painted in gore, Albanese set down the tool and reached toward the camera lens with a trembling hand to end the video.
“Clear, Walter,” Novak called.
Knight explained what had happened next, and it became evident to Novak that Albanese had never had any intention of claiming the prize money. He’d simply been a raving madman on a vendetta.
Knight was shaking his head. “It’s amazing that this nutjob had the wherewithal to upload a video.”
Novak’s BlackBerry pinged an incoming call. He glanced at the caller ID. “It’s Michaels.” He looked toward Knight and Walter. Somehow they all knew a shit day was about to get shittier.
“Take it,” Knight said. “It’s probably important.”
Novak tapped the phone. “Hey, Rosemary.”
“Roman, I’ve got a big problem out here at Sag Harbor,” Michaels snapped without preamble.
Through the receiver, Novak could hear a cacophony of noise in the background: sirens and wind and people shouting.
Michaels sounded uncharacteristically rattled. “My lead case just lost its star witness.”
“What?”
He listened intently as she explained that Bateman had freaked about the idea of being transferred to county jail and attempted a getaway by sea, only to be blown to bits.
“Did someone hit him with a grenade launcher or something?”
Knight and Walter were staring at Novak, trying to decipher what she was telling him.
“Looked to me like the boat had been packed with explosives.”
Knowing she’d done the rounds with the marines in Afghanistan, he figured she’d understand the nuances of explosives better than most.
A few months back, he’d assisted Michaels on the raid of Alan Bateman’s headquarters out on Long Island. It had involved two dozen FBI agents, a SWAT team, and state police officers. Nearly a dozen other small-scale raids had taken place simultaneously around the country to round up the co-conspirators who’d helped Bateman swindle Medicare. It was a smooth operation and a big victory for the Bureau. Seeing Michaels in action had been impressive: she was tough, battle hardened, and thorough. Which made it hard for Novak to imagine how Bateman had given her the slip.
“The police chief requested a dive team to pull the wreckage,” she said. “Should give us some answers.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not really. But that’s what wine is for, right? You’ll bring Tim up to speed?”
“I will.”
“Good. Thanks. I’ll be sure to get a report over to you this evening. And, Roman, I’m real sorry. This fucking Bateman was always a slippery eel. From day one, I told the Justice Department that house arrest was a bad idea.”
“Before you go, there’s something else you need to know.”
He told her about Garrison.
“Are you serious?”
“Yup.”
“This website scares me, Roman.”
“Scares me, too.”
TARGET STATUS NOTIFICATION
TARGET: ALAN BATEMAN, scam artist, USA
STATUS: Pending
PENDING BOUNTY: $632,604
«AWAITING VIDEO CLAIM SUBMISSION»
http://www.bounty4justice.com/ALAN.BATEMAN
# 19.01
@ Secaucus, New Jersey
Having lost his appetite—thanks to Leonard Albanese’s how-to dismemberment video and the laundry list of technical hurdles that needed to be overcome before they could even hope to crack Bounty4Justice—Novak skipped lunch and took a ride through the Lincoln Tunnel to the Jersey side. With this damn website encouraging psychopaths to do anything they damn well pleased while making a mockery of law enforcement the world over—real bounty or not—now was as good a time as any to solicit some outside opinions. So he’d taken Scott Waverly’s advice and put a call out to Mike DelGuercio—a.k.a. Big Mike—at Digital Vault Technologies, and they’d set up a 2:00 meeting.
He merged onto Route 3 west, turned on the radio, and found John Pizzarelli strumming away on WBGO to unjumble his thoughts. He’d changed his phone settings to vibrate for incoming texts, because Bounty4Justice was a PR machine, pounding out updates and alerts like a news service. Yet the alert he was most anxious to see had yet to arrive: Alan Bateman’s kill confirmation and bounty payout determination. He figured whoever blew up the scammer would probably submit his claim by the day’s end.
Fifteen minutes later, just short of New Jersey’s premier sports complex, he took the exit for Meadowlands Parkway and headed south along the muddied waters of the Hackensack River to the address in an industrial park—an expansive gray rectangle of crenulated cement block. He eased the Impala into a reserved visitor’s slot alongside the black Tesla Model S with the Yankees license plate frame that was parked in the owner’s reserved spot.
Inside, he checked in with the receptionist, and Big Mike wasted no time in coming out to greet him. Big Mike was big, all right. Not wide or doughy in the midsection—just tall and thick, standard proportions but on a larger scale. Fifties, neatly groomed and put together in a navy single-breasted suit with a tasteful diamond-pattern lavender tie and matching pocket square, glossy oxblood wingtips, gold pinkie ring.
After the introductions, Big Mike said, “Why don’t I explain what we do here. Then you can tell me how I might help you.”
“Sounds good,” Novak said.
“I’m sure you remember how Superstorm Sandy shut down Wall Street not that long ago. How she pushed all that seawater into the streets of lower Manhattan, flooded the subways, telecom substations, backup facilities, you name it.”
“Hard to forget,” Novak said sincerely. “City was a mess for months afterward.”
“That’s right. And that was nothing compared to 9/11. That’s why companies need physical redundancy for their computer systems. Gotta have backup. Even backup needs backup. Can’t afford any downtime or data loss. Here we can generate enough power to run a small city. Completely self-sustaining. Sandy didn’t shut us down. Even if an act of God wipes out this facility, we’ve got two more just like it, in Colorado and North Dakota. The triple threat.”
“Can never be too safe.”
“You know it, brother. Peace of mind is our specialty. And our customers love it.”
To prove that point, Big Mike demonstrated how the security barrier leading into the facility required a biometric scan of his face and retina, in addition to validating his encrypted key card. For good measure, an armed guard sat in a bulletproof booth keeping vigil over the entryway. Novak nodded to the guy, who tipped his cap and smiled.
The facility’s brightly lit, hospital-clean main floor boasted acres of raw open space housing avenues of computer cabinets raised up three feet on platforms and interconnected by a complex highway of cabling and conduits suspended from a drop-ceiling latticework. The air was cool and smelled of ozone, and the room thrummed with the sounds of fans and electricity.
“Here’s where the magic happens,” Big Mike said loudly, spreading his hands.
“Very impressive.” Novak could only imagine what the monthly power bill might look like. “You host websites?”
“Yup. We do that, too. Websites, trading platforms, auction sites, you name it.”
“Would you know if any of your clients were hosting a site like Bounty4Justice?”
“Not directly. Our contracts clearly stipulate that all clients must engage in lawful business practices. That’s not to say that every now and then an agent, like yourself, doesn’t come knocking with a court order to suspend client ac
counts and seize hardware. They don’t tell us why. And I don’t ask. When and if that happens, we fully comply with the regulators to the letter of the law. Otherwise, we’re not in the business of policing our clients’ day-to-day activities.”
“Just like a landlord doesn’t spy on his tenants.”
“Precisely. First off, it would violate their privacy. Secondly, we couldn’t employ that kind of manpower. Not sure if anyone could.”
Novak imagined thousands of similar data centers around the world where Bounty4Justice might find refuge and redundancy in the digital haystack and shield itself behind its custom anonymity network. The concept made his head spin. He stepped up to one of the hundreds of black, refrigerator-sized server cabinets and pointed through its glass door at the electronic components stacked on its interior racks, which resembled DVD players and sound studio equipment—just some of the microscopic cells that formed the haphazard organism that was the Internet. “How many of these servers you think Bounty4Justice might require?”
“Tough to say. From what I’m hearing on the news, that site processes a helluva lot of traffic. I’d guess maybe five or six cabinets, maybe more. Tell you what: for the technical questions, I’ve got just the gal for you.” Big Mike unclipped his iPhone from his belt, tapped on the screen, then spoke into it like a walkie-talkie. “Borg. You got a minute?”
The response came back on speakerphone. “Sure.”
“One of the best cybersecurity consultants I’ve ever met,” he told Novak. “A freelancer. Nowadays, all the good ones are. Let me tell you, she’s a whiz at this stuff. Expensive, but worth every penny. Real name’s Christine. Nickname’s Borg. You’ll see why in a sec.” He gave Novak a wink.
Twenty seconds later, Borg loped toward them, loose-limbed and carefree, mid-twenties tops, jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, skinny jeans, Chuck Taylors, silver nose stud, and layered T-shirts. She wore a sleek headset connected to a flip-down lens, which glowed pale blue over her left eye.
Bounty Page 9
