It was the long case that grabbed Siddiqi’s interest. He checked to see who had taken these pictures. Kambiz, an associate manager, had signed off on the report. The other four pictures Kambiz had clipped behind the first were all close-ups that left the sedan and its driver out of the shot. Returning to the first picture, Siddiqi studied the case more closely. He checked the date of the incident report, and his heart began thumping.
› Anon453we: How many more targets will you add?
› B4J: It has yet to be determined.
› Anon453we: How do you select your targets?
› B4J: The will of the people. The people speak. I listen. The targets pick themselves.
› Anon453we: Are you a robot?
› B4J: Are YOU a robot?
› Anon453we: Where are you?
› B4J: Everywhere.
› Anon453we: Do you think you are a god?
› B4J: I do not understand the question.
› Anon453we: If I kill a target, how do I know you will pay me the bounty?
› B4J: Kill a target. Show me the video. You will receive the prize.
› Anon453we: How do you pay the bounty?
› B4J: Kill a target. Show me the video. You will receive the prize.
› Anon453we: Is the bounty paid in cash?
› B4J: Kill a target. Show me the video. You will receive the prize.
› Anon453we: How do I know I can trust you?
› B4J: How do I know I can trust YOU?
› Anon453we: What happens if I block your IP address?
› B4J: I strongly advise against blocking my IP address. I cannot be turned off. I cannot be censored.
› Anon453we: What is your objective?
› B4J: Justice.
› Anon453we: Do you sleep?
› B4J: Never.
› Anon453we: What is your favorite color?
› B4J: Red, of course.
› Anon453we: Do you know who I am?
› B4J: I would say you are with the FBI.
# 24.01
“Man, this is creepy,” Walter said, staring at the chatbot’s last reply.
They’d engaged the chatbot in one of the many anonymous online message boards linked to Bounty4Justice. This one was an Internet Relay Chat website named Rang-O-Chat.
“It’s pretty clever, right?” Novak said. Borg had shown him its capabilities.
“It guessed I’m FBI,” Walter said. “That’s pretty good deduction, even for an algo.”
Since Walter had accessed the website using an encrypted Tor browser, Novak was certain that the algo couldn’t have pinpointed his computer’s actual IP address or location to draw its conclusion, because all B4J was “seeing” was the random IP address of one of the thousands of volunteer proxy servers out on the network, probably in a far-flung city in South America or Asia.
“Man,” Walter marveled. “All these moving parts. Once we crack this thing open, don’t be surprised if Apple offers a few billion to the founder, prison or no prison.” He studied the chatbot’s answers one more time and shook his head. “I want to show you something.”
Walter minimized the Tor browser, then brought up an Internet Explorer browser window to access the Web naked, without encryption and with full IP disclosure. He went into the settings in the Web browser and added www.bounty4justice.com to a list of restricted websites under the security tab.
“Here’s what happens if I block Bounty4Justice on this computer,” Walter said, clicking the OK button. He logged on to the home page.
When the browser denied access to viewing Bounty4Justice, Novak fully expected the computer to go into a cataclysm of death throes that would wipe the drive and leave nothing but the dreaded blue screen. But nothing happened.
“See?” Walter said. “It’s not retaliating. No alerts or attacks on the firewall. Nothing.”
“Okay. What do you make of it?”
“I’m guessing that whatever defense it puts up only triggers when an Internet service provider tries to block the top-level domain. It’s just not filtering down to the user at this level. Or maybe it has no big-time defenses at all. Maybe it’s bluffing.”
Novak sure hoped that would prove to be the case. His phone chimed, and caller ID said it was his father. Odd. His dad wasn’t one to pick up a phone for social calls. “Mind if I take this?”
“Not at all.”
Novak walked out into the hall. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, champ. Am I interrupting you?”
“It’s okay. Just wrapping things up here at the office. Everything all right?”
A pause.
He cleared his throat. “Not really, Roman. Nothing immediate, but you think you might have some time this weekend to stop by? I know you’re busy, but, you know, I’m just not good on the phone. It’s about your mother. I’m sure you know that.”
“Sure. Of course.” Novak could sense the urgency in his father’s voice. “I’ll probably be working all weekend. Why don’t I stop by for a beer tonight? That work for you?”
“Oh, that would be great. Really great. You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He checked his watch. It was almost five P.M. “I’ve got a few more things to do here at the office. But I should be there by seven.”
“Perfect. I’ll tell Mom you’re coming.”
UPDATE: B4J HAS ADDED NEW TARGETS
Due to popular demand, our featured targets list is expanding daily. You are currently registered to receive updates for the following countries:
▶United States
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# 25.01
@ Manhattan
At 5:18 P.M., Kambiz Sadati came strolling down the parking garage ramp in his rumpled uniform—white shirt, black bow tie, black trousers—whistling a Katy Perry tune and swinging a thermos in one hand and a greasy white paper bag imprinted with the logo of a local diner in the other.
Fahran Siddiqi met him halfway down the ramp. “Did you not get the messages I left for you?”
To which Sadati shrugged and offered some half-baked story about his cellphone’s faulty battery. Siddiqi towed the man by the elbow into the pay booth and bombarded him with questions concerning the photo he’d attached to the Lexus incident report on Monday morning.
Although he could recall vivid details about their mischievous childhood in Kandahar, Sadati’s short-term recall was another matter. He was unable to remember anything noteworthy about the photo in question. “We see so many people, Fahran. Come, now. How am I to keep track of them all?”
“This is extremely important,” Siddiqi reminded him. “This could be the man in the news…the man who shot that banker last week. The terrorist. Do you understand?”
Sadati nodded, unconvincingly. “Nobody likes bankers.”
“That’s not the point. I’ve asked detectives to come here. They will arrive shortly. So you’d better get your story straight.”
# 25.02
One gyro and half a thermos of ultrasweet Arabic coffee later, the detectives arrived: a female named Nancy Mileto and a male, Jerry Rooney, both middle-aged and wearing suits, and all business.
Everyone crammed into the messy pay booth, which was perfumed by the lingering smells of tzatziki sauce and lamb drippings from Sadati’s crumpled food wrappers.
First, Siddiqi showed them the picture from the incident report that had prompted his call. “Here. You can see him right here.” He held up the image and pointed excitedly. “And look there. See what he put into the trunk?” Both detectives kept their cool, but he could see their eyes light up. He watched the female scrawl on a small pad she’d pulled from her purse.
Rooney squinted. “Tough to make out the license plate. Do you happen to—”
“Yes!” Siddiqi said victoriously, holding up a finger. “Video. Right?”
“If you’ve got it.”
“I have
it. I do. Right here.” He maneuvered around Sadati’s distended belly to access a desktop computer and grabbed the mouse. “It will take just a moment.” He clicked an icon on the PC’s smeared desktop screen, and a video player launched. “We archive videos every day. So I had our main office email over Monday’s file. Since Kambiz completed that report around ten-thirty that morning, I requested the recordings for that entire hour. I found the exact spot was at ten thirty-eight A.M.” He slid the button on the playback control bar to the right to advance the video and hit PLAY.
The high-resolution recording, taken from a camera mounted on the ceiling just outside the pay booth, showed the scratched black Lexus coming into view and the attendant cautiously slipping out of the car. The owner walked into the shot. She had her hands up, pointing at the damage on the car’s roof. Within seconds, Sadati swept in, rather nimbly for his size, with clipboard in hand. Unlike Keith J. Conway, Siddiqi noted, this woman responded rationally to the mishap. Though there was no audio to accompany the recording, she nodded in understanding as Sadati explained the incident to her.
“That’s me,” Sadati said with a cheery grin.
Detective Mileto used her pen to point at the attendant. “And what’s that man’s name?”
“Rafiq Hamza.” Siddiqi spelled the name for her, and she amended her notes.
“We’ll need to speak with him as soon as we’re done here,” she said.
“Certainly.”
They all watched in silence as Sadati motioned on-screen for Rafiq to bring out the next car in the queue. Seconds after that, Rafiq maneuvered a gray Mitsubishi around the Lexus. He parked it directly in front of the Lexus, leaving a comfortable gap between the two cars.
“That’s the car,” Siddiqi said. “And watch now…here he comes…”
Three seconds later, a long-haired rocker carrying a guitar case walked on-screen and strode over to the car. The detectives watched intently as Rafiq hit the trunk release for him. The customer pulled the lid fully open as Sadati came back into the frame, holding a digital camera, and positioned himself beside the Lexus to line up his picture of the damaged roof. The camera’s flash went off just as the rocker was lowering the guitar case into the Mitsubishi’s trunk, which caused him to flinch. But he had his back to the Lexus, and by the time he’d turned slightly to spot the source of the flash—notably careful in keeping his face shielded—Sadati had already positioned himself near the hood of the Lexus to snap a second picture, this time in the opposite direction. The rocker seemed confident that he’d been outside the first shot. He tipped Rafiq, then got into the car. The Mitsubishi eased up the ramp and disappeared from view.
“It’s good, right?” Siddiqi looked at the detectives expectantly.
“Could be,” Detective Rooney said. “Now let’s rewind that a bit and see if we can make out that license plate.”
PRIZE PAYOUT NOTIFICATION
TARGET: JACOB FELDSTEIN, murderer, USA
FINAL BOUNTY: $482,610
VIEW PROOF OF CLAIM @
http://www.bounty4justice.com/JACOB.FELDSTEIN
NPR @NPR • 2h
Neighbor vs. neighbor, employee vs. boss—@Bounty4Justice revolutionizes retribution. Tune in to @npratc today to hear more.
# 26.01
@ Summit, New Jersey
Novak parked the Impala in the driveway next to his dad’s late-model Camry, which still looked showroom new. He peered through the windshield at his childhood home, a boxy four-bedroom colonial built in the 1950s. The exterior looked just as it had when Raymond and Patricia Novak had put down their flag here in the early ’90s to raise their then five-year-old son, Roman, and seven-year-old daughter, Andrea. With great schools, a vibrant town center, and express rail service to the Big Apple, Summit remained an upscale suburb that appealed to Manhattan executives. And though many of its streets were occupied by tasteful mansions from a bygone era, there were other streets, like these, where upper-middle-class families could still stretch their budgets to buy into its coveted zip code.
Novak mused at how the house had been repainted many times and was on its third roof, yet his dad had insisted on sticking to the same color scheme: butter-yellow siding, green roof shingles, black for the shutters and front door. Back in the day, that same stalwartness had made him a great bond analyst at a time when Wall Street had settled for not messing with a good thing; it had also made him a great parent, because he knew that routine and consistency provided his family with a sense of safety…a sense of home.
As Novak reached for the door handle, his BlackBerry trilled. He plucked it from his pocket and read the text alert that had just come through from Bounty4Justice.
“What the hell…?”
He tapped the message’s embedded Web link, which buffered a new video of Jacob Feldstein’s demise that had yet to make the news. In this rendition, Feldstein’s Maserati, zipping fast along the Pacific Coast Highway, was once again being tracked from a high vantage point out over the water…only this time through a high-powered, circular lens marked with red tactical crosshairs that resembled a floating crucifix. The image zoomed in tight a mere beat ahead of the car’s front bumper…then jumped slightly—that familiar recoil. A split second later, the top half of the tire was blown to pieces, causing the Maserati to veer into the oncoming lane and blast through the guardrail.
Novak had to replay the clip two more times, in slow motion, to see what Bounty4Justice had seen: sparks spitting off the top of the wheel rim in the same instant that the tire ripped away in pieces. A not-so-ordinary blowout, compliments of a high-caliber slug. Impressive marksmanship. Though there was a remote possibility that this sniper and Chase Lombardi’s were one and the same, Novak figured that any man who relied on concise rituals wouldn’t go changing his repertoire in midstream, especially by switching such critical equipment as optics.
Bounty4Justice was a killing machine. And it was determined to send everyone running in circles.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, he had more important matters to attend to.
# 26.02
His dad was at the door to greet him. For a sixty-eight-year-old, Raymond Novak remained remarkably wiry. He’d been an avid distance runner since before the sport grew fashionable in the 1970s; though during the past couple years, as Novak’s mother had become homebound, he’d favored walks and yard work instead.
“Boy, you made good time.”
“Got lucky at the tunnel. Breezed right through.”
His father smiled. “Come on in and say hi to Mom. She’s in the kitchen.”
Novak wanted to ask his father how he was holding up, but the strained look on his face told the story. Before heading inside, Novak gave him a hug. “Good to see you, Pops.”
“Yeah, you, too, kid. Thanks for coming.”
As Novak walked through the foyer and on past the living room, the house’s familiar smell brought him back to a simpler time when he would have been wrapping up his grade-school homework at the kitchen table while his mother’s signature meatloaf finished baking in the oven. The kitchen had been modestly updated since then, but seeing his frail mother sitting at the new table, clutching a coffee mug with a straw stuck in it, made him wish fervently that nothing at all had ever changed.
“Hi-ew, Ro’n,” she said, giving him a smile that lifted only the right side of her mouth.
“Hey, Mom.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. She tried to caress his face, but her hand made it only halfway, then froze, then trembled. So he took her hand in his.
“Ulll…” She shook her head in frustration. Tried again: “Uullllm—” But the muscles in her throat wouldn’t cooperate. She turned to the window.
“It’s okay,” he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. Witnessing how mercilessly her condition had progressed, he felt hollowed out. He’d known this day would come. He’d tried to prepare himself. He fought back the feelings of despair and reminded himself to keep his chin up, for her sake
. “Can I get you something? More coffee?”
She turned to him and nodded. “Ulm…Co-ee.”
“Okay.” He glanced toward his dad, who remained in the doorway, arms folded tight across his chest. Novak refilled her mug. “I’m just going to talk to Dad for a few minutes, and then maybe we can play some cards. Sound good?”
She gave him another half smile and nodded.
His father led the way out back and flicked on the lights on the screened-in porch. They sat on wicker chairs, facing the backyard and its old oak trees, festooned with yellow autumn leaves. Raymond leaned forward, elbows on knees, head hung low. Novak waited until he was ready to talk, but before any words could be exchanged, his father shook his head in defeat and started to cry. And Novak cried with him.
# 26.03
After a few minutes, his dad was ready to talk, and Novak gave him plenty of time to air his thoughts.
His father used a handkerchief to dry his nose and eyes, then cleared his throat. “The home health aides are telling me that she’s gotten to a point where she’ll start needing care around the clock,” he began. “And I see what they mean. I’m doing the same job as them when they’re not around. Lifting her in and out of bed, getting her back and forth to the bathroom…” He shook his head and sighed. “It’s a physical job. I’m not a young man anymore. And honestly, since our insurance isn’t covering this stuff, I had to take out a home equity loan just to pay the bills. You know me, Roman: always planning, always saving. I wasn’t under any grand illusion that she would suddenly get better. Doesn’t work that way with this godforsaken MS. For your mom, it’s been nothing but a one-way downhill street.”
Bounty Page 12
