Inching past the mob scene, he scanned some of the signboards they were carrying: BOUNTY4JUSTICE = OUR VOICE and FIGHT ONLINE CENSORSHIP! HANDS OFF BOUNTY4JUSTICE! and B4J DOES WHAT THE DOJ CAN’T! He spotted scores of scales-of-justice lapel pins tacked to the protestors’ clothing.
He wondered if Borg was here among the masked horde. If so, even better. Late last night, she’d texted him another critical clue: a picture of the small manila envelope, insulated with bubble wrap, that had once contained a lapel pin delivered via standard mail on behalf of Bounty4Justice. Though she’d smartly blacked out the recipient’s mailing address, the sender’s return label clearly indicated an address in Jersey City. Novak had looked up the company on the Internet, and it was a real place, with a real street address and an active landline phone number. Another solid lead that he’d explore in greater depth later today. But first, he’d need to convince Russia to poke the dragon.
# 28.03
In conference room 8, Walter finished syncing the videoconferencing interface to the fifty-two-inch flat-screen monitor mounted on the wall. A high-definition digital camera set on a tripod in front of the meeting table linked software and satellites to bridge the seven time zones and forty-seven hundred miles separating Manhattan and Moscow.
“You see the crowd outside in the square?” Novak asked.
Walter smirked. “Hard to miss. Those masks with those crazy hollow eyes? Gives me the heebie-jeebies. Reminds me of a cult or something.”
“Morning, fellas.” Knight swooped in. “How we looking?”
“Good to go,” Walter said. “Have a seat.”
Novak circled behind the table and got comfortable in a chair beside Knight. A small inset frame in the monitor’s upper left corner showed the camera’s image capture of them seated at the table, as it would be viewed in Moscow.
“Ready?” Walter said.
Knight gave him a thumbs-up, then turned to Novak and said, “Remember, let’s keep our distance and let him come around on his own terms.”
“Got it.”
Walter cued the inbound transmission, and the monitor came to life.
On the screen, the FBI’s legal attaché to Russia, Fredrick Shrayer, sat in a leather armchair on the right side—a slight man in a three-piece suit, mid-forties, dark eyes, and unnaturally thick hair that Novak figured to be a toupee. On the left side of the screen, seated beside Shrayer, was Maxim Voronov, the debonair fifty-two-year-old head of Russia’s Roskomnadzor agency. Looking more like a celebrity than the media’s watchdog, Voronov wore a smooth-fitting gray suit with a wide, solid-red tie and a matching pocket square. He had perfectly coiffed steel-gray hair, precisely groomed eyebrows, and calculating green eyes, set off by a bronze complexion that seemed more Miami than Moscow. A Russian flag hung from a pole stand in the background, next to a portrait of Vladimir Putin.
As Shrayer formally introduced himself and Voronov, there was no perceptible delay in the signal transmission. Voronov made a show of pulling back the French cuff on his right wrist and checking his heavy gold timepiece, even though Novak was sure that the software interface on his end featured the same banner that clearly displayed New York time as 8:47:03 A.M. and Moscow’s as 3:47:03 P.M.
“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Mr. Voronov,” Knight began. “I’m Assistant Special Agent in Charge Timothy Knight, and this is Special Agent Roman Novak, head of our task force leading the investigation into Bounty4Justice.” He thumbed at Novak, seated to his left.
Novak nodded affably. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Not exactly a meeting.” Voronov twirled a finger disapprovingly at the camera. “How do I know who might listen?”
Given that Voronov controlled all of Russia’s mass communications, from the Internet to radio, Novak found his discomfort ironic. Under the noble guise of protecting children from illicit Internet content, his agency compelled Internet service providers to block access to an ever-growing unpublished list of websites—some sinister, some political, many simply inane. No judges or courts. No permission required.
“Please accept our apologies. We’d prefer to be there in Moscow in person,” Novak responded evenly. “This is an encrypted satellite link reserved for diplomatic communications, so anything you say is secure and will not be recorded. Please consider this an informal fact-finding inquiry.”
“Before we proceed, I’d like to know who else is there listening,” Voronov said.
Knight waved for Walter to come over and step into the shot.
“Just me,” Walter said. He introduced himself, gave his name and job title, then went back to the controls.
“I trust we will keep this brief,” Voronov said. “I have a meeting with the prime minister in one hour, and traffic is terrible.”
“You are familiar with Bounty4Justice?” Novak asked.
“Of course. It’s an Internet sensation,” he stated flatly. “Is it not?”
“Yes. And Andrei Komaroff’s murder is the top-viewed video on the website.”
“Mmm. I’m aware of this.”
“Does that concern you?” Novak asked.
The Russian’s smooth face knotted, and he leaned closer to the camera. “Let me remind you, Komaroff killed for sport,” he said, his tone hardening, “only after doing unspeakable things to his victims. Young women the same age as my own daughter. Komaroff was a sick, sick man. Twisted. Of course it concerns me.”
“It concerns us, too,” Novak said.
“Those videos Bounty4Justice paraded for the world to see outraged many in Moscow. It was…too much. All over the country, the police prepared for riots. You understand?” He spread his hands to punctuate the direness of the events that might have unfolded.
“I do,” Novak concurred. “But—”
Voronov raised a finger. “Then Komaroff is killed in front of a worldwide audience…and things in Russia calm down. The people feel good again. You see?”
Novak thought back to how he’d felt seeing Lombardi shot dead in his office chair—the guilty satisfaction. Without question, Bounty4Justice harkened back to an age when survival was determined with stones and fists. Neanderthal justice. Modern justice, with its reliance on juries and judges, seemed a fragile construct in the vast history of human events. What had happened to Komaroff—being cooked alive with jumper cables—was closer to the natural order of things.
“Based on the response of the people,” Voronov continued, “our honorable president took that judge away from his duties, as well. It was the right thing to do.”
Novak had read reports claiming that the honorable president’s own henchmen were the ones wearing balaclavas in Komaroff’s kill video, and that they’d staged Komaroff’s abduction and execution to quell the unrest…to do the “right thing.”
“But do tell me why the FBI cares so much about Andrei Komaroff?”
“I’m sure you’ve seen the news reports that a congressman was killed last night. The targets are getting more ambitious.”
“Yes,” Voronov said, looking genuinely troubled by that point. “That’s a problem.”
“It’s a problem that affects all of us,” Novak said.
Knight said, “We are reaching out to as many of our international partners as possible to assist us in blocking access to Bounty4Justice, in hopes that we can slow it down, stem the violence, while we go about our investigation.”
“We have also been investigating this problem. Though the technology of websites is not my expertise, I can tell you that our preliminary findings are deeply troubling,” Voronov admitted. “I understand that this is a mutual problem. But cannot your NSA do this for you? Are they not your master spies? Clearly they’ve shown that they have no problem listening to my phone calls and reading my emails.”
Novak could sense Knight struggling to stifle a reply. Despite the NSA’s recent shortcomings, Russian cyberspying knew no bounds—from repeated targeted attacks on U.S. corporations, government agencies, and consumers to the Kr
emlin’s self-serving asylum for Edward Snowden. The Cold War had never truly ended. It had simply entered the Digital Age, where mutual destruction would be precipitated by the click of a mouse.
“Why not block the website on your own turf?” Voronov added, smiling slightly.
“As you know, our legal process is complex,” Knight said. “It takes time.”
“So you want me to lower the hammer?” Voronov asked rhetorically. The Russian chopped a fist through the air to punctuate his remark. “My people have informed me that if we block this domain, the servers that host Bounty4Justice will still function.”
Knight clarified the FBI’s intentions: “We have to start somewhere. There’s a very good possibility that aggressive measures, a good offense, may somehow draw out the website’s architect.”
“I see,” Voronov said. “Democracy is highly inconvenient, is it not?”
“It can be,” Knight conceded, smiling. “Keeps things interesting.”
Voronov nodded agreeably. “What we do here will not solve your problem there. You understand this?”
“I’m aware of that,” Knight said.
Voronov grinned. “You should run for president, Mr. Knight. It might give me hope for America.” He sighed. “Today Bounty4Justice is the hero. Tomorrow…who knows? I will speak with my superiors, and let us see if they also agree.” He checked his watch. “I must leave now.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Voronov,” Knight said.
Voronov nodded, then stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and strode offscreen.
Shrayer gave a thumbs-up and said, “I think that went very well. I’ll keep an ear to the ground and let you know how things progress. Voronov’s tough but fair.”
“I appreciate your setting this up so quickly, Fred,” Knight said. “Thanks again.”
Walter killed the feed, and the monitor switched back to a blue screen.
“Well done, boss,” Novak said. “You’re quite the diplomat.”
“We’ll see.”
TARGET STATUS NOTIFICATION: TARGET DEACTIVATED
TARGET: KERRI-ANNE THOMPSON, child killer, USA
STATUS: Not Guilty
FINAL BOUNTY: $701,088 ‹‹REALLOCATED››
As per section 13 of our user agreement, this target is determined to be innocent beyond any doubt.
http://www.bounty4justice.com/KERRI-ANNE.THOMPSON
Star Tribune @StarTribune • 14m
Local VA honcho added to @Bounty4Justice hit list after anonymous video exposes lies to vets’ families.
strib.mn/1KBixtld43u
# 29.01
@ Sag Harbor
Special Agent Rosemary Michaels parked her Impala in the mansion’s motor court next to the Underwater Search and Recovery Unit trucks. She walked toward the dock, where a dozen officers still geared up in wet suits, tanks, and flippers had just come off a Suffolk County police trawler tethered in place of the late Alan’s Mistress.
Lieutenant James Mitchell spotted her and motioned to the area along the covered walkway where the recovered boat wreckage had been laid out on tarps to dry: the twin Honda outboard motors, strips of mahogany decking, mangled cabin doors, shredded seat cushions and deck chairs, a stainless steel toilet, pretzel-twisted bow rails, the captain’s wheel, and plenty more.
He met her near where huge sections of the fiberglass hull had been neatly arranged. Buff, with slicked-back hair and a tightly trimmed goatee, Mitchell had peeled his wet suit to the waist, with the neoprene arms tied together like a sensei’s belt.
“Glad you got here so quickly,” he said, making a point to flex his pecs. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. She’d met him a few weeks earlier when he’d dredged the body of a federal witness from the Carmans River in Brookhaven. Even though he wore a wedding ring, he’d unabashedly asked her out for drinks, apparently considering any single woman staring down the barrel of thirty low-hanging fruit. Fat chance. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Can’t go leavin’ this stuff out in the water. It’s pretty shallow in some spots. Hazardous for the traffic moving through the bay.” Mitchell leaned over and ran his fingers through the dark gray gunk coating a section of fiberglass. He held his hand up and squeezed his fingers together, and as he pulled them apart, the tacky skin stuck, then slowly separated. “RDX. Packed all around the fuel tank. Commercial grade. You know, Semtex or something like it. I’m sure the wiring is mixed in with that mess over there.” He pointed to a heap of salvaged electronics.
Next, the lieutenant led her to a gray body bag laid out on the grass. He crouched beside the cadaver pouch and looked up at her. “This ain’t pretty.”
“Rarely is,” she said.
Mitchell hooked his index finger through the zipper loop at the head of the bag, pulled it all the way to the bottom, then drew the sides apart as if dissecting a giant pea pod.
The corpse’s face had been picked mostly clean by the undersea dwellers—no eyes, nose, lips, or ears, just a couple of hollow sockets and a bare grimace of jagged teeth. What little flesh remained looked like sickly green-gray leather. Not much left to the torso. Legs detached. No clothing. Encrusted handcuffs manacled the bare bones of the wrists, and heavy chains covered the hollowed-out rib cage.
“Well, Lieutenant,” Michaels said, “you certainly nailed it on the phone when you told me it wasn’t Bateman.”
He smiled. “Found all sorts of goodies out there, even an old Cadillac and whatnot. Just in case John Doe here crosses back to your desk, you’ll remember how we found him.”
“Gotta love Long Island.”
“Ready for your second surprise?”
“The suspense is killing me.”
“I could tell by watching that video on Bounty4Justice that it was a big explosion that generated a lot of heat,” Mitchell said, leading her to a folding table that displayed the smaller items they’d recovered. “By the way, you looked really good on-screen. Handled it like a pro. What was your plan, anyway?”
She shrugged. “Chase him down. Ram the fucker. Not sure, really.”
He grinned. “Well, sure as shit, even with a big explosion like that, you’d expect to find something. A head, a foot in a shoe, an arm…something. And like I said, we scoured a mighty big area. ’Cause C-4 makes shit fly.” He plucked an object from the clutter and held it up for her. “Here’s something we did find.”
To Michaels, it looked like an old-school pager clamped ultrasecurely to a wide black plastic strap. On the rectangular unit, no bigger than a bar of soap, an LED indicator light blipped weakly in pale orange, indicating that its battery needed charging.
“We called the monitoring company. The unit number’s a match. It’s definitely his transponder. Went offline right around the time of the explosion.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Fucking Bateman.”
“You can see here how clean the cut was.” Mitchell ran his finger along the strap’s snipped edge. “Most likely used a bolt cutter.” He regarded her with sympathy. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Looks like Alan Bateman’s back from the dead and he’s on the lam. How ’bout I buy you a drink after we’re done here, and we can talk about it?”
“Only if your wife joins us.”
# 29.02
Michaels walked up to the clubhouse, set back a short distance from the boat dock. She looked up at the can-shaped camera hanging from a swivel mount beneath the roof eave, then at what resembled a shrunken receiver dish for a satellite TV bolted to the roof. She tapped the screen on her phone and replayed Bateman’s kill-confirmation video. It started with Bateman vaulting into the boat and scrambling to unclip its bowline.
She looked back up at the camera and the dish. Then out to the dock. The angle of the shot matched up perfectly. Her eyes went back to the video, where Bateman had already disappeared into the boat’s cabin, fired up the engines, and shot out into the open water. Three seconds lat
er, she came into the shot, soaked, sprinting fluidly out onto the dock to unzip the speedboat’s cover. Mitchell was right: she did look good. Decisive. Agile.
The farther Alan’s Mistress went offshore, the more the camera tightened on the boat, as if tailing it on a Jet Ski, tracking it perfectly, keeping the shot framed until Alan’s Mistress tore apart violently in a big ball of fire. She replayed the clip again, trying to spot him jumping overboard. But the haze from the storm provided plenty of cover.
She looked back up at the camera. Bateman had rigged it to remotely track the boat’s movements, probably using some type of transponder mixed in with that mess of salvaged electronics. The dish tracked the transponder’s signal and directed the camera to record everything. Dollars to doughnuts, it all linked to Bateman’s fancy spy room back at the house.
“Oh, Alan,” she muttered. “Always with the big show.”
Bateman already had a good head start, so he needed to be added to the FBI’s Most Wanted list, posthaste. She keyed in Roman Novak’s number.
From: Carla.Serrano@ic.fbi.gov
Sent: Thursday, October 26, 2017 at 9:17 AM
To: Roman Novak, Timothy Knight
Bounty Page 14
