“So British intelligence, too?” Walter asked.
“That’s what it looks like,” she said noncommittally.
Novak wasn’t completely sold on the idea, even though over the past few years, whistleblowers had revealed quite a few collaborative scandals involving the intelligence branches of both the United States and the United Kingdom that had included the theft of telephonic decryption keys from the world’s largest SIM card manufacturers. This had allowed both agencies to listen in, at will, on virtually any phone call, such as diplomatic communications at the highest levels of the German government. No warrants. No permissions.
“Congress is about to approve almost ninety billion for the intelligence budget next year,” Novak said, thinking it through. Just last week, he’d read the arcane details in The Wall Street Journal. “They’re saying that over seventy percent of that ninety billion is paid out to private contractors, most of whom the director of national intelligence never divulges. Not even to Congress.”
“Doesn’t have to, either,” Knight added. “It’s classified. Not for public consumption.”
“Exactly,” Novak said. “So there could be hundreds of contractors in the mix that no one’s even aware of. At the end of the day, only a handful of people in Washington really know how all that money’s being spent, and who’s doing the spending, and why.”
“All under the guise of national security,” Walter said. “I mean, what if Bounty4Justice is being run by—”
“Stop there,” Knight said, holding up his hand. “Let’s not go down this road. We can’t jump to conclusions, and we certainly don’t want to start planting the seeds for conspiracy theories. Let’s just keep this under wraps, and I’ll present it to the brass. See how they want to pursue it.”
Novak’s phone chimed. It was Michaels. “I gotta take this,” he said, stepping out into the hallway and pacing toward the executive offices to escape the noise of the main floor. “Hey, Rosemary.”
“Hey. I was listening to the radio earlier and heard about you and the guys getting posted to the website,” Michaels said on the other end of the line. “Crazy stuff. At least it seems like everyone’s rallying behind you and the team. But I’m sure it’s still pretty nerve-racking. Are you all holding up okay?”
“I’m looking over my shoulder in the break room, but I’m managing it. And you know Teflon Tim…not exactly one to express his feelings. Walter’s already a bundle of nerves, so it’s just one more thing to keep him up at night.”
“Well, if you need anything…I’m a phone call away. I mean it.”
He could tell she was truly concerned about him. It felt nice. “Thanks. I’ll keep it mind.”
“Okay, so get this,” she said. “I showed that weird silver wrapper to my contact at the Secret Service, and she had plenty to say about it.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Bottom line is, it’s the same packaging smugglers use to protect cash shipments from moisture and the elements. That powdery film on the inside of the foil packet acts as both a drying agent and a rodent repellent. It all fits perfectly with what Hargrave just told me about what he found on his end.”
After Craig Hargrave’s stellar performance throughout the raid on Echelon in Jersey City, Novak had suggested that Michaels contact the burly postal inspector about tracking the shipping label on the box of cash mailed from Massena, New York, to Manny Tejada in Dallas.
“He pulled security videos taken at the post office in Massena,” Michaels said, “and emailed the files to me. The camera inside the post office, above the front desk, clearly shows a young Asian guy dropping off the box. Then the camera outside shows him driving away in a white minivan with Canadian plates. Hargrave has already confirmed with Homeland Security that not long after that, the van showed up on surveillance cameras at the Seaway International Bridge, heading north over the St. Lawrence River into Ontario.”
“Did he have them trace the plates?”
“Yup. Vehicle’s registered to an import-export company in Ottawa, named SingLao North American Shipping. So I reached out to the DEA in Ottawa.”
It was the logical next step, thought Novak, since the DEA handled all contraband outside the States, including drugs and cash.
She told him that she’d then been directed to DEA Special Agent Robert Romeyn, who, as it turned out, had been working closely with the Canadian authorities over the past eighteen months to investigate SingLao for suspected smuggling activities. Romeyn made it clear that he’d happily facilitate a request to raid the location. He’d been looking for an excuse to get “these powder-puff Canadians,” as he put it, to make their move, and this was “damn well as good an excuse as any.”
“I say we take Romeyn up on his offer,” Michaels suggested.
“I agree. I’ll get on it immediately. Sounds like a pretty big breakthrough. Great work.”
“Thanks.”
He ended the call, smiling.
Los Angeles Times @latimes • 5h
Authorities not equipped to handle @Bounty4Justice huge target list. DOJ spokesman states, “The resources just aren’t there.”
lat.ms/1Rste398
# 54.01
@ Athens, Greece
18:28:48 EET
The three conspirators sat side by side on a bench in Syntagma Square, smoking cigarettes. They each wore periwinkle-blue baseball caps and matching coveralls, purchased from a local uniform wholesaler, dirtied and washed multiple times to give the appearance of being well worn. The embroidered patches on the uniforms, ordered from an online custom patch maker for rush delivery, bore a logo lifted from the website of a heating and air-conditioning company that serviced hotels throughout the city, including the big one across the street—the elegant Hotel Grande Bretagne, with its five-star amenities and breathtaking views of the Acropolis and Mount Lycabettus. Each man was equipped with a simple toolbox containing wrenches, pliers, and the like. The third man’s kit, however, also included a very special instrument that could gut an elephant in one sweep.
To the casual passersby—and there had been many on this unseasonably warm day unusual for the rainy season—they were just three workmen taking a break. In actuality, they were looking—hunting—for a woman. They’d been tipped off by an insider who worked at the hotel that she’d be staying one more night before sailing off to Mykonos for a more secluded holiday jaunt.
They were all from Bangladesh and had known one another since childhood, back in a simpler time in Savar Upazila. They’d come here in 2009 to study informatics and telecommunications at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, just as the global financial crisis tightened its grip on Europe. With banks running for cover, they could not get the necessary loans to stay in school and soon found themselves crammed into a tiny space above a laundromat, scraping by on odd jobs that paid in cash. Bad luck, it seemed, knew no borders.
Then fate dealt another crushing blow when, three months ago, a building collapse back home in Savar crushed to death fifteen family members: brothers, sisters, cousins. It was that event, that tipping point, that transformed three dreamers into something else altogether.
“There she is,” Masud said, tendrils of bluish smoke curling out from his nostrils. The leader of the three once again surreptitiously compared the woman to the picture he’d printed off the Bounty4Justice website, tucked inside last week’s print edition of Weekly Blitz, which he pretended to be reading.
Not long after sunset, Isha Bhatia finally returned from her excursion to the Acropolis. Not only did the target look like a woman of privilege, in her fine dress and wide-brimmed sun hat, thought Nazir, the biggest of the three, but she carried herself like one, too—blissfully strolling across the piazza with not a care in the world. According to her online profile, she was a French national of Indian descent, forty-eight years old, unmarried and childless, a Pisces, an avid traveler, and the driving force behind the clothing empire NHMP Clothing, Ltd.—a company whose business practice
s and total disregard of ethical standards offered brilliant insight into the ugly side of globalization and the wholesale exploitation of human capital.
“You’re sure that’s her?” asked Rashed, the third accomplice. He was slightly built with a lazy eye.
Masud nodded. “I’m sure.” He took another drag of his cigarette and stomped at the ground to shoo away the persistent pigeons.
“You’d think with all that money she’d hire some bodyguards,” Rashed said. He puffed his cigarette.
“Just makes our job easier,” Masud replied.
“She’s very pretty,” Nazir said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.
Masud and Rashed glared at him scornfully.
“She is an evil woman, Nazzy,” Masud said, stabbing the glowing tip of his cigarette at Nazir. “Don’t you forget it. Your cousins are dead because of her. Hundreds more right along with them. Don’t be deceived by that pretty face.”
Masud was right, thought Nazir. It hadn’t been an act of terrorism or some freak earthquake that had taken down the apparel factory that July morning. It’d been the egregious dismissal of the factory’s structural deficiencies. The building’s upper levels, repurposed from office to industrial use, had been stacked four high above the retail shops at ground level. Where desks and computers should have been, NHMP Clothing, Ltd., under Isha Bhatia’s instructions, had installed heavy textile machinery and power generators, which had vibrated ceaselessly, day after day. And instead of the few hundred occupants the structure had been engineered to support, nearly three thousand workers had been crammed in tight, slaving under horrendous conditions, twelve hours each day, to earn just over five thousand taka per month—barely seventy U.S. dollars or sixty euros.
Even after telltale cracks and fissures had appeared in the building’s main support columns—prompting the retail tenants on the ground level to wisely evacuate the premises—a call made by the worried site manager to Isha Bhatia (which the garment empress later denied) had elicited only a terse demand to have the workers sent back to the machines the following morning, to ensure that a huge order promised to a major U.S. discount retailer would be delivered on time. No exceptions. A mere hour after the opening shift began that fateful morning, the building buckled; in less than twenty seconds, it had turned to rubble, killing nearly four hundred workers and critically injuring twelve hundred more. Yet no legal action had ensued. No arrests. No trial. And so it was that the beguiling Isha Bhatia was free to go about the world, sightseeing in luxury.
Rashed checked his Samsung smartphone again. “The bounty is up to one-point-six million euros. That’s a lot of money.”
“Which is why you must be sure to get the video right,” Masud said. “If I’m going to handle the messy part, I need to know that you’ve got this covered. Can you handle it or not?”
“Of course. I’ve got it covered. Stop worrying.”
“You’d worry, too, if you were in my shoes. Remember: money or no money, she will pay for what she has done,” Masud said venomously, flicking his cigarette to the ground. “We will exact revenge for those who’ve been taken from us. Today we make our own destiny. Today we stop being victims—of people like her, of this place…” He scowled, looking out across the plaza toward the parliament building, seeing only yet another archetypal monument to corruption and greed and impotence. Then he folded the newspaper, grabbed his toolbox, and stood. “It’s time.”
# 54.02
The master key card Masud had been given—purchased, really, since the insider was simply doing his share for a 15 percent cut of the bounty—worked flawlessly for the rear service door and the service elevator, as well as the private elevator leading up to the penthouse and the main double door for the unit itself.
The three stealthily entered the dim palatial suite, which was redolent of pomegranates, hibiscus, and coriander. Masud gently set his toolbox on the credenza in the reception hall, beside a vase of exotic flowers. He unhinged the lid, removed the top tray holding screwdrivers and pliers and wrenches, and took out the three white volto masks and the Ka-Bar. He passed two of the masks to his friends, then pulled off his ball cap and slid the remaining mask over his face.
Rashed put on his mask and readied his Samsung to document the act.
The white mask and coveralls made Nazir eerily resemble the slasher from that horror flick Halloween as he rolled back his broad shoulders and readied his mind and his hands for what was to come next.
The masks were Rashed’s idea—a ploy to pass blame to the hacker fanatics he’d seen protesting in the square the day before.
The floor plan was open and airy, with furnishings befitting royalty and windows all around that provided a picturesque panorama of Athens’s nightscape and the lit-up columns of the Acropolis. The target, however, was nowhere to be seen. Masud pointed to the archway that led to the bedrooms; Nazir and Rashed quietly moved toward it and disappeared into the hall beyond.
Not two seconds later, the front lock emitted a quick staccato of clicks. Just as the door swung inward, Masud stepped into the shadowy gap behind it, because there was nowhere else to hide. Adrenaline shot through him, and with it came the rage. He gripped the Ka-Bar’s haft tight in his right hand, the long, serrated blade pointed up at the ceiling. The moment the door closed, he saw the back of her head and the flowing dress. Blessedly, she was alone. As she moved toward the credenza, preoccupied by the strange toolbox left there, he lunged out and grabbed at her from behind, clamping his left hand over her mouth, wrapping his right arm around her, pressing the blade to her throat. She thrashed a bit, to no effect, and let out a muffled whimper, but Masud had her locked in a vise grip.
Rashed rushed back into the main room, immediately reading the situation. He held up his phone and focused intently on the device’s display. “I’ve got it! Go!”
Nazir appeared just as Masud turned the target toward the camera light’s bright glare for the final act. Nazir’s read on the situation was very different. Behind the mask, his eyes went wide, and he threw out his hands and screamed: “Wait! It’s—”
But Masud had sunk the Ka-Bar deep into the soft flesh of her neck. It glinted in the light as he swept it sideways amid a gush of red.
Nazir screamed, “It’s not her!”
Planet Retail @PlanetRetail • 6h
AMAZON’s bestselling Halloween costume for 2017: the Nexus masquerade mask.
plnt.re/1BTef3HO398
# 55.01
@ Manhattan
It was nearing 8:00 P.M. when Walter’s wife called, wondering where he was.
“I thought you’d be home by now?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
“I’m just finishing up an email, and then I’ll be heading out,” he told her, staring bleary-eyed at his computer screen.
“Don’t be too long. Please. This whole website business has me a nervous wreck, and there’re kids outside wearing those creepy white masks, like the ones they keep showing on TV. I don’t know if they’re having a bit of fun or if they’re planning a break-in.”
“Sweetie, I spoke with Felix earlier today, and he told me he has a panic button there at the front desk. I gave him the rundown on what to do if he sees anything at all suspicious. And Ruben’s working the front door tonight. He knows how to handle things. Remember, he’s a retired Navy SEAL. A bona fide badass.”
“Just…come home. Straight home. Oh, but get a bottle of red on your way. Okay?”
“I’m wrapping things up now. See you before nine.”
“Be safe. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He set down the phone and finalized an email to the NSA contact assigned to Operation CLICKKILL.
From: Walter.Koslowski@ic.fbi.gov
Sent: Monday, October 30, 2017 at 8:02 PM
To: Dilip Kapoor
Cc: Roman Novak, Tim Knight
Subject: Bounty4Justice—ciphertext query
Dilip,
An anonymous info
rmant provided my team with the following ciphertext, which may pertain directly to an insider at Bounty4Justice:
Of special interest is the string (a tag?) in line 3 “‹iArchos6I6›.” However, after running various permutations through Sentinel and Guardian, we’ve had zero luck matching any relevant data points. I’m hoping your analysts can expedite this query. As I’m sure you’ve heard, the stakes have gotten much higher internationally, not to mention more personal for myself and my colleagues. I look forward to your feedback. Thanks very much.
Walter Koslowski
Senior Cybercrimes Specialist
Special Operations/Cyber Division
FBI New York
26 Federal Plaza
New York, NY 10278
Phone: (212) 555-0453
Fax: (212) 555-8858
@NewYorkFBI | Email Alerts | FBI.gov/NewYork
After he confirmed that the email was successfully delivered, he logged on to his Bounty4Justice profile page and checked his current status—still NOT GUILTY, now by a comfortable margin of 66 percent, thanks mostly to Tim’s media blitz, which had effectively turned sentiment in their favor. After watching that video a couple more times during the day, he’d understood why most people—at least those living outside the sphere of Putin’s propaganda troll factory—were rallying behind them. If anything, the video humanized the FBI and demonstrated how the agents assigned to Operation CLICKKILL were exploring every option to combat the very real international threat posed by Bounty4Justice.
Still, it made him crazy to think that someone might harm his family in retaliation for him simply doing his job.
He logged off the network, grabbed his backpack, and locked up his office.
# 55.02
@ Park Slope
20:43:11
Bounty Page 26
