Cyber Warfare (INTERCEPT: A Jack Coyote Thriller Book 2)

by J. S. Chapman

  Tied to a bed of silk and satin, and suffering the sharp sting of whiplashes on his back, Simon recounted in his mind the metamorphosis of a bland man with a bland wife and a bland life to a man whose every wish was being fulfilled. And still he felt nothing.

  Since flying out of Washington National Airport in early July and arriving at Heathrow some eight hours later, Simon Brodey felt as if an eraser had scrubbed everything away and left behind a man with nothing to him.

  Back in Virginia, he had staged his own drowning, expecting to rise like a mythological god from the sea, reborn with handsomeness undeniable and powers insurmountable. His imaginings fell pathetically short. That prophetic day he waded into the ocean and swam towards his planned destination some three miles up the coast. Halfway there, an ebb tide caught him. Instinctively he fought and floundered and splashed around. Then he surrendered, letting the currents take him where they would, a mile or more out to sea. Once free, he drifted for a while, hacking water and catching his breath. Then he flipped over and stroked his way back to shore, using the sun’s position to steer by and stopping more than once to tread water, reconnoiter his position, and adjust his tack. When land appeared between rises of ocean waves, he picked a landmark where a spit of sand jutted halfway between a breakwater and a condominium. He plodded towards it, head bobbing in and out of water, and arms and legs struggling against whitecaps and cold sea. Making headway was agonizingly slow. He struggled on, ending up nearer the pier than the condominium in a shallow of rocks and shells. He rose like a different kind of sea god, this one battered and exhausted. He would have scared away little children had they been about, but there was only Simon and the sea. He trudged the rest of the way onto shore, the sharp edges of those rocks and shells biting into the soles of his feet. He collapsed onto damp sand, spitting up seawater from his lungs. The sun was hot on his back. Warm waves licked away the numbness of his toes. Breezes evaporated salt water from his shivering flesh.

  After catching his breath, he staggered to his feet and picked his way south along the shoreline, struggling against onshore winds. He headed inland at a point where the beach curved sharply east and a bulwark of hotels and condominiums stood in the distance like erect soldiers. The rental car was where he parked it earlier in the week, along with a towel, a change of clothes, a plane ticket, a suitcase, and a freshly minted passport. When he drove away, it was as a soulless man. There was no going back.

  The temptress straddled his body and massaged his shoulders, telling him to relax. A stupid girl was she. Simon was not the kind of man to relax, especially when he was trussed to the four posters of a bed while a leather gag dug into his mouth and four leather straps cut off blood flow to his hands and feet.

  A psychiatrist would have diagnosed him as having an Oedipus complex, a man who never lived up to his father’s expectations yet coveted his mother. The diagnosis would have missed the mark. His father was average and his mother very ordinary. Yet something was missing inside him, something having nothing to do with his upbringing but everything to do with an inborn defect undiscoverable by psychiatry or medicine. Hobbled by self-doubts his entire life, a long list of disappointments trailed him wherever he went.

  A better life was out there somewhere. Had to be. He could be a suzerain of his private kingdom. Surround himself with fawning women. Procreate sons to carry on his legacy. And show everyone he wasn’t a failure. He wondered what his father thought of him now, if he thought of him at all. He wondered whether his mother wept over the loss of her son, even though she had three other sons, smarter and more successful than Simon. He wondered about the tears his daughter Evie was probably shedding for her papa, and with a dull pang, suddenly understood what the emptiness of a father’s arms really meant.

  On his first day in London, he checked into the Infinity Hotel. Located on Kensington Road in Knightsbridge, it was one of the priciest in town. Staying there was an extravagance but well worth the cost, even if he couldn’t afford it very much longer. Oh sure, millions of dollars were sitting in an offshore tax haven for his exclusive use. But even if he considered it a down payment towards a greater fortune to come, he had to be practical. He had already wired a million of his cut to Brenda, providing for her and the kid. Having salved his conscience, he was free to start a new life, a life in which he would be known as Simon Digby-Jones, a pretentious name for a pretentious asshole. And still he longed for the daughter of his loins, the only female who had ever given him unconditional love: Evie, the light of his heart.

  He had chosen this two-bedroom suite, complete with four-poster canopied bed, Steinway grand, lacquered dining room table, and a priceless eighteenth-century painting from the Qing dynasty, the rendering bold, beautiful, and grotesque. In the bathroom, marble fixtures, infinity tub, piped-in music, and lighting effects provided a magical place to unwind and shed worries. He arranged to have the woman by his side every hour of every day, having ordered her the same way he ordered his suits. She had to be Asian and fawning, charming and wicked. Ming-huá lived up to all those things and more. She had met him at the airport, calling him honey and darling, and catered to his every whim as if she were his odalisque and he, her omnipotent sultan. Upon arriving in the hotel room, champagne, canapés, and fresh strawberries awaited them. They settled in with their luggage while the butler arranged for everything a man of Digby-Jones’s stature expected, including front-row seats at the most popular musical in town. A wardrobe of clothes was already hanging in the closet, everything purchased on Bond Street to his express measurements. The panoramic views were spectacular, overlooking Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.

  After settling in, they dressed for the evening and went up to the hotel restaurant. They could have eaten in the privacy of their quarters, but he wanted to make an entrance, even if it was only a pretense. They sat at a table for two surrounded by a semicircle of maroon velvet that afforded them privacy in an already subdued and backlit atmosphere. They dined from Wedgwood china beneath a domed glass roof, stars twinkling above. They exchanged small talk, feeling each other out. Dishes arrived on silver trays, shiny domes dramatically removed in tandem by black-suited servers who set steaming plates before them in elegant array. The meal started off with vegetable canapes, creamed and roasted with oil-infused lavender and laced with scatterings of bleu cheese. A bracing medley of marinated sea urchin, sea scallops, and mussels in white wine sauce followed, every morsel tender to the tongue and delightful to the palette. After the white wine came the red, when they fêted on fresh Périgord truffles seasoned with a subtle mushroom sauce laced with bourbon. The main course was comprised of wild boar tenderloin seasoned to perfection and spring vegetables sautéed with delicate spices, the colors striking and the subtle infusions marvelous. A fresh-fruit salad adorned with edible gold leaf curled around fresh strawberries and topped with brandy-laced sauce was the perfect capper.

  After the chauffeured limousine drove them back to the hotel from the West End, they ceremoniously prepared themselves for a night of indulgences. Ming-huá did not try to hide her voluptuous curves but boldly showed them off, first with the glittery gown she dressed in earlier in the evening and then au naturel. Following liqueurs and flirting caresses, they soaked in the infinity tub, sharing a bottle of chilled champagne and toasting the long night they would spend together. Even if she cost him a small fortune, he had already decided, he would keep her until something better came along.

  Three weeks had passed since Simon left everything behind and started afresh. His days were absorbed with finding permanent digs and making plans, and his nights enjoying Ming-huá’s unlimited talents. Having finished her nightly routine, she walked around the suite in her altogether. A handsome girl was she. She talked little and delivered much, catering to his every impulse with vigor and zest, and applying just that little bit extra that had him begging for her to please stop, he could stand no more. She never did, not until he was quite undone and helpless. Having put on something silky, she
returned to the bed and released the restraints, afterwards applying ointment to his bruises and kisses to his mouth. Flipping him over like a filet of overcooked meat, she straddled her knees on either side of his torso and demanded her own arousals. He came inside her, and still he felt nothing. Except for one emotion. Unbridled fear.

  News had come. Coyote had been released from jail. As sure as Simon knew the sun would rise in the east and set in the west, he also knew Coyote would come after the men who set him up and wouldn’t stop until he had hunted down every last one, avenging himself with blood and guts.

  That was another day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Or next year. Meanwhile, he would suffer beneath the exquisite tortures delivered to him by Ming-huá.

  12

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Friday, July 25

  WHEN JACK STEPPED into the alley, it started to drizzle. He hunkered low and shuffled as if he were slightly tipsy. When he poked his head around the corner, he spotted a black SUV, two men sitting up front. Both wore street clothes. They were waiting for him to come out of the club the same way he had gone in. Sloppy of him. He hadn’t made them. And sloppy of them. They should have put a lookout in back. Some cops, he decided, weren’t terribly bright.

  He slunk back into the shadows, scurried through the back alleys, hop-skipped across side streets, and emerged several blocks away. Friday night celebrants crowded the sidewalks, easy to get lost in. He turned north, hands plunged into his pockets, looking left and right and behind. He entered a garage. Hoofed the stairs two levels up. Loitered. Confirmed no one was following him. Took a different set of stairs down to street level. Strolled two blocks east. And bounded into a Metro station. He looped around, transferring from one line to another, from one train to another, and eventually exited a station only one stop away from his original entry point. He marched through side streets, down alleys, and past delivery docks, baseball cap pulled over his brow and eyes measuring up passing vehicles and suspicious characters.

  He ran across a panhandler … a homeless veteran … and gave him two twenties in exchange for his Salvation Army throw-offs: a battle dress military shirt and a tactical operator hat.

  After the transfer of clothing was complete, the soldier eyed him critically.

  “Will I pass?” Jack asked him.

  “No one’ll notice you, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Smart man.”

  The vet stood back and snapped a salute, about-faced in sharp military style, and moved away with a shifting gait, blending in with the crowd and no doubt heading for the nearest bar.

  Two blocks away, Jack ducked into the HID garage and took a winding path to the bank of elevators. He heard a beep followed by the opening and closing of a car door. An engine roared. Headlights pierced the dark. The purring roll of tires on concrete pavement foreshadowed the vehicle’s departure before it exited on Buchanan Street. Darkness descended once more. The breezeways ushered in fresh air and street-level noises. He used Aneila’s security badge to enter the security doors and access the elevators. He took the center elevator to the twelfth floor. A bell announced his arrival. The doors opened. All was quiet. He skirted around to a side door he once used to sneak in and out unnoticed. He waved the badge over the electronic reader and entered the offices of HID headquarters.

  Fluorescent lights flickered here and there, leaving some corridors lit up and others plunged into shadows. He didn’t hear any voices. He moved quietly down the halls and aisles, pausing now and then to listen. When he reached executive row, he used the edge of a credit card to break into one of the offices.

  He locked the door behind himself and powered up Aneila’s laptop. He could have broken into HID’s servers from anywhere in the city, but to make his intrusion look like a dedicated employee working late, it had to be done here and from a company laptop. He dragged one of the conference chairs into a dark corner, away from the door and its glass panels. He logged onto her laptop and started his search. He was looking for a contractor. Someone working under Chris Cameron. Or Angie Browne. Or Camilla Howden. Someone who had signed on with the Firm during the last six months. He scrolled through org charts, noting names and titles. He eliminated those not listed as consultants. The man or woman he was looking for would be a temporary contractor, hired for a limited duration, usually a six or nine-month stretch, and for a specific short-term project. He narrowed the list down to five people and brought up directories and files belonging to each, scanning everything with a critical eye while listening for outside noises. One by one he eliminated the first three names. It came down to two. He had met the first one. He was a nice enough guy but kept to himself. Jack eventually eliminated him as well. Only one left. A long shot. His last hope.

  She was listed as Blanche Chevalier. He never met the woman and never heard anyone mention her name. He delved deep into her document files and emails, opening one after another. She had sent hundreds of emails with cryptic subject headers. A certain Joe Jones was mentioned more than once. Several of the documents itemized detailed activities, timestamped and notated. Jack recognized a pattern. They were his. Chevalier came onboard in mid-March, officially reporting to the Project Management Office. From there, she could have been loaned out to any division or manager. She was still on assignment, which pointed to two plausible assumptions, both quite personal to Jack. Firstly, higher-ups had brought her in to spy on one of their own. Secondly, she was the hacker who had hacked him in real time.

  He uploaded everything associated with Chevalier’s account into his secure anonymizer account in the cloud.

  He had one more task to take care of. He slipped a flash drive into Aneila’s laptop, downloaded an executable file, logged onto three specific accounts—no, make that four to be on the safe side—and installed a program into each. Fifteen minutes later, he pocketed the flash drive, logged off, crept out of the executive office, and locked up after himself. He left Aneila’s badge and laptop in a drawer in her cubicle.

  On his way out, he heard the swift tapping of a woman’s high-heel shoes. She walked by the office of John Sessions. The light was on. She spoke his name. There was no answer. She slipped inside and stayed less than a minute before leaving, sauntering past Chris Cameron’s office on her way out. Jack crept out of Cameron’s office and followed her on stockinged feet. She got on an elevator. The doors closed. Jack called for another elevator and road it down to the garage. The elevator doors opened. He waited and held his breath. A dark silence. Only the whisperings of distant street noises could be heard … plus the click-click-click of a woman’s heels echoing against concrete.

  Jack skulked out of the elevator and followed from a distance.

  Abruptly, the shoes halted and stilled. Seconds ticked by. She resumed walking but at a faster clip. A car door beeped opened and cranked shut before the engine started up and the vehicle roared out of the garage.

  Jack emerged from the shadows and watched the tailpipe disappear up the incline toward street level. He noted the license plate tag. It belonged to Liz.

  13

  Annapolis, Maryland

  Friday, July 25

  AS A SLIVER of moon rose out of the east, Sergeant Jaime Benedicto, homicide detective with the Severn County Sheriff’s Office, was staking out an office building in downtown Annapolis.

  A foreign-make sports car pulled up and parked behind his sedan. The driver was a woman possessed of a round face and blowsy auburn hair. She was alone. She casually checked her phone, scrolling through messages. She flipped down the vanity mirror, applied a fresh layer of lipstick, pressed her lips together, and considered her reflection, angling her head this way and that and ruffling her unmanageable hair. She glanced down at the screen of her cell phone once more before tucking it into her purse. She made a flashy display of getting out of the car. She didn’t lock the door. She walked around to the curb, away from the traffic side, and approached the passenger side of Benedicto’s unmarked car. She rapped on the windo
w.

  Jaime powered down the window and stared straight ahead. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  “It’s not what you can do for me. It’s what I can do for you.”

  He had to hand it to her. She had balls. He recognized her from the day he arrested Coyote, when she and her cameraman were bold enough and brash enough to make the incident look like a publicity stunt. It had been planned that way, sure enough, with his captain’s blessings. They intended to make a point about law and order and the indefatigable services of the sheriff’s office. What neither expected was having the event upstaged by a reporter. That she had a respected name and a striking presence made the department—and particularly Jaime—look petty.

  Pretending he didn’t give a damn who she was or what she wanted, he answered her with an inquisitive but very cool, “And what can you do for me, ma’am? Precisely?”

  “You remember me, don’t you, Sergeant? Sure you do. I can see it in your smile.”

  She was a woman to contend with. Dealing with her would take finesse. And diplomacy. Neither were his strong suits. “You’re Victoria Kidd. Freelance journalist with the Washington Guardian.”

  She looked surprised and then not quite so surprised. “Gazette,” she corrected him. “Everybody makes the same mistake. I know why you’re here.” She gazed across the street toward the headquarters of the Homeland Intelligence Division. Street lamps brought out her wide cheekbones, her intelligent brow, and the twinkle in her expressive eyes. Men could easily fall for a woman like her, gorgeous in an earthy way. “But I don’t think he’ll show up, do you?”

  “He?”

  “Come now, Sergeant. Don’t be oblique. Jack Coyote is the man of the hour.” Her eyes cautiously surveyed the street. She was aware of her surroundings. Had she been a different kind of woman, he might have told her it was a dangerous world, but she already knew that. “Look. Can we talk?”