I love hearing from my many critics and my fewer fans. You can reach me at: [email protected].
Ronald S. Barak
Pacific Palisades, California
December 2020
PROLOGUE
SOMETHING WAS CRAWLING UP his leg, chewing at his consciousness as well as his skin. He violently slapped at it, heard it scurry away in the darkness, but couldn’t see it. It wasn’t from the hood that no longer covered his head. When he opened his eyes, it was still pitch black.
He strained for any sounds that might help him get his bearings. Except for his labored breathing, however, there was complete silence.
The cuffs that had bound his arms behind him were gone, although his shoulders still ached. He stood, slowly, felt the lingering stiffness in his body, but was grateful to again be able to move.
He raised his hands in front of his face, pointing outward, and cautiously inched forward. In a few steps, he made contact with a wall. The chill from the stone seemed to penetrate his fingers and travel through his bones as he released a shiver. Pulling his hands back, he could feel dampness remaining on his fingertips. He rubbed his hands together.
He tried stepping out of the dimensions of his indeterminate confines—until his knee banged into something unyielding. He used his hand to trace the shape of the offending object, a john. He reached around it and made contact with an adjacent sink.
After a few more minutes of exploring, he concluded that he was in a cubicle, approximately ten feet by ten feet. He was trembling and he was chilled to the bone.
In his mind’s eye, he reconstructed the two emails addressed to Leah Klein Lotello—sent just before the thugs had grabbed him, and roughed him up. As near as he could tell, that was only a few hours ago.
He had written the two back-to-back emails in code—JK’s Code—because he couldn’t dare let them know what he was actually trying to say. His life depended on concealing the real message of the emails from them.
It had been years since he had used the code he’d devised to impress his older sister and that she’d christened after his own nickname—JK. He wondered whether she would still remember JK’s Code, and how it worked.
The first email had read:
DEAR SIS!
HOPE YOU’RE WELL. WE NEED TO CATCH UP.
HUGS,
JAKE
The second email had read:
BUKAR ABCIM U-
He had been forced to split the message in two parts. As it was, he hadn’t had time to finish the second email.
On its face, the beginning of the first email was perfectly innocent. His captors would not know it had a double meaning. He could only hope Leah would, and would apply JK’s Code to translate DEAR SIS! into DIRE SOS! To tell her that he was in trouble—serious trouble. Signing it with his formal name rather than his favored nickname was intended to signal something was amiss.
Jake hated having to send the two emails to her, having to be dependent on anyone, especially on his sister, who still treated him like he was a child instead of a twenty-year-old man. The last time he and Leah had spoken—three months earlier—he lost his temper and essentially told her to leave him alone. He didn’t think he needed anyone’s help. He was wrong.
And he was scared.
CHAPTER 1
July 2019
LEONID GRADSKY HAD WORKED through the long night, applying the finishing touches to his latest electronic masterpiece. Following an early morning walk to clear his head, he returned to his Moscow apartment. He unzipped his fur-lined jacket, removed his gloves, and briskly rubbed his hands together. Recovered from the chill, he descended the steps to his basement office.
Carefully avoiding the jumbled network of cables and wiring that cluttered the room, he was reminded more of a network of tenement clotheslines than the actual high-tech environment of his workspace. He sat down at his desk, stroked his keyboard, and watched the three smaller monitors on his desk and the five larger flat-screen monitors on the opposite wall come to life.
Reading the code displayed across the monitors, the few additional keystrokes he applied caused the images on each of the monitors to instantly respond. Few people could appreciate the transformation Gradsky witnessed. He could. His technical aptitude, skills, and knowledge were second to none.
His new software program was ready. More importantly, Gradsky was ready. In one week, he would share his latest work of art and science combined.
By nature, Gradsky was a self-assured loner. He preferred it that way. He was already independently wealthy as a result of his skill set and his dark web standing. He had developed the vastly upgraded software program on his own. He could certainly fund and implement the undertaking without any third-party support.
In fact, taking on his anticipated sponsor would likely dilute his potential profits. And, more significantly, his autonomy. But Gradsky was conservative and chose to hedge his bets. There was much to be said about the value of this particular patron.
CHAPTER 2
July 2019, Two Days Later
PRESIDENT DUSTIN BAKER REVIEWED what he had been taught. “One and two,” he silently mimed to himself as he slowly pulled the driver away from the golf ball, supported on the tee two inches above the turf, and calmly reached—and paused—at the conclusion of his backswing. His left eye was still on the golf ball. Check. His supple left arm and shoulder passed gently under his motionless chin, precisely at the moment his right elbow folded and his right wrist cocked. Check. So far, so good.
Baker also knew all about the downswing that was to come next, barely faster than his backswing. His head was to remain motionless. His right arm and shoulder were to pass gently under his chin, the same as his left arm and shoulder had on the backswing. His weight was to move from his right foot to the side of his left foot, as his left elbow folded and his clubhead ascended over his left shoulder. Check. Check. Check. And check.
And then all hell broke loose! His downswing inexplicably almost tripled in speed over his backswing. His head lunged upward, as if he were trying to follow some airplane passing overhead. His clubhead never cleared his left shoulder, vanishing instead somewhere off into the rightfield hinterland.
And the golf ball. It dribbled off the tee and headed straight down the middle of the fairway … for about five inches.
Baker’s face was now as orange as the rug barely held in place atop his head—the sole contribution of his golf cap on this overcast day. If one ignored the letters stitched across the front crown of the cap.
There were three advantages to being President of the United States and owning your own golf course: the tee was yours whenever you wanted it; no one recorded anything you said while you were out on the links; and, when you called your swing just a good practice swing, your guests never disagreed.
“Put it out there, Mr. President,” the other three members of his foursome said in succession as Baker’s golf ball mysteriously reappeared on the tee.
In all fairness, what was dominating Baker’s mind these days was quite possibly interfering with his golf. That topic was cryptically addressed when Baker and his guests briefly gathered at the halfway snack bar before making the turn.
“How are our re-election plans coming?” POTUS said to his son, Dustin Baker, Jr., but more for the benefit of the other two members of the foursome.
“Couldn’t be better, Dad. Russia is cooperating beautifully, promising to help us with the upcoming election even more than it did in 2016.”
Baker listened, and nodded. His mind flashed on the telephone call he was scheduled to have in a couple of days with the newly elected president of Ukraine to make sure he, too, would do his part to help cement Baker’s re-election—at least if he expected U.S. aid to Ukraine to continue. Having trumped the special counsel’s so called report, I am more invincible than ever! No reason not to also get Ukraine on board. I can handle this little chore myself. Russia is cooperating with my re-election, at least theoretically, but it
definitely requires extra planning and attention.
“With or without Russia’s support, I’m gonna win. Big time. Don’t you just love how everyone thinks I’m the moron, the clown, the puppet whose strings are being pulled by Alexi. How little our opponents know. I hate being ridiculed, but we’ll see who has the last laugh, who comes out on top—again—with or without Alexi.”
Baker glanced at the others. They each smiled and nodded affirmatively. If they know what’s good for them, when I say jump, they damn well better ask how high.
CHAPTER 3
July 2019, Five Days Later
RUSSIAN PRESIDENT ALEXI TURGENEV was not gloating. Even though he was now well along the way to successfully overhauling the Russian Constitution, and reconstituting and consolidating his cabinet, and strengthening his resulting grip on Russia, he constantly reminded himself of his journey. Today was no exception.
Turgenev got his start in the Soviet Union as a government spy working for the Main Intelligence Directorate, known as the GRU, its Cyrillic acronym. Turgenev went on to become the infamously feared head of the GRU. No longer technically a member, Turgenev nevertheless maintained close ties with the organization, and attributed his present commanding position in, and beyond, Russia to those enduring clandestine ties. He took great pride in continuing to be a feared, and dominating, Russian authority. People ignore me at their own peril, including that fool, Baker.
Unlike Turgenev’s more famous predecessors—Marx, Lenin, Stalin—who were each primarily content to focus on Russia’s internal social and economic principles, Turgenev frankly cared little about such matters. In his mind, his place in history would be assured by one factor and one factor only—international standing and power. In spite of his outward strength and wealth, accumulated on the backs of the Russian working class, Turgenev suffered on the world stage from an extreme but well-hidden inferiority complex. All of his domestic achievements would be to no end if he could not restore Russia to its former Soviet Union glory, on par with—if not ahead of—the United States and China.
Turgenev believed Li Wei’s status as General Secretary and supreme “leader” of China was unassailable. U.S. President Baker’s tenure, on the other hand, was, at best, precarious. The man is an embarrassment, a clown, wholly unsuited for the job. Hard to imagine that the “great U.S.” could not do better. Turgenev knew, however, that Baker would continue to effectively do Turgenev’s bidding and make his goals easier to attain—so long as Baker remained in office. And does not forget what I hold over his head.
It was, therefore, in Turgenev’s best interests that he use all his resources to assure Baker’s re-election—after Baker first puts down the politically frivolous impeachment attempts his Democratic opponents would certainly be initiating before the year was out, if only as some election campaign strategy.
TURGENEV ENTERED THE CONFERENCE room adjacent to his exterior office used to greet visitors. This visitor’s presence had been requested because his reputation had preceded him. Turgenev was curious to see for himself if the rumors were true.
Already seated at the conference table, the man shuffled to his feet. He was tall and lanky. “An honor, Mr. President, thank you for inviting me,” Gradsky said.
Turgenev stared at Gradsky’s face. It was difficult not to. The scars captured Turgenev’s eyes, much as a magnet would attract a nearby piece of iron. He looked away, too late to hide his indiscretion. Damn my staff for not alerting me. “Take your seat,” Turgenev said to Gradsky after recovering from his momentary unease.
“Please don’t be self-conscious, Mr. President; I’m used to it.”
Turgenev wondered why Gradsky didn’t cover them with a beard. Perhaps he cannot grow hair over the scars. “How did it happen?” Turgenev asked.
“An electrical fire years ago, the result of an exploding overheated piece of laboratory equipment.”
“Does it hurt?” Turgenev was more curious than sympathetic.
“Not any longer. It’s been a number of years. The surrounding nerve endings are long since dead.”
Turgenev changed the subject. Pointing to the projector on the conference table, he said, “You’ve brought something to show me?” He didn’t wait for Gradsky to answer. “Proceed.”
Gradsky connected his laptop computer to the projector and powered it up. The 120-inch monitor on the opposite wall immediately exhibited the title page of the power point presentation. Gradsky made some opening remarks, and then began flipping through the numbered slides comprising the presentation “deck”, stopping on each image to explain what Turgenev was looking at.
Turgenev was not a tech guru, but he fancied himself a pretty quick study. However, ten minutes into Gradsky’s slideshow, he found himself totally lost. This Gradsky is almost as unpresentable as Baker. Not quite, but almost. It’s ironic that I’m considering Gradsky to help me with Baker. I can’t understand what the hell he’s saying. I need to get my staff in here.
“Wait a second. What am I looking at? I don’t understand. Let’s take a thirty-minute break and begin again. Take the time to make your presentation clearer.” Turgenev stood up and walked out of the room without waiting for Gradsky to reply.
Twenty-five minutes later, Turgenev walked back into the room, followed by two men he did not bother to introduce. “Okay, let’s begin again. From the top.”
Gradsky teed up the slideshow from the start. This time, there were no interruptions.
When the report concluded, some fifteen minutes later, the two men who had accompanied Turgenev into the room asked Gradsky a number of questions. Gradsky answered, with confidence and without hesitation.
Turgenev wasted few words. “Is your presentation deck preserved in the memory element of the projector?” he asked Gradsky.
“Da,” Gradsky replied. “It is.”
“Very well. You may leave. And take your equipment with you. I can always appropriate his technology later should I choose to do so. We’ll be in touch.
GRADSKY PACKED UP HIS gear and left the room. Perhaps I give Turgenev too much credit. After all, it was Turgenev who first found and reached out to me, not the other way around. He can achieve far more with my software, and far more effectively, than he realizes. He has more need for me than I do for him. Others will readily buy what I have to sell.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Turgenev asked the two men who remained behind after Gradsky had departed. “Boil it down into its simplest terms.”
Dimitri Ivanov was the senior of the two engineers Turgenev had convened. At least, he was the one who responded to Turgenev’s request. “Mr. President, I believe I can summarize Gradsky’s power point presentation in non-technical terms this way:
“One—in 2016, we were able to use our existing technology to alter some of the U.S. election results, and without leaving any obvious tracks or evidence that we had done so.
“Two—on the intervening four years, the U.S. has made significant strides in rendering its presidential election apparatus impervious to our 2016 technology. For the most part, our 2016 technology won’t work in 2020, and any failed attempt on our part to use our 2016 technology would be much more detectible by the Americans. They would have proof of what we had attempted to do.
“Three—Gradsky is an absolute genius. There is no denying that. His updated software will allow us to manipulate the 2020 U.S. election results far more effectively and discreetly than we did so in 2016. It works nearly universally on all voting machinery, and will leave behind virtually no trace of what has been done, or how it was accomplished. The Americans think they can prevent their voting machinery from being infiltrated via the internet. They are naïve, and they are wrong. No matter what procedures they employ, those procedures will be exposed to the internet for at least a number of seconds, if not minutes. Gradsky’s updated technology needs only a fraction of a second to hack their systems.”
Turgenev digested what Ivanov had just said. Ivanov is able to speak to me clearly, and objec
tively. Gradsky was unable to do so. Fortunately, however, and more importantly, Gradsky apparently can speak clearly to the voting machines. That’s all I need from him. After a few moments of silence, he asked Ivanov and his colleague to redirect their focus to precisely what Gradsky’s technology would do if called upon.
Ivanov replied that, without any trace, Gradsky’s software could remove registered voters from the public records, fabricate and insert new fictitious registered voters, delete completed ballots, fabricate fictitious completed ballots, and change the votes on a completed ballot from Candidate A to Candidate B.
“You’re absolutely sure of this, that these actions can be achieved, and without detection?” Turgenev asked the two engineers.
“Da,” both men replied in unison. Turgenev noted this was the first word actually spoken by the second technician, Yuri Melchenko. He was a man of few words. Or maybe he was just intimidated by the circumstances.
“But how can this be done,” Turgenev pressed further, “when different jurisdictions use different voting equipment and procedures?”
“There are some 8,000 local U.S. voting jurisdictions employing approximately 350,000 voting machines, a patchwork of websites, databases, and hardware systems,” Ivanov said. “However, these machines boil down to only a handful of techniques. Gradsky has studied and addressed the most common voting machines. At some stage along the path from pre-usage design and manufacture, to usage, and then to post-usage storage, transmission, and counting, they are connected to the internet and vulnerable to electronic infiltration and alteration. Even if only for a moment. There may be some exceptions which his software may not be able to commandeer, but I am satisfied it will be enough to change the outcome of the election on the basis of what his software can impact,” Ivanov added.
“Even if a universal mail-in voting system is used?” Turgenev asked.
JK's Code (Brooks/Lotello Thriller Book 4) Page 2
