Transparency

by Charles Royce

  “CAAD.”

  “Yes. By working together, we did well. Some would say too well, but the investors were happy. They wanted more. Much more. They started using their people, who were now on my payroll, to instigate all sorts of schemes, I won’t even get into all that right now. After they started getting paranoid, started spying on us, we retaliated, started spying on them. That was a huge mistake.”

  “How so?”

  “They escalated, threatened to expose the schemes to the Feds if we went public with what we found. We had no choice but to start covering our asses.”

  “Walter and Lennox.”

  “You need to listen to what I’m saying.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I am. I am listening.”

  “The company has been on life support for half a year now. Together with the investors, we’ve sunk billions into this building. Their ROI is bleak at best. They want out, and they have an exit strategy I’m not exactly on board with. They’re threatening to oust me if I don’t go along with their plan.”

  “What plan?” Josh asks.

  “The less you know, the better.”

  “They can’t oust you from your own company, can they?”

  “They can and they will. I’ve given them too much power. I’m in over my head.”

  “You need my help.”

  “Now that Kimbo is gone, yes. Yes, I need your help.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Just do what I say. Don’t ask any questions, all right? Trust me. You’ll be compensated in the end, I guarantee it.”

  “I’m in, sir.”

  “Great. It’ll start with picking them up from the airport tomorrow. I’ll text you the flight information in the morning. We can meet here before.”

  “You’re coming with me?” Josh asks. “Who are we picking up?”

  “The less you know, the better, I said. Let’s take baby steps with the trust thing.”

  C h a p t e r 4 6

  “YOU DID SO great!” Agent Pillsbury makes room for him in the van. “West really implicated himself toward the end there, verified some things we’d heard. He wants to trust you.”

  Josh slides the door closed. “But does he?”

  “Thanks to how you handled yourself, I think he’s starting to. Seriously. Your first spy mission. You have a future.”

  Josh exhales. “It took me forever to find y’all.”

  “Sorry, everybody started coming out of your meeting at once,” Pillsbury says. “I think we freaked, went overboard with the fleeing.”

  “Did you get everything else you needed?”

  “Almost. We got the four license plate numbers, but we need to know who the others are. Did you get their names from the login?”

  “No, I did not get their names from the login. Not all of us have photographic memories.” He flips an imaginary rolodex.

  She ignores his impression of her. “Good news about the main guys coming tomorrow for the grand opening, huh?”

  “Who could they be?” He removes the pen from his jacket pocket, then digs the earpiece out of his ear. “Like, who are these main guys? West is being so completely weird about it.”

  “We have some ideas.” She opens a baggie for him to drop the pen and earpiece inside. “I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

  She snorts.

  “So you need me to go back down there later tonight, right?” Josh asks, a little too enthusiastically. “Alone?”

  “If the big guys are coming tomorrow, I’m afraid it’s the only time that makes sense. I’m sure you have lots to do for the event tomorrow.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Her eyes flutter, then she brings up something in the air, starts swooshing her hands around. “From the blueprints, I remember there are three other rooms down there, and maybe a storage closet. Now, this is very important. You’re going to open each of those doors slowly upon entering, making sure there are no other cameras that could document your being there.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t even think about that.”

  “I mean it. Check the walls, the corners. If you see a camera, close the door and don’t worry about it. Video surveillance monitoring is about movement; if there’s not that much, no one will notice.”

  “Okay.”

  “We need any hard evidence on the members of CAAD we can get. Anything you can document, just take pictures or videos with this secure phone.” She hands him an iPhone. “It looks like yours just in case there’s any funny business. If someone catches you, they won’t know you have an FBI phone.”

  “I see what you did there.”

  “My number is the only one in the contacts, so if you need me, call me. There’s facial recognition and a secondary password, which is my last name and your birthday, got it?”

  “Oh, I’ll remember that.”

  “Now, do you mind giving me your real phone? I don’t want you to get confused.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  “West has cloned it. He’s the one you need to watch out for.”

  Josh hands her the phone.

  “I’ll switch back with you when you come back to the van around two a.m., okay?” Agent Pillsbury says.

  “Seems you’ve thought of everything.” He lets out a deep breath. “It’s gonna be a long night.”

  “You unplugged the login thingie, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there’s still no camera outside?”

  “No, I only saw the one in the conference room.”

  “Then you’re all set.”

  “What’s my exit strategy?” Josh wants to make sure that she has, in fact, thought of everything.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to plug the login setup back in, so they won’t suspect anything.”

  She squints her eyes and shakes her head.

  “If I do, the computer will log me out when I exit,” he adds. “Can’t have that.”

  “Billy Donovan found a way out without his key. You’ll have to do the same.”

  “Who’s to say West didn’t let him out?”

  “The blueprint.” She swipes her hand in the air again. “There’s something in between the room around the corner from Reagan, in between another room and a storage closet. Maybe a vent?”

  “Um, I can’t see that.” He waves his hand in the same airspace.

  “Trust me, it’s there.”

  Josh pats his pants pocket, remembers the ArchEngine program Phish just sold him. “Never mind, I know what to do.”

  C h a p t e r 4 7

  JOSH LOOKS AROUND at the two other customers in the DigiNow Café, one of only two Internet cafés left in Manhattan. Opening the ArchEngine file on a work computer would be too dangerous, especially at this point of his self-proclaimed covert mission for the FBI.

  He sits down at a computer away from the others, sets up a DigiNow Café account. He copies the flash drive over to the computer hard drive and stares out the front window.

  Being in Chinatown never used to bother him. Now it reminds him of Lennox, and their torrid affair while it lasted. At least twice a month, Lennox would “run his weekend errands” so he could meet Josh at a Chinese dim sum restaurant just a few blocks from Lennox’s condo, maybe sit in the back, talk for an hour or so, laugh hysterically. Occasionally, if Micah was out at one of his late-night meetings, they’d sneak up to Lennox’s condo, make out for a while, hold each other until Lennox would say it was time to go.

  Josh sees a hooded man out the window walking by, glancing inside as he passes. The man is about Lennox’s height, Lenny’s build, skinny but muscular. For a moment, Josh’s heart pounds with the anticipation he used to feel, the unrelenting want, the unquenching need to see the man who had seduced him, loved him, transformed him.

  And this company killed him.

  The hooded man passes. Josh turns back to the computer, his need to st
op the perpetrators, the sadistic people who’d killed Lennox, who’d framed Jenna for the murder, fueled once again.

  Josh opens the file. The computer is sluggish. He maneuvers through the basement level of the South Tower at a snail’s pace, each rendering taking three or more seconds to materialize. He’s frustrated.

  “Why do computers make me so angry?” He partly mouths it, partly speaks it. “They’re supposed to work; they’re just supposed to work.”

  An Asian man glances in his direction.

  Josh pretends to sing, mouthing fake words in an off pitch, “Ba-da-bop-pa.”

  Finally, the four rooms of the secret floor appear, in glowing blueprint splendor. Josh clicks on each room.

  WASHINGTON has an incredible number of electrical outlets, wiring of all kinds stretching all around the room—fiber, cable, ethernet. HOOVER has the same on its back wall. JEFFERSON looks empty.

  Wait. What’s that in between JEFFERSON and the storage closet? He zooms in.

  “Come on, come on, come on.” Josh’s leg begins to throttle up and down, waiting for the new frame to render.

  The scene completes. A small opening labeled EMERGENCY EXIT leads to the small subterranean parking lot.

  “Got it!” He quits the program, winks at the staring Asian man.

  He trashes the program, empties it, removes the flash drive, shoves it in his pocket and leaves.

  AS JOSH WALKS to Canal Street to hop the subway back to Hell’s Kitchen, he feels an itch on the back of his neck. He rolls his head, looks behind him.

  A hooded man.

  Can’t be the same guy.

  To be sure, he stops in front of a Chinese grocery store, focuses his eyes on the reflection in the window. The hooded man walks past him, turning his head away as he passes.

  Same guy.

  Josh turns around, starts walking to the subway. The hooded man follows him.

  “What am I doing?” he asks himself again, knowing the trains don’t run nearly as often after midnight. He’ll be down there, virtually alone, nobody to call out to, nowhere to hide.

  About halfway down, he hears the subway train coming. He rushes down the flights of stairs, then another, then another. He jumps down the final five steps, runs to the waiting train and enters just as the doors close. As the train pulls away, he sees the hooded man turn and run back up the stairs.

  Classic spy shit, Josh thinks, heart thumping. He can’t decide if he’s petrified or exhilarated.

  And he’s trying to work out who the hooded man could be.

  West? No, he’s too much of a chicken shit.

  Billy? He’s dead.

  Somebody from CAAD?

  JOSH WALKS DOWN the maze of hallways, still looking behind him.

  He stops at his storage room, turns the light on. He leaves it open just in case anyone knows he’s here and comes looking for him.

  After walking down the hall, he raises the fake thermostat to reveal the keypad. He uses the SSD. The key lights up, as does the keypad. They swirl in unison. The wall opens with its normal rattle.

  “Shh,” he says to the wall. He’s nervous, shaking even. He thinks about popping another Xanax, skips it.

  The time on his FBI phone says 1:02 a.m. He uses his facial recognition, then enters his password. He texts Agent Pillsbury.

  I’m in.

  He walks down the stairs. “Please be unplugged, please be unplugged.”

  The login computer is just as he left it.

  His phone vibrates.

  Good luck! Text me if you need me.

  He texts Agent Pillsbury again.

  Login was fine. I’m continuing down the stairs.

  He sees three dots. He stops to make sure there are no further instructions.

  An audio file comes through. He presses play.

  “This isn’t a play-by-play. I said text me if you need me.”

  He smiles. He walks down the hall, the ambient hum growing louder. He stands in front of a door with an etched photo of George Washington, an uninspired representation pulled directly from the dollar bill. He places his ear on George’s eyeball; the hum from the other side is much louder, and the heat emanating from the metal door is warm to his cheek.

  He places his key on the keypad, the door unlocks.

  With hesitance, he opens the door just a little. He sees a row of small laptops on the floor, tiered in threes, with plugs running to dozens of outlets on the wall. He checks the corner. No camera. He opens it wider. More rows of computers in groups of three stacked on stands. The far corners are clear. He opens the door completely.

  The narrow room is filled with computers, maybe twelve rows by twenty groups of three computers, each running what looks like a program of sorts. He closes the door, checks the final corner. No camera.

  He walks to the closest computer, bends down, stares at the monitor, trying to make sense of the lightning-fast automation happening before his eyes. Words and phrases pass by like mechanical epilepsy. Josh tries to grab them with his eyes.

  IP address

  Switch

  Ping

  http://Jsuismag.com

  http://Pressmag.com

  Instagram

  Like

  Facebook

  Love

  Retweet

  “Holy shit.” From his limited computer knowledge, he starts to deduce what is happening. “Bots. They’re manipulating the numbers.”

  He stands back up, wipes the sweat from his brow, looks out on the sea of computers. All he can think about is the thousands of IP addresses representing tens of thousands of fake people visiting company websites, commenting on posts, retweeting commentary.

  All to manipulate the advertising numbers.

  “God, this company. What haven’t they done?”

  He takes the phone, pans it across the computerscape in video mode, and then zooms in on one of the monitors. He texts the video to Agent Pillsbury.

  He opens the door, walks back out into the hallway, closes the door. He leans against George Washington. Josh takes his sleeve and wipes the sides of his face. He pulls off his jacket in a single move, throws it on the floor. He unbuttons his sleeves, pushes them up his arms.

  His phone vibrates.

  Kinda figured. We’ve seen many complaints that their numbers were inflated. Now we have proof. Nice job.

  He grins, then receives a second text.

  Need more. Keep digging.

  “Up yours, Patsy.” He picks up his Armani suit jacket, wraps it around his waist, ties it in the front. “I’d like to see you down in this hellhole.”

  He sees President Hoover staring at him from across the hall. He scurries over to the door, places the key on the pad, opens it slightly. Through the crack he can see a camera in the corner. He can also see a set of twelve monitors along the wall, behind an unmanned desk and a chair. The monitors are mostly dark, only showing timestamps and people’s names.

  Only two are glowing, showing two different people in front of their computers. Jamal Cooper and Reed Cordell. Both look like they are still at the office, one getting ready to leave. He doesn’t risk going inside, closes the door as slowly as he opened it.

  “That answers that.” Josh walks around the corner mumbling to himself. “Still as surveilly as ever. Lying prick.”

  He now stands face to face with Thomas Jefferson. He swipes the key, opens the door. Through the crack he can’t see a thing; it’s completely dark. He checks the corners: no red lights, no indications of cameras. He takes a chance, flips the switch, and enters.

  Two L-shaped shelving units wrap around the left and far walls. The paper sign on the left wall reads MERGERS in a giant Times New Roman font, adhered with silver duct tape to the lip of the top shelf. The far wall reads AQUISITIONS in a classic misspelling. He opens the boxes labeled MAKESHIFT and STREAMIUM. Inside each box are copies of signed deals, real estate purchases, merger POAs. Nothing earth-shattering.

  Just as Josh yawns, he hears the wall open
ing upstairs.

  “Shit.” He closes the box he’s been sifting through, places it back on the shelf as softly as he can. He turns out the light, walks out into the hall, closes the Thomas Jefferson door until he hears a soft click.

  Whoever it is turns on some upper fluorescents Josh didn’t even know were there. The light shines down on Josh’s button-down, transforming it to dayglo white. Even though he’s around the corner from the entrance, he backs into the far corner in between a closet door and a fire extinguisher and hose.

  He can hear a strange brushing sound and some mumbling from the top of the stairs; the clacking of the wall closing; then the sound of something falling down the stairs, crashing into something else.

  “Shit,” the voice says.

  Josh leans against the storage-room door, inadvertently jostling the handle.

  The sound echoes down the hall.

  “Hello?” the man says. “Is anyone there?”

  Josh can tell the voice has a slight lisp. Thank God, Josh thinks. It’s only Reed.

  “If there’s anyone here, I need you to tell me,” Reed says, plodding down the stairs. “Because this is creepy A-F.”

  Josh crouches down into a ball, which releases his jacket onto the floor. Don’t come around the corner, don’t come around the corner.

  He hears Reed enter a door, then the clanking of bottles.

  Probably wine from the meeting. He’s cleaning up.

  A phone rings. Not his.

  “Yessir, it’s just me.” Reed says. A pause. “Yessir, I just entered the room with Ronald Reagan on the door.” Another pause. “I’m not sure, I must’ve unplugged it when I was cleaning. My broom fell down the stairs, knocked into the login. I plugged it back.”

  Shit.

  “No, sir, nobody else. Just trying to get a head start on tomorrow. Check some things off my list.” A pause. “I will; so sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to wake … Okayyy.” A brief pause. “Dick.”

  Careful, Reed, there’s a camera in there.

  “Why didn’t the system log you in when you entered, Reed? You do realize I was sleeping, Reed.” Reed continues to mock West, scooting chairs around on the cement floor. “Go check the rest of the rooms, Reed. No fucking way. You don’t pay me enough for this shit.”