by A. G. Riddle
Jakarta, Indonesia
David looked up to see the woman—Dr. Warner—standing over him.
“Are you hurt?” she said.
He pushed her aside and got to his feet. The monitors revealed the scene outside: the Suburban with three of his field operatives lay in burnt pieces scattered about the deserted street. He didn’t see the two men who had been driving the truck. The second blast must have gotten them. Or a sniper.
David shook his head to try to clear it, then stumbled over to the weapons lockers. He pulled out two smoke canisters, ripped the pin out of each one, and walked to the double doors at the rear of the truck.
Slowly, he pushed one of the doors open, then quickly dropped one canister and rolled the other a little farther out. He heard the soft hiss of smoke escape the cylinders as they spun around on the street. A small wisp of the gray-white smoke wafted into the truck as he carefully closed the door.
He had expected at least one potshot when he opened the door. They must want the girl alive.
He returned to the weapons locker and began arming himself. He slung an automatic assault rifle over his shoulder and stuffed magazines for the massive gun and his sidearm into the pockets of his pants. He pulled a hard black helmet on and re-strapped his body armor.
“Hey, what are you doing? What’s happening?”
“Stay here and keep the door shut. I’ll be back when it’s safe,” David said as he started for the door.
“What?! You’re going out there?”
“Yes—”
“Are you crazy?”
“Look, we’re sitting ducks in here; it’s just a matter of time before they reach us. I have to fight in the open, get to cover, and find a way out. I’ll be back.”
“Well—well—are… Can I get a gun or something?”
He turned to her. She was scared, but he had to give her credit: she had guts. “No, you cannot have a gun.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re the only person you’re likely to hurt with it. Now close this door behind me.” He pulled his goggles down from his helmet, covering his eyes. In one fluid motion, he opened the door and jumped out into the smoke.
Three seconds into his sprint, the bullets began raining down on him. The rifles’ report told him what he needed to know: the snipers were on the tops of the buildings to his left.
He darted into an alley across the street, aimed his gun at the roof, and began firing. He hit the closest sniper, saw him go down, and fired two blasts of automatic shots at the other two. Both withdrew behind the brick edifice at the top of the old building.
A bullet whizzed by his head. Another dug into the concrete plaster of the building beside him, spraying shards of brick and concrete into his helmet and body armor. He pivoted to the source: four men on foot, running toward him. Immari Security. Not his men.
He fired three quick blasts at them. They scattered. Two fell.
The second he let off the trigger, he heard the whoosh sound.
He dove to the other side of the alley as the rocket-propelled grenade exploded ten feet from where he had stood a second ago.
He should have killed the snipers first. Or gotten out of their range at least.
Rubble fell around him. Smoke filled the air.
David struggled to fill his lungs again.
The street was quiet. He rolled over.
Footfalls, coming toward him.
He got to his feet and ran into the alley, leaving his rifle behind. He had to get to a defensible position. Bullets ricocheted off the alley walls, and he turned, pulled out his sidearm and fired a few shots, forcing the two men following him to stop and take refuge in doorways in the alley.
Ahead of him, the alley opened onto an old dusty street that ran along one of Jakarta’s thirty-seven rivers. There was a river market, with produce stands, pottery dealers, and vendors of all sorts. They were in full flight, pointing, yelling, and gathering the day’s take in cash and hurrying away from the shots.
David cleared the alley and more gunfire engulfed him. A shot caught him dead center in the chest, throwing him violently to the ground, knocking the wind out of him.
At his head, more gunshots dug into the ground; the men in the alley were closing fast.
He rolled toward the alley wall, away from the shots. He struggled to breathe.
It was a trap: the men in the alley were herding him.
He took out two grenades. He pulled the pins, waited a full second, threw one behind him, into the alley, and the other around the corner, toward the ambush.
Then he ran flat out for the river, firing at the ambush as he went.
Behind him he heard the muffled sound of the alley explosion, then the louder blast in the open at the ambush.
Just before he reached the banks of the river he heard another explosion, this one much closer, maybe eight feet behind him. The blast threw him off his feet, out over the river.
Inside the armored van, Kate sat again. Then stood again. It sounded like World War III outside: explosions, automatic gunfire, debris hitting the side of the truck.
She walked to the locker with the guns and bulletproof vests. More gunfire. Maybe she should put on some kind of armor? She took out one of the black outfits. It was heavy; so much heavier than she’d thought. She looked down at the rumpled clothes she had slept in at her office. What a weird day.
There was a knock at the door, then, “Dr. Warner?”
She dropped the vest.
It wasn’t his voice, the one who had gotten her from the police. It wasn’t David.
She needed a gun.
“Dr. Warner, we’re coming in.”
The door opened.
Three men in black armor, like the men who had taken the kids. They approached her.
“We’re glad you’re safe, Dr. Warner. We’re here to rescue you.”
“Who are you? Where is he, the man who was here?” She took a step back.
The gunfire had died down. Then two—no, three explosions in the distance.
They inched toward her. She took another step back. She could reach the gun. Could she fire it?
“It’s alright Dr. Warner. Just come on out of there. We’re taking you to see Martin. He sent us.”
“What? I want to talk to him. I’m not going anywhere until I speak with him.”
“It’s okay—”
“No, I want you out of here right now,” she said.
The man in the back pushed past the other two and said, “I told you Lars, you owe me fifty bucks.” Kate knew the voice: the gruff, scratchy voice of the man who had taken her children. It was him. Kate froze, fear running through her.
When the man reached her, he grabbed Kate’s arm, hard, and spun her around, sliding his hand down to her wrist. He grabbed her other wrist and held them together with one hand as he zip-tied them with the other.
She tried to pull away, but the thin plastic cut into her, sending sharp pains up her arms.
The man pulled her back by her long blond hair and jerked the black bag over her head, sending Kate into complete darkness.
25
Secure Comms Room
Clocktower Station HQ
Jakarta, Indonesia
Josh watched the other red dots on the screen wink out. The men at the safe houses; they had moved to the door, then disappeared—dead. A few minutes later, he saw David’s convoy stop in the street—then they were gone too, except for David. He watched as David’s dot moved around quickly. One last sprint.
Then it went out as well.
Josh exhaled and slumped in the chair. He stared through the glass walls at the outer door. The torch burned up the other side of it now, the burn mark a backwards J. Soon it would be a full U, then an O, then they would be through, and his time would be up. He had two, maybe three minutes.
The letter. He turned, rifled through the stack of folders and found it: David’s “open when I’m dead” letter. A few hours ago, Josh had thought he would never need
to open it. So many illusions had died today: Clocktower couldn’t be compromised, Clocktower couldn’t fall, David couldn’t be killed, the good guys always won.
He ripped open the letter.
Dear Josh,
Don’t feel bad. We were way behind when we started. I can only assume Jakarta Station has fallen or is on its way.
Remember our goal: we must prevent the Immari endgame. Forward whatever you’ve found to the Director of Clocktower. His name is Howard Keegan. You can trust him.
There’s a program on ClockServer1—ClockConnect.exe. It will open a private channel to Central where you can transmit data securely.
One last thing. I’ve collected a little money over the years, mostly from bad guys we put out of business. There’s another program on ClockServer1—distribute.bat. It will disburse the money in my accounts.
I hope they never found this room and that you’re reading this letter in safety.
It has been my honor to serve with you.
David
Josh put the letter down.
He typed quickly on the keyboard, first uploading his data to Clocktower Central, then executing the bank transactions. “A little money” had been an understatement. Josh watched five transactions, of five million dollars each, go first to the Red Cross, then UNICEF, and then three other disaster relief organizations. It made sense. But the final transaction didn’t. A deposit of five million dollars to a JP Morgan bank account in America—a New York branch. Josh copied the account holders’ names and searched. A man, sixty-two, and his wife, fifty-nine. David’s parents? There was a news article—a piece in a Long Island newspaper. The couple had lost their only daughter in the 9/11 attacks. She had been an investment analyst at Cantor Fitzgerald at the time of the attacks, had recently graduated from Yale, and was engaged to be married to Andrew Reed, a graduate student at Columbia.
Josh heard it—or rather, didn’t hear it. The torch had stopped. The circle was complete, and soon they would begin ramming the door, waiting for the metal to break free.
He gathered the papers, ran to the trash can, and lit them on fire. He moved back to the table and opened the program that would erase the computer. It would take over five minutes. Maybe they wouldn’t find it. Or maybe he could buy it some time; he looked at the box with the gun in it.
Something else, on the screen, the location map. Josh thought he’d seen it—a flash, a red dot. But now it was gone. He stared again.
A boom, boom, boom at the door jolted Josh almost out of the chair. The men were beating on the door like a war drum, trying to make the thick metal come free. The pounding matched the throbbing in Josh’s chest as his heart beat uncontrollably.
The computer screen displayed the erase progress: twelve percent complete.
The dot lit up again, stayed lit this time: D. Vale. It drifted slowly, in the river. Vitals were faint, but he was alive. His body armor housed the sensors; it must have been damaged.
Josh had to send David what he’d found and a way to contact the source. Options? Normally they would establish an online dead-drop: a public web site where they exchanged coded messages. Clocktower routinely used eBay auctions—the pictures of the products for sale included embedded messages or files that a Clocktower algorithm could decrypt. To the naked eye, the pictures looked normal, but small pixel changes throughout added up to a complex file Clocktower could read.
But he and David hadn’t established any system. He couldn’t call. Emailing would be a death sentence: Clocktower would monitor any email addresses, and when David checked it, Clocktower would trace the IP of the computer he used. The IP would give them a physical address, or a very close idea. Video surveillance feeds nearby would fill in the rest, and they would have him within minutes. An IP… Josh had an idea. Could it work?
Erasing… 37% complete
He had to work fast, before the computer stopped functioning.
Josh opened a VPN connection to a private server he used mostly as a relay and staging area for online operations—transforming and bouncing encrypted reports around the internet before delivering them to Central. It was just added security to make sure Jakarta Station’s downloads to Central weren’t intercepted. It was off the grid; no one knew about it. And it already had several security protocols he’d written. It was perfect.
But the server didn’t have a web address—it didn’t need one—just an IP: 50.31.14.76. Web addresses, like www.google.com or www.apple.com, really translated to IPs. When you type an address in your web browser, a group of servers called domain name servers (DNS) match the address to an IP in their database, and send you to the right place. If you typed the IP into your browser’s address bar instead, you’d actually end up in the exact same place without the routing: 108.177.122.100 opens Google.com, 17.142.160.59 opens Apple.com, and so on.
Josh finished uploading the data to the server. The computer was starting to run slowly. Several error messages popped up.
Erasing 48% complete
The drumming had stopped. They were using the torch again. A round bulge of strained metal had formed in the center of the door.
Josh had to send David the IP. He couldn’t call or text. All the sources and case officers would be monitored by Clocktower, and besides, he had no idea where David would end up. He needed somewhere David would look. Some way to send the numbers in the IP address. Something only Josh knew about…
David’s bank account. It could work.
Josh also maintained a private bank account; he imagined almost everyone in their line of work did.
The cry of bending metal filled the cavernous room like a dying whale. They were close.
Josh opened a web browser and logged in to his bank account. Quickly, he keyed in David’s bank routing number and account number. Then he made a series of deposits to David’s account:
9.11
50.00
31.00
14.00
76.00
9.11
It would take a day for the transactions to post, and even after they did, David would only see it if he checked the account. Would he know it was an IP address? Field operatives weren’t exactly tech-savvy. It was a long shot.
The door broke. Men were through, soldiers in full battle armor.
Erasing… 65% complete
Not enough. They would find something.
The box, the capsule. Three to four seconds. Not enough time.
Josh lunged for the box on the table, knocking it off. It crashed to the glass floor and he followed it. His shaking hands reached inside, grabbing the gun. How did it go? Slide, shoot, press here? God. They were at the entrance to the glass room. Three men.
He raised the gun. His arm shook. He steadied it with his other hand, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet ripped through the computer. He had to hit the hard drive. He fired again. The sound was deafening in the room.
Then the sound was all around. Glass was everywhere, tiny pieces. Josh was rushing to the glass wall. Glass fell all around him, on him, cutting into him. He looked down, saw the bullet holes in his chest. He tasted something metallic in his mouth. Blood. He felt it flow from his mouth and down his chin, joining the growing crimson pool at his chest. He turned his head and watched as the last of the computer lights blinked out.
26
Pesanggrahan River
Jakarta, Indonesia
The fishermen paddled the boat down the river, toward the Java Sea. The fishing had been good the last several days, and they had brought extra nets—all they had, in fact. The boat sagged with the weight, riding lower in the water than it normally did. If things went well, they would return as the sun set, dragging the nets behind the boat, full of fish, enough for their small family and enough to sell at the market.
Harto watched his son Eko paddling at the front of the boat, and pride washed over him. Soon, Harto would retire and Eko would do the fishing. Then, in time, Eko would take his son out, just like this, just like Harto’s father had
taught him to fish.
He hoped it would be so. Lately, Harto had begun to worry that this would not be the way things would come to pass. Every year there were more boats—and less fish. They fished longer each day and yet their nets carried fewer fish. Harto pushed the thought from his mind. Good fortune comes and recedes, just like the seas; it was the way of things. I must not worry over things I cannot control.
His son stopped paddling. The boat started to turn.
Harto yelled to him, “Eko, you must paddle, the boat will turn if we don’t paddle evenly. Pay attention.”
“There’s something in the water, Papa.”
Harto looked. There was… something black, floating. A man. “Paddle quickly, Eko.”
They pulled up beside him, and Harto reached out, grabbed him, and tried to pull him into the narrow boat loaded with nets. He was too heavy. He wore some kind of shell. But the shell floated. Some special material. Harto turned the man over. A helmet and goggles—they had covered his nose, kept him from drowning.
“A diver, Papa?”
“No, he’s… a policeman, I think.” Harto tried to pull him into the boat again, but it nearly tipped over. “Here Eko, help me.”
Together, father and son dragged the waterlogged man into the boat, but as soon as he cleared the side, the boat began taking on water.
“We’re sinking, Papa!” Eko looked about nervously.
Water rushed over the boat’s side. What to throw out? The man? The river flowed to the sea; he would surely die there. They couldn’t drag him, not far. The water rushed in more quickly now.
Harto eyed the nets, the only other thing with any weight in the boat. But they were Eko’s inheritance—the only wealth his family had, their only means of survival, of putting food on their table.
