The Emperor's Revenge

THIRTY-SEVEN

The damage to the Oregon was not as serious as originally feared and repairs were made in record time to get the missile launchers and engines back in operational order. The holes in the ship were patched up with metal sheeting, which didn’t look out of place on the hull’s dilapidated façade. A more thorough overhaul would have to wait, but Juan was confident in Max’s assessment that the ship was ready to sail again, only twenty-four hours after it had arrived in Naples. By the next evening, the Oregon neared the site of the Narwhal’s sinking west of Sicily.

While the technicians in the moon pool prepped the underwater vehicles for deployment, Juan sat in the conference room as Gretchen, Murph, and Eric briefed him on their analysis of the computer data she had received about the bank heist. As usual, the two eager software experts were throwing around jargon he’d never heard before.

“What’s a multipartite virus?” Juan asked.

Murph, who was dressed in a black T-shirt that read I’m just here to establish an alibi, said, “It’s really impressive work. Most computer viruses infect the system in only one way. But a multipartite, also called a hybrid virus, infects along a variety of vectors, allowing it to propagate very easily and quickly. We think that’s what ShadowFoe installed when she got access to the Credit Condamine system.”

“And there’s no way to use a backup to reinstall the system?”

Eric shook his head. “That’s the insidious part of a multipartite virus. It installs itself in the root sector of a computer system, which means that even if you wipe it from memory, it’ll reinfect the computer as soon as the system starts up. It’s incredibly hard to get rid of completely unless you know what to look for.”

“So our money is lost?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” said Murph, putting his hands up in a defensive posture. “No one said that. I’m not letting a virus eat up my money.”

“The one good thing about these hybrid viruses,” Eric said, “is that they install themselves in a lot of places in the system, so there are lots of opportunities for us to find it. Once we can crack the underlying code, we should be able to dig it out.”

“Have they detected this virus on any other bank’s system?” Juan asked Gretchen.

She shrugged. “There’s no way to know without finding the algorithm used to design the virus. But Credit Condamine was closely connected to a number of other banks on a secure network. It’s possible that once ShadowFoe had penetrated the bank’s external security by kidnapping the president and using his biometric log-in, she had access to banks throughout Europe.”

“Do you think the failure of the bank in Paris is the one she warned us about?”

“Has to be. It’s too coincidental to be unrelated.”

“So what’s the ultimate goal? To bring down the financial system one bank at a time unless they get some ransom?”

“I doubt it. There are easier ways for hackers to take large sums of money from financial institutions. Just last year, we discovered that malware had been introduced in some of the biggest banks in the world through phishing emails. JPMorgan Chase and the Agricultural Bank of China were just a couple of them. The criminals observed banking operations for two years, directly siphoning off money to ATMs and phony accounts across the globe.”

“How much was stolen?”

“Banks aren’t exactly eager to share the news that their systems have been penetrated. Not good for the trust of depositors. But the estimates range as high as nine hundred million dollars.”

Murph whistled, and Eric said, “Not bad, for two years of work.”

“What I can’t understand,” Murph said, “is why Antonovich would be doing this. He’s already a billionaire. Now he has to get money by stealing it? Doesn’t make sense.”

“There has to be a larger agenda at work,” Gretchen said. “My superiors at Interpol think that Antonovich could be trying to work his way back into the Kremlin’s good graces by helping the Russian government destabilize the West. If he brings down the financial system, even for a short time, it could enhance Russia’s negotiating power in the region.”

“Or start a war,” Juan added. “If lasting damage is done, we could return to the days before the Berlin Wall fell. The embargo against Russia for the Ukraine incursion tanked the ruble and the markets in Moscow. If there’s evidence that Russia launched an all-out cyberattack on the European financial system, trading between the two blocs could shut down completely.”

“I know some of our former colleagues wouldn’t mind that,” Gretchen said. “The CIA would love another showdown with the big bad Russians. The problem is that we have no proof that Antonovich was involved in the Credit Condamine heist. His yacht was in Monaco at the time, but it’s all circumstantial evidence.”

“The Achilles sinking the Narwhal isn’t circumstantial,” Eric said. “I watched it happen.”

Gretchen replied, “But the only link between the sinking and the banking infiltration is the Achilles’s presence in both places.”

“Another question, then,” Murph said. “Why would ShadowFoe leave us a message if she never intended to collect a ransom?”

“Because she knew what the response from banks would be,” Gretchen said. “The threat in her message would trigger an update in their cybersecurity software as soon as possible. Yesterday, a man was found dead in a Paris apartment, killed during a supposed robbery. He happened to be the chief of computer security for a firm that most European banks use. We think that ShadowFoe, or one of her accomplices, forced him to give them access to the updated software. Now the bank shutdown virus could be spreading throughout the entire industry and we’d never know it.”

“The real mystery is how all of this is connected,” Juan said, ticking off the items on his fingers. “We’ve got a bank heist, to possibly bring down the European financial system; an attack on the electrical grid, which, so far, hasn’t had any major repercussions; a cryptic diary written by Napoleon Bonaparte before he was supposedly abducted from exile on St. Helena; and a billionaire so desperate to keep anyone from finding the treasure that was stolen during the invasion of Russia that he sinks a ship carrying a three-thousand-year-old stone column. Am I missing anything?”

Murph smirked. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like those things should have nothing to do with each other.”

“The only way we’ll figure it out,” Eric said, “is if we locate the treasure and find whatever Antonovich is trying to keep secret.”

“And I know how you love to solve Russian mysteries,” Gretchen said, an inside joke about their Moscow mission together. Her accompanying smile didn’t escape the notice of Murph and Eric.

Juan kept himself from blushing, otherwise he’d never hear the end of it. He pointed at the two coding experts. “If we retrieve the column, can you two decipher the clues that Napoleon left?”

Eric and Murph exchanged a glance, then nodded confidently in unison.

“Absolutely,” Murph said. “No problem.”

“With enough time, of course,” Eric said.

The two of them took their computers and left.

“Do you think they really can do it?” Gretchen asked when they were alone.

“They’re the best in the business,” Juan said. “If they can’t do it, no one can.”

She leaned over and looked him in the eye. “You really trust your people, don’t you?”

He returned her gaze. “I wouldn’t have hired them if I didn’t.”

“That’s admirable. Not every boss is like that.”

“This isn’t your typical company.”

“I’ve noticed.” She paused, and then a smile curled at the corners of her mouth. “I forgot what you were like.”

“I never forgot what you were like.”

“Do you wonder how things could have been back at the CIA if we hadn’t been married? To other people, I mean.”

Juan had often wondered the same thing over the last few days, but before he had a chance to answer, the intercom on the table buzzed.

Gretchen sighed. “The captain’s work is never done.”

Juan stabbed the button.

“Your timing is impeccable,” he said into the microphone.

“I do have a knack for that sort of thing,” Max replied, thinking he was getting a compliment.

“Are we ready for the dive?”

“The equipment’s prepped, but we have a bit of an issue with the dive site.”

“You can’t locate the container?”

“No, we found it on the side-scan sonar. The problem is with the Narwhal.”

“What about it?”

“She settled on her side. On a slope. With the container holding the Jaffa Column still partially attached.”

“I’m assuming that’s not what you were expecting,” Gretchen said.

Juan slowly shook his head. He had hoped the Narwhal had settled on the sea bottom in an upright position, making the container recovery relatively easy. With her hull in an awkward position, the degree of difficulty had increased by a factor of ten.

“Got it, Max,” Juan said with an eyebrow raised at Gretchen. “Not great.”

“It could have been worse,” Max said, and Juan could picture his sarcastic grin. “At least she’s not upside down.”

“Always the optimist is not something I would ever say to you. I’ll be down in a minute.”

He closed the connection.

“You’re going down in that sub?” Gretchen asked.

“No, Max is driving Nomad today. I’m going to dive separately.”

“Didn’t you say the wreck is at a depth of eight hundred feet?”

“That I did.”

“How can you do that? It’s way too deep for scuba gear, isn’t it?”

“Four hundred feet is the limit for scuba; and to get down that far, you need to breathe a helium-oxygen mixture.”

Gretchen put on a fake thoughtful expression. “Don’t tell me. You’re Aquaman.”

Juan got up. “More like the Michelin Man.”

She followed him out the door. “Now, this I have to see.”