Unholy Code

Chapter 13

It’s going to be incredibly tight making the Gamblers Anonymous meeting in Bethesda. I’ve got to catch a flight leaving Seattle-Tacoma International in an hour and fifty-five minutes — and I don’t even know for certain that Elkins will be attending. But she did search for a time and place, then texted her family that she’d be home late. All from a phone that is not the one she uses for work. At least the defense establishment better hope she doesn’t because I’ve had no trouble hacking and tracking it. She’s installed an ad blocker to stop my flow of casino ads, but I changed the content and had them come from a new server. Lana’s clever. She switched to a new virtual private network. It didn’t stop me, though. I sniffed out messages to Emma coming from a new IP address and located Lana’s “gambling phone.” I’ve yet to hack into her work phone, however.

SeaTac is more than an hour away. It’s not a given I’ll make the flight, so as soon as I jump into my SUV I open Waze. It looks like clear sailing, and there don’t appear to be any police lurking in the firs to nail speeders, though I’m not too concerned about them. State patrol officers have been pressed to take on so many additional duties that America’s interstates feel more like autobahns.

People hurry from place to place as though they know how exposed they are to harm when they’re out and about. Major league baseball teams have been playing to empty stadiums for the past few weeks as media-savvy ISIS propagandists threaten “convocations of death,” spectacles only nihilists could enjoy. I am not a nihilist. My agenda is so much richer, if equally crimson. And I know how exposed Americans are, even at home. I know because I make a point of visiting them at random.

I’ll often split my screens into quadrants and turn on computer cameras just to see what strangers are doing as they watch their screens. Mostly, not much. They sit and stare, eyes like glazed donuts, and just as empty in the middle. What’s repugnant, frankly, are the extreme numbers pleasuring themselves. I take no pleasure whatsoever to see boys and girls — or men and women, for that matter — in various states of undress. I have no interest in voyeurism, but I do find cultural anthropology in the age of terror fascinating. Here’s the most curious thing I’ve noticed: Since the nuclear attack, nothing has changed in the privacy of people’s homes. If anything, more of them than ever are sitting in front of their computers touching themselves or Skyping with friends or dawdling over cat videos.

I think one big reason they are at their computers so much now is that unlike the physical world, which no longer proves comforting with fixed shorelines and geological features, the virtual world remains a steady, stable, predictable presence… if eminently penetrable.

My Mercedes averages ninety-seven miles an hour and I make it to the airport in only fifty-eight minutes. With only my computer case and shoulder bag, I’m seated in first class with four minutes to spare. I used to loathe flying when I was consigned to steerage at government expense. But now I deny myself nothing of wealth’s prerogatives. I skim from accounts in the States and abroad. Dollars, euros, Swiss francs, they’re all the same to me. Sometimes I pay the banks back by stymying the efforts of others queued behind me who also want to sack the virtual vaults. But I’ll admit it’s in my interest to keep the banks’ losses to a minimum so that my own efforts can continue as unimpeded as possible. I’m not greedy. I take only what I need to be comfortable. I couldn’t care less if Bank of America, Deutsche Bank, Credit Suisse, or Banco Santander, to note only four institutions that have endowed me of late, lose a few hundred thousand here or there. It all goes to a good cause, which at the moment is flying me comfortably to Reagan International so I can arrive at the Hope Center in Bethesda, Maryland, in time for Lana’s Gamblers Anonymous meeting.

We have one stop in Denver. I’ve always enjoyed flying over the Rockies in daylight, but it’s downright disconcerting to see the near absence of snow. While it’s never flush in the fall, there have always been peaks that remain covered year round. Now they are few and far between and Denver, like most western cities, suffers from drought.

We land in the Mile High City exactly on time. There’s no deplaning for those of us flying all the way to DC. The new passengers board hastily. A size fourteen sits next to me on the aisle. She has the most comely face I’ve seen in ages, attractive in the ripest way possible. Large women don’t get a fair shake. She smiles at me in that certain way that sails across the seat divide as easily as it can reach across a room, but I know nothing will come of it. I have no real interest in her.

The pilot warns that we’ll be facing turbulence as we pass over the Midwest. It turns out to be an understatement. The wind shear shakes the plane like it’s a maraca, and we passengers rattle in our seats like dried beans. I can see the woman beside me white-knuckle the armrest.

“We’ll be okay,” I tell her. “This is nothing.”

What do I really know about such things? Not much, but I simply can’t believe the plane is going to get ripped apart, not with my life’s work so clearly before me.

We stop shaking well before we begin descending. Even so, I’ve never been so glad to get off a plane. I request a driver from Uber, canceling twice before a woman with a Honda Accord responds.

She pulls promptly up to Arrivals. Her name is Sam — red-haired, round-faced, and as freckled as Little Orphan Annie. She’s friendly, effusive, and I’m reminded of why I’ll never again stand in an endless cab line waiting for some sleepy-eyed taxi driver to roll up and stare insolently at me as I shoehorn my body and bags into a filthy back seat.

Sam ferries me to the Hope Center in the downtown area. There’s angle parking in front set off by a black, slatted fence. Lots of empty spaces. Sam slides right into one and I pay her, bidding her adieu.

I watch her drive away, pleased that she’s gone, unlike a taxi driver, who might have wanted to pick me up in an hour — for an added fee, of course — so that he could take a dinner break at my expense. With the sky darkening, I notice that it’s that time of day.

I don’t want anyone looking out for me. I have plans. Left to their own devices, our leaders from the President on down would have us all spying on friends, neighbors, and strangers. How despicable is that? Like the reprehensible Operation TIPS program after 9/11, which would have given the U.S. more citizens spying on one another than the Stasi had in the former East Germany. Popular opinion drove the proposed TIPS operation into the ground, but the weight of public opinion these days is driven more by paranoia than it was even back then.

I enter the facility, which looks less like a healing center than an office building for boiler-room brokers. So much for the architecture of awe in the design of a sanctuary.

Carrying my briefcase, which hides the main reason I’ve made this trip — it surely wasn’t just to observe Lana grovel with guilt over gambling — I walk up to the meeting room on the second floor and see that she’s not there. I look at my watch. There’s still time. Come on, Lana.

With only five minutes to go, my impatience makes me squirm in my seat. And then she walks in.

I observe her only at an angle. While this will be the third meeting we’ve shared, we’ve hardly talked at all, although a few words did pass between us at the coffeemaker a month ago. That encounter definitely gave me a thrill, making me wonder when we’d meet for the last time. Now I know the answer: never. This will be it, if I’m successful with the device I’m carrying. I had wondered how surprised she’d be if there had been a revealing, climactic moment, an unveiling of me, if you will. I think she would have been shocked to find out who I am. But maybe I’m giving myself too much credit. She might have her suspicions already, for all I know, but there have never been fewer than fifteen of us at the meetings. Tonight it’s especially busy with Lana the twenty-first person to show up. I wonder if she’s counting, too. And if she’ll find that propitious, a winning hand at a game I know she plays. I suspect she’s savvy enough to be a card counter.

And here comes number twenty-two. He slips past the door less than ninety seconds after his charge. I’d give odds — and it’s fun to put it that way in a room full of repentant gamblers — that the African-American man is her FBI-issued security. He might as well be wearing a blue jacket with the Bureau’s acronym blazing across his back in iridescent letters. He has chiseled features and looks alert and intelligent. Too much so for the circumstances. Most of these people look beaten down by debt, doubt, and their affliction. He looks like a winner all around, a warrior. No, I’m not buying him for a man with a gambling problem. I’m buying him as a man with a security problem: Lana Elkins.

It’ll be interesting to see if he tries to join in at some point.

He never does. There’s not a lot of talk during the meeting; it seems to reflect the lack of interaction beforehand. A dourness pervades the room, as if something has sucked out all of the oxygen. I finally nod in what I think is an encouraging manner when an older man with a bright white beard speaks up in support of Lana. Yes, she was strong. Yes, she blocked my efforts to flood her phone with casino ads… for awhile. But my goal wasn’t simply to have her gamble. My goal has always been to keep her distracted so Steel Fist can kill her, or have her killed, which would only encourage his subscribers to commit more mayhem. And gambling is sidetracking her. She just said, “I can’t get it out of my head.” That’s the idea, Lana. I want you thinking about gambling when you could be thinking about your survival.

After the meeting ends, she hangs around long enough not to attract attention for leaving in a rush. Predictably, the man I picked out as her FBI agent follows suit.

Between him, Lana, and me, there are two gamblers. No one’s behind me, but that’s just luck. If someone appears, I’ll have to find a reason to delay, a sudden return to the center as though I’ve forgotten something. Thankfully, I don’t need to. What is even better is I immediately see that Lana has angle-parked her Prius by the dark, slatted fence. I dressed in black slacks and a dark top, knowing what I planned to do. I’d imagined executing my next maneuver by stepping away from the meeting for a bathroom break. But as soon as I saw the likely agent, I knew he might decide to follow me if I left that room, and I could ill afford to have been caught sneaking around Lana’s car then. Or now.

What I plan should take less than ten seconds, but if I’m caught it’ll get ugly fast. I can’t be caught.

I’m planning to drop low behind the fence when she climbs into her vehicle. Then I’ll reach through the slats and try to carry out my plan. And that might still work, but right now she’s stopping again to talk to the handsome guy who’s been trailing her all evening. To anybody else it might look natural enough: an attractive woman with a striking man chatting after a meeting they’ve both attended. But Lana’s not flirting, not with her arms folded tightly across her chest. I sense tension, possibly for reasons all my own.

But now it’s getting interesting. As they start to wander toward her car once more, they turn away from me. I’m no longer in their peripheral vision, if they ever noticed me at all. Recognizing this, I slip behind the slatted fence and move through the darkness along it toward her Prius. They’re still turned away. I can almost hear them, which means they can almost hear me.

With a breath I drop down to my knees, dig into my briefcase and pull out an electronic tracking device. They’re standing by the rear hatch of her car. I swear silently when they shift positions again. I worry this pas de deux is planned, that they’ve spotted me somehow and are coordinating their coverage. In fact, his gaze drifts over to the fence. I flatten myself on the sidewalk and listen for long seconds.

Just do it, I tell myself. It worked for Nike.

I reach through the slats and under the car. I have to stretch so hard the side of a board digs into my armpit. It hurts like hell but the magnet on the locator is not finding metal. There’s so much plastic crap on cars now. I stretch so hard I’m cutting off blood to my arm. This is taking a lot more than ten seconds. My fingertips tingle and start to go numb. The device finally clicks when it clamps to the chassis. A soft sound that to me is deafening.

I freeze, not even breathing. I withdraw my arm carefully, feel the blood starting to pound through my veins. I try not to make the slightest noise. I listen intently to see if they’re talking — or walking toward me.

They’re saying good-bye. The normalcy of the moment is undisturbed. The click didn’t register… apparently. But I take nothing for granted.

I have to get away before she gets in her car and puts on her lights and backs away. The slats won’t hide me.

I hear her take a few steps. She opens the car door, then closes it. But the Prius doesn’t move, and Lana’s friend or FBI agent or whatever he is stands off to the side, as if to watch her back up. I fear making any sounds.

As soon she starts her engine, I look behind me and, staying low, I scramble backward, commando style, disappearing just as Lana backs up and her headlights throw shadows from the slats I’d been hiding behind seconds ago.

She drives off, followed by the man in a Dodge Charger. It looks government issue.

I spring to my feet and look around. I see no one. In the next instant I’m brushing myself off and requesting another car from Uber. I walk down to the corner and a new female driver greets me. I ask her to take me to the Watergate Hotel.

The device on Lana’s car is not super-sophisticated. The first time she goes through security at Fort Meade they’ll discover it. Which is fine; she’ll know people are getting dangerously close to her. But I don’t think she’s going to make it to Meade.

In the morning, she’ll be going to the Senate to testify before the Select Committee on Intelligence. That’s on the public record. I presume the senators are planning on a circus, which is no more prophetic than suggesting that a monkey will scratch its scrotum in the course of a day. The deputy director of the NSA will be there to testify as well.

So there’s time to put everything and everyone into play.

I’m smiling when the driver pulls up to the broad curved exterior of the Watergate. If it was good enough for Nixon’s cronies to break into, it’s good enough for me to launch my far more elaborate crimes from above its opulent, chandeliered lobby.

I order room service. The kitchen offers an excellent hamburger, which might sound downmarket for the Watergate but it really is superb, and I’m an unabashed carnivore. I remind the staff to send up the freshest possible fries.

After I eat I go immediately to work online. First, I must send a message to Steel Fist. It’s short: the code he needs to track the electronic beacon. I’ll leave it to him to decide how to disseminate it. It’s not as though he can put it out to ten million subscribers without it getting back to Lana in seconds. But he must have some killers he trusts. We all do, even if it’s only ourselves.

I certainly feel murderous sending him my anonymous message. I wouldn’t give Lana Elkins twenty-four hours after this, if Vinko Horvat truly knows his business. And his business lately has been whipping up his troops to kill Lana and her family.

“Have at it,” I say to myself as I issue another click, dispatching the code to his Idaho stronghold.

But I’m not through with Vinko just yet. I decide it’s time to give him another tip, almost as juicy. I’m tired of waiting for him to figure it out on his own: in the background of the photo of Emma, her dad, and their new guard dog was an old Malinois with a gray muzzle. That was Cairo, the hound that went after bin Laden.

If Steel Fist is really serious about showing how poor the country’s defenses are — and how necessary he is to the nation’s resurgence — he’ll have that dog killed. And he’ll do it in the most public way possible. Americans have learned to stomach a great many indignities in the past two years, but a “revenge” murder of Cairo would be the coup d’état.

Leaving nothing to chance, I also give him the address of the kennel near Hagerstown, Maryland. I even write a headline for Steel Fist so he can immediately grasp the powerful nature of the potential propaganda: “Islamic Terrorists Kill Hero SEAL Dog. ‘Skinned Alive.’ ”

Just do it.