Cross Kill

Chapter 15

The next morning, I called GW to check on Sampson. His vitals had destabilized again.

Part of me said, Go to the hospital, but instead I drove out to Quantico, Virginia, and the FBI Lab.

For almost seven years, I worked for the Bureau in the behavioral science department as a full-time consultant and left on good terms. I have many friends who still work at Quantico, including my old partner, Ned Mahoney.

I called ahead, and he met me at the gate, made sure I got the VIP treatment clearing security.

“What are friends in high places for?” Mahoney asked when I thanked him. “How’s John?”

I gave him a brief update on Sampson and my investigation.

“How could Soneji be alive?” Mahoney said. “I was there, remember? I saw him burning, too. It was him. ”

“Then who was the guy who shot Sampson and tried to shoot me last night?” I said. “Because both times I’ve seen him, my brain has screamed Soneji! Both times.”

“Hey, hey, Alex,” Mahoney said, patting me on the shoulder out of concern. “Take a big breath. If it’s him, we’ll help you find him.”

I took several deep, long breaths, trying to keep my thoughts from whirling, and said, “Let’s start with the cybercrime unit.”

Ten minutes later, we went through an unmarked door into a large space filled with low-walled cubicles that were in a soft blue light Mahoney said was supposed to increase productivity. There were three, sometimes four computer screens at every workstation.

“The only thing that separates the IT brainpower in this room from a company like Google is the dress code,” Mahoney said.

“No Ping-Pong, either,” I said.

“There’s agitation in that direction,” Mahoney said, weaving through the cubicles.

“Any chance it happens?”

“When the Bureau starts admitting J. Edgar preferred panties,” he said, and then stopped in front of a workstation in the middle of the room.

“Agent Batra?” Mahoney said. “I want to introduce you to Alex Cross.”

A petite Indian woman in her late twenties in a conservative blue suit and black pumps spun around from one of four screens at her station. She stood quickly and put out her hand, so small it felt like a doll’s.

“Special Agent Henna Batra,” she said. “An honor to meet you, Dr. Cross.”

“And you as well.”

“Agent Batra is said to be at one with the internet,” Mahoney said. “If anyone can help you, she can. Stop by the office on your way out, Alex.”

“Will do,” I said.

“So,” Agent Batra said, sitting again. “What are you looking for?”

“A website where there are active conversations going on concerning Gary Soneji.”

“I know that case,” Batra said. “We studied it at the academy. He’s dead.”

“Evidently his admirers don’t think so, and I’d like to see what they’re saying about Soneji. I was warned we’d never find the site in a million years.”

With Special Agent Batra navigating the web via a link to a supercomputer, the search took all of fourteen minutes.

“Quite a few that mention Soneji,” Batra said, gesturing at the screen, and then scrolling down before tapping on a link. “But I’m betting this is the one you’re looking for.”

I squinted to read the link. “ZRXQT?”

“Anonymous, or at least attempting anonymity,” Batra said. “And it’s locked and encrypted. But I ran a filter that picked up traces of commands going into and out of that website. The density of Soneji mentions in those traces is through the roof compared to every other site that talks about him.”

“You can’t get in?”

“I didn’t say that,” Batra said, as if I’d insulted her. “You drink tea?”

“Coffee,” I said.

She gestured across the room. “There’s a break room over there. If you’d be so kind as to bring me some hot tea, Dr. Cross. I should be able to get inside by the time you come back.”

I thought it was kind of funny that Batra had started the conversation as my subordinate and was now ordering me around. Then again, I hadn’t a clue about how she was doing what she was doing. Then again, she was at one with the internet.

“Oolong?” I asked.

“Fine,” Batra said, already engrossed in her work.

I found the coffee and the tea, but when I returned, she was still typing.

“Got it?”

“Not yet,” she said, irritated. “It’s sophisticated, multilevel, and...”

Lines of code began to fill the page. Batra seemed to speed-read the code as it rolled by, because, after twenty seconds of this, she said, “Oh, of course.”

She gave the computer another command, and a homepage appeared, featuring a cement wall in some abandoned building. Across the wall in dripping black graffiti letters, it read Long Live The Soneji!