The Director

24

Edward Junot traveled to England by cargo container. It was fitted with a bed, a reclining chair for reading and listening to music on his headphones, a store of food and drink, a chemical toilet and, at Junot’s particular request, a set of free weights. It resembled an isolation cell in a high-security prison, except that the ventilation was worse. Junot had protested that he would rather swim across the North Sea, but his handler in Denver said he had no choice; this was the most secure route back to England, where the boss was waiting for him. His identity had been blown, and the authorities had him on watch lists at the regular air and sea border crossings. If Junot didn’t like his travel arrangements he could complain to Hubert Birkman personally on arrival.

Junot sat in the crate in Rotterdam for two days before it was loaded onto a container vessel bound for Britain. He could hear the noise of the port, day and night: the trucks and trains arriving with their cargoes, the cranes loading them in great stacks onboard the container vessels; the hulking ships steaming out of the water maze of the port. He heard the pelting of rain on the crate and the creak of the metal frame as it rattled in the wind. The intense sounds made it seem like living in an iron lung. He could hear everything but see nothing. For Junot, compact and heavily muscled, the only release was to work the weights, curling the heavy pods toward him with arms taut as metal cable.

On the third day his carton was loaded onto its mother ship. He could feel the pincers of the crane tighten around the steel frame and imagined the metal crate floating through space, a wingless flying box, and being lowered toward its stack on the boat.

The container hit the deck with a hard thump. Junot heard the shouts of the ship’s crew, voices spattering out English, Greek, Tagalog and a half dozen more languages. The crew moved in ordered chaos as the ship cast off its lines and headed out of port, chugging slowly at first, guided by a pilot and nudged along by tugs, and then faster with the ship’s wake breaking at the bow and washing astern in a continuous waterfall. They steamed free of port and into the North Sea, where the roll of the ocean waves settled into a regular rhythm.

The voyage itself took less than twenty-four hours, passing from Rotterdam across the North Sea toward the Humber Estuary. Junot’s handler had told him that his container would be off-loaded in Grimsby, an ancient port at the southern mouth of the Humber. The larger port of Hull farther upstream was too busy; too much cargo and too many watchers. Better to land in the secondary anchorage.

Junot heard the shouts near his container while the vessel was still out in the rolling swell. His crate and a few others were readied for this first stop on the big ship’s voyage. The ship slowed, banking its engines and reversing its propeller and then eased forward toward the quay. From onshore came the shouts of the dockside crew, in the thick knotted dialect of north England. The boat slowed to an idling drift; when the lines were secure, the vessel jerked backward and then forward, before it came still. The giant crablike claws of the dockside crane grabbed Junot’s metal box and cranked it ashore, where it landed with a thud.

Outside, beyond Junot’s view, the afternoon was a cool cerulean blue, the color compacted in the low light of the northern latitude. The vessel that had brought him from Rotterdam was docked just inside the lock that guarded the quay, past an old brick lighthouse ten stories high that had guided the passage up the North Sea for several centuries. Now that Junot knew he was on land, he felt claustrophobic in the box. He had arrived but remained trapped inside his metal container.

The crate sat on the dock many hours more: Inside, Junot gorged on what was left of his larder; he defecated in the chemical toilet whose stink now filled the metal box.

Night had fallen, bringing a sharp drop in temperature when the truck arrived to load Junot’s container for the last leg of his journey. A smaller crane lifted the box; he heard the dockhand joke in his thick Geordie accent that the cargo had so little weight it must be a drug haul. They loaded it onto another pallet, this time the bed of a sixteen-wheeler, and let it sit awhile longer until Junot finally heard the cab door swing shut, and the engine spark, and a few moments later the freight truck was winding its way down the docks, and then picking up speed as it reached the open highway.

Junot made another meal, and opened another beer. He was tired of the music he had brought along, so put aside the earphones and listened to the whistle of the wind and the whirr of the road and felt that peculiar sense of pressure on his body as the airflow bowed the metal box.

The truck rumbled south through the night along the motorway, past the smells and noises of industrial cities whose lights were barely visible through cracks in the metal shell. The truck’s rhythmic sway on its fat tires produced a low hum that lulled Junot to sleep in his reclining chair, making him forget even the rank smell inside his box.

Junot awoke when he heard someone pounding on the heavy lock on his door, and then banging the metal levers that sealed his container. He roused himself, gave his bearded face a slap and pulled up his trousers.

“Is this the Denver cargo?” called out a familiar voice, thin but insistent. There was a pause and then he repeated the phrase: “Is this the Denver cargo, goddamn it?” Junot had forgotten the recognition code.

Junot pounded three times on the metal frame, paused and then banged twice more. He repeated a second time this encrypted drumming; three beats, then two. The man outside swore as he struggled with the steel bars that fastened the crate, and then the metal door swung open wide.

“Jesus! It smells like shit in there,” said James Morris, peering into the dark vault.

“Fuck you,” said Junot, emerging unsteadily from the crate and walking down the metal cargo ramp. “You put me in here, you prick. It’s like being buried alive. Try it yourself next time, Pownzor.”

Junot was rubbing his eyes. His legs were wobbly. He stood in the unloading bay of a warehouse. The driver had vanished. From the angle of the sun, it appeared to be early morning. He hadn’t recognized Morris at first with his wig.

“Where the fuck are we?” asked Junot.

“Milton Keynes,” answered Morris.

“Who’s he?”

“It’s not a person, it’s a place. Milton Keynes is north of London. It’s near Wolverton, if that’s any help. Denver picked it because nobody would care what arrived here.”

“Well, thanks for that.” Junot looked back at the container and shook his head. “Fucking nightmare, this was, for a trip that should take an hour in an airplane. What’s going on? Why are you shipping me around in a box?”

“You are very hot, my friend. Headquarters has put out a detain-on-sight order on you. You’ll have to disappear for a while.”

“What do they know?”

“Don’t worry about it. It will all blow over. Meanwhile, take a shower so I don’t have to smell you anymore. Then we’ll talk.”

Morris led Junot to an old Vauxhall station wagon. They drove a few miles west to a bed-and-breakfast overlooking a well-mown green lawn. Junot disappeared for a scrub in the bath. He lay down on the bed after he had toweled off and was going to take a few minutes’ rest, but he quickly fell asleep and was awakened an hour later by Morris pounding on the door.

“Get up. We need to talk,” said Morris. He was animated, even jocular, in directing a member of his secret staff.

Junot dressed quickly and followed his boss down to the Vauxhall in the parking lot. He had shaved his scalp and face while taking his bath, so his head looked once again like a slick and durable piece of cement. He had put in his ear studs, too.

They drove a few hundred yards down a small road to a pub called the Ostrich. Morris had already made arrangements with the owner and they were shown to a private room. The publican assured Mr. Birkman that nobody would disturb his business luncheon.

“Will you tell me what the fuck is going on?” asked Junot when he was seated at the little table and provided with a pint of pale ale.

“Don’t talk so loud,” said Morris in a low voice. “You’re hot because I’m hot, and people have figured out that you work for me. They can’t find me, so they’re going after you.”

“Which people are we talking about?”

“Headquarters. The London station chief has put you at the top of her personal shit list. She has alerted Five and Scotland Yard and the tooth fairy. That’s why we could not bring you back in business class. Sorry.”

“Susan Amato is a worthless analyst piece of shit,” said Junot. “What’s she doing as a station chief, anyway? Let alone making me travel in a goddamned outhouse?”

Junot’s face was red. He was a choleric man, and when he was angry he had the menacing, pansexual presence of a man who would fuck or shoot anything in his way.

“Calm down,” said Morris. “Susan Amato is history. Focus on the mission.”

“Which mission? Hacking central banks? Or recruiting dipshits in Berlin?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” said Morris. “Drink your beer. Chill out.”

“Okay,” said Junot, taking a breath. “I’m just an enlisted man. What’s next, Lieutenant?”

“We’re almost there. That’s why I brought you home, so we could talk. And I’m sorry about the transportation, really. It was the safest way, under the circumstances. But I’m sure it was unpleasant, and I apologize.”

Morris was leaning in toward his colleague. His voice changed when he wanted something, as if a can of lubricant had been poured into the crankshaft.

“Thank you.” Junot’s fingers, which had been clenched on the table in tight fists, slowly uncurled.

“Let’s start with Berlin. How did the recruiting trip go?”

“Aces all the way.”

“Who did you pitch?”

“The guy’s name is Malchik. Actually, that’s his handle. You want all the details? I gave them to Denver already. He checks out.”

“Yes, of course I want the details.”

“His real name is Misha Popov. He lives in Germany, but he’s a Russian hood. He is a serious fucking hacker. I mean it. He’s got a network that’s the best.”

Morris shook his head. “Impossible. I’ve already got the best.”

“I’m telling you, this guy Malchick scared me, and I’m the guy who scares other people.”

Morris shrugged. “What does he have?”

“Zero-day exploits stacked up like a deck of poker chips, that’s what. Plus, he has the little goonies who are going to keep cranking them out — the Cerberus Club kids, who hate big business and secrecy so much they can penetrate every bank and intelligence service and pussy parlor on the planet. And thanks to Malchik, they are unwittingly passing it to us.”

“How much did he cost?”

“Twenty-five million U.S., for six months. In three installments. Wired to his account in Vaduz.”

Morris sat back in his chair and shook his head. “For a hacker? He’ll gag on it,” he said.

“Quality costs money.”

“We’ve never paid anybody that much.”

“Pownzor, don’t worry, man. If he delivers, he’s worth it. If he doesn’t deliver, I’ll shoot him. Money-back guarantee.” He pointed his finger toward Morris and pulled down his thumb like the firing hammer of a revolver.

“That’s reassuring. And keep your voice down, please, especially when you are talking about shooting someone.”

Junot leaned toward his boss and spoke in his ear.

“Thank me, Pownzor. Please say, You did a good fucking job in Germany, Ed. Thanks a lot.”

Morris backed away and shook his head.

“You want my hand on your dick? Forget it. What about Switzerland?”

“Basel is cool. Nice buildings.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“The river is beautiful, too.”

“Cut the crap. Is it all wired down?”

“Food is surprisingly good.”

“Fuck off, Junot. The BIS platform is ready, correct?”

“Of course it is. You saw all the lights blinking, all the beacons in place. It’s phat. We own the systems administrator. What more do you need?”

“We need the database administrator. I’ll dox her, too, to be safe. I just want to make sure you got out without leaving any traces.”

“Clean as a Swiss asshole.”

“They’re going to come looking for you.”

“So what? They’ll find a club sandwich on room service and a four-course meal that cost a month’s salary, but that’s it. No traces.”

Junot bobbed his big rock-hard head contentedly. Morris shrugged, which was his version of approval.

Morris was hungry. He rose and found the barman, who delivered two cottage pies and two more pints of ale.

Junot attacked the food with the ferocity of a man who hadn’t had a proper meal in four days. Morris ate eccentrically, as he did everything; he skimmed off the mashed potatoes on top but left the layer of ground beef on the bottom, teasing the residue with his fork so that its surface was rippled in waves.

“Don’t play with your food. That’s what my mother said,” said Junot when he had finished every morsel of his own cottage pie.

“Well, my mother told your mother to piss off, because her son was going to Stanford, whether he ate his hamburger or not.”

Junot laughed. “I love you, boss.” The chiseled bald man reached out to give him a kiss, but Morris backed away.

“You pervert,” said Morris. “We need to talk about tasking your asset, and then I am out of here.”

“Tasking? These are geeks, man. Let the IOC take care of them.”

“We’re staying away from Headquarters. Weber wants me fired, and then arrested.”

“Don’t pick a fight with the boss, Pownzor. Bad idea.”

“I don’t need Weber. My authorities are direct.”

“What does that mean? ‘Direct’ from where?”

Morris cleared his throat.

“The top.”

Junot looked at Morris skeptically.

“And the director’s not in that loop?”

“Not always. You may hear gossip from your Blackwater buddies about how I’m under a cloud. Forget that. I have all the authorities I need.”

Junot nodded. Loyalty was his code. But it had to be reciprocal.

“What about my money?” Junot asked.

“Denver wires it every month to the accommodation address in Warsaw, just like you wanted. But why Poland? It sounds insecure. Are you fucking someone there?”

Junot winked. “The money doesn’t stay there. It goes to an account in the Caymans.”

Morris rapped Junot’s bald head with his knuckles. “You’re not as stupid as you look,” he said.

“I’m your bitch, Pownzor. Now what do you want me to tell Malchik?”

“Tell him Hubert needs to get inside big financial databases. We want exploits that will crack Linux, SWIFT, Oracle, all the trading platforms. We’re going after hashed data, so we’ll need to crack the hashes in real time. We need this stuff yesterday. No bullshit. He should deliver now or he can kiss the money goodbye.”

“What if he asks what we’re using all his exploits and hash crackers for?”

“Tell him to fuck off. We are paying him twenty-five million to deliver product, not to ask questions. If he gets too curious, it’s time for your money-back guarantee.”

“You are a hard dude, man.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just smart.”

Morris and Junot left the pub separately. Junot returned to the bed-and-breakfast, where he stayed for another day before moving on to a new safe house Morris had rented for him in the East End of London. Morris spent the afternoon on a local field trip that was the real reason he had told Denver to route Junot to Milton Keynes.

A few miles to the east of the “new town” stood a modest country house in the village of Bletchley, perhaps forty-five miles north of London, near the main railroad line that connected the capital with the north. The name of this country estate was Bletchley Park, and it was here that British cryptologists had managed to crack German “Enigma” encryption machines and read Germany’s most secret messages during World War II.

The mansion house stood at the foot of a broad lawn. It was a plain house, of red brick and white clapboard, thrown up in the 1880s by a financier from London. A white cupola crowned the roof, but the rest of the structure was undistinguished by any architectural adornment. The temporary huts where the code-breakers had worked were gone. The country house still stood, its physical ordinariness a counter-monument to the brainpower that had been assembled here.

James Morris strolled the grounds where Alan Turing and the other misfit geniuses of their day had labored against the barbarians and done work that, quite literally, had saved civilization. Morris thought, immodestly but with his whole heart, that he was involved in a similar endeavor.