The Devil's Ransom, page 23
“Branko bought a new smartphone and called Pushka on it. Creed has the information. Get me a geolocation of that phone and I’ll go hunt his ass. His last known location was here, in Split. Might be easy.”
Wolffe gave some commands to Blaine, and I saw Blaine leave the room. Wolffe returned to the screen and said, “This is all being kept under wraps for now, but it’s going to get out. They had so much publicity for this launch that someone’s going to leak, and the end state isn’t going to be good. The first commercial United States space launch ends up destroying the International Space Station, killing all aboard, to include three Russians, three Americans, and a Japanese scientist? And that’s not even talking about the dilettantes who paid a fortune for this tourist trip in the capsule. Everybody is shitting bricks on this one. We need to find that guy.”
“What about putting him in Interpol? Put the word out and just get him arrested.”
“That would mean telling the world we couldn’t protect our own space systems. It’s something we might end up doing, especially if it leaks, but right now, that’s not an option. President Hannister wants him taken down quietly, and he has some obscene faith in you. Especially after you solved the Blaisdell Consulting problem. Your team is the closest to this issue.”
I said, “Speaking of that, this whole cell is fronted by a Russian named Andrei, and there’s some guy named Sphinx who gave them the code to penetrate our systems. He’s an American.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“None. I didn’t get a chance to finish the interrogation because we were attacked by those damn Afghans. Rodavan didn’t know who Sphinx was, and Pushka was dead. But that Russian should be someone we could find because we have a real name instead of a code word.”
“Can he help stop this, or is he just the payroll? We don’t have time to mess around.”
I thought about that, and realized he was right. Getting the Russian would only be a linkage to finding Branko, the only guy who could stop this, and thus would be wasting time. I could find Branko without him.
I said, “Good point. I need Branko’s location.”
Blaine returned and said, “Creed’s got a geolocation. It’s in a town called Korcula. He has the bed-down location.”
Wolffe said, “That mean anything to you?”
“Yeah, it’s an island south of here. The quickest way to get there is by ferry out of Split, but we’ve missed all the ferries for today.” I looked at my watch and said, “I could drive to Orebic and try to catch the ferry there—they run a lot later—but I’m not sure I’d even make that one.”
“Can’t you fly there?”
“No airports. The closest one is right here in Split, where the Rock Star bird is sitting right now. People fly into Split and then take the ferry.”
“Looks like you’re driving. I’ll send you the information. Get on it.”
“So I’m not going to get a meal and a beer by the pool after a shoot-out and saving Blaisdell Consulting from compromise? Story of my life.”
“You get this guy and I’ll buy the beer.”
I said, “Will do.” I disconnected and found that Jennifer had changed back into her operational clothes, her bag by the door, having known where this was headed.
She said, “Saddle up?”
I sighed and said, “Yep. Get the team ready to move. I want to leave in twenty minutes.”
She pulled out her phone and I leaned back in the chair, saying, “One of these days, I’m going to get to use the hotel pool.”
Chapter 45
Dylan Hobbes sat on a bench in the entranceway of the West Wing, his “visitor/escort required” badge around his neck, feeling the sweat start to pour out from under his arms and the back of his neck, an uncontrollable stream he hated but could not control.
He was horrible at this game, and always had been, even with his time in the Tailored Access Organization of the NSA. Certain men did the actual reconnaissance pretending to be telephone repairmen or something else, but that wasn’t him. He was the technical component, and knew that anyone who looked at him pretending to be something he wasn’t would suspect him and his anxiety immediately. But he knew he had to put on a performance here. Pretend the news he was about to learn was a complete surprise.
Alexander Palmer approached and said, “Sorry to call you back in, but you’re the only expertise that’s been read on to this specific problem set. Follow me.”
He started walking, Hobbes behind him saying, “What is it? Is it Dark Star again? So soon? I thought you stopped them?”
Palmer turned around as he walked, saying, “So did we, but we have an issue. Let’s wait until we get inside the Oval.”
Hobbes nodded and Palmer did a little bit of a double take, saying, “You okay? You don’t look that great.”
Hobbes mopped his brow and said, “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I just sweat a lot.”
“Okay, no issues.” He opened the door to the Oval Office and announced Hobbes’s arrival. Hobbes entered and found the same four people around the table from the meeting the day before. The president, the secretary of defense, the director of the CIA, and the man he knew as George Wolffe.
He hesitated, not sure what to do, and President Hannister said, “Come grab a seat. I’m sure this call comes as a bit of a shock.”
He said, “Yes, sir, it did. As I understood it, you’d found the cell who’d hacked your computers and had solved the ransomware problem. I’m sorry I was little help.”
Yesterday, before his Trojan horse had triggered, he’d had one final meeting with those whom he called the “Secret Squirrels.” He still didn’t know what the men George Wolffe represented did, but after TAO, he knew it was something beyond the scope of top secret. To his delight, he’d found out the man who worked his code had been killed, and the other was no threat. He’d left, knowing his attack on Auriga would work, mainly because there was nobody to stop it now.
Well, almost nobody. There was still Branko, but Hobbes was pretty sure he was in the wind and on the run.
President Hannister said, “I hope you kept working on the encryption scheme, because we have another problem. You do that, right? As a part of your business?”
“Yes, sir, of course. My company has a database of over two dozen different ransomware codes, most just variations of Fancy Bear or some other encryption attack, but we haven’t gotten anywhere with the Dark Star code. It’s something new. What’s going on? I thought the cell was destroyed.”
President Hannister said, “So did we.” He went through the Auriga launch and the current problems, ending with, “They’re telling us we have about sixty hours. That’s it.”
Hobbes hoped his shocked face was suitably authentic. “This just happened? After the cell was taken down?”
“Yes. We’re still trying to figure out how, after we took out the primary cell.”
Hobbes realized now was the time to plant the seed. The destruction he wanted was designed to galvanize the nation against a common foe, and a simple bunch of criminals wouldn’t suffice. He said, “Are you sure it’s the same Dark Star and not someone stealing their name to deflect? After all, they’ve publicly said they wouldn’t ever attack something involving life support, like a hospital or power plant, and this is most definitely a life support risk.”
“No, we’re not sure. We do know that the key we used for our systems did not work, which leans into your theory. That’s why you’re here. We want you to take a look at this new code like you did for the last one.”
Hobbes, of course, did not say the code was running on his computer in his laboratory right this minute, or that he’d made sure that Pushka had changed the key precisely to prevent them from overriding the system from their other operation. He’d been tracking the attack since it had initiated, and he could turn it off in less time than this meeting took.
“Sir, yes, I can do that, but I’m telling you, this is a nation-state. No criminal gang would take such a high risk. This is an enemy of the United States flexing their muscles. I saw it all the time when I worked at the NSA and Cyber Command.”
President Hannister nodded and said, “We’re looking into that, which is why we want you to take a look at the code. Find us an origination point—and crack it if you can.”
“I’ll give it my best shot, but the timeline is not conducive to success. I’m just being honest here, but it typically takes my crew about two weeks to a month to crack a code. A single day is asking for too much. Why not just pay the ransom?”
Kerry Bostwick, the director of the CIA, said, “We tried. Nobody’s answering on the other end. The procedures they sent don’t go anywhere anymore—which is why I think it’s the same crew. We short-circuited their ability to operate, and now we have nobody to pay.”
Hobbes nodded, thinking, That won’t do. He said, “Perhaps, or perhaps it’s because they don’t really care about a ransom. Maybe it’s like I said: a nation-state bent on an attack.”
Nobody said anything to that, and he continued: “At least within a day I can give you an assessment of the origination, even if I can’t crack it. That might help.”
He hadn’t really decided whom he would pin the attack on yet. The most likely candidates were Iran and North Korea, both with robust hacking abilities, and both having used those skills against the United States.
Hannister said, “Evidence of a perpetrator with an origin point will help with the retaliation, but it’s not going to do anything to prevent a catastrophe.”
Hobbes liked those words. It would be just as he envisioned—a combination of the Challenger disaster and 9/11. And reunification of the United States’ national purpose.
Chapter 46
Branko was awakened at the crack of dawn by his phone bleating. He picked it up and saw a text from Nikita, complete with a map as an attachment picture.
Get up and meet me here. Follow the route I sent.
He rubbed his eyes, then texted, I just woke up.
I don’t give a shit. Get moving. Before the sun rises and people start coming out.
Okay, okay, let me get cleaned up and I’ll be on the way.
Be here in thirty minutes. And don’t deviate from that route.
Branko dropped the phone, a little aggravated that he had to put up with Nikita’s commands. But also a little scared.
He decided he’d take his sweet time showering and packing what little he had, mainly because the room he was in was outrageously expensive and opulent, and he hadn’t had any time to really enjoy it.
Called the “China Room,” it was on the third floor of a boutique apartment/hotel known as the Lesic Dimitri Palace, in the heart of old town Korcula. Built within a restored ancient stone building, it only had five rooms, all available for long-term rental, and all with a different worldly flavor to celebrate the esteemed explorer Marco Polo, who, according to local tradition, was from Korcula. The Arabia Room, the Venice Room, the India Room, all were distinctly different, and distinctly expensive to rent, but since it was on Andrei’s dime, Branko had paid for the China Room for close to a year.
Branko cleaned up, taking his time, and heard his phone ding again. He’d missed his thirty-minute window. He’d done it on purpose to show Nikita that he wasn’t Branko’s boss, but seeing the text asking where he was made him regret the decision. Nikita wasn’t a man to trifle with.
Maybe the delay wasn’t that smart.
He threw on his clothes, grabbed his backpack, and texted he was on the way. He looked at his watch, seeing it was just past six in the morning—way too early for him in his normal life. He finally looked at the map, confused by the directions.
The apartment was located at the end of the island, the water to the north across the street, and a maze of stone alleys to the south, but the location of the meet was at the supposed house of Marco Polo. It was now a museum and a stone’s throw from the apartment, a mere hundred meters away, but Nikita’s route took him away from the meet location, on a circuitous route that wound throughout the alleyways before coming back the way he’d left. He could cut his time to nothing if he just went straight to it, making his delay much less.
He decided to ignore the map and get there as quickly as he could to defuse any anger from Nikita. Nikita would have no way of knowing if he’d walked the ridiculous route around the old town.
He exited the lobby into an alley, looked left and right, saw no one, and cut away from the ocean shore of the island, moving deeper into the heart of the old town. He slipped through one alley, then another, reaching a small courtyard with an overhanging arch, a set of stone stairs leading up to the purported house of Marco Polo. He went to the stairs and saw that the place didn’t even open until 9 a.m. How is this going to work?
He mounted the stairs, went to the front door and thought about knocking, then heard footsteps behind him. Not wanting to look like he was breaking in, he refused to glance behind him, instead trying the knob, finding it unlocked. He turned it, pushed the door in a half inch, and it was jerked open, causing him to fall forward. Someone grabbed him by the hair and flung him into the room. He hit the floor, rolled upright, and saw Nikita in the doorway with a suppressed pistol, shooting down the stairwell into the alley. He saw gouges appear in the stone of the door frame, Nikita slam against the wall, then lean out again, returning fire.
Nikita paused, took a breath, glanced out, then slammed the door shut and said, “You fucking idiot. The time schedule is because we have a ferry to catch. The route was to see if you were followed. You were.”
Confused, he said, “What?”
Nikita snatched him by the hair again and said, “The route was to take out anyone following you. It’s why I designed it so early in the morning. You chose not to use it and were almost caught. Now we have no escape because I know there are men in the alley with weapons. Get the fuck up.”
Branko rose on unsteady feet and said, “Afghans? Were they Afghans?”
Running to a room at the back of the house, Nikita shouted, “No. One was white, the other black. They were coming for you, dumb-ass.”
Nikita returned to the main room and said, “What do you mean, Afghans?”
“They’ve tried to kill me before. It’s why I called Andrei. It’s why you’re here. They’re looking for the treasure.”
“Well, you’d better hope they don’t find it, because you’re dead if they do. Follow me.”
He went to the back of the house again, shoved a display case full of artifacts aside, and opened a window. He pulled out his phone, dialing it and saying, “Get out.”
“What?”
Nikita spoke into the phone for thirty seconds, hung up, and said, “Get your ass out onto that ledge, then drop to the ground. We’re going to have to run to beat them. They’re probably circling this place right now. This house cuts the alleys in half, but that won’t stop them for long.”
“I can’t do that!”
Nikita put the barrel of his pistol into Branko’s face and said, “You get the fuck out of this window or I’m going to split your head open.”
Branko flinched, then crawled out of the window onto a ledge that was barely an inch wide. Nikita said, “Jump. Get off the ledge. We need to go.”
Branko looked below him, saw the stone fifteen feet away, closed his eyes, and dropped, hitting hard enough to slam his skull into the ground. He rolled over holding his head and Nikita dropped like a cat next to him, jerking him to his feet and saying, “Let’s go. Stick close to me. We have maybe a minute to get out of the kill box, and if you cause me to fail, I’ll slaughter you myself.”
They took off running, Nikita dragging him through one alley after another, Branko barely maintaining his balance on the narrow stairway, until they reached the road that circled the island next to the water. Nikita jerked Branko to the left, running north up the blacktop, until they reached the upper end of the town, an ancient bastion that used to guard the harbor towering over them. Nikita glanced around, then ran to two Land Rovers parked in a loading zone, one full of men and the other with only a driver. He opened the door to the empty one and said, “Get your ass in.”
Branko did, and the vehicle left at a high rate of speed, exiting the old town and entering a highway leading to the ferry port. Branko put his hand to the bruise forming on his forehead and said, “What was that all about?”
Nikita leaned around from the front and said, “It’s about trying to save your life. When I give you instructions, you follow them. Who were those men?”
“I have no idea.”
“How did they find you?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I honestly don’t. Nobody knew about that apartment. Nobody. Not even my men.”
“We’re going to another spot and see what happens. You pay attention to what I say, and you might live to see the sun set.”
Chapter 47
By the time we’d finished the reconnaissance of the bed-down site it was after midnight, and it looked like we were going to spend another night without sleep. It had taken us close to three hours to drive from Split to Orebic, and we’d missed the last vehicle ferry to the island. There was one more passenger-only ferry, forcing us to leave the vehicles in long-term parking and hoof it on foot. Not the best thing, but there was nothing I could do about it.
Like all great commando formations, we took a couple of Ubers to the old town of Korcula and started hunting for the phone’s location. I’d found out immediately that the center of old town Korcula was more cloistered than Diocletian’s Palace in Split, with a single paved road circling the village next to the coast and a rat maze of tiny alleys and stairs—lots of stairs. If I’d learned anything at all about Croatia, it was this: if you’re walking, you’re climbing stairs.
I was hoping for another single-entrance Vrbo like we’d hit in Split, but it wasn’t to be. The bed-down was some fancy small hotel crammed between two alleys right on the ring road, with only five rooms, which meant trying to penetrate the lobby and capture Branko was a nonstarter. The phone was still inside, but the geolocation feature had a plus or minus of anywhere from thirty to a hundred feet, meaning we couldn’t precisely pinpoint which room he was in, and no way did I want to crack more than one.
