Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? (17 page)

Buzzworm
could hear it every day.
The sound of money. It flowed like raw liquid power through the pipes and the veins of the intelligence community.

He’d heard once from a senior chief of staff that
CIA
stood for
cash in advance
. The image of a case officer in some grubby desert hole dropping neat piles of plastic wrapped one hundred dollar bills onto the dirt floor while guerillas watched entranced, was a thing of legend in the agency. That kind of power was hard to imagine. A poor man, a desperate tribe, even a rag tag army would do anything for that kind of cash. Anything.

In the early days, as an intern, BW had tried to imagine what that dizzying kind of control would feel like. He couldn’t then. But he guessed it would easily dwarf what a hacker might feel shutting down a system or making a couple of files disappear.

BW often wondered where the money came from and how it was handled. He had been successfully commandeering the CIA’s technology and systems for years. Could he use the same techniques to secretly divert even a fraction of the millions that the agency distributed to agents all over the globe every year?

BW learned early on that a case officer within the CIA could work their way quickly up to a monthly budget of one hundred thousand discretionary dollars a month. Delivered as non-sequential U.S. twenty dollar bills. A program manager, a more senior position, can access a million. BW knew the cash came by order from the Federal Reserve, and he knew that Marines were generally tasked with pickups and deliveries. It was a lot of cash that came in every month. Tens of millions. Senior department people like
Chiefs of Station
would then hand it off to others in the field. Naturally, there were no receipts.

BW had some basic experience with handling CIA funds. He learned that the IT department in Division 213 had its own favored status, so he had begun by asking for funds to pay third party contractors who were working on enhanced security. Sometimes the agency didn’t want it known which high-tech companies they were partnering with — that was a little too transparent for their comfort. So BW had his first experience handing off bundles of cash to wide-eyed contractors.

At first, the amounts were small and closely monitored, payments he dished out to some small local companies. He wondered at first how the CIA monitored the cash, but he soon learned that it wasn’t that complicated. Payments could be tracked through bank accounts and tax receipts. No one expected all of the cash to be accounted for, but BW knew that his bank account was likely under scrutiny as well. A significant deposit in a personal account would trigger an audit and that would be the end of a lucrative career.

The first cash payments BW had made to Xavier were painful for him. He was forced to use his personal savings — he had no other choice. He thought of it as seed money. He sensed that over time he would get it back or maybe he wouldn’t even care at some point. Taking the money out of his savings account that first time had made him sick to his stomach. It had taken a good chunk of his career to save up about forty thousand dollars. Now it was disappearing in months, going to a man who didn’t value money at all. A paid mercenary who cared little about BW’s aspirations. But paying for a stranger to do his bidding had an electrifying effect. Like a new drug. He felt like a man who had just learned how to fly.

Over the next few months, BW learned more about the CIA process for transferring cash. There were other ways to move quiet money around. He discovered that the CIA had foreign bank accounts in places like Panama City. The reason was simple. These banks would happily take large volumes of cash without asking questions and transfer them overseas. Staffers or NOCs were in charge of setting these accounts up under corporate names. They would receive large amounts of cash, deposit the money and have the funds automatically transferred.

The rumors about the Panama City banks were correct. On his first try, BW was able to crack the flimsy security of one of the banks mentioned in a Washington Post article. It was surprisingly easy. Another distraction.
Why hack a secure U.S. bank when you could pop open a third world bank as easy as lifting a pack of gum in a corner convenience store?
He looked for American sounding company name accounts and found several. He wasn’t surprised. What gave away the farm was the deposit record, which BW hacked in a matter of minutes. Big routine deposits in round numbers were a good match to what BW was looking for. There were two in this bank. He couldn’t be absolutely certain the money was CIA, it could just as easily be mob drug money or political payoffs. But there was no way for the bank to track this back to BW, so it hardly mattered. Money was money. They weren’t going to call the FBI.

BW made a quick transfer out of one of the accounts in the amount of exactly one million dollars. Big round numbers always looked suspicious to him, but he figured, why change the rules?

That money was then transferred to a Swiss bank account he had set up using another minor agent in Europe. That cost $25,000. Again, the power of little bits of cash was enormous. Sure, the guy could screw him and take the money, but he was well known by the CIA. He’d be easy to find if he tried something that stupid. The agent, who was Belgian, knew the order came from the CIA, but he could never trace this personally back to BW.

From the Swiss account, he had the money moved to a Hong Kong Bank in London into five separate business accounts, also set up by a CIA contact. Again, no connection to BW. He could then use standard money transfer from there.

Once BW had real money, his plans expanded. There were so many delicious ways he could fuck up the status quo now. The first thing he did was to solidify his relationship with the mysterious Mr. Xavier by throwing more cash at him, and at the Washington Police Department. BW knew that at some point in the future he might run afoul of the local law and he needed friends there.

One day, BW made a connection with a local drug runner that he found in his travels through the massive CIA database. He was able to call him using a secure Skype line. Even high school hackers knew that Skype phone calls were untraceable, if configured carefully.

The drug runner answered his cell phone sounding scared. That made sense because BW had changed the caller ID to Washington Vice. He asked the petty crook if he knew of any cops with problems. BW was looking for a cop with a drug habit he could leverage. The loser came up with some names of beat cops and a sergeant that were known cocaine buyers. BW wrote the names down. But the runner had another suggestion. How about a cop who had a big gambling problem? Ironically, a Vice Detective. BW felt like he had won the lottery. He was almost delirious with this newfound opportunity. A vice detective? The gods had smiled on him that day.

Over the next few years, BW learned a number of valuable lessons. He was essentially playing CIA case officer without leaving the comfort of his office chair. He had communications with dozens of free agents and insiders, people in the drug trade, illegal weapons, and amateur terrorist cells. He used a number of aliases, none written down or recorded anywhere were they could come back to haunt him. Patience was his weapon then. He had time then.

But not anymore.

Roger was hunched over
in the back seat of Wishnowsky’s car, his cuffs biting into his wrists. He felt like a man about to face the gallows.

They had turned onto the freeway, heading west, suburbs racing by. Roger had no idea where they were or where they were heading. In any case, an uncertain future. He knew
Buzzworm
planted the incriminating photos. But how could he prove that? All he could think about were the dates. Every file on a computer is date stamped. Were the pictures on his laptop when he arrived in Washington? Or were they just uploaded. And would that matter? Wishnowsky looked like a cop ready to retire, made hard and cynical by decades of dealing with the Washington scum. Did working in Vice do that to everyone? Did they all look wrung out and hollow?

Without warning, Wishnowsky turned off the freeway and headed down a graveled industrial back road. Roger sat up, his heart going wild in his chest. Where were they headed? Was Wishnowsky going to take him to some deserted spot and blow him away? Was this the new final solution for sexual predators?

Within a mile or two of the off ramp the car slowed and Wishnowsky pulled over to the shoulder. He removed his seat belt and slid open a section of the Plexiglas window separating the front and back. He patiently lit a roll-your-own cigarette and took a deep drag, his cheeks sinking in. Then he looked at Roger’s pale face in the rearview mirror.

“How’s it feel?”

Roger stared back blankly, hardly knowing where this was going. A smoke break on the way to the lockup?

“How does what feel?” asked Roger.

“Being fucked over like that? Watching your life slide down the crapper?”

“I’m innocent …”started Roger, realizing how hackneyed it sounded as soon as the words left his lips. And how many times had that phrase echoed in the back seat of this car?

Wishnowsky squinted through cigarette smoke. ”I’ve seen this a million times, son. Either you have a fucked up brain. Or fucked up luck. Doesn’t matter. Either way, you’ll soon be going on display in the world’s biggest freak show.”

Roger twisted his body, trying to find a position that didn’t cut off the circulation to his arms. “Someone put those pictures on my laptop, detective. Once someone looks at those files and knows what kind of work I’ve been doing for the CIA, this will all go away.”

Wishnowsky hacked painfully. “The only thing that’s going away is your life as you know it. Nobody cares if you’re innocent. For the rest of your life, you’ll be the famous pervert. Everywhere you go they’ll be nailing up posters with your mug on it.”

Roger felt sick. Wishnowsky seemed to be enjoying himself, his yellow teeth forming a cruel smile behind the Plexiglas shield that separated them. But there was something else nagging at Roger, like a voice on a radio muffled by distance. How did Wishnowsky get to the CIA so quickly? Was he sitting in the parking lot waiting when security called? If so, could this cop be somehow connected to
Buzzworm
?

Roger sat up and put his face close to the shield, an idea popping into his desperate thoughts. “By the way, Detective, David Xavier says hello.” Roger watched for a reaction. It was a wild shot. He saw Wishnowsky’s eyes shift slightly. He might be a career cop steeped in all of the tricks of the trade, but Roger would bet his life that the name just rang a bell somewhere. After all Wishnowsky was the cop who had entered Xavier’s name in the crime database years ago. He had entered the name in the notes section. Cops generally didn’t waste their time entering notes not required by procedures. He must have done it for a reason. Roger just couldn’t guess what that reason might be. A bread crumb trail? A flash of conscientiousness?

Roger continued. “FYI, Washington Homicide knows about that connection too. That you and
Buzzworm
and the CIA and Xavier and Scammel are all mixed up in this together. They’re probably waiting for you at the station right now. Picking me up so soon after that bogus search at 213 was the real giveaway. You fell right into their trap.”

Wishnowsky had turned in his seat, his back to Roger now. He continued to smoke, saying nothing, his shoulders slouched, looking out the front windshield. Roger wasn’t getting the reaction he expected.

“Is Xavier a CIA agent?” Roger asked, suspecting as much. He had heard about NOC agents working for intelligence. Xavier seemed to fit the profile. That he played a lawyer as part of his act seemed to make sense too.

Wishnowsky coughed and then dropped his head back into the headrest. He blew smoke up at the ceiling. “Strange. Why do they want you out of the CIA so badly?”

“I was brought in to get rid of their virus,” Roger answered. He waited for more, but the detective just sat in his seat, the cigarette burning down to his fingers. “But I’m not so sure anymore if it is a virus. It might just be a CIA insider. I guess they don’t want me poking around there anymore. I might find something.”

“So they planted kiddy porn on your laptop.” Wishnowsky didn’t ask it as a question. It seemed to Roger more like a statement, like he was putting things together in his head.

“And gave you notice ahead of time,” Roger added. There was no reaction. “What did Xavier threaten you with?” Roger added.

Wishnowsky took another drag on the unfiltered cigarette. “Ha. You’d think they couldn’t threaten someone like me. What can you take away from a guy with the big C?” He rolled down the driver’s window and flicked out what was left of his cigarette butt then rolled it back up. “But I have a daughter that just graduated Law from Harvard. That’s enough I guess.”

“Expensive university for a cop.”

“Yeah. But not if you sell your soul to the devil.”

Roger sat back. He realized his mistake. Wishnowsky’s coolness shocked him. He realized now that he may be cornering a dangerous animal, a doomed cop. Not a great spot to be in. What choices did Wishnowsky have now? “So what do we do?”

“Excellent question, Mr. Strange. We seem to be caught between that rock and a hard place they talk about all the time. Not a good place to be. Any ideas?”

“You could come clean.”

Wishnowsky shook his head slightly from side to side, as if every movement was a chore for him. “And give those spooks a reason to go after my daughter? How dumb do you think I am?”

“Just let me go then. Your secret is safe with me.”

Wishnowsky laughed, his head still resting on the seat. “I pulled off the freeway back there because I was going to offer you a deal, Strange. You were to get out of town and save me the trouble of writing you up. That way I could accomplish my mission without ruining your life. I was going to give you a
get out of jail free
card. It’s a little late for that now though, don’t you think?”

“There has to be a way out of this. For both of us.”

“Well, let’s see.” Wishnowsky leaned forward and popped open the glove box. He pulled out a gun clipped to the lid. Roger felt every nerve in his body fire. “Xavier is a serious dude. So I can’t be arrested. They will go after my daughter and I’m not risking that. And Xavier knows that too.” The cop lifted the gun and tapped the shield with the barrel. Roger jumped at the sound. “Then there’s you. You’re a real problem. If I do the dirty work for Xavier, make you disappear, maybe he’ll help me hide out. Somewhere warm where I can spend my last days drinking Pina Coladas on a sandy beach somewhere. That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Roger waited, every muscle tensed. Wishnowsky had moved the gun to the open space in the divider shield. He couldn’t believe his life was about to end in the backseat of a police cruiser. Wishnowsky turned though, and sagged into the front seat again. Nothing was said for a long time, the only sound, the roar of a passenger jet above them on approach to Dulles Airport. It seemed to take forever for the sound to dissipate.

Wishnowsky coughed, then finally spoke with a ragged voice. “I refused chemo, you know.” Roger didn’t know how to respond. He tried to relax, take whatever was about to come calmly, but he couldn’t stop shaking. Wishnowsky continued, “Everyone thinks I’m in treatment. But I refused. There’s no point. I’m not going to go through that.” Wishnowsky slowly raised his right hand, placing the gun to his temple. Roger noticed that his hand was shaking slightly. “I’m not going to spend my last days in some holding tank spitting up blood. And I fucking hate Pina Coladas.”

Before Roger could react or say anything, Wishnowsky pulled the trigger. Roger jumped at both the noise of the gunshot and the shattering glass of the driver’s side window. The cops body slumped down, his head, or at least what remained of it, now hanging partially out of the destroyed window frame.