One Child (21 page)

Chapter

36

Moscow, Russia

The water in the labyrinth of tunnels under Moscow was a few degrees above freezing. The sun never penetrated the layers of concrete and dirt above, where people walked and cars drove. The damp air cut through their clothes and chilled Trey and his team to the bone. Locating the electrical lines necessary to cut the power to Luzhniki Stadium was turning out to be quite the ordeal.

Petr was wearing knee-high waterproof boots as he slogged through ankle-deep water carrying a new set of plans for the sewer system. It was early Saturday morning and the constant rumble from the cars and trucks overhead was considerably less than usual. Behind him, Trey held two flashlights, one illuminating the drawings and the other focused on the twisting section of tunnel ahead of them.

"Is the new set better?" Trey asked.

Alexi had secured a new set of drawings of the underground sewer system that showed the original tunnels and many of the changes up until 2004. On the same set were the electrical conduits, which usually ran immediately adjacent to the sewers, with openings in the concrete at specific intervals to access the junction boxes. No new plans had been drawn inside the last six years, and if they had, they were not available.

Petr nodded. "A bit. Alexi was very resourceful to get his hands on these, but even with them it's difficult. Many of the things we're looking at are not the same as the drawings indicate."

"It's frustrating," Trey agreed, keeping the lights pointed exactly where Petr needed them.

"This way," the stocky Russian said, motioning to a narrow tunnel that forked sharply to the left.

The section of tunnel they entered was crumbling in on itself. Chunks of old bricks and mortar, slippery with algae and slime, had fallen into the water, making their footing unstable and dangerous. The tunnel was too narrow for them to walk side-by-side, and Trey passed one of the lights to Petr, who alternated between checking the plans, his handheld GPS and their position in the tunnel. Trey, also dressed in waterproof boots to stay dry, followed behind, rubbing his hands and his chest in a vain attempt to keep warm. They reached a fork in the tunnel and Petr chose the right track. The width was even narrower and his broad shoulders touched both sides as they waded through the stagnant water. Thirty meters into what was beginning to look like a dead end, Petr turned to Trey and shone the light on his own face. He was smiling.

"Look what I found," he said. He angled the light so it illuminated the tunnel ceiling a couple of meters ahead of them. A newer metal conduit, sandwiched amongst two dozen other older ones, disappeared into a large junction box.

"Is that what you need?" Trey asked.

"I'd say it is. I'll know in a minute, but I think this is one of the places I can splice in and kill the power."

He removed some equipment from a harness on his chest and went to work on the box. Trey kept the flashlight focused as Petr removed the cover. Inside was a mass of wires and Trey was suddenly very glad he had chosen the Russian for the job. He had no idea what any of them were for.

"This is a pull box," Petr said as he set about determining whether the wires inside the newer conduit were the incoming service to the stadium.

"What's a pull box?" Trey asked.

"You can only pull so much wire through a conduit before friction and weight make it impossible. Then you need to cut the conduit and start fresh. When you do that, you need to encase the conduit in a junction box."

"So the incoming wire was never cut," Trey said.

"No, but because it's only 600 volts, the thickness of the wire should be manageable."

It took almost an hour for Petr to determine that he had located the right conduit. He flagged several of the wires with bits of fluorescent tape and closed the box. He noted the exact location by jotting GPS coordinates on a pad of paper, which he then carefully tucked back in his shirt pocket. He replaced the cover on the box and tightened the screws.

"Why did you use two different colors of tape to mark the wires?" Trey asked.

"We need to activate the contactors remotely, but the wireless technology doesn't exist to turn off circuits greater than twenty amps. These ones are three hundred. So what I'm going to do is hardwire in the switch activator and use a remote to turn on its power. I used red tape to identify the power source into the stadium and green for the line that will run between the remote and the contactor. It's complicated, but it'll work."

"I hope so."

Petr put away his tools and said, "Okay, we only need to find five more of these and a backdoor line for Maelle so she can tap into the city computers," he said.

"When are you going to splice in the contactors?" Trey asked.

"Probably two or three days before the concert. Any sooner is too early and I don't want to shut down the power to the stadium while the roadies are setting up U2's stage."

"Yes, of course. Good thinking."

"We're in a bit of a race," Petr said, motioning for Trey to turn around and start moving back toward the main tunnel.

Trey did the simple math as they trudged back through the water. They were eleven days from the concert, so if Petr wanted to cut into the systems three days in advance, that only gave them eight days to do the groundwork. The odds of succeeding were still in their favor, but he was aware that the closer they got to the concert without locating all the junction boxes, the greater the chances of failure. He envisioned the meeting with
Fleming
, telling the billionaire that the million dollars he had spent on the team was wasted. That they had failed to cut the power and disgrace Dimitri
Volstov
. That was one meeting he did
not
want to have.

But Trey wasn't sure
Fleming
's wrath was his biggest problem. The hack into his file on the CIA computer three days ago was front and center on his mind. Who had risked getting caught and possibly going to jail in order to see his history with the agency? He was fortunate Anne Sommer had taken the time to call and inform him of the situation. There was nothing deadlier than getting blindsided by something you never expected.

He wracked his brain, asking himself again why the intrusion had happened, but came up with nothing more than it being tied in somehow with Bill
Fleming
and the U2 job. Something was brewing - somewhere. He needed to find out what, but he was at a horrible disadvantage. He was out of his element in Moscow, without any support network. As a foreigner, his actions were already under a certain degree of scrutiny by the authorities. He couldn't get to the right people and start asking questions. Not without risking someone listening in on unsecured phone lines or e-mails.

Fleming
was aware of the problem. He was watching things from New York. Maybe he would solve the problem and that would be that. Maybe. Then again, maybe not. It might blow up in his face and people might die. That would be unfortunate, but such was the nature of his work.

Chapter

37

Soho, New York

Carson
woke on Saturday morning with a splitting headache, which might have something to do with the bottle of red wine he'd had with dinner. He swallowed two extra-strength Advil and locked himself in the shower.

The water invigorated him and the Advil kicked in. By the time he was finished showering he felt better. Two or three on a scale of ten, but much better than a zero. He fixed breakfast for
Nicki
and delivered it to her in bed. She swallowed a handful of pills to help her digest the food and picked at her eggs and toast.

"You seem a bit stronger,"
Carson
said. He finished his breakfast and pushed his plate to the other side of the bed. He traced the shape of her leg through the duvet.

She smiled. "I feel okay. Definitely stronger, but I still don't feel much like eating."

"Curse of CF,"
Carson
sighed. She could eat whatever she wanted and not gain a pound. Trouble was, eating had become too much work and she dreaded food. "But you certainly don't mind drinking coffee."

"Love coffee," she grinned. "And if you keep making it, I'll stick around." She pushed her plate back and asked, "You seem a bit stressed. Are things okay at the office?"

"Things are fine," he lied. The terseness in
Fleming
's voice kept replaying as he remembered the telephone conversation from yesterday afternoon. Where he had told the owner of
Platinus Investments
about the meltdown. That his computers were responsible for grossly inflating the value of five solidly performing stocks. It had been every bit the nightmare
Carson
thought it would be. Until
Fleming
asked if the Security and Exchange Commission knew Platinus was the guilty party. When he found out the entire series of transactions had happened in a black pool, he relaxed a bit. He was still angry, though. "The boss arrived back from Cabo late last night. Everyone is on their toes."

"Do you have to go in today?" she asked.

He shrugged. "If he calls. Otherwise, probably not." That was total bullshit. He knew
Fleming
would be calling. Soon. And he would be going in to explain how the algorithm went rogue. He kissed her and took her plate. "I'll be in the living room looking over a few things from work."

"See you in a bit," she said.

Carson
sat in the chair by the open window and listened for the shower to start. Everything was so difficult for
Nicki
. Showering. Eating. Tying her shoes. The CF was more than life altering. It was life consuming. He heard the water and settled back in the chair with his coffee and the file folder containing the e-mails from
Fleming
's private computer.

There were four from Trey Miller and three from the man named Jorge. He had taken a quick look at all of them on Thursday, the day after he and Alicia had downloaded them from
Fleming
's computer, but with the algorithm running amok on Friday morning he hadn't had a chance to pull them out again. He set the ones from Jorge aside and concentrated on the four from the ex-CIA operative.

Miller kept his communiques short and to the point. The first one, sent on July 30
th
, appeared to do with banking.
Bahamas account # 973-4462-8812
. It seemed reasonable that a billionaire would have incoming e-mails that dealt with banking details.
Fleming
must have been expecting the e-mail, as there was no indication of what was expected once
Fleming
had the account number. Which meant Miller and
Fleming
had talked beforehand. The second one, dated August 1
st
, was not so straightforward.

Assembling team. P today. M tomorrow. Worried about Lindstrom.

Why did Miller need a team? And who was Lindstrom? No first name, simply Lindstrom. No gender, no location, no indication of why Miller was concerned.
Carson
set the document aside, picked up his laptop and Googled
Lindstrom
. There were 6.2 million results and he scrolled through the first couple of pages and gave up. Without more to go on, he would never figure out who or what Miller was referring to. He went on to the other e-mails, the next one originating on August 3
rd
.

Have Maelle. Meeting Alexi and Petr now. Should be in business by later today.

More names. None of which where familiar. Maelle, Alexi and Petr - they sounded more Eastern European than American. Again, no surprise that an extremely wealthy man would be involved in international business. But what sort of business? None of it gave any sort of a clue. He compared the second and third e-mails. Perhaps P was Petr and M was Maelle. But that didn't make sense. Miller's August 3
rd
e-mail indicated that he already had Maelle on the team and had yet to meet with Petr. In the e-mail from two days prior, he said
P today
and
M tomorrow
. That didn't work.
Carson
went on to the last one.

Received your fee. Team in place. Time frames are tight but should be okay. Crash inevitable.

This one made sense. He was receiving a fee, which explained the information for the Bahamian bank account sent on July 30
th
. The team he talked about was now in place. And they were under some sort of time crunch. His eyes focused on the last two words. Crash inevitable. The two words that had initially captured his attention.

What were they crashing? Was it the stock market or something else? Why would
Fleming
want to crash the market? What was the financier's upside to a market meltdown? The more he ran the question through his mind, the less it made sense. After ten minutes of playing out every scenario he could envision, he knew there was no solid reason for
Fleming
to want a market crash. So it was something else. His brain was whirling and he finally set the list from Miller aside and picked up the one from Jorge. This one was equally as interesting.

The first incoming e-mail was dated July 28
th
.
Account number for payment. 8863-742-9915. Half now, half on delivery
.
Carson
scanned it a couple of times. It was pretty straightforward.
Fleming
owed this Jorge character money for some reason and the man was providing a bank account for the transfer. Simple. What was the money owed for? That was the million-dollar question.

The second e-mail, sent two days later, on July 30
th
, was much more sinister.

W crated in G, then leaving for KAF
.

He felt strongly the reference to KAF was Kandahar Airfield. This - was bothersome. He knew that
Fleming
owned a number of companies outside
Platinus Investments
, and that one of them supplied weapons to the US military. There was no chance that
Fleming
would be depositing cash directly into someone's account if the deal was legit and being brokered through the company. If KAF stood for what he thought it did, then
Fleming
was up to something. The word
crated
was suggestive of weapons. Perhaps that's what the W stood for. Weapons.
Carson
pulled out a pen and jotted the line down on a blank piece of paper.

Weapons crated in G, then leaving for Kandahar Airfield.

Unfortunately, he thought, this chain of e-mails was beginning to make sense. He scanned the final e-mail, sent on August 4
th
.
Crates at KAF. Submit invoice.
Again, it didn't take a rocket scientist to piece together what was happening.
Fleming
was shipping weapons to Afghanistan under the radar. Why he was doing it was also pretty simple. Money.

The phone rang and he checked the caller ID. It came as no surprise that it was
Fleming
calling from his office. The time had come to head in and face the man himself. To explain how the algorithm had taken off and driven five stocks into the ozone. And to wonder what the man sitting across the desk from him was up to. He picked up the phone.

"Good morning, Mr.
Fleming
," he said.