Rogue Code (20 page)

WASHINGTON, D.C.

2:39
P.M.

Robert Alshon stepped from the black SUV and stood on the sidewalk, slipping on a pair of sunglasses against the surprisingly bright fall afternoon sun. He felt more than a little self-conscious wearing a blue Windbreaker over his white shirt and dark tie. Printed across the back in white letters were the words:
SEC ENFORCEMENT DIVISION
. In a second line was the word:
POLICE
.

There’d been a time when that wasn’t necessary. He recalled his early raids when he and his then boss had arrived at an office in business suits, displaying the subpoena to the receptionist, meeting briefly with the in-house counsel where they served it, followed by a quick face-to-face with the target, who was promptly told by his attorney to say nothing and cooperate. Alshon’s team had then methodically gathered records, typically with the assistance of the company employees. It had all been very polite, cordial, and respectful. Such investigations had taken years and rarely resulted in a jail sentence. That was the way of it, frustrating as he often found the outcome.

But over time, federal law enforcement had changed, and he was glad of it. The old ways had been soft and tolerant. With the Patriot Act and the acts of domestic terrorism no one took chances these days. They couldn’t afford to even when serving a subpoena that looked as harmless as this one, not that Alshon was inclined to go easy. He believed that the execution of warrants set the stage for any investigation and were the primary vehicle for brow beating the accused into admissions of guilt.

He surveyed the quiet, affluent street. He wasn’t fooled a minute. For all he knew, this Jeff Aiken had gone off his rocker and booby-trapped his house and office. It had happened before; it would again. He also didn’t know if anyone was inside, ready to act out a final desperate scene of murder and suicide. No, it wasn’t likely but then it did when it happened.

So Robert Alshon stood on the sidewalk with considerable satisfaction and watched the U.S. Marshal SWAT team execute the subpoena with the precision of a military operation. They wore imposing black combat fatigues, black helmets with bulletproof visors, bulletproof jackets, and brandished assault rifles.

“Not like the old days, is it?” Hubert Griffin said, walking up beside him. A neat, spare man, he’d disdained wearing the Windbreaker. Griffin was the U.S. Attorney who’d walked the subpoena through the court that morning while Alshon lined up the SWAT team. This was not the first time they’d worked together, and the tension was apparent.

“You’re reading my mind.”

“I see we’re drawing a crowd.”

Alshon spotted several neighbors standing just outside their front doors, arms crossed or holding a cell phone to an ear or using it to film them, all watching intently. That should be illegal, in his view. Law enforcement had every right to conduct its affairs without public scrutiny. That was one reason he preferred late-night/early-morning raids, but time worked against him in this case.

His attention was drawn by shouting from the inside of the town house where Aiken lived and worked. “Clear!” was repeated in different voices.

Alshon accepted that he’d learn little today. What he wanted was on the computers and for that he needed Susan Flores. She knew what to look for. Speed was essential at this point. Aiken would be tipped off at any time if experience meant anything. That was why he’d acted so quickly with the subpoena. It was a lesson he’d learned the hard way.

The muscled U.S. Marshal in charge of the SWAT team came out, carrying his helmet in one hand, his weapon in the other. “No one home, Mr. Alshon,” he said. “We’re checking for bombs right now. We’ll be finished in a few minutes and you can send your people in.”

Alshon looked back at the van parked behind the SUV he’d arrived in and gestured with two fingers. The side door immediately popped open and a team of five stepped out, ready to go. He’d not previously worked with them as they worked out of the D.C. office. He’d told them his expectations and the urgency he’d conveyed was apparent in their demeanor.

Ten minutes later, the U.S. Marshal in charge gave the all clear. His deputies exited the house, entered two SUVs and one van, and drove off, as the search team entered. “Shall we?” Griffin said.

Inside was surprisingly neat and orderly given that the target was a bachelor. The town house was carefully divided between living and work space. The team was already at work in the well-illuminated office, which had been the living room. Within minutes, the computers were being carried off to the vehicles along with exterior drives, discs, thumb drives, anything that could hold information or serve as a backup. There was no need for Alshon to give instructions, tell them to take everything. They knew that. The place would be stripped bare before they left.

It was true he didn’t really need it all. Taking the suspect’s personal effects, his clothing and intimate items was intended to set the tone of the investigation. And possessing them placed Alshon in a strong psychological position.

“I made a call this morning,” Griffin said tentatively, moving delicately to the side to let a young woman wheeling a file cabinet pass. “This Aiken has an excellent reputation. Have you looked into his background yet?”

“No. There’s been no time. The Exchange’s IT report is pretty conclusive on its face,” he said. “This is almost a formality. I’d just like to find something linking him to the brokerage account or find evidence of other, similar acts.”

“You know he used to be with the Company.”

“Of course.” The antipathy between the FBI and CIA was well known in government, and while Alshon might now be with the SEC, he’d started with the Bureau.

“I’m told he’s primarily responsible for uncovering Operation Pandora. You know about it?” Griffin asked. Alshon shook his head. “Those Saudi brothers in Paris who tried to bring down the Internet and planted destructive viruses in computers. They were all set to execute on the same date. There were a number of deaths.”

“That’s not really my area these days. I might have read something somewhere.”

“It was hushed up so the full extent of the effort isn’t common knowledge. They didn’t want the public to know how close those two came to causing really serious harm.” Griffin paused, then said, “You remember that alert on integrity issues with your computer content?”

“Which one?”

“About two years ago. It was the one that said there was a virus that could change the content of documents in your computer, told you to confirm facts of any doc you received by e-mail before acting on them.”

“That one. Yes, I remember it. It’s been a pain, I can tell you.”

“Well, I understand this Aiken guy discovered it and alerted us.”

Alshon hesitated, then said, “Even if all that’s true, he wouldn’t be the first patriot to decide to make a buck illegally.”

“Yes. You have a point I suppose.”

Alshon grunted. “He probably wrote the code, then claimed to find it so he could play the hero.”

“I’m just saying that this guy’s done his country a service. We should look carefully at our evidence.”

Alshon eyed him steadily. “I intend to do just that and don’t need to be lectured about my responsibilities. I’ve got a chartered flight to take all this stuff to my office. My staff will be up all night working on it. I’ll have him before this is finished.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

“Sir, there’s a security system,” the search team leader said to Alshon. He pointed to two discreet cameras.

Alshon stared at them as he processed the information and considered ordering the system disabled. “Leave it. We’re executing a subpoena, not burglarizing his house.” And the harm was done. The security company would likely alert Aiken, probably by some automated system. He’d know at once what was going on. Well, he had what he came for and there was nothing to be done about that now.

“Yes sir. We’re moving upstairs.”

“Fine. I’ll wait here.” Alshon checked his watch. Everything was by the book so far. If it stayed that way, he’d be back in his office in New York before ten. Then, he thought, then I’ll nail the bastard.

28

LENOX HILL HOSPITAL

EAST SEVENTY-SEVENTH STREET

NEW YORK CITY

3:06
P.M.

From somewhere down a long corridor, Jeff could hear his name. It was muffled, distant, like when he’d been in school and a faraway friend was calling out to him.

“Jeff. Jeff. You awake, big guy?”

Reality struck like a solid wall, or a speeding car. One moment Jeff was interacting with the gossamer existence beyond himself, now his world was filled with bright colors and sharp sounds. He heard the insistent beeping of an electronic machine. He could smell odors, not like home, like a hospital. He opened his eyes.

A man was in front of him—two of them, actually—but they were just alike, moving together though speaking with a single voice. “It’s me. Frank. Are you tracking yet? You came around a bit ago, mumbled something that made no sense, then drifted back into la-la land. The nurse said they want you awake now, so wake up.”

Jeff blinked his eyes, then blinked again as he tried to clear his vision. The two images merged and there was one Frank, blurry but a single mass now. “Water.” His voice sounded old, as old as he felt.

“Oh, right. I should have thought of that. I always come out of a coma parched. Here you go.” He lifted the water to Jeff’s lips.

Jeff drank, water never tasting so good. He finished the cup.

“Easy. I’ll give you more in a bit. How much do you remember?”

Jeff thought. “I was running. I think. Maybe I was planning on running. I’m not sure.”

“You were in Central Park, running. What happened then?”

“I don’t know. I had a stroke? I fell? Got mugged?”

“Now you’re getting there. You were attacked. How’s that for New York luck?”

“Attacked?”

“Yeah. Witnesses told the cops a man jumped out of the brush and attacked you with a heavy stick or club. He just missed. You jumped the railing and bolted onto the street. The cops think you were going to a cop car parked there but a car hit you on the way.”

“A car? I don’t remember that. Or any man.”

“The driver was late for something and was pushing forty. He just winged you but you were thrown in the air and banged your head really hard when you made a rough landing. They were worried for a bit and want to run some more tests on you now, but the scans and such say you’re okay.”

“My whole side hurts, and my arm.”

“Frankly, you’re lucky to be alive. It was a really close call. Your forearm’s not broken but it’s going to hurt like hell for a bit. Are you seeing double?”

“Not now. Before.”

Frank beamed. “That’s excellent.” He poured more water and held it to Jeff’s lips.

This time Jeff didn’t finish the glass.

“You know,” Frank said as he put the glass down, “this is no accident. I mean, I guess the car hitting you was sort of an accident but not the attack. Mugging a runner? You didn’t have anything on you worth stealing. No. Someone was gunning for you. You mug people out on the streets near an alley. Whoever it was wanted you.”

It took a moment for his thoughts to gel; then Jeff said, “You think it’s connected to what we’re doing now? That doesn’t seem likely.”

Frank shrugged. “We’re both Company so obviously it could be related to that. It’s never entirely out of my mind. But you’ve been gone quite a while, plus you worked in the dungeon and were not a case officer. But unless you’ve got enemies you’ve never mentioned, my best guess is that it’s related to our current work. When we last talked, you told me you think the code is related to trades. Do you have any idea how much is involved?”

Jeff thought about it. “No. But it could be a lot.”

“If it’s in the Exchange’s software, it will be a lot, but it doesn’t have to be that much to make it worthwhile killing someone.”

A trim nurse wearing too much makeup entered just then, and Frank moved away from the bed to give her room. She smiled at Jeff and made friendly talk as she checked the machines beside him. “No sign of bleeding on the MRI,” she said with a smile. “And that’s really good news. I’ll bet you’re going to have a headache for a few days, though. You took a hard knock.”

“Anything I should worry about?” Jeff asked.

“Not a thing, honey. You just relax. The doctor will be around in a bit. He wants to run more tests. You can ask him questions.” She moved his pillow a little, then adjusted the sheet.

“I don’t want to wear you out,” Frank said when it was just the two of them again.

“I’ve felt better.”

“The report’s finished from my end. I caught Stenton in the hallway earlier, and told him what happened. Maybe I should wrap this up tomorrow, unless you want to put it off until after you get out of here.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Frankly, he acted like he didn’t believe me.”

“That we penetrated? Or that we found a rogue code?”

“Either one.”

“That seems odd.” Frank shrugged again. “Go ahead and give him your report, tell him I’ll follow up with him after I’m out and feeling better, see if there is anything else they want us to do.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, Jeff. He’s not the only one acting funny there. It’s like all of a sudden I’m not welcome. Oh, your stuff’s in the top drawer over here. You can check messages when you feel up to it. Your phone’s been vibrating almost nonstop.”

Jeff reached over, the motion taking great effort, pulled the drawer open, and took out the cell phone. His home security company had been calling every five minutes for over an hour. “Hang on,” he said. He brought up the automated message, and it went to video. There were men and women in his town house in Georgetown. They were cleaning out the place. “Jeezus,” he said. “Someone’s broken into my house.” He handed the phone to Frank.

After a minute, Frank said, “Yeah, look at the jackets. SEC. I think that’s what they call executing a search warrant.”