Seven Unholy Days (12 page)

20

9:32 AM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

HART COMPLEX

              A myriad of cleverly concealed satellite dishes around the grounds of the complex collected and routed information from around the world into the bunker and down to Hart’s private quarters. He sat in the darkened room, scanning through screen after screen of financial data that poured in from Europe, Asia, and Africa.

He planned the events of the previous night for years and it worked to perfection. Plan the trade and trade the plan. Through the use of dozens of cash-laden shell institutions sca
ttered around the world, he had single-handedly triggered a worldwide state of financial meltdown. His sale of hundreds of thousands of shares each of different key corporations started a slide in stock prices that would live in infamy.

He didn’t actually own the shares before selling them, i
nstead using a common trading technique known as selling short. A seller relies on his financial strength to borrow shares to sell, then waits for the price to fall and buys shares on the open market at a lower price. Those shares are then used to pay back the borrowed shares and he reaps the difference between the price he sold at and the lower price at which he bought the shares to cover his obligation.

Through the use of this technique, Abraham Hart had booked just north of thirty billion dollars in profits the night b
efore. More importantly, his crisis, and thereby the scope of his power, had surged beyond the borders of the United States. Others had spent years babbling about a New World Order. He had just installed one, and he was only getting started.

He smiled as he thought about how powerless the mighty United States was against him. His sources–he had them ev
erywhere–were certain that those in charge of the investigation were essentially clueless as to who he was or what lay ahead. The plan was proceeding. Nothing could stop it. No one could stop it. They were in a frenzy, playing catch-up while the clock ticked ever closer to the most awesome display of power in the history of this pathetic world.

9:35 AM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

YELLOW CREEK

“Abdul, I need you to pull the system logs from Monday a
fternoon, the first grid failures,” I said.

I fired up my laptop and went online through the Yellow Creek network. From a commercial standpoint the Internet was dead but the Fox News site was operational and I hoped that they’d have the information I needed. Even though they had gone to a bare-bones text format for the sake of speed, the site was still slow.

Tark, Rowe, and Stocky Potella had followed us into the control room. “What are you looking for?” Rowe said.

“I have a hunch about a pattern. I need a few minutes online to verify it.”

Abdul rattled away on his keyboard and I heard the printer start cranking out logs. Four clicks and six minutes into the surf, I hit pay dirt. They had a simple time line of the crisis events—

“You have urgent mail,” my laptop blared. I clicked into my email program and saw a lone message in the inbox.
Its subject line paralyzed me:

YOUR FATHER IS NOT LOOKING WELL.

“Sweet Jesus,” Tark said. Rowe and Potella came over and looked on over my shoulder. After about ten seconds I started breathing again and opened the email:

Return-Path:

Delivered-To: x7ijljAweRRv -deckerdigital:[email protected]

X-Envelope-To: [email protected]

X-Originating-IP: [66.156.171.40]

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Change

My Dearest Mr. Decker,

I too have a father who is but a relic of what he once was, much the same as the unfortunate soul who lies in Alpine Village Suite 321 day after silent day. Maybe it would be best for all concerned should he be released from the tentacles of vegetative captivity in which you keep him bound.

I have decided to implement a new rule for our ongoing challenge. You will no longer be allowed to conduct investigation via the Internet. I have provided you with more clues than you deserve. Use them.

I spun my chair around to face Rowe and Potella. “I want protection for my father.”

“Exactly where is Alpine Village?” Rowe said after reading the email.

“Gold Coast, Oregon. Your people won’t have any trouble finding it.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He picked up a telephone and punched in a series of numbers. Moments later he was barking instru
ctions at someone.

Julie Reynolds mouthed a silent “sorry” from her perch in the corner of the room. Even Potella had an unnatural look on his face that could have been construed as at least a pretense of compassion. I rubbed my temples in a vain attempt to chase away the vision of someone holding a pillow over Dad’s face as he lay in his bed, unable to fight or even scream. I finally turned back around to my notebook and started typing.

“What are you doing there, Decker?” Potella said. I kept typing.

Rowe hung up the phone. “San Francisco field office is co
ntacting the local authorities in Gold Coast.”

“I appreciate it. Let me know the moment you’ve heard back from them.” I shut the notebook and walked outside.

I thought it couldn’t be any hotter outside than it was in the control room. I was wrong. It had to be over a hundred degrees with not the slightest whiff of a breeze, the humidity so thick you could literally feel the air. There was a walking track along the edge of the waterway, and I made my way toward it, trying to clear my head and come up with a plan.

I smelled the pipe before I heard him. “Matthew, wait up.” I stopped and waited for Tark to catch up with me.

“Potella’s raising Cain in there. Wanted to look at your computer to see what you were typing but Rowe backed him down.”

“It’s nice of Rowe to look out for me, but it’s not necessary. My machine will ask for a twelve-character password when the lid is raised. But I’ll tell you this,” I said, emphasizing each word with a stab of my finger in the air, “I have had about enough of Potella.”

“I want you to know I’m praying for you.”

“You know something, Tark? When I showed up here, I thought you were an asshole. I was wrong. I’ve really come to like you over the past few days, which is something I don’t do very often. With that said, I’ll ask you again to lay off the preaching. If you think you’re going to win me over and bring me back into the fold, you’re mistaken. I can’t stop you from wasting your time, but use it on somebody else. I have enough going on in the real world right now.”

“You need God’s help, Matthew. Right now. I feel it, really strong. The forces of evil are lining up against you and nobody, I mean nobody, but God will be able to save you.”

I rolled my eyes and regretted it when they squarely caught the sun. I had no time for this. Just as I drew a breath to lay into him, he reached over and squeezed me on the shoulder—the way my father used to do when I was having a hard time—and I lost the urge. The stress was piling up but there was no point in taking it out on someone trying to help, no matter how mi
sguided they were. “Thanks for your concern. I just need to clear my head.”

“What do you plan to do about Potella?”

“I think he’s dirty and before long I’m going to turn the tables on him.

“What makes you think that?”

“He dresses like he makes a half-million a year, while he really makes fifty grand. He and his young wife drive two hundred thousand dollars worth of vehicles. The man reeks.”

“How’d you find all that out?”

“I tapped his Bureau file. He’s also the one who brought that gang of snot-nosed hoodlums in as supposed experts. Between all that and this arms-trading nonsense he’s trying to hold over my head, I’ve had it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I desperately want to take him down but I need to watch him a little longer and see where he might lead us. It’s like 69 knew the moment I went online.”

“You think Potella’s feeding information to him?”

“He has a laptop set up in that side office, and it only takes a minute to send an email.”

Tark thought it through. “Possible, but how can you know for sure?”

“I just installed a packet sniffer on the network. I’ll be able to analyze any traffic going in or out of here now.”

“Good idea. Keep me posted and let me know if I can help.”

“Will do.”

Rowe approached me as soon as we walked back inside. “Gold Coast P.D. confirms that one Nathaniel Decker is safe and sound in room three-twenty-one. There’s been no suspicious activity around the nursing home, but they’re keeping an eye on the place until we can get a pair of agents up there from Frisco.”

I closed my eyes. “I appreciate that more than you know.”

“Not a problem,” he said as he patted me on the back. “We’re all in this together.”

Back at my station, I forwarded the latest email to FBI headquarters in Washington and their academy at Quantico, then re-read each of the emails. 69 claimed to have provided clues. Where were they?

21

11:11 AM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

YELLOW CREEK

              I coded a modification to the packet sniffer, dropped it into a hidden folder, and activated it. It would monitor network traffic and discreetly forward all emails into or out of Potella’s machine to me.

He was hunkered down in the side office, pecking at the computer, so I took advantage of his absence from the control room and went online. Although I was confident my machine was secure, I still found myself half-expecting another chasti
sing email to come sliding in. Outside the United States, the Internet was fully functional, so I found a solid UUNET international backbone and tiptoed my way into Geneva’s registry of banks, looking for more information on my alleged clandestine Swiss bank account.

Suisse Banc Geneve was a major conglomerate, headqua
rtered quite naturally in Geneva, with branches all over Europe. I went to their web site and searched for an account under my Social Security number. YOUR SEARCH RETURNED 0 RESULTS. SEARCH BY ACCOUNT NUMBER? I had no account number. Deeper access was needed. I cracked my knuckles and went to work.

Their security was impressive, but eighteen minutes later I was roaming the cyber-corridors of the financial giant. There were ninety-eight accountholders named Decker, three with a first initial of M. First up was Madeline, then Martin, then ... Matthew? I assured myself that the world had plenty Matthew Decker’s but my pulse ignored that assertion, racing ahead of my fingers and hammering my temples as I worked my way into the account.

The first account screen showed the current balance, $1,243,552.23, and a list of the last five transactions. Five deposits, the most recent one being three months old, the oldest about a year. I was almost certain the amounts and dates matched those on the document Potella had shown me. It still meant nothing. There was obviously another Matthew Decker making out okay financially.

One level deeper I found the option I was looking for: VIEW/EDIT PERSONAL DETAILS. I selected it and hit the E
NTER key. As the screen came into view, my pulse stopped hammering the inside of my skull because my heart stopped beating. The room around me receded. Abdul’s supersonic typing was a distant clacking in an otherwise silent world. I was looking at the impossible, a picture of myself. It couldn’t be, but it was. I had no Suisse Banc Geneve account, yet there it was.

A rapidly blinking line of text at the top of my screen yanked me back into reality with a jolt. WARNING. INTRUSION D
ETECTED. EXIT IMMEDIATELY. Damn! How long had that been there? My machine was cloaked but the protective countermeasures in place on this system were a far cry from Hotmail. I reached for the F12 key, which was programmed to lay down a trail of electronic chaff to cover my tracks, then sever the network connection, but my finger froze. I desperately needed more information but once I left, re-entry would be far too risky. My fingers blurred as I slammed the keys, printing screens as I went.

The warning text was blinking faster, a signal that the trace was closing in. As soon as the last critical screen loaded and b
efore I had a chance to view it, I hit the print command and immediately followed up with an F12. The warning text changed. ANALYZING RISK. After blinking for what seemed like a month, it changed again. LIKELIHOOD OF IDENTIFICATION BY REMOTE SYSTEM: 51%. I cleared the message and rubbed my eyes. I could see that room full of reporters. Mr. Decker, is it true that you have been charged with a felony violation of the International Cyber-Protection Treaty? Mr. Decker, how will you spend your days in prison? Mr. Decker, have you ever been someone’s bitch? Mr. Decker?

“Matt Decker?” I jumped as Abdul tapped me on the shou
lder.

“What?” I shook my head, trying to clear the fog.

“I am not knowing what you have printed but Potella is coming this way at us.”

I sprang from the chair and jogged to the laser printer at the end of the console, scooping up the sheaf of papers from its output tray a half-second before Potella ambled past. He glared at me and craned his tree trunk neck trying to see the papers but I folded the stack over on itself before his beady eyes could get a lock.

“One day, Decker. One day,” he said through a crooked expression that was half smile and half sneer.

Sooner than he thought.

3:48 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

I walked to the lounge for a stretch and found Tark there. After leaning out the door to verify no one was within earshot, he said, “Anything else on Potella?”

I shook my head. “I’m going to draw him out soon, though. Stay sharp.”

“You’re talking to a tack, Matthew.” He flashed a foot-wide smile and winked.

A BREAKING NEWS logo flashed across the television screen and I turned the volume up.

A fresh newscaster: “We’re about to go live to the Oval O
ffice, where the President will make a brief statement. Stand by,” he said.

Moments later the screen cut to President Stanson. “My fe
llow Americans, I come to you with a heavy heart as we all mourn the grievous loss of life that our nation has suffered. I want to assure each of you that we are working around the clock to end this crisis, and we will succeed.

“Until that time, however, we must maintain order and calm. For that reason, I have regrettably decided to declare a state of martial law. The brave men and women of our military are already preparing to keep the peace, and it is likely that you will soon see them arriving in your area. I urge each American to give them your full cooperation, as they are there for the good of all, not to rule over you but to protect you.

“To the cowards responsible, let me say to you that we will chase you to the ends of the earth and deliver justice unto you. You have wounded us, but the United States of America will not be defeated.

“Finally, I want to ask those of you who are able to see or hear this message to pass it on to your nearby friends and neighbors who don’t have access to television or radio. By working together we will be stronger. May God bless each of you, and may God bless America.”

The television went back to the newscaster, who started rattling off a list of rules that were to be followed under martial law, including sunset curfews and rationing of food and medical supplies. I walked back to the control room, wondering how Norman was making out.

The printouts from the Suisse Banc Geneve account were damning, especially the screen detailing the origin of the depo
sits. All came from overseas shell corporations, all acting as covers for a variety of terrorist organizations that the United States government would not deem acceptable business partners. The front companies were so poorly disguised that a competent college student could have connected the dots. It was an obvious frame but on its face the evidence was enough to make me look like a traitor and even if I was exonerated in court, my days as a government contractor—or as a contractor for any major entity—would be finished. The situation needed to be debunked and defused in the worst way.

Within the space of two hours the Potella email sniffer tri
ggered five hits, all correspondence between him and Tiffany, aka his “Snuggle Queen.” He loved her, missed her, worshiped her, would die for her, would kill for her, would walk ten miles barefoot in a snowstorm for her, and couldn’t wait to get home and ravish her in all her buxom beauty. That was the first message. Numbers two, three, and four were more of the same. Snuggle Queen managed one brief reply to his four messages, in which she opined that the Internet was broken and somebody should damn well fix it. She also asked if he knew when the next payment would arrive because she needed a new iPad.