Unallocated Space: A Thriller (Sam Flatt Book 1) (19 page)

S
PACE

D
aria Bodrova

D
aria was
at her computer by 7:00 a.m., as always. She was the first one in the room, as always, ready to do her job and do it well. Not because she liked it. She hated it. Not because she was well paid for it. She was not. Not even because they might kill her if she didn't do it. They might. No, it was none of these things. There was only one reason: Anya.

Daria had looked back a thousand times and wondered why it didn't occur to her that it was strange to be required to take so many tests of her computer skills, at a dating agency. No matter now. Daria could not lose Anya to these animals, and their words had been plain: Do as she was told and her sister would be returned to her safely. Make trouble, and Anya would die.

Every morning since she arrived in the United States, she left the house she shared with all the other girls, took a bus to the casino, made her way to the back of the building and down into the tunnel that eventually delivered her here, to her computer. The man Dmitry had watched over them as they worked, slapped them on the head if he decided they weren't working hard enough, screamed for no reason. Until two or three weeks ago, when Dmitry left the room with a piggish man named Mikail, and never came back. A day or two after that, the man with the dead eyes had come. He did not slap heads or scream. He only looked at you. And that was worse. Much worse.

After a few days with Dead Eyes, a new man arrived, a supposed American called Alex. This man Alex, no matter what he said or how good he spoke his English, was Slavic. Dead Eyes announced that Alex would be their new supervisor. After that, Dead Eyes was there sometimes, and sometimes he was not. Alex was there every morning at 8:00 a.m. and stayed until they left at the end of the day. He was nicer than Dmitry, and of course nicer than Dead Eyes, but how nice could he really be when he did the bidding of such criminals? Or had they taken someone precious to him, like with Anya?

Alex had noticed that Daria was there every day when he arrived, and he assigned her a chore of looking at the camera recordings from the night before, as soon as she arrived each morning. It was boring, because all the cameras ever recorded were empty cement hallways, but it wasn't difficult work. She logged on to the camera computer, ready to scan through the recordings and get it over with. What she found as soon as she connected to the computer, however, was a box flashing an error message.

W
ARNING
- EXPECTED FILE RANGES NOT FOUND!

\VIDSTOR1\CAM-A\ 12:00:00AM.VID - 01:29:59AM.VID

\VIDSTOR1\CAM-B\ 12:00:00AM.VID - 01:29:59AM.VID

\VIDSTOR1\CAM-C\ 12:00:00AM.VID - 01:29:59AM.VID

D
aria went
to the file directories and looked through the file listings. The error message was accurate. The video files containing the recordings from midnight to 1:29:59 a.m. were not there. Unusual, but not surprising. Computers failed all the time. She would mention it to Alex when he arrived. After clearing the error message, she played the rest of the recordings at ten times normal speed and, as always, saw nothing. Then she moved on to the second step of her morning bore.

In addition to the mounted cameras, each computer screen in the room contained a built-in webcam. Daria suspected the webcams were there to allow their overlords to watch them while they worked, but she had no proof of this. These cameras also had a night mode: Each webcam would activate whenever its computer entered the screensaver mode. While active, if the camera saw movement, it captured a still photo once per minute until the movement stopped, and saved those photos to the system drive on the camera computer. Stupid. No one was here at night in this little cement prison, so what was there to photograph?

Still, she would do as she was told, whatever she was told. For Anya. She opened the file directory where no photos were ever stored, and her breath caught in her throat. There were many photos! Of a man! With her heart beating strong and fast, she began to look through the photos.

They were all taken on the same computer, one near the door. The time stamps began at 12:23 a.m. and ended at 1:10 a.m. There were also a few others at random times, with the last one at 1:19 a.m. The man in the photos was wearing a dark shirt and a dark casino cap that was pulled low on his brow, keeping his features in shadow. The webcams were not good ones and the photos were dark and of poor quality. But there was one photo that clearly showed his face. It had been taken at 1:04 a.m. and the man was leaning back, away from the computer, stretching his arms.

The look on his face was one of satisfaction, as if he had just accomplished something important. The corners of his mouth were turned up just a little, almost a smile. His eyes were obviously looking at the computer screen, not quite in line with the camera. He had long, dark eyelashes, and despite the almost-smile on his lips, Daria thought there was something a little sad about his eyes. One thing she knew for sure: He was very handsome.

F
BI - NEW YORK

S
asha Maslov

S
asha knew
when the FBI woman walked into the room that something was wrong. Her face was wrong. He said, "Miss Agent Meyer, you do not to have Max, do you?"

She shook her head. "We're working on that, but you're safe here."

"Safe?" he said. "From Max, when Max is not inside the prison? You funny woman. Zuyev, you hear this funny woman?"

Zuyev did not smile. Sasha thought maybe Zuyev had never smiled in his life. Maybe not capable. Maybe something wrong with muscles in his face.

Chrissy said, "What happened? You said you had him?"

"Do any of you know anything about him having diplomatic status?" Meyer said.

Chrissy looked at Sasha. Zuyev looked at no one.

"Max is not the diplomat of anything, but he can say to be whatever he want to be in Ukraine. You understand me?"

"No," Meyer said. "I don't."

Sasha stood and paced, exasperated. "Politicians. All will do what Max says. He, how you to say in English, he owns them. Now you understand this?"

"Yes, got it."

Chrissy said, "What now?"

"You stay here," Meyer said. "This building is secure. We're working on the diplomatic issue. I just wanted you all to hear this from me." She turned and left.

When the door closed, Sasha looked at Zuyev. "We go now?"

Zuyev nodded. "We die here if we do not."

S
PACE

I
awoke
with my daughter on my mind. I lay in bed a couple minutes to let the sleep fog clear, then picked up my phone and texted her:

H
ey
, sweetie. Just thinking about you. Love you.

I
ordered
room service and had them deliver it in a bag so I could take it to my workroom with me. There I sipped coffee and ate the delicious ham, egg, and cheese croissant while working through my email. That done, I started the billing clock and got to work on the case.

First I made a stealthy connection to the bunker computer I'd worked on the night before and checked for activity. It didn't look to be in use yet. I couldn't do much, because the last thing I needed was to set off an alarm down there, but I didn't need to do much. I planted a tiny script, a mini-app of sorts, that would slowly and carefully propagate the spy app throughout the computers in the bunker. It paid to still have access to an arsenal of the U.S. government's swankiest software. No, I shouldn't still have that access all these years later, but it's not my fault that some dumbass had left my username and password active on an FTP server that held some of the coolest tech on the planet, is it? Nope.

The spy app was configured to deliver its reports to me every day at midnight. When midnight rolled around tonight, I'd know how complete the propagation was by the number of reports I received.

My phone buzzed a stacatto pattern, ten quick hits, and bounced lightly on the conference table. Text message. I picked it up and saw it was from Ally:
hey dad, can u talk 2 mom abt this school thing? rather come live in the grt outdoors w/u n johnny. love u2! af

I smiled and answered:
You hate bugs and snakes too much. Study!

S
PACE

D
aria Bodrova

D
aria scrolled
through the photos of the man while Alex leaned on his knees and looked over her shoulder. When she got to the one that showed his face, she stopped. She also heard Alex take a quick breath when that photo appeared. Did he know him? She sure would not ask, but that breath was very curious.

"Show me the rest," he said.

She scrolled through the rest of them and turned to look at him. His forehead was wrinkled, his face cloudy.

"Go back to the clear one," he said.

She did.

"Print thirty copies of that one."

She nodded.

Alex stood and said in a loud, commanding voice, "Listen up!" All the keyboards in the room went silent and chairs squeaked as the workers turned to see him.

Daria wondered how one could listen up or down. So many things about English she did not understand yet.

"In a few minutes, Daria will give each of you a picture of a man. I want to know if any of you have ever seen him. Ever. I also want everybody to be alert for anything strange about your computers. Anything at all. We have been breached."

Alex paused, and the room was so quiet that Daria wondered if everyone had stopped breathing.

Then he went on. "I want each of you to stop what you're doing and immediately start a network capture on your machine. Get everything. No filters. I want it all." Alex looked at his watch. “At noon, save the captures to the server. Then do it again at end of day. Clear?"

Daria looked around and saw some confused faces. She said, "Mr. Alex, I think maybe not all understand."

"I thought everyone here spoke English?"

"Yes, but some not so well. Still learning details."

"Do you understand what I want?" he said.

"Yes."

"Explain it to them so they do, too."

Daria stood and relayed his instructions in Russian, then asked them to raise their hands if they understood exactly what they were to do. Every hand went up. She looked at Alex and nodded. "It is done."

"Good. Back to work, everybody!" he said, then walked away, pulling his mobile from his pocket as he went.

M
EMJET EXECUTIVE AIR SERVICE

MEMPHIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

M
ax Sultanovich

R
ed-faced
, the thick blue vein above his eyebrow pulsing, Max stood on the top step of the fold-down stairway of his jet and loosed a stream of Ukrainian invective into the phone. When he looked as if his head might actually burst, he spiked the phone into the asphalt at the foot of the stairs. He descended, covered the space between the plane and the building in ten long strides, and burst through the door into the lounge of the executive aircraft facility.

Businessmen tending laptops and mobiles from plush leather chairs and sofas looked up as if they were so disturbed. Max stopped, looked around a moment, started to dare them all to fuck with him, changed his mind. He continued through the room and out the other side. Down the corridor. Into the pilots' lounge, where his two bastards sat talking and joking with other white-shirted bastards.

"Come!" he said. "We will take off right now."

The two pilots looked at each other, their monkey mouths open. Looked back to him. One said, "We still have no clearance to leave, sir."

Max took in a long, slow breath through his nostrils, switched to Russian, and with great calm said,
"Nemedlenno podnimayte svoy zad, cherez pyatnadtsat' minut moy samolyot dolzhen letet' nad zemlyoy, inache cherez pyatnadtsat' dney vy i vashy sem'i okazhetes' pod ney." You get off your ass and get my plane off the ground in fifteen minutes, or within fifteen days you and your families will be
under
the ground.

Now his bastards were on their feet. He followed them through the building, outside, then pounded up the stairs into his plane. The pilots readied the outside, pulling the wheel blocks and the covers from the front of the engines.

Two minutes later, the pilots were in their seats and fingering their switches and knobs.

T
he MemJet ramp
supervisor was on the far side of the tarmac when he saw the pilots of RF-46923, a beautiful Dassault Falcon, pulling the covers from the engines and unchocking the wheels. What the hell? Any such prep, whether for parking, storage, or departure, had to be done by MemJet personnel. That was the rule, it wasn't negotiable, and every pilot who used their facility was made aware of it with great perspicuity. Plus, this aircraft had an FAA hold on it.

As he broke into a trot toward the Falcon, the supervisor cupped his hands and shouted, "Gentlemen? You can't do that."

Neither pilot showed any sign of having heard him, though he knew they had. The trot became a run and he shouted again. Ignored again. He was still fifty feet away and both pilots were now aboard the aircraft, stowing the fold-down stairs and preparing to close the door. Realizing he wasn't going to reach the plane in time, he stopped and pulled the handheld radio from its holster, keyed to transmit, and said in an urgent tone, "Jet control, jet ramp. Jet control, jet ramp."

RADIO: "Ramp, control. I see it. Falcon four-six-niner-two-three, this is jet control. You are not unauthorized to move, sir. I repeat, you are not authorized to move. Power down your engines now, and exit the aircraft. Repeat, power down immediately and exit the aircraft."

The supervisor heard the Falcon's engines spooling up and saw the plane begin to move. The plane was parked so that they could move straight ahead; no need for a pushback. Was this really happening?

RADIO: "Ground control, this is MemJet control. We are declaring an emergency. We have an unauthorized departure in progress by a foreign aircraft that is subject to an FAA hold. Repeat, unauthorized departure in progress by on-hold aircraft."

RADIO: "MemJet control, ground control, roger on unauthorized departure. Identify aircraft, please."

RADIO: "Ground, MemJet. The airplane is a Falcon jet, tail number romeo-foxtrot-four-six-niner-two-three."

RADIO: "MemJet, ground control. Confirm that this is a romeo-foxtrot aircraft?"

RADIO: "Ground, MemJet. Confirmed. Falcon, romeo-foxtrot-four-six-niner-two-three."

RADIO: "Roger that, MemJet, we have it from here."

The supervisor adjusted the frequency on the radio so he could monitor all the frequencies that were about to be in use here.

RADIO: "Falcon romeo-foxtrot-four-six-niner-two-three, this is Memphis ground control. You are not authorized to taxi, repeat, you are not authorized to taxi. Stop the aircraft and power down your engines immediately, or more aggressive measures will be implemented."

Five seconds passed without reply from the Falcon. Ten. Fifteen.

RADIO: "Falcon niner-two-three, you are ordered to stop the aircraft and power down your engines immediately. Acknowledge."

The Falcon had made it to a taxiway and was picking up speed. Baker estimated it at 50 MPH and it was no more than a half mile from making a left turn onto runway 18C. Sirens were sounding now from every direction as emergency vehicles moved toward the jet. The most notable of those was a modified Armored Personnel Carrier that had turned onto the southern end of the runway, the 36C end. The bulky vehicle, covered in armored plates, had a pointed metal extension on the front that looked like a brush guard on steroids. It was this addition that turned the vehicle into a battering ram designed for this exact purpose.

Now the APC was the only thing that had any chance of stopping the Falcon, because the jet had made the turn onto the runway. Its engines screamed as the pilots pushed them to full throttle, and the nimble aircraft was accelerating quickly toward rotation speed as the APC came toward it head-on, also picking up speed. Baker watched the surreal confrontation unfold. It was close, but not enough. The gleaming white Falcon's nose rose and the aircraft left the ground, passing at least ten feet above the APC as it climbed into the hot summer sky.