Unforgettable - eARC (4 page)

Chapter Four

After seven years as a CIA officer, I had found my own ways of doing things. That’s why, two weeks after delivering cockroaches in London, I was delivering pizzas in Barcelona just before one in the morning—that, plus the fact that if there was one thing the CIA hated more than not being able to break other people’s codes, it was other people being able to break ours.

The headquarters of InterQuan loomed ahead of me, silhouetted against the clouds reflecting the nighttime lights of the city. InterQuan was Spain’s leading competitor in the race to develop practical quantum computers, and according to a CIA source the company’s engineers had just finished a prototype chip capable of—among other nifty things—breaking the encryption used for the secure lines to U.S. embassies worldwide.

My orders were to steal that prototype. I’d decided on a nighttime approach because cracking a safe during the building’s working hours was more conspicuous.

Beyond the building’s glass doors, the security guard sat at his desk in the lobby. Since I was carrying four pizza boxes, I hit the intercom button with my elbow and said, “Pizza.” My Spanish might be lousy, but pizza was pizza.

I was working on the assumption that InterQuan, like many tech companies, fueled its operations with junk food and caffeine. If for some reason InterQuan was staffed entirely with health-food nuts, I would have to try a different approach.

The door lock buzzed, so I pushed my way into the lobby. I marched over to the guard’s desk, where I deposited the pizzas. The warm scent of melted cheese escaped from the top box.
“Sesenta y dos euros,”
I said.

The guard said something to me in rapid-fire Spanish.

With a shrug, I said,
“No hablo bien. Americano.”

“Who order pizzas?” asked the guard. His English was slightly better than my Spanish.

“I don’t know. They just give me an address, I deliver the pizzas, and I collect the money.” I held out my palm and tapped it for emphasis.

The guard—Carlos, according to his name tag—scratched the back of his neck. “I not order, I not pay.”

“Call upstairs,” I said, holding my thumb and pinkie out next to my head in the internationally recognized hand sign for making a phone call. Then, pretending to remember something, I added, “Seventh floor.
Piso siete.
”

According to the CIA’s source, that’s where the prototype was. From outside the building, I hadn’t seen any lights on that floor, and the parking lot was mostly deserted, but someone might still be working late up there.

Carlos got on his walkie-talkie and spoke with another guard. After some back-and-forth, he said, “Nobody there.”

That made things easier. Just because witnesses won’t remember me when I’m gone doesn’t mean I want witnesses who could interfere while I’m stealing something.

Now I just had to shake Carlos. Muttering angrily to myself, I picked up the pizzas and turned as if to leave, then stopped, turned back and put the pizzas down.
“¿Dónde está el baño?”
I asked.

That was the most useful phrase in the world, for me at least. I could ask where the bathroom was in fifteen different languages.

Carlos pointed to a door off to one side. I went in, let the door close behind me, and started to count.

While I waited for Carlos the guard to forget me and find himself puzzled by the sudden appearance of four pizzas on his desk, I stripped off the pizza delivery uniform shirt I wore over my black long-sleeved tee and threw it in the trash. I pulled a black ski mask and gloves out of my pants pockets and put them on, checking in the mirror to make sure most of my skin was covered.

I didn’t need the stereotypical cat burglar costume to hide my identity—my talent took care of that. But just because a guard wouldn’t remember seeing me after I’d lost him didn’t mean I wanted him to see me in the first place—they could be quite a nuisance in my line of work.

Underneath my shirt I wore one of the latest CIA-issue bulletproof vests, made from a flexible nanofiber that stiffened instantly to distribute a high-speed impact. My ski mask was made of the same stuff.

Bullets don’t forget.

I cracked the door open and peeked out. The dilemma of the magically appearing pizzas had not stumped Carlos for long—he was helping himself to a slice. I hoped he would enjoy it, as partial payment for all the trouble he would be in after I stole the prototype. Guards like him made my job easier.

After a spate of well-publicized industrial espionage cases in which companies’ own security cameras were hacked in order to steal the information, most high-tech firms had moved back to the lower tech of human security guards. But Carlos was evidence that such a strategy had its drawbacks—for the company, not for me.

Opening the door wider, I slipped out of the bathroom. Intent on his pizza, Carlos did not look my way as I walked briskly but quietly toward the elevators. I pushed the up button and then flattened myself against a wall, putting a potted plant in the line of sight from Carlos to me.

One of the elevators dinged and opened its doors. Carlos, with cheese stringing from his mouth to the slice he held, turned to stare at the empty elevator.

I waited for him to look away, but he didn’t. Instead, still staring in my general direction, he put down the slice of pizza.

I couldn’t afford to let him get close, or else I might have to start over from scratch. So I lunged through the elevator doors and hit the button for the seventh floor.

For a moment, Carlos looked at me wide-eyed, open mouth still full of mozzarella. Then he leapt from his chair and ran toward me. Even though I knew better, I punched the 7 button several times in rapid succession as if that would make the doors close faster.

With a
ding
, the doors slid shut, leaving Carlos too far away to do anything but yell at me to stop.

Like bathrooms, elevators were my friends.

Between the third and fourth floors, I pulled out the emergency stop knob. Waiting here for a minute would allow Carlos to forget me. Even if he had alerted the other guards about an intruder, their memories of the conversation would change to something like an invitation to share the pizza.

After I restarted the elevator, I continued to the seventh floor. No guards greeted me as the doors opened. Following the route I’d memorized, I found my way to the lab where the prototype was being tested. The sign on the door read
Criptografía Cuántica
—Quantum Cryptography—so it looked like the CIA’s source was right on the money.

He was right about the door lock, too: a standard numeric keypad. I wondered if the people who worked in the lab appreciated the irony of protecting a high-powered cryptography chip with a six-digit entry code.

Still, the standard set of lockpicks I had in one of the pockets of my black cargo pants would not work on a keypad, and neither would the nonstandard, carbon composite spare set of lockpicks sewn into the waistband of my pants. And the source had not given us an entry code. Maybe he didn’t have one, or maybe he worried that the code could be traced back to him. I could drill the lock, but out here in the corridor the sound might attract attention. Instead, I pulled out another piece of cutting-edge CIA technology: the quantum key.

Essentially, this was a very weak, primitive version of the prototype I’d been sent to steal. A six-digit entry code presented one million possibilities. Even if there were a hundred employees with individual codes to access the lab, the chances of guessing a correct code at random would be only one in ten thousand. With a mandatory ten-second delay between entry attempts, it would take more than a day to try ten thousand codes.

I removed the cover from the keypad and connected the quantum key to the wiring. According to the technogeek at Langley who had taught me how to use it, the quantum key would find a correct code as soon as I turned it on. “Imagine that the quantum key creates a million parallel universes,” he had said, “and the key tries a different combination in each one. And then all the universes cancel each other out except for one where a correct code was entered. That’s not really what the quantum key does, but it’s kind of like that. The prototype you’re going to steal does the same thing, except it creates like eighteen billion billion parallel universes.”

A moment after I slid the quantum key’s switch to on, a green LED lit up on the key. The door lock buzzed, and I entered the lab.

Despite being flush with cash from Spanish venture capitalists, InterQuan still had some of the cost-saving instincts of a startup. The wall safe at the back of the room was tough enough to keep out a junkie looking for cash—barely. It was not the kind of safe I would have used to store technology worth millions. However, weak as the safe was, it made the quantum key useless, because its lock used old-fashioned metal keys.

I got out my drill and lockpicks and set to work.

* * *

The lock clicked, and I pulled the safe open. There were several circuit boards inside. I identified the one with the prototype chip based on a cell phone camera photo the source had taken. I put my drill and lockpicks back into their pocket and tucked the circuit board into another.

I turned toward the door and found myself looking into the barrel of a gun. The woman holding that gun was dressed all in black, including a ski mask. She must have come into the room while the noise of my drilling drowned out the buzz of the door lock.

“I suppose you’re here for the prototype,” I said. I hoped she was CIA. One of the problems with my job is that they sometimes send someone on the same assignment because they’ve forgotten they’ve assigned it to me.

“Give me prototype,” she said. Her English was heavily accented—Russian, I thought.

Staring at the unwavering gun, I winced. Just because I had a bulletproof mask didn’t mean I wanted to get shot in the face—my eyes weren’t bulletproof. And even if the bullet hit the mask, it would leave a very nasty bruise. “Can I go to the bathroom first?”

I really needed to go.

Chapter Five

“Give it to me, or I will shoot you,” she said.

Handing the prototype over to someone who could be an agent of the SVR—the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service—was not a very attractive option. But getting shot didn’t really appeal to me, either. I decided that it might be easier to let her have it and then steal it back from her later. After all, she wouldn’t remember that someone else was after the prototype.

Careful to make no sudden movements, I reached down to the pocket holding the prototype and took it out. “Here it is.”

“Put it on table,” she said, pointing to one of the lab workbenches.

I complied.

“Turn around and lie down on floor.”

I lay down.

She must have walked to the door very quietly, because I didn’t hear her footfalls. I heard the door open, then shut.

I gave her a one minute head start, then got up and raced to the lab door. I needed to get out of the building in time to follow her or I might lose her trail.

I opened the door and rushed into the hallway, and almost bumped into her. She stood with her hands held behind her head. Her gun lay on the floor. A few feet down the hall, a guard pointed a gun at her.

“¡Alto!”
said the guard, swinging the gun toward me.

I raised my hands. At least the Russians weren’t going to get the prototype. And maybe I could try again later, although security would probably get tighter after this.

Making a run for it wasn’t an option, because then the guard might follow me and allow the woman to escape with the prototype. But I might be able to get the guard to concentrate on her instead of me.

“Jorge,” I said, reading his nametag, “I’m a CIA officer.” I hoped this guard’s English was as good as Carlos’s. “This woman is a Russian spy I’ve been tailing. I tried to stop her from stealing—”

“He lies,” she said. “I never—”

“Stop!” Jorge shook his gun for emphasis.

We both shut up.

“Take off your masks,” he said.

I stripped mine off and dropped it on the floor. She did the same. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of auburn braids pinned up on her head.

“Now your pants, mister,” he said.

“What?” I said. “You’re not serious.”

“You have too many pockets,” he said. “Take them off.”

Reluctantly, I obeyed. I had to take off my shoes to get the pants off, and I piled everything on top of my ski mask. It was embarrassing, but at least I had the consolation that no one but me would remember this ridiculous scene.

“And your shirt,” said Jorge.

“It doesn’t have any pockets,” I said.

He shrugged. “I don’t trust you.”

I took off my shirt, revealing the bulletproof vest.

“That also,” said Jorge, so I added it to the pile.

Standing there in nothing but my boxer shorts and socks, I straightened to my full height, looked him in the eye, and said, “If you want me to take off any more, you’ll have to buy me dinner first.”

Beside me, the woman let out a tiny, soprano snort. “You are right not to trust him,” she said, pointing at me. “This man kidnap me and force me to help him break in here. I grab his gun and run away when you found me. Thank you for saving me.” Her tone was so desperately earnest, if I hadn’t known she was lying I might have believed her.

“Don’t trust her,” I said. “Arrest us both, and we can sort it all out later.”

Another guard came running down the hall to join Jorge—Carlos from the front desk. Jorge turned his head to see who it was, and the woman dove toward her gun on the floor.

I could have dived for the gun and tried to keep it away from the Russian woman. Or I could have grabbed my bulletproof vest and used it to shield the guards from her.

Instead, I stood still and hoped nobody would shoot me if I didn’t look threatening. The advice my CIA trainer Lydia had given me had destroyed my remaining illusions of becoming a James-Bond-style spy, but I had realized the wisdom of what she said and learned to play to my strengths.

Jorge must have noticed the woman’s movement. He reacted quickly, stepping on her wrist as her hand closed around her gun. She cried out in pain. He pointed his gun at her face and said, “Drop the gun.”

She did.

Carlos arrived and kept me covered with his gun. At Jorge’s prompting, the woman got up and stood next to me again, hands behind her head.

“I warned you not to trust her,” I said.

“
Silencio
,” said Carlos.

They made her strip down to her bra and panties and then searched her clothes, where they discovered the prototype chip.

“I told you she was the thief,” I said. “I’m on your side, really.”

She glared at me. Jorge and Carlos ignored my comment and proceeded to discuss things in Spanish. The gist of what I could understand was that Carlos wanted to call the police, and Jorge wanted to talk to management first.

Police was good—I would eventually get away. Management could be better, or worse. There weren’t a lot of prosecutions for corporate espionage, because the companies involved didn’t want the stockholders to know how vulnerable they were. Sometimes management would pay a “security consulting fee” to a thief as an incentive to stay away and keep his mouth shut. And sometimes management decided that more permanent shutting up was necessary.

My Spanish wasn’t good enough to determine which way the decision went, but Jorge pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Carlos became the subject of some rather heated scolding when it turned out he didn’t have his handcuffs with him.

Finally, Jorge cuffed my left wrist to the woman’s right wrist. Paying no attention to my requests that I be allowed to go to the bathroom, Jorge and Carlos then took us in the elevators down to the third basement level and shoved us into an empty storage room. The metal door clanged shut, and keys jingled as the lock clicked.

I smiled. In sixty seconds, Jorge and Carlos wouldn’t remember who I was. When they came back for the woman, I would tell them some story about how I ended up here by mistake—although my state of undress might be kind of tough to explain.

First, though, I had to get out of the handcuffs, and my lockpicks were gone along with my pants.

“What’s your name?” I asked the woman.

Her hazel eyes looked at me coldly. “Why should I tell you?”

“No reason, I guess. But can I borrow one of these?” I reached up to her hair, and before she could object I pulled out a bobby pin. An auburn braid flopped down beside her cheek.

“Ow,” she said. “You pulled some hair.”

“Sorry.” With practiced ease, I bent the bobby pin at its curve until it snapped in two. Then I held my handcuffed wrist up so I could access the keyhole. The police generally don’t spread this information around, but handcuffs are about the easiest locks in the world to pick. Once I get a bit of wire in the keyhole, it takes less than a second to pop the lock.

Except there was no keyhole. I blinked and twisted my arm around to look at the handcuffs from the other side. Where the keyhole should have been, there was only smooth metal.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said.

“I make no joke,” she said.

I shook my head. “That means ‘I don’t believe it.’ These handcuffs have no keyholes.”

“Oh,” she said. She pulled her handcuff closer, dragging my arm along with it. “Is magnetic lock. Only opens with special key.”

Obviously I needed to subscribe to
Cat Burglar Monthly
or
Handcuffs Illustrated
to keep up to date on the latest developments. In any case, this complicated things. I tried to visualize myself explaining my situation to Jorge or Carlos: “I was looking for the bathroom, and I accidentally lost my clothes and ended up here in this storage room, where this strange woman somehow unlocked one of her handcuffs and put it on me.” No way that was going to work. And if management decided to put us in permanent storage, I wouldn’t have another chance to escape. I wondered if my corpse would be forgotten.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s find a way out of here. I need a bathroom.” As long as she didn’t have the prototype, I didn’t have a problem with helping her escape.

“Yelena,” she said.

“What?”

“My name.”

“Oh, right. Pleased to meet you. I’m Nat.” I suddenly realized I was alone with a beautiful woman, and both of us were in our underwear. My face grew hot. I quickly focused on picking the door’s lock.

A broken bobby pin worked great on normal handcuffs, but made for an awkward pick on a normal lock, even after grinding it down on the concrete floor. After about fifteen minutes, I was getting close to opening the storage room door. Then I heard Jorge’s voice in the hallway. He paused, then spoke again, like he was talking to someone on a cell phone.

“Quick,” I said, handing Yelena the bobby-pin lockpicks. “Kneel here and pretend you were trying to pick the lock.” I stood and pressed my back against the wall next to the door, with my handcuffed arm stretched awkwardly across my stomach.

She knelt, but said, “They expect we try to escape.”

I chuckled. “They expect you. Not me.”

Frowning, she glanced up at me. Then, with a jingle of keys, the door unlocked and swung outward.

“Move back,” Jorge said. I still couldn’t see him because he was standing outside the room.

Yelena scooted backward on her knees, holding her hands up so her right wrist wouldn’t pull my left hand into Jorge’s view.

“How did you undo the handcuffs?” Jorge asked, probably remembering having cuffed her hands together or to something in the room. And he moved forward enough that I could see his gun.

The situation was not ideal. Jorge was holding the gun in his right hand, with his finger on the trigger. I was to his left, which meant that in order to twist the gun out of his hand, I would have to turn the barrel toward me. From what Lydia had taught me, I knew I wasn’t supposed to do that—especially not while wearing only my underwear.

So I varied the technique as I grabbed the top of his gun, pointing the barrel upward as I twisted the gun in his hand. I must have surprised him enough that he didn’t think to pull the trigger, and I managed to wrench the gun from him.

Jorge didn’t stay surprised for long. Holding the top of the gun, not its grip, meant there was no way I could fire it. He lunged toward me, reaching for the gun with both hands.