Whack Job (14 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“Denial of Service”

Friday afternoon.

In his windowless office Otto pored over the Secret Service dossiers on Emil Witherspoon and his crew. Witherspoon appeared to be sexless. There was no mention of wives or girlfriends, no children, nor any hint of scandal. His Head of Security was an ex-CIA spook named Bob Casey. The fifty-five year old Casey was a fire-hardened veteran of Afghanistan with an outstanding service record including a Bronze Star. He came highly recommended by the Board of Directors.

Casey supervised a staff of fifteen, all men, all ex-military, all thoroughly vetted by the Secret Service. All with nearly spotless records. They included five African-Americans, four Hispanics and two Asians.

The Board consisted of twelve good men and true, chosen by vote every twelve years. As Pawnee Grove was a conservative institution, board members remained ensconced until they passed. It was an interesting list: four CEOs, four former diplomats and Cabinet secretaries, a boxer, a talent agent and two scholars, all notable figures with lavish biographies. The board included two Nobel Prize winners, two National Book Award winners, and the former heavyweight champion of the world. The youngest was sixty-two.

Not the type of people you interrogated.

There were no SHC victims among the board members who were often in attendance throughout the summer. Otto worked the list of board members like a Rubik’s Cube searching for patterns and connections. There were many. Four were Yalies. Nine were veterans. Four had been Rhodes Scholars. Eight had been Boy Scouts. Five had played college football. All twelve subscribed to the
NYT
and the
Wall Street Journal
. But nothing sinister, nothing to indicate a pattern of deceit.

Otto put in an RFI for the board members.

He switched to Drudge to cleanse his palette. A box of flame appeared front and center over the flashing red/blue crisis strobe and 32 pica red lettering:

TERROR ATTACK?

Otto clicked the link.

“A source close to Brainiac founder Bryan Ayres claims that he recently began to behave in a paranoid manner. ‘He appeared jumpy and started carrying a gun. I was shocked. I mean here’s a guy who was a life-long progressive…he hated guns.
And then he started wearing baggy pants and hoodies.”

At GENCON 2003 Brainiac came out of nowhere to take the computer gaming world by storm with
Untamed Savagery
, a sword and sorcery fantasy so real People For the American Way wanted it banned due to its addictive qualities. The First Lady inveighed against it on
The View
.

Brainiac made computer games:
Tear the Roof Off the Sucker
,
Lourdes’ Landing
,
Kill Or Be Killed
, and
Marine Sniper
.
Marine Sniper
had been made with the cooperation of the USMC and was used as a training tool at numerous ROTCs and in basic training.

Lester Durant had used it.

Even Otto had played it.

It was scare o’ the day, freak of the week.

Otto’s phone vibrated. Winner.

“Can you meet us in Estes Park Sunday? Ralston and I are flying into Denver tomorrow to go up to Estes. We should make it to the park by noon.”

“That’s quick, Gabe,” Otto said.

“Well I’m off this weekend and it so happens that the next Pawnee Grove Chautauqua starts Monday. I don’t know how Ralston did it but he got me an invite. You’re a screen writer with whom I’m collaborating.”

Otto was secretly relieved that Winner wasn’t spending the weekend with Stella followed almost instantly by shame that showed itself as a creeping red tide on his neck.

“Okay.”

“No sweat. I’ll teach you how to fake it. Can you meet us at one at the Stanley?”

“I’ll be there.”

Otto called Stella, got her machine.

“Hey. Winner just called. I’m meeting him and his agent Sunday.”

Otto was online when the screen went blank. The gray nothing. Seconds later a white dot appeared in the center of the screen and expanded into a black screen with a black stylized black widow spider, red hourglass on its back. And below in the type of gothic lettering you’d find on a Hell’s Angel, THIS DISRUPTION IN SERVICE BROUGHT TO YOU BY BLACK WIDOW!

***

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Black Widow”

Friday afternoon.

Present in Billups’ office were Otto, Steve, Barnett, Alvarez and Hornbuckle. It was six-fifteen, two hours and nineteen minutes since their computers went down. The IT guys working with the central office and the Strategic Initiative’s Internet Emergency Response team succeeded in restoring service after forty-five frantic minutes.

Billups had come out from behind his desk to take a seat on one of the two leather sofas. They sat in a circle sipping coffee from plastic cups and water from plastic bottles.

“Ryan?” Billups said.

Hornbuckle consulted his clipboard. “We traced the attack to a computer in Esfahan. Needless to say, we can expect no cooperation from the Iranians but this is a smart operator. He probably bounced it all around the globe.”

“As you gentlemen know,” Billups said, “Black Widow began right here in our back yard.” Billups raised his eyebrows in unspoken accusation.

“It’s just a matter of time, chief,” Hornbuckle said. “I’m closing in on him. I can feel it. I know how this guy thinks. He likes to hang around and view his handiwork.”

“Him would be Randall Kleiser,” Billups said flipping an eight and a half by ten glossy black and white mug shot on the table.

Alvarez grinned toothily. “Looks like Otto.”

“He’s my brother from another mother,” Otto said. He could be fired and worse for withholding what he knew. But there was something in his nature that clung fast to Kleiser. It was the pain he saw in Kleiser’s eyes, that sick at heart feeling you get when you’ve lost your reason for living. Otto often felt it circling just beyond the firelight.

“You all know why he calls himself Black Widow, right?” Otto looked around. Blank faces.

“In 2006 his girlfriend, Patty Ivan,” Hornbuckle recited, “boarded a Southwest flight from Denver to Austin. TSA searched her but did not search four Muslim clerics traveling in traditional garb. The plane blew up on landing…”

Billups nodded solemnly. “I remember. It might give us some insight as to his motives, and maybe we can use that to get close to him.” Billups lifted his coffee mug with his pinkie extended. The mug bore a glowering picture of Billups above the slogan, “It’s your mug!” and was undoubtedly given to him by one of his two daughters. He sipped and set the cup down with a minute clink.

“As you all know Agent White’s in charge of the investigation into Senator Darling’s death, as well as other instances of spontaneous human combustion. Hornbuckle’s in charge of the investigation into Black Widow. Is it possible, gentlemen, that whoever is perpetrating these attacks is using the internet?”

“Do you mean as in transmitting enormous amounts of energy through the net?” Alvarez said.

“For starters,” Billups said.

“I don’t see how that’s possible. It would fry the system.”

“How would the internet come into play in a parking garage?” Otto said.

“Didn’t he have a laptop with him?” Billups said. “A smart phone?”

Otto took out a spiral pad and made a note silently kicking himself for not having thought of it in the first place. The idea of working with Hornbuckle again made him ill.

“What about Albrecht?” Alvarez said. “He was seated at a blackjack table. He didn’t have a laptop with him.”

“No,” Billups said, “but he was surrounded with computers. At the bar behind him. At the chip-cashing booth. And surveillance up the yib-yob. You could enter a tracking program and follow him from room to room.”

“He would have had a phone,” Hornbuckle said.

Barnett leaned forward. Since he seldom spoke, everyone stopped talking. “Is it possible Black Widow is receiving Iranian support?”

Billups turned toward Hornbuckle. “Ryan?”

Hornbuckle shrugged. “It’s possible but Widow’s mission statement condemns all organized government. Maybe he got tired of running credit card scams for a living.”

Billups was placid as a Buddha. “And?”

You could see Hornbuckle’s face working, chewing a rubbery idea. “I’ll alert State and Intelligence.”

Billups nodded imperceptibly and shifted his gaze to Otto. “Otto?”

Otto brought them up to speed re: the Pawnee Grove connection. “I’ll be going up Monday. You’re all aware of the accelerating pace of these incidents. My fear is that we’re approaching a point where they’ll become obvious and there will be a general panic.”

“It may be,” Billups said, “that people with no connection to Pawnee Grove have nothing to fear.”

Otto scratched Steve’s head. “Possibly.”

“Boys,” Billups said, “what about a Firestarter scenario?”
“Sir,” Otto said, “I’m familiar with that program and they haven’t been able to ignite a match.”

“We know,” Barnett said, “that the Russians are far more along in this than the West. They claim they have telepaths, but nothing about telekinetics.”

Two sharp raps and the door opened, admitting Billups’ cute blond secretary.

“What is it, Rose?”

Rose walked across the thick carpet around the back of the sofa, leaned down and whispered in Billups’ ear. Everyone waited in tense expectation.

“Thank you, Rose.”

The secretary left quietly shutting the door behind her.

“Undersecretary of Foreign Intelligence Angelo Rio shot two Agency employees, barricaded himself in his office and either set a fire or combusted. They’re battling the fire right now.”

***

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“Up In Flames”

Saturday morning.

Otto rose at dawn, put on his sweats and Nikes, opened the safe, put his pistol and his phone in his kangaroo pouch, looped Steve’s leash around his neck and headed out. They ran down the creek side path, Steve trotting unerringly at Otto’s right side. Other runners passed going the other way, some with dogs. Steve paid no attention to other dogs. They passed bicyclists and bicyclists passed them.

At three klicks they turned around and ran back.

Just outside the patio entrance to the motel, Otto pointed to a patch of lawn.

“Sit,” he commanded.

Steve sat.

“Stay.”

Otto went to the lobby for his complimentary breakfast: a bowl of oatmeal, two bananas, two apples, a platter of scrambled eggs and sausage, orange juice and coffee arranged on a plastic tray he’d commandeered from the bar,

Balancing the tray expertly on one palm, Otto let himself out, and into his own room, holding the door for Steve. Steve sat dutifully while Otto divvied up the goods. He sliced an apple and a banana for Steve and gave him half the scrambled eggs and two sausages.

They slurped for five minutes. Otto took a shower, wrapped the towel around his waist, sat on the bed and opened his laptop.

UP IN FLAMES!
read the 36-point flashing red and blue type on
Drudge
and linked to an AP story that Secretary Rio was the third prominent American to burn to death inside a week and hinted at terrorist involvement.

Rio’s name had not come up in a search of Pawnee guests, but Rio had worked with several men who had attended including CIA Director Brubaker.

The President planned to address the nation at two.

At seven minutes of noon, Otto’s Ocelot buzzed.

“White.”
“Mr. White, please hold for the National Security Director.”

Seconds later Yee came on the line. “How are you, Mr. White?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your report was a real eye opener. I’m afraid to guess how many government officials and important people have visited Pawnee Grove. I’m sure it has occurred to you that the victims might have had something implanted in their bodies like a homing device.”

“It occurred to me, Miss Yee, but it seems unlikely. Operating on a bunch of big shots without their knowledge? Like they wouldn’t notice? There are problems. We’ve requested a manifest from their quarter master. They said they’d take it under consideration. I also queried all the regional medical supply companies and FedEx. No special orders for Pawnee Grove. Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll know more after my visit.”

“Will you stay the entire week?”

“As long as it takes.”

“The President knows what you’re doing and is deeply appreciative.”

“It’s an honor to serve my country, ma’am.”

“All right. Good luck and God speed.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Otto phoned Time Warp in Boulder and left a message for Randy.

Kleiser phoned back fifteen minutes later. “What?”
“We gotta meet. How’s your afternoon shaping up?”

“Man I got shit to do.”

“This isn’t optional, Kleiser. Meet me at four. You choose a place.”

Silence while Kleiser mulled it over. “Casa Bonita on Colfax. You know it?”

“See you then.”

***

CHAPTER FORTY

“Casa Bonita”

Saturday afternoon.

Casa Bonita was a four-story Mexican restaurant with an open atrium, a pool at the bottom, and a fake rock cliff from which waiters dove. The parking lot was almost full when Otto pulled in. He took Steve for a walk and left him in the car with the windows cracked. He went into the foyer and sat on a bench. The interior was decorated with garish colors, fake fruit and toucans, Spanish tile and wrought iron balconies.

Kleiser ambled in at ten after four wearing a Tapout hoodie with the hood up and carrying a backpack. A waiter led them to a booth in an alcove on the second floor. Otto ordered a beer. Kleiser ordered a margarita. The waiter left.

“Did you attack our system today?” Otto said.

“Not me. I warned those guys not to fuck with the Fed, but they wouldn’t listen.”

Otto stared hard at Kleiser. Kleiser looked away. “Come on, man. I’d have to be three kinds of stupid to pull that shit right after I meet you. And forget about me naming names. That ain’t part of our deal.”

Otto wondered how long Kleiser would hold his tongue if Otto stuck him in a cell. But that was cop think. Otto never wanted to be a cop. He only wanted to serve his country.

The ambient noise in the restaurant was that of a boiler factory. Kleiser had chosen this venue because it was virtually impossible to bug and there were no clear sightlines to their lips.

The waiter brought their drinks. Kleiser sucked half down. “What do you want?”

“Are you aware of these fires that keep burning people up?”

Kleiser leaned forward and his eyes glittered. “Apocalyptic shit, dude! Some motherfucker has figured out how to throw fire.”

“Do you know that?”

“Nah. I’m guessing.”

“Could someone use the internet to cause these fires?”

Kleiser leaned back with a bemused expression. He finished his margarita and looked around for the waiter. He ordered another drink.

“You got this, right?”

Otto nodded.

“Wireless energy transmission. Nikola Tesla was said to have developed it not far from where we’re sitting. I’ve been thinking about this. There are basically two ways: microwave and laser. The problem with microwave is you need a huge transmitting surface and a huge reception surface. We’re talking giant arrays here. Laser is more likely since both transmitter and receiver are tightly focused. But you lose about 50% in transmission and conversion. Both methods require line of sight. I’m not aware of any desktop or personal computers that could handle that kind of energy without burning out. The other problem with a tightly-focused laser beam is you’re not gonna get the body burning up evenly like they seem to do. It’s gonna focus on one tight little spot. You’d have to train it on every part of the body in turn to burn it all up.”

“See what you can find out about this shit, wouldja?” Otto said.

“Whoa dude. You want me to help the FBI?”

“Randall. I know about Patty. Deepest condolences. But this is still a good country.”

The waiter brought Kleiser’s margarita. He drained half, rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward with feverish intensity. “The federal government is a grotesque cancer crushing the life out of this country. Look at the national debt. Every person in America, legal or illegal, owes the government $55,000 just to pay it off! Your kids, my kids…”

Kleiser ran out of steam. He looked down. “Patty was pregnant. No one knows that. She was going to tell her parents. I was gonna follow in a couple days--I was in the middle of a project.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“There’s a lot of guys in government I wouldn’t mind if they burst into flames.”

“Believe me,” Otto said, “I understand how you feel.”

Kleiser looked up. “Do you? Ever lost someone close to you?”

“Not in that way.”

“So screw the fuckin’ FBI, no offense.”

“Randall. The FBI is not the USA. The country faces a frightening new weapon. This goes beyond politics. Right now you’re facing federal charges. Do you know what the inside of a federal pen is like? Help me and I can make those charges go away.”

Kleiser drummed his fingers on the table top. He opened his backpack and took out his laptop. It was covered with band stickers: Nautical Mile, Blind Strike, Dead Kennedys, Rage Against the Machine. He opened her up and cruised using a wireless mouse he pulled from his pocket. Otto waited patiently. He could sit motionless for hours.

“Sixty five stories on Google about spontaneous human combustion,” Kleiser said.

“Fuck.”

“This other shit I can’t do that here. Ahmina have to go deep into my spider hole.”

“I need it as soon as possible,” Otto said.

“Dude, you are fuckin’ up my weekend.”

“This is a matter of national security. You’ll be a hero.”

Kleiser shut down the laptop and put it away. “If you say so.”

***