Rogue Code

26

Richard Iyers went into the restroom and splashed cold water on his face repeatedly. He’d awakened later than usual that morning. He felt awful and wondered if he’d caught a bug. He’d considered not coming into work but reasoned there were potential circumstances where that would seem suspicious. Plus he wanted to know the outcome of his attack. Before leaving his apartment he’d checked the news. All he found was the bare mention that a Central Park jogger had been struck by a speeding car when he strayed onto East Drive. There were no details as to the extent of the injuries.

Iyers wondered if Aiken had been killed. Probably not. The news said nothing about the jogger having died.

On his office floor, something seemed odd this morning. Coworkers were talking in hushed voices in the common areas as he’d entered. There was a slight buzz in the air. He considered going to the break room but decided it was better to show no interest. He’d know soon enough what was up; no need to draw attention to himself by asking.

Iyers had found he was unable to concentrate on work and went to the restroom. He dried his face with paper towels, ran his hands through his hair, then stepped out into the hallway. On the way back to his office, he wandered down the hallway to the office Jeff and Frank used. It was empty. He wondered again if asking about them would be risky, and decided it would be.

Looking back on the previous night, he was filled with recrimination. He’d exposed himself too much. And he hadn’t killed the man. He wondered if anyone had noticed the reason the runner bolted into traffic. If so, there’d be a description, though that didn’t especially concern him. It would match many men, considering how he’d dressed.

After he left the park, he’d ditched the mask first, then the coat. He’d disciplined himself to walk carefully and blend in. At the first well-lit location, he’d stopped and casually examined his clothing. There were leaves and small twigs attached to his pants. He’d carefully brushed them away.

When he killed the Italian, he’d experienced nothing but elation. In fact, he’d left the park in such an exalted mood, he knew he’d been careless. On the trip back he’d relived the experience in his thoughts, again and again, relishing every memory. He’d not come to earth until he’d reached Manhattan.

But last night as he fled, he’d felt nothing but fear. The fear was still there, masked only in part by the widespread discomfort he experienced.

At his desk Iyers accessed the logs for the jump servers, the deployment servers, and those of his own system as he did routinely. It occurred to him when he’d first agreed to help Campos that if they could do this, so could someone else. More important, if anyone was investigating what was going on in the system, Iyers would find their tracks here, so several times a day, like someone looking behind him to see if he was being followed, he checked the servers. Nothing.

He wondered what Campos would say when he found out about Aiken. The news report hadn’t given a name or mentioned an attack in the park. Would Campos assume it was a coincidence, this happening so soon after they’d discussed it? Not likely but Iyers doubted the man would react at all. He was positive there was an unspoken agreement, an acknowledgment that this act was necessary. No, Campos understood it was necessary, now with Carnaval and Vacation Homes moving into high gear.

Iyers’s primary concern was the money. He’d already earned a couple of million but had, as originally agreed, only received small payments. Campos held the balance. It wasn’t due yet but now everything was different. With Carnaval he would earn, what? Millions more, for certain. Many millions.

How long would he have to stay on the job after that? If he just vanished, he’d be a suspect as the investigation would definitely come to his department. Anyway, he would want to be here, keep an eye on it, ready to bolt if it turned toward him. Sit, watch, and wait, that was the ticket.

The primary problem was the money. Campos had been long on talk and promises, slow to give him his due, especially now that Carnaval had been vastly expanded. The earnings were going to skyrocket. Iyers didn’t like getting so little to date. In fact, he didn’t like Campos all that much. He was a weak man, too risk averse. He wasn’t willing to do what had to be done. Weak men were dangerous when someone turned up the heat. But Campos was his means of payment; there was nothing to be done about that.

Iyers wondered if he shouldn’t already have another identity. In movies, that was easily done while in reality a false identity that passed muster was not so simple. It would be better if he could keep his own, but he wondered now if that would be possible. He’d heard you could get one in Canada without too much trouble. He was from Upstate New York and could talk like a Canadian if need be. Maybe he’d just go there if things got hot, work on another identity then.

But it always came back to the money. He didn’t have it except in his dreams. And did Campos ever intend to pay him? He’d often wondered about that. Once he’d determined that his colleague was really just the front man for a much bigger operation he’d been concerned that someone higher up in the food chain might decide it was easier just to take him out. After all, Iyers knew everything. They’d worry he’d flip if caught, and they’d save a bundle by not having to pay him.

No, he’d have to insist he be paid as soon as Carnaval was finished. Insist. He had his personal bank accounts set up, and his tracks were well covered. He was confident about that. He’d seen to it right away in anticipation of unfulfilled paydays.

There was always blackmail, of course, but what could he do if Campos just vanished? Iyers gritted his teeth in exasperation. He had to get more money while he was still needed. He couldn’t afford to wait until the end. There had to be a way.

27

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

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.”

“A search warrant? Why would they do that?”

“I’m not certain, but I’ve got a hunch.” Frank paused as his thoughts raced, then, “We need to act, then we can decide on options. If you don’t think you’ll die on me, I suggest you start getting dressed while I make a call or two. You don’t want to be at a location they know about, if you know what I mean.”

29

Richards Iyers went to the vending machine in the break room. He’d begun to feel better, the deep fatigue he’d earlier experienced slowly disappearing. His apprehension had also faded, evolving into a mild uneasiness. He chose a Coke, wanting the sugar and caffeine. He opened the can, took a swig, and scanned the room. Spotting Rose, the office gossip, he joined her.

“Did you hear about those two?” she asked immediately, almost as if she’d read his mind, leaning forward, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial level.

“Which two?” Iyers answered, suppressing a sense of excitement. To his great surprise he’d heard nothing all day, either about what happened at Central Park or the two mystery men who’d been working on their floor these last weeks.

“Jeff and Frank.” She lowered her voice. “They’ve been stealing.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Everyone knows! They were hired to do a pentest but IT found out that after they got in, they’d been emptying accounts.” Though officially confidential, major IT referrals to the SEC had a way of leaking into their department almost immediately. This was no surprise given the relationship between the SEC and NYSE IT security.

“They got in? You mean they penetrated to the core code?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“That’s not good. Someone’s going to get in trouble over that.”

Rose blanched. “You think so?”

“I do. Especially if they used the access to steal. Is the SEC on it yet?”

She leaned even closer. “I heard they did a raid in Washington today.”

“A raid? That’s pretty fast.”

“I guess there’s a lot of money missing and the SEC was concerned they’d take more if they were left free.”

“I saw their office was empty earlier.”

“Right. I think they were arrested. We just haven’t heard yet.” Rose’s eyes were wide.

“That’s really something.”

At his desk, Iyers accessed the jump server. To avoid the audit logs, he used the cover of the first stage of the new trading engine deployment. For the next hour, he scanned, searching for whatever alerted IT. When he found it, he smiled.

Campos. He’d done this. It was a bit bold, but he was glad to see the man stepping up. Planted in the system was malware very similar to the one used in Vacation Homes only this one rather blatantly manipulated trades at a steady rate that was bound to attract the notice of the security programs searching for just such behavior. After a few minutes, Iyers saw the code was moving shares into a brokerage account set up in the name of Jeffrey Aiken. Iyers cringed at that, thinking it too obvious. No one would believe Aiken would be so blatant.

But think whatever he liked, IT had bought it. On reflection Iyers realized it was so obvious they had to. It was not the way Iyers would have gone about it, but he had to admit it got the job done. He just hoped Campos had covered his tracks because once Jeff and Frank were in custody they’d deny their guilt. They knew what they’d done in the system and if allowed to, they could walk a skilled programmer through their process. After that, Campos’s hack work would stick out like a sore thumb. If an impartial investigator seeking the truth put his mind to it, he’d conclude pretty quickly that the two men were set up. And that would lead in a direction Iyers didn’t want to think about.

He grimaced, then closed his eyes. He should have made sure he killed Aiken when he had the chance.

30

Jonathan Russo left the staff meeting and made his way back to his office largely unhappy. Since the disaster on Monday, his team had yet to find an answer. For all the talk during the meeting, they had no idea what had gone wrong with their new algo. The old one was still operating without issues, but that was small consolation. And though his team believed the new algo was fine, that was what they’d thought up until the moment they’d launched it. The fact that they were unable to discover the problem was not reassuring and Russo had refused the tentative suggestion they relaunch it without a change.

“That’s real money we lost,” he’d pointed out, “not Monopoly play money. And we can’t tolerate another hit such as we had Monday. We need to understand what went wrong. If it’s our code, let’s find the problem and fix it. If it was something outside, something beyond us, we need to know that as well, so we can take measures to see that it doesn’t happen again. I’m not adverse to some level of risk, but we need answers.” Alex Baker, his chief assistant, had agreed with him, urging caution as well.

When it was clear they were no closer to a fix now than they’d been the previous day, Russo gave instructions to put all their limited resources on the Toptical IPO coming the following Wednesday. Like most HFT companies, Mitri Growth had long planned to exploit the launch. An IPO of this size, with this level of excitement, was tailor-made for them.

For one, there would be an enormous trading volume and each block of trades presented an opportunity for profit. The sheer size also made it easier for their orders to lurk in the computers unobserved. They weren’t doing anything wrong, certainly nothing illegal, but scrutiny was undesirable and you could never predict when the SEC might suddenly decide that a common HFT practice was now against the rules. It had happened before. A high-profile IPO such as Toptical’s was just the event when they might make such a decision, especially if something went wrong and they were looking for a company to blame.

The other desirable aspect of such a high-profile IPO was that the stock was all but sure to rise initially. There was always a level of pent-up demand for high-profile companies going public and though the underwriters appeared, once again, to have made too much stock available, the price was likely to increase in the early trading. In Twitter’s case, it had just kept rising. It was a situation ideal for one of Mitri Growth’s special HFT algos.

But as the Facebook IPO had proved, the stock could be overpriced, which meant that within a short time it would begin to fall. This was a less desirable possibility for a high-frequency trading company, but there was still a lot of money to be made selling short, especially once the pattern was set.

And their IPO algo was designed to make money in either direction.

The problem with short selling was that if too many traders got involved it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Algos from different HFTs competed against each other for advantage at lightning speed. No one yet fully understood the consequences. HFTs had first caused, then exacerbated the Flash Crash with aggressive selling and actions intended to complicate the system, actions that quickly spun out of the control and comprehension of their algos.

Before computers, a broker made a bit of money on every sale, as did the Exchange. High-frequency traders now injected themselves into such trades, taking a small percentage of each transaction. Every high-frequency trader was in the game, and their numbers were growing every month. No one took a lot, but everyone took something. So when someone bought stock, it was as if the offer had to punch its way through a succession of invisible digital walls, each one thrown up by a high-frequency trader. It slowed the trade, skimmed money from the deal so that by the time it was consummated the buyer paid more than he thought he would, or the seller received less. High-frequency traders had taken the cream.

At first, the delays and amounts were insignificant but high-frequency trading was so profitable it continued drawing countless players, many of them offshore, shielded from scrutiny. Even Russo, who had thrived in the industry for years, had no true idea who many of the players were or, for that matter, the full extent of the holdings they put in play. There were rumors, accepted opinions, but in the end, it was all speculation. What he knew was that the delays and effects on pricing were now very noticeable to anyone paying attention. The trading public wasn’t on to the scheme yet but those who made their living on the stock market knew and were increasingly leery.

Russo sat down at his desk and placed his face into his hands with a sigh. When he took this job, he’d failed to comprehend the pressure he’d be under. He’d thought his team produced the finest algos in their industry and still believed they did. But when something went wrong, as it had Monday, high-frequency trading had the capacity to drain money from the company like there was no tomorrow. He’d had a disaster already but if next Wednesday went the same way, Mitri Growth and his career would be ruined.

The problem, Russo had come to understand, was that all the high-frequency traders were acting in the same way. There was no need to exchange messages or read internal memos. They were all doing the same thing, playing on the same field with the same end in sight. Each of them might do something a bit different and occasionally one came up with a novel approach but essentially they were like sprinters. They wore the same shoes, the same clothes, bolted from the same starting blocks, and ran flat out. It was no surprise that most of them finished almost together.

And Russo realized that was the danger. High-frequency traders represented a majority of all trades and if they acted in unison, which was the danger when an IPO went south or had a glitch, the stock would begin to collapse, and the volume and the frequency of their trades could pile drive it into oblivion.

And it was an event like Toptical’s IPO that presented the perfect occasion for that to happen.

31

Jeff eased onto one of the single beds more exhausted than he’d realized. For the last three hours, he’d been in a daze, led by Frank, first out of the hospital, then in and out of a succession of taxis, culminating in a subway ride uptown. They’d exited, walked three blocks, and checked into this cash-only hotel built from appearances at the turn of the previous century. Not that many years before now, it would likely have housed a den of crack dealers but then the area had been cleaned up. Now it was just run-down and management still asked no questions if your money was green.

“Do you want to eat?” Frank asked from across the small room.

“I’m not hungry.” Jeff’s head throbbed, his side ached, and his arm was ablaze.

“I understand. I need to go out and get you something for the pain. I’ll pick up food and bring it back. We’ll see then if you have an appetite. What you need most of all is rest. So don’t fight going to sleep. We’re okay here.”

“Frank,” Jeff said, closing his eyes, wondering if he had the energy to undress, “what’s going on?” They’d had no time to talk in detail since they’d seen the SEC raid on his office and home in Georgetown. Frank had managed a call or two to contacts while Jeff quickly dressed in the hospital and received a callback in one of the taxis, but he’d not said anything before now, not wanting to risk being overheard.

“NYSE Euronext IT made an SEC referral on us. They think we used our access to the system to steal from accounts.”

“The Exchange is accusing us of theft when all we’re doing is helping them secure the system? That’s ridiculous!”

“Yes, it is. But the SEC has to act. They don’t know how honest we are.” He grinned.

“Why didn’t they just talk to us? We could show them what we’ve been doing, answer any questions they had.”

“Maybe at one time that’s what they’d have done but things happen so fast now, they felt they had to move first and ask questions later. Do you know Robert Alshon?” Jeff shook his head, regretting it at once. “He’s a senior SEC securities investigator. Ex-FBI. He’s the pit bull on our case.”

“Why don’t we just contact him and explain things? Or do it through an attorney, if you think we should.”

“We need to know what’s going on, Jeff. Right now, we’re in the dark. If we go to him the way things are, it’s like lambs to the slaughter. He’s undoubtedly got evidence we know nothing about. We need to find out what he has first, so we know what questions to answer.”

“I guess.”

“There’s another side to this you need to keep in mind. It’s a sad commentary on the state of affairs — but sometimes they don’t care if you didn’t do it.”

Jeff suddenly felt numb. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a mind-set in federal law enforcement that everyone is guilty of something, so everybody deserves what happens, even if they didn’t exactly do what they’re accused of. The laws are so far-reaching, so subject to interpretation, they can be made to fit most any scenario. And when it comes to Wall Street, that’s a labyrinth of its own that allows them to justify almost anything they want. The juries don’t understand. They take the government at face value. And your lawyer will tell you to cut a deal rather than risk trial. Just look at what they did to Aaron Swartz.”

Aaron Swartz had been a cyberstar prior to his death at age twenty-six. An Internet pioneer, writer, political activist, and programmer he’d been involved in the development of the Web’s feed format RSS, part of Creative Commons and also Reddit, a popular social news site. He was an outspoken critic of government and corporate control of the Internet. In 2010, he became a research fellow at Harvard University but that didn’t spare him. In early 2011, he was arrested and charged with two counts of federal wire fraud and eleven counts of violating the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act for simply sniffing data off of MIT’s network from a computer hidden in a closet on its campus. He hadn’t shared or profited from the files he’d stumbled on. Facing up to fifty years in prison, forfeiture of assets along with a one-million-dollar fine, he was in line to serve a greater sentence than someone convicted of manslaughter, bank robbery, or rape. He hanged himself. Jeff had never considered that someday he’d be in much the same position.

“But we haven’t done anything wrong!”

“So we say. That’s what all the guilty types claim. They’ve heard it all and believe none of it.”

“By running we look guilty.”

“Jeff, Jeff. We look guilty already.”

After a minute, Jeff said, “So now what?”

“First, I need to find out more. Our stuff’s back at the hotel. I’m going out to see if I can get it. They’ve moved fast with this subpoena, but we’ve moved fast too and they won’t have expected that. I doubt an arrest warrant’s been issued for us. They’re probably planning on picking us up at work in the morning. Assuming they knew you were in the hospital they’d have gone for you there.” He reached into a pocket and extracted a thick packet. “Here.” He laid it on the table.

“What’s that?”

“That’s six thousand dollars. I’ve got a bit over four with me. I may need some of it before the night is over.”

“Cash? What are you doing with ten thousand dollars in cash?”

“Jeff, you amaze me at times, you really do. I never go on an assignment without cash. It’s the first lesson I learned at the Farm and in ops. Never leave home without it. This may be a plastic age, slowly turning digital, but cash is still king, especially when you go to ground.”

“Why would you need to hide out?”

“It’s been well over a decade since I last needed to, but once you’re in that mind-set, you never lose it. It’s like learning to look both ways before crossing a street, a lesson you would do well to take more to heart. It’s an instinct. And now”—Frank gestured by spreading both hands to take in the high ceiling, drab room—“you see why.”

Jeff eyed the money. “What’ll I do with it?”

“You’ll figure that out if I don’t come back. At least it gives you an option. Now, listen. I’ve taken the batteries out of our phones. Don’t get foolish and put yours back in and make any calls, and for God’s sake, don’t use the room phone. There’s nothing you’re in any condition to learn right now. Just get well. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He stood up and slipped on his jacket. “You need to trust me on this, Jeff. It’s what I did for many years, and I’m still here to tell the tale. Now, get some rest.”

After midnight, Frank quietly let himself back into the hotel room. He closed the door, secured the inside latches, then turned on the bathroom light so he could see what he was doing with the indirect light. He set two pieces of luggage on the floor, and a plastic bag on the desk, then went to the bed. Jeff was asleep. Frank touched his forehead. No fever.

As he laid the luggage on the stands and opened his suitcase Jeff woke. “So you’re back. How’d it go?” His voice was drowsy, as if he’d awakened from a deep sleep.

“Not bad. I paid a bellhop to get our things. Probably money wasted. I never spotted anyone covering our rooms or in the lobby. I picked up some food if you’re interested, hot subs. And I bought some disposable phones. This dump’s got wireless, if you can believe it, so we’re good to go.”

“Do you know anything more?”

“I activated a new phone while waiting at the hotel and made some more calls to contacts from my former life. No one knows much, except this Alshon guy is known to move fast on occasion. We are apparently such an occasion. I called Stenton at his home.”

“Wasn’t that risky?”

“I ditched the phone.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t want to talk, said something about us violating his trust, and told us to turn ourselves in. At least it confirmed what we already thought.” Frank sat down, pulled something out of a paper sack. He laid it on the dressing table and began unwrapping it as the inviting smell of food enveloped the room. “Sure you don’t want something? Smells good.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Fair enough. Don’t mind me. Go back to sleep.” Frank took a bite. When he could talk again, he said, “In a bit I’ll check if our backdoor is still up and see what I can see. Maybe get an idea of what set the Exchange’s IT off.” He took another bite. “There’s something else.” He looked over at Jeff. “I called Daryl and asked for her help.”

There was no answer. Jeff was sound asleep.