Rogue Code

32

“You awake again?” Frank asked.

Jeff rolled onto his back, opened, then closed his mouth, feeling how dry it was. “Yes.”

“Feeling any better?”

Jeff paused before answering. “A little. My head doesn’t throb anymore, but I’ve sure got a headache.”

“That’s good, actually. Any double vision?”

“No, not since yesterday.”

“I guess I can admit now I was a bit uneasy about taking you out of the hospital before the doc examined you. The MRI and X-ray looked good but there’s nothing like an experienced doc seeing you eye to eye. But it seems like you’re good to go. That’s a relief. There’s water beside you.”

Jeff reached over, found an unopened bottle, twisted off the cap, finding his grip surprisingly weak, and drank it in a single pull. “That’s good.”

“You hungry?”

“I am. Very. But I feel really dirty. I need a shower.”

“Even better. I’ve ordered pizza. It’ll be here in a few minutes. You have time for a briefing and maybe a shower.”

Jeff straightened up in the bed, moving the pillow so he could lean against it more comfortably. “So what have you learned?”

“Quite a bit,” he said. “It turns out you’re rich, to the tune of just over three million dollars. You’ve been a very naughty boy, and very greedy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When you were inside the Exchange’s engines, you used some of your tools to plant a nasty piece of code that’s been skimming trades. You’ve got a brokerage account in your name, opened after we started this job, and you funnel your ill-gotten gains directly to it.”

“Brokerage account? I don’t have a brokerage account.”

“You do now.”

Jeff’s heart jumped. “How hard was this to find?”

“Not so hard. You’ve not only been naughty and greedy, you’ve been careless. Not like you at all. Your malware trades at a consistent rate. It makes no attempt to blend in with traffic so it was bound to attract attention. And, of course, you send the money directly into your account so it’s easy to make the connection to you; almost like you put a flag on it. Then there’s the really interesting part. This malware resembles the code you’ve been reverse engineering. I think that gives us a pretty good idea of what this case is really all about.”

“Whoever did this used my tools?”

“Right. Some of those you distribute at conferences, none of the proprietary ones that have made you the success you are today.” Frank grinned.

“So anyone could have planted it.”

“In theory, yes, but think about it. Whoever did this has access to the system. Maybe they hacked it like we did or…” Frank’s voice trailed away.

“They work there and already have access.”

“I hate to think someone’s been as clever as us and figured out how to hack into the New York Stock Exchange, but ego aside I must admit someone could. That said, it’s unlikely. I’m persuaded that whoever is doing this has help on the inside. It’s clear now that we stumbled on an ongoing operation. They needed to point the guilty finger at you before we figured out what they were up to, which suggests to my devious mind that it’s an inside job.”

“That sounds pretty shortsighted and desperate.”

Frank swiveled all the way round in his chair. “I’ve been thinking about this. What it really says is they want to buy some time.”

“How’s that?”

“While our federal friends can be made to move quickly, as they did in this case, there is the risk that once they hear our side of the story they’ll come to the same conclusion I have. Then they’ll go after the real culprits.”

“If they can find them.”

“There’s always that. But it would take us a few days, more likely a few weeks, to convince the SEC we’re clean. I’m pretty sure that’s their window.”

“What window?”

“Well, they’re going to try to erase all their tracks — that’s a given — but why not take some more while they can, right? Makes sense. They’ll have to close down soon, so make hay while the sun shines. This little scheme of theirs bought them some time.”

“I guess we were close.”

“I’d say so. I made some phone calls while you were out. This Alshon guy is every bit as tenacious as I was told he was. And he’s not going to let go of us. He used to be FBI, we used to be Company. No love lost there. However, he’s got an assistant named Susan Flores. She does the forensic work and is reputedly very good, and very fair. If she gets on this, how you were set up could become obvious.”

“You really think so?”

“In time, yes, assuming she doesn’t have ten other cases, assuming Alshon lets her and listens to her. But the longer you are the prime suspect, the less likely he is to admit he was ever wrong.”

“Based on what you say, I can’t believe I’m a suspect now. This is all pretty heavy-handed. Don’t they realize I’d be smarter than that if I was crooked?”

“No. Crooks usually aren’t that clever. They’re driven by greed. Alshon will just figure you got in there, saw all that easy money, and couldn’t resist.”

“But using a brokerage account in my own name, come on, how dumb is that?”

“He’d reason you planned to erase your tracks, so why not? It was only for a few weeks. The risk was low.”

Jeff eased back, his thoughts racing. “Frank, you don’t have to do this. I’m the one they’ve set up. Just go in and tell them what’s going on.”

Frank smiled. “Don’t be naïve. They’re after both of us. They don’t figure you did this alone. Anyway, I’ve got more. A fugitive warrant’s being processed for our arrest. We’ll be wanted men later today probably, definitely by Monday.”

“That’s just wonderful.”

“Maybe there’ll be wanted posters and we can pin them on the office wall later, when we have a laugh about all this.”

“You have a sick sense of humor.”

“So my wife says. I called an SEC defense attorney. I got a referral, so he gave me a phone consultation. He says Alshon’s an SOB, and he’ll already have hung a target around our necks.” Just then, there was a knock on the door. “That’ll be the pizza. Why don’t you take a shower, then join me after?”

In the bathroom Jeff removed the bandages from his head, his thoughts afire at what he’d just learned. He undressed, then stepped into the bathtub and showered, taking special care with his scalp. Under the hot water he probed lightly. There was a tender spot toward the rear, a large goose egg that was very, very sensitive. His entire side ached and rubbing it did no good. His left forearm really hurt. When he peeled the wet bandages from it, it was skinned pretty badly. It hurt so much, he didn’t want to use it. So don’t use it for a while, he told himself.

After the shower, Jeff took several Advil, toweled off, confirmed the delivery man was gone, then dressed in fresh clothes. When he finished, he felt like a new man, an aching new man, but new nonetheless.

“So what did the lawyer say?” Jeff asked as he sat down, hefted a piece of warm pizza, and took his first bite.

“He said if we turn ourselves in, we’ll get out on bond. The case will take about two years, not counting appeals.”

“What? But we’re innocent!”

“That’s what they all say. He says the longer we wait to turn ourselves in, the tougher it will be to get out on bond, and the tougher the U.S. Attorney will be in dealing with us. Apparently they prefer criminals who make their job easy for them.”

“I don’t have a brokerage account. Someone else set that up.”

“I know. But you’ll have to show that and how do you prove a negative? The same goes for the malware. There’s no proof you planted it, but there’s no proof you didn’t. It uses your code and you get the dirty money. Maybe you can get them to see reason, but it will take a long time.”

“Jeez.”

“The retainer is fifty thousand dollars. He estimates the defense would cost over two hundred dollars.”

“Jeez.” Jeff put down the pizza. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“I have the fifty thousand and about half of the rest. It would wipe out my savings though.”

“How about a price break for two?”

Frank paused, then said, “He says he’ll represent me only. You need to get your own lawyer.” Jeff wrinkled his forehead. “It’s so the feds can turn me, Jeff. Come on, you watch television. When the going gets tough, my lawyer will want me to flip on you. He’s already thinking it. I could pick it up over the phone.”

“Jeeze.” Jeff rubbed his forehead. The headache was getting worse again.

“So here’s what I say. Let’s finish the pizza, then get cracking. Let’s figure out what this hidden code does and see if the guys framing us have been careful. Maybe we can figure out who the inside guy is. At the least we’ll know more and that can’t hurt when the time comes to tell our story.”

“That doesn’t sound like much.”

“It’s better than nothing.” Frank picked up a slice. “Anyway, we’ve got help coming.” He grinned.

33

Sonia Lopes de Almeida disconnected her cell phone and grimaced. Her father. She was nearly twenty years old, and he still treated her like a child.

She glanced across the room. Victor was busy at his desk. She wondered what he did so diligently. He’d made it, he was rich, why work so hard? Once, when she’d told him as much, he’d only laughed. “Getting it,” he’d said, “is the easy part. It’s keeping it that’s hard.”

Keeping what? she’d thought. Just who was Victor Bandeira? Oh, she’d heard the stories — everyone had. Drugs, cartels, crooked businesses. You heard it all the time. The politicians were crooked, the businesses were crooked, the cops were on the take, it was the same everywhere. Who was she to draw some line? And how much of it was really true?

Once, just once, after he emerged from his helicopter, the wind had caught Bandeira’s jacket and she’d seen the butt of a pistol at his waist. She’d never known a citizen to carry a gun before, and it caught her by surprise. Perhaps the stories were true. Why else would he carry a gun, especially since he was always surrounded by so much security?

She’d never told her father that she was seeing Victor Bandeira. The men were in business so normally she would have felt obligated to let him know but somehow, whenever she thought she might say something, she always hesitated.

Sonia lay back on the couch, lifted her magazine but watched him as she had in the past. He was a handsome man, a bit heavyset, but then, that always seemed to go with money and power. He could be generous with her, but she’d seen him be petty and parsimonious as well. There was, she’d observed, a slight cruelty in the occasional set of his mouth. Was it real? Or an act? They’d been together such a short time she still hadn’t figured him out.

She had boyfriend, a real one. She’d never told Victor. At first, it didn’t matter, but now he was turning her into his mistress. He hadn’t discussed it with her. He just assumed that was their relationship. Still, there was no agreement between them, and she knew he’d been with other women since they were together. She even knew one of them. It wasn’t as if she loved Victor. And Bruno was nothing like him. Slender, elegant in manner, quiet, soft spoken. But he could never give her what she really wanted. Only Victor could do that.

Her mother knew about her and Victor, and approved. “We are not as rich as you think, Sonia,” she said. “It’s time you knew. Our family has lost steadily since before you were born. If we hadn’t, your father would never have allowed the bank to fall into Victor’s hands. For now, it is important they do business together. Carlos doesn’t like Victor, and Victor knows that. If you are—” She’d hesitated. “—if you are his lover, then he will not do anything against your father.”

“You want me to be a prostitute?” Sonia retorted.

“Don’t be silly. That’s not what I said at all. You did this on your own. If you’d said something to me earlier, I’d have told you to stay away from him. You should have known better. But you’re already there, aren’t you? I’m telling you there is a lot at stake here so be careful. It’s time you grew up, time you learned what a woman can do, and stopped being a spoiled child.” She’d seized Sonia by the shoulders. “It’s time you repaid your father for all he’s done for you, for his years of sacrifice.”

Sonia sighed. Victor had been fun at first, exciting since their affair was secret and forbidden. She’d even enjoyed cheating on Bruno, but she was growing weary of it. All she wanted, all she’d ever wanted, was to be Miss Brazil. Was that so much to ask for? Everything was corrupt, even the beauty pageant. She’d checked. Only the mistresses of the powerful ever won. When Victor first turned his attention to her, she’d seen her chance. She had a few years. If he wouldn’t make it happen, then someone else would.

Sonia turned her attention to the magazine she’d been reading all morning. There was the current Miss Brazil, taking up half the pages. That’s why she’d bought it. Sonia had seen her up close. She wasn’t so much. Sonia knew she had a much better body.

“What are you staring at?” Bandeira asked.

“You,” she said, quickly looking at him over the magazine. “I was wondering when you would stop working. I’m very lonely.” She pouted.

Bandeira laughed, pushed himself away from the desk, stood up, and walked toward her. “What is it you want?”

Sonia turned the magazine toward him. “You know.”

He laughed and sat down on the couch. “Miss Brazil? Is that it?”

She sat up, excited. “Think about it, Victor. Your lover would be Miss Brazil, the most beautiful woman in the country. Maybe, maybe even Miss World. Every man would envy you.”

“They already do.” He eyed her steadily. “I don’t think you know what is involved to make this happen.”

Sonia beamed as she sat up. “You checked? You found out?”

He nodded. “I made a few calls. There are many men, rich men with power, who would be doing the same thing for their woman. It can be very expensive and the outcome is not always guaranteed after you’ve spent all that money.”

“But you have lots of money.”

“Oh yes. And I’ll have more if I didn’t waste it on foolish chases like Miss Brazil.”

“But…”

“My child, it would cost a great deal of money.” Bandeira took her wrist, pulled her to her feet, then led her to the bedroom.

Though she knew she should be passionate, do the things he liked, she couldn’t help being put off, a bit cold. Sometimes men were so taken with their own pleasure it didn’t matter, but Victor wasn’t like that. He was always attune to her. She didn’t care. Her mother might want her to sleep with this man for the sake of the family, but she did it for her own reasons. When he rolled off her, he scowled and made a dismissive grunt. After his shower, she was still in a foul mood.

Bandeira made no attempt to cheer her up as he often did when she was down. He glanced at her from time to time, obviously enjoying the sight of her naked, as he took a call. She knew then he’d taken that little pill to boost him a bit. He’d want to do it again in an hour or so. He was so predictable.

“Tell me about yourself,” she asked. “Are you who they say you are?”

He looked up from his phone. “Who do they say I am?”

“You know.”

He made a face and lowered the phone. “People say all kinds of things. What have you heard?”

“That you are a chefe. The chefe of NL.” Sonia was stunned at her audacity. She’d never even allowed herself to think the letters NL before now.

Bandeira smiled, and she saw a flash of the cruelty that always lurked in his face. “Why do you want to know?” She shrugged and pouted a little. “You are a child sometimes, Sonia. Men do not speak of such things.”

She rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom. She spent a long time in the shower, not wanting to go back to the bedroom, not wanting him to mount her again. This time he might insist on her doing what he wanted. She hated that, hated being forced. If she was in the mood or been promised something nice, she was willing. But he was saying the opposite, that he’d do nothing to help her. She had to find another rich man, one easier to control. Her thoughts ticked off the possibilities. Finally, with no choice she climbed out of the shower, toweled herself slowly, then returned to the bedroom, sitting on a chair across from the bed.

Bandeira looked up at her. “So you want to know the kind of man I am. Suddenly that is important to you.” He stood and walked toward her, naked. Sitting down like this, looking up at him, she realized he was twice her size.

“I just want to be Miss Brazil,” she said, quietly realizing how badly she’d played her part.

“You will never be that, my dear. Never.” Without warning he struck her on the side of her face with his open hand, the blow catching her by surprise, knocking her onto the floor. “Perhaps it could have been,” he said, continuing. “I made the calls, laid out what was required. I was considering it to please you, and because it would have pleased me.” He reached down and seized her bare feet, then pulled her toward the bed. “But then I learned about your little plaything. What did they call him? Bruno? Yes, Bruno, that is it.”

Bandeira lifted her from the floor and tossed her bouncing onto the bed. She let out a cry, her hands clutched against the side of her face. “I have a video. Do you want to see it?”

Bandeira picked up the remote and punched a button. An enormous flat screen descended from the ceiling. Sometimes they watched pornography on it. There was a bright flash; then it came alive. She could see her boyfriend, Bruno. He was naked, his arms tied above his head. He’d been beaten.

“In the end,” Bandeira said, “he wasn’t so much a man.” He looked at her, gauging her reaction. “You were cold to me earlier. Now you will be warm. You will not say no, will you? All you have to do is watch the little show and see what is in store for my favorite puta. You will work hard, won’t you?”

Bandeira turned her so she could see the screen more clearly. “Now,” he said as he lowered himself to her, “now you will see who I really am.” It was then that Bruno began to scream.

34

Daryl sat in the hotel lobby and watched for Frank. There was the usual foot traffic in and out. She could see the doorman, dressed like a college drum major, opening doors, putting guests into taxis, touching his cap to acknowledge a tip.

Since receiving Frank’s telephone call, she’d been in a state of frenzy. It had taken no time to make her decision. She sent Clive an e-mail telling him she would be out of the office and city a few days on emergency personal business. Unable to catch the red-eye she’d booked an early-morning flight. She spent a restless night in her own bed, then packed and flew to New York. Once she’d settled into her room she’d called Frank to arrange a meeting.

So what was she really doing here? she asked herself as she waited. She’d already decided to help but wondered now if this wasn’t really about trying to reconnect with Jeff. She wasn’t married to the man, hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in a year. What was he to her that she’d drop everything and fly across the country?

Frank and his wife, however, were college friends. Over the last few years, Frank had helped her more than once, at considerable career risk to himself. There was no question of her helping him. That’s what she told herself as a man dropped onto the seat beside her. She ignored him, looked at her watch, then looked back toward the entrance. But part of her understood she was primarily here to help Jeff. He needed her.

“I took this class once,” Frank said quietly. Daryl looked to her left in amazement. “The instructor said all this Hollywood stuff with false mustaches and makeup was a bunch of crap and useless in the field. He said there were simpler and more effective ways to disguise yourself. You’re looking good, Daryl.”

“I didn’t recognize you.” She stared at Frank again unable to put her finger on the transformation. Never an especially sharp dresser, he looked a bit shabby today, even though the clothes were typical for him. The man who’d sat beside her was older too, perhaps a bit sick.

“You weren’t supposed to.”

“You’re fatter.”

“Not really. Just some cotton between my cheek and gums. It gives me a sad sack look.”

“There’s more though.”

“Not so much, mostly just my demeanor, my walk and stance, the way I look at things, interact with the world around me. I’m in loser mode right now. Like it?”

“Not especially, but it definitely worked.”

“I picked up the jacket at a used clothing store, same with the shoes.”

“You’ll be standing outside asking for quarters later today.”

“Hey, I’m just a bit down on my luck. All I need is a break to get on my feet.” He paused, then said, “Thanks for coming.”

“You’ve done the same for me.” Daryl hesitated, then said, “How’s Jeff?”

“He’s good this morning. Hard at work on his laptop, trying to find a way to dig us out of this hole. He’ll be all right, but it was close. Daryl, these are dangerous people. You’re on-site now, so promise me you’ll take this seriously and be careful.”

“I promise.”

“And you didn’t have to fly across the country. I told you that. We’re looking for hacker help with this.”

“Better face-to-face. You know that. Now, tell me what’s going on.”

Frank filled her in, catching her up on what he’d learned that morning. She listened with growing disbelief at the audacity of it.

“This is no way to reward an American hero!” she snapped. “You of all people know what Jeff’s done for this country, the risks he’s taken. He’s never asked for anything, not even a dime of the money he’s spent chasing down terrorists. He’s been shot, threatened, God knows what else.”

“I couldn’t agree more. But I don’t think the people involved here know any of this. That was all so hush-hush.”

Daryl composed herself before continuing. “So you’ve been set up.”

“Right.”

“Someone inside the Exchange or outside?”

“We think both. We’re hoping you can help us pin that down. We need to point this Alshon guy at the right party to bring an end to this — and the sooner, the better. If we can identify someone working right here at the Exchange, that would be great.”

“That will be the same somebody who’s hacked the system.”

“Absolutely.”

Daryl thought about that for a bit. “How good a job did they do on you two?”

“Good enough to get the SEC in gear but frankly I think it’s a bit over the top. In theory at least any fair-minded investigator should be willing to hear us out and realize we’ve been set up.”

“But you don’t want to take that chance?”

“Officially, we don’t even know there’s an SEC investigation, unless you count searching Jeff’s place as a form of notice. Still, my source says warrants are coming out by Monday.”

“That seems awfully fast for this type of crime. Is this connected to that bot Wall Street is upset about?”

Frank told her how they’d come to get the engagement. “The bot the New York Times is all upset about is harmless. Their source is exaggerating. Probably a disgruntled former employee.”

“The market’s reeling from the news.”

Frank laughed. “If what we’ve found ever gets out, there will be a crash like no other in history. No one will have any faith in the stock market, no matter what they say about how secure it is.”

“I guess we shouldn’t be surprised after all we’ve seen elsewhere. So many institutions have gone out of business. Assets people thought were secure, like the value in their homes, vanished. Why should the New York Stock Exchange computers be immune?”

“I’ve made some calls,” Frank continued. “Fortunately, I still have people I can trust on the inside. Alshon’s pursuing this as an act of terrorism under the Patriot Act. That gives them a lot of authority.”

Daryl grimaced. She hated to see laws meant for one purpose abused this way. She’d had this fight repeatedly within the National Security Agency. “Getting back to the hackers, being heavy-handed suggests they’re only looking to get you two out of the way for a while.”

“We agree but don’t know where that takes us. The obvious conclusion is that they’re just buying time to cover their tracks, maybe finish any looting they’ve got under way.”

“All right, what do you want from me?”

“Like I told you over the telephone, we can use help in figuring out what exactly they are up to, but especially in backtracking to them. We have to hope they’ve left a clue somewhere. If they are inside the Exchange, that narrows the field of suspects considerably. If they are outsiders, that would tend to get us off the hook.” He paused, then continued, “Since you’re here, it occurs to me that it’s useful to have a fresh face on the scene. You can go places we can’t. We need to stay out of sight.”

“Where are you two staying?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

Daryl nodded. “Okay. I can see that.” Neither spoke for a long minute. “Does he know you asked for me?”

“Yes, I told him.”

“And?”

“He appreciates your help.”

She looked Frank in the eye. “And?” she repeated.

“No ‘and.’ He appreciates your help. He knows how good you are.”

“Okay, then. Tell him … tell him I’ll do everything I can.”

Frank touched her forearm. “He knows that.”

Daryl blinked as she fought back tears.

35

It was Saturday, but during a big case, weekends meant little in Robert Alshon’s office. He had checked in with Flores and her team just after lunch. They were hard at the forensic examination of the computers seized from Red Zoya in D.C. When he’d caught her eye, she’d shrugged and shook her head.

He returned to his office. Maybe this guy was more clever than most, he thought. And he kept his dirt out of his office. If that was the case, Aiken would have a laptop with him from which he’d done everything. Alshon alerted his people and any federal officer who might arrest Aiken to acquire every computing device within reach.

Gene Livingston rapped lightly on his open office door. He was an understated man, both in size and demeanor, but Alshon had come to rely on him to perform the essential legwork outside Flores’s province. He waved the man in and gestured at the chair.

“What do you have?” he asked pointedly.

“Just preliminaries at this point, boss, but there’s some firm data here.” Livingston lifted a legal tablet in front of him slightly. Approaching fifty years of age, with little hair remaining and out of date glasses, Livingston looked every bit the bookworm his job description made him out to be. He’d never married and had rented the same one-bedroom apartment for over twenty years. He brought his lunch to work and ate at his desk. Alshon once commented to a colleague that he wished he had ten more like him.

“I can find no connection between William Stenton and Jeffrey Aiken or Aiken’s company. I’ve checked Stenton’s finances, and there has been no significant movement in two years, nothing at all in the last three months. All indications are they’d never met before Stenton hired him and Frank Renkin. I’ve requested a digital and telephone screen and expect results back Monday or Tuesday, but I think we can expect it will confirm my preliminary analysis.”

“I plan to meet with Stenton on Monday. I have a number of questions, and it will be better if I don’t have to tell him he’s a target. So do what you can to speed that along. What else?”

“Red Zoya is clean. Aiken owns it without partners. It pays its taxes, its corporation filings are up-to-date. It has a good credit rating. Basically, it’s just an extension of Aiken for tax and liability purposes.”

“And what about the man?”

Livingston smiled. “This is where it gets really interesting. He’s a Ph.D., taught at Carnegie Mellon. You mentioned he once worked for the CIA.” He looked up and Alshon nodded. “He was head of the Counter Cyberterrorism Unit, a four-man team in existence before 9/11. I can’t find anything official but as I understand it he claimed to have uncovered the attack before it happened and later said no one listened.”

“I’ve heard that story a few times.”

“Anyway, he left after that and started his own company. It’s got a good reputation, and he does too.” He looked down. “There’s more, but nothing official.” Alshon raised his eyebrows. “Aiken also reportedly discovered a cyberterrorist attack against the West a few years ago. He flew to Moscow and Paris, engaged in a firefight, killed the brothers responsible.”

Alshon looked at Livingston in disbelief. “Are you certain?”

“I am that it happened. It’s pretty common knowledge in some circles. I just don’t know the details. Two years ago, he’s the one that found that virus that changes documents in a computer. He was involved in some incident in Turkey in which a plane crashed.”

“Gene, this sounds like fantasy land.”

“I understand your skepticism. I’ll see if I can’t nail down some facts.”

“What about his finances?”

“He’s done well, but he’s not much of an investor. Basically, his money piles up in a savings account. Every few months, he transfers some into an indexed Schwab account. The rest he rolls into CDs. Of course, there’s the recent activity. I’ll get to that later.”

“Not very imaginative.”

“I guess not. He did pay off his town house in Georgetown last year. In general he works a lot and doesn’t do much else.”

“What about Renkin?”

“Renkin is former CIA as well. He left some months ago to go to work for Aiken. He was Deputy Director of Counter Cyber Research at the time. His finances are even more boring than Aiken’s. Still has a mortgage, married, three children. Nothing stands out and no recent action.”

Alshon grimaced. “You say there’s nothing?” Livingston shook his head. “These guys are too clean. That’s always a red flag. They’re hiding something. What about recent weeks, since they came to New York?”

“Nothing on Renkin.” Livingston consulted his tablet. “Aiken opened a brokerage account, and it’s received just over three million dollars in the last few days.”

“That’s more like it.” Livingston was pursing his lips. “What?”

“It doesn’t smell right. He set the thing up in his own name. No attempt to hide anything. Then he’s transferred market money straight into the account. It’s almost like there’s a spotlight on it.”

“What was he supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, something. Set up an LLC in Nevada and use it. That would have slowed a search down a couple of days to get back to him. Use any name but his own. Go offshore. Something. It’s almost like he wanted to get caught.”

Alshon swiveled in his chair and gazed out his window. “These are both Company men, Gene,” he said after a bit. “They’ve been schooled in the craft. They think it through. My guess is he expected to erase his trail before anyone caught on to him. What we’re seeing is a bitter man whose career was going nowhere, who has the chance of a lifetime to get back at everyone and set himself up for life. He figured he’d get away with it and laugh all the way to the bank. These guys like Aiken and Renkin, they think they’re above the law.” He turned back to his desk. “Keep digging. My guess is there’s more.”

“I do have more. Aiken was struck by a car Thursday night. He was hospitalized.”

“What happened?”

“He was jogging near the reservoir and was attacked. He ran into a busy street to escape and was hit by a car. He was nearly killed.”

“What do the police think?”

“They think a homeless guy went berserk.”

“Nothing more?”

“Just that Aiken left the hospital without being released.”

“I’d expect that. He’s on the run now. All right, see what else you can find and keep digging. Send Susan in, please.”

Flores arrived a few minutes later, looking very tired as she took a seat.

“What have you got?” Alshon asked.

“Not a thing. Zip. Nada.”

“Details.”

“It’s all encrypted. I’d need the NSA to break it, and even then, it would take weeks, assuming it can be done.”

Alshon thought about that, then asked, “How about his finances?” He often had Flores and Livingston cover the same ground just to be sure. They were aware of it and worked that much harder.

“That was actually pretty easy. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a Schwab account and some CDs. He pays his bills on time, owns his house.” She looked up and in a rare moment of humor said, “In most regards he’s a good catch.”

Alshon snorted. “You’ll be visiting him in prison.”

“Not for me. For some women.”

“Tell me what you found on the Exchange.”

“It didn’t take long to locate the tools Aiken used or his malware. He was employing it stupidly, though. Instead of blending in with traffic, he had it programmed to just keep working around the clock. The automated security scans would have picked it up but the way the malware was set up made getting caught even more certain. It was pretty carelessly done. And it leads straight to his brokerage account.”

“So just as IT told us?”

“Pretty much.” She tapped her teeth with her pen. “There’s a rootkit in there. He’d been paying a lot of attention to it.”

“Rootkit? That’s some kind of cloaking device, right?”

“Right, it conceals a file’s presence in a computer. He’d been working on this one.”

“Maybe it’s his.”

“No. He’s investigating it.”

“What did you find out about it?”

“Nothing except that it’s pretty sophisticated.”

“It was just part of his job; good to go through the motions.”

“I suppose, but a rootkit’s got no business in the heart of the New York Stock Exchange’s trading platform.”

Just then, the telephone rang. “Yes?” Alshon listened intently, then hung up. “Take another look at his office data just to confirm we can’t access it, then get back on the Exchange and see what else you can learn. Maybe he’s one of those people who kept things separated, but not many do. Encrypting the files can only have one explanation.”

“Maybe he works for sensitive clients and wants to protect his work product. That will be the explanation.”

Alshon snorted. “He’s hiding something. We need to find out what that is. I’m off to search his office over at the Exchange. The team will have more computers for you.”

“Okay.”

“With a great deal of luck they’ll show up. I’ve got two arrest warrants.” As he grabbed his jacket he gave her a very unpleasant grin.

36

Frank let himself into the small hotel room quietly, not sure if Jeff was sleeping. Instead, he found Jeff hunched over his laptop at the room’s desk, deep in thought. Frank set his paper sack down and sat in the room’s only chair.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“I’ve made some progress I think. What’s in the bag?”

“Bourbon. I couldn’t remember if you were a Scotch man or not, but I drink Bourbon so you can either share or get your own.”

“Bourbon’s fine.”

Frank retrieved two glasses from the bathroom, unwrapped them from their plastic cover, then filled them halfway with amber liquid. “Here you go.” They both took a sip. “So what have you got?”

“I think I’ve locked in what the malware does. It’s pretty sophisticated. You’re the expert on Wall Street, since unlike me, you’ve actually read a book so maybe it will make more sense to you. It looks like a trading algorithm programmed to hunt down certain traders and specific situations. When it finds them with a transaction matching the algo’s parameters taking place, it rides it in, bypasses the Exchange’s safeguards, and inserts itself at the head of the trading queue. It’s a high-frequency trader that can always beat everyone to the front of the line.”

“Like cutting in at the movies huh.”

“Exactly. Only in this case, there are only so many tickets available at a preferred price. The algos suck that up. In effect, they drive up the price by taking the ready action, then dump, and repeat. They’ve held some of these trades hostage in the Exchange’s computers for minutes while they pump and dump.”

“How much?”

“Well, in terms of percentages, it’s taking up to five percent of a trade, though usually less. Depending on the size it’s a lot of money. I have found instances where it appears to have taken substantially more. I haven’t figured out why those are treated differently.”

“And the Exchange’s IT department doesn’t know about it?”

“Not from what I can see. They’ve done nothing to stop it.”

“So the code is undetected and in operation.”

“Yes, and hidden within the rootkit.”

“That suggests to me someone with intimate knowledge of the Exchange’s code.” Jeff nodded agreement. Frank took a sip, then lowered his glass. “When did it start?”

“There’s no way to tell so far. A few months, a year, perhaps more.”

“Even if it’s just a few months, that’s a long time to operate in the heart of the New York Stock Exchange without being spotted.”

“It is.”

“Is it really that clever or are they just not very good at what they do?”

“It’s clever, obviously. As for the rest … complacent is likely the word for it.” He paused. “It’s possible whoever is responsible for the type of security that would usually detect the malware is in on the action.”

“Any clues?”

“No. Just something we should keep in mind.”

“Any luck finding who planted it?”

“No, I’ve been working to figure it out. The code we’ve got in the engine has detected and copied the code out of our cloud server so whoever is doing this is active. We should be able to follow the files back to where they entered the Exchange and once we have a physical location we can get names.”

“The other approach, I take it is—”

“—follow the money,” the men said in unison.

“That will take a lot of time,” Frank said. “Weeks, at the least.”

“Yeah, and finding an end deposit is getting tougher every year. Do we have that much time?”

Frank shook his head. “In theory we do but like I’ve said already, the longer we’re in the crosshairs, the harder it’s going to be to get out. And this Alshon’s going to think any perp we come up with is a fall guy. That’s especially true since we’ll be relying on computer records and trails. They can be made to point most anywhere.”

Jeff nodded. “What we need is to catch one of the bad guys in the know and get him to talk.”

“Good luck with that.” Frank set his cup down and refilled it, gesturing to Jeff who held out his own. As he poured, Frank said, “Still, not bad for a guy who was just whacked on the head. We’ve got help in town now too.”

Jeff took another sip. “How is she?”

“Daryl looks fantastic, what’d you expect? I can’t believe you let her get away.”

“I told you about it.”

“You told me but you didn’t convince me. She’s here, Jeff. When you’ve got some time for your personal life, you should give that serious thought. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t have flown across the country.”

Jeff had already thought about that. “Does she believe us?”

Frank laughed. “What? You’re having doubts? Of course she believes us. In fact, she’s pretty pissed off. She’s staying in midtown. I gave her access to the backdoors, and she’s likely hard at work by now, trying to trace these guys.”

“That’s going to be the hardest part.”

“Yep, they will stay as far from it as they can. Even if it turns out they’re on the inside like we think, they’ll have routed their work in such a way as to not point at them. As for the money, you can bet it’s scattered far and wide. Maybe Daryl should work tracing the dough while you and I work on tracing its operation and finding a perp.”

“Sounds good.”

Frank opened his laptop and sent Daryl a message. “Want me to say anything from you?”

“Just thank her for helping.”

“Okay, lover boy. That should melt her heart.”

Jeff turned back to his computer but found he could no longer concentrate. He finished the bourbon, then poured more. Daryl. He was surprised to learn that she’d flown here, mildly irritated at the thought he might see her again. But when the reality set in, not just of his precarious situation, but that she’d cared enough to come, he found he was looking forward to seeing her.

The more he thought about their breakup, his reasons for it, the shallower they seemed. He wondered if the real problem had been that she wasn’t conforming to what he wanted. She’d stayed the person he’d always known. If he really wanted a lasting relationship with her, he should have waited. Maybe he just had been looking for a reason to end it, to find one more reason to crawl back into his emotional shell. Because once she left, that’s exactly what he did.

37

Victor Bandeira settled into his patio chair and laid the Cuban Robusto onto its slot on the ashtray. He took a sip of strong black coffee and looked across the expanse of his estate toward the virgin cluster of trees from which the stream emerged. The afternoon sun caught the clear water precisely and the effect was as if diamonds danced on the surface.

Sonia was still in the bedroom. When he’d finished with her, she lay there unmoving, softly weeping as he took his shower, humming to himself. Once his energy was recovered, he was considering having another go at her.

He’d found the entire experience depressing, though. She was such a child, and it had all been so easy. He’d known from the first time she’d been with another man, and now had made it clear to her that she was his and his alone. Women thought they were so clever about such things, but he’d always found it to be the opposite. He was sensitive to any change in their attentiveness or heightened passion, as both were signs. Women thought such compensation masked their infidelity, when in fact it only confirmed it.

Still, depressing as it had been, overall, the first moments of surprise and possession had been exhilarating. Unfortunately, he’d not be able to duplicate the experience — at least he could think of no way now. He had to be careful. If he crushed all life from her, he’d have a woman who was little better than a whore in his bed. He’d had enough of that when he was a young man.

Bandeira wondered if she’d tell her father. If she did, that could prove awkward. Carlos was at heart a weak man so there was that. But more significantly he was a man who needed Bandeira desperately. He’d managed the family bank too conservatively for too long and reduced it to a near state of bankruptcy. If Bandeira hadn’t come along when he did, there’d be no more Banco do Novo Brasil. Perhaps it didn’t matter if he knew. It would be amusing to see how he responded.

Bandeira sighed and picked up his cigar, suddenly angry with himself. When would he be man enough to give up such games? This was all nonsense. It was nonsense to let himself get distracted by that puta on his bed, nonsense to have bedded the daughter of a man important to his business, nonsense to have taken his pleasure with her as he had earlier. He mocked his predecessor, the chefe before him, both in his thoughts and in comments to his bosses, but he was no less indiscreet himself. These were all needless risks, and in the end, there was absolutely no way to predict the behavior of an outraged Brazilian father, especially one who had been made to look small at more than one board meeting.

Just then, Jorge César approached. Bandeira gestured for his head of security to come near, then left him standing as was his custom with underlings. “Jorge,” Bandeira said, “we have a problem in New York. Two Americans have been making trouble for our financial enterprise. You know of this?”

“Sim, Chefe. Casas de Férias.”

“One of our men in New York took it on himself to attack the leader of these two and put him into a hospital. I did not want this as it might call attention to what we are doing, but he did it anyway.”

“Should I contact someone in New York?”

“No, no. It’s too late for that. We will take care of him later, after I no longer need him.” Bandeira suppressed a fresh wave of anger. Matters should never have come to this. “No, I spoke to Abílio and have instructed that he leave a trail to lure the two men interfering with Casas de Férias to come to Brazil. You can take care of them here on our own turf.”

César nodded. “When will the two men arrive?”

“I’m not sure but soon.”

“Where will they go?”

“You remember the Mooca warehouse?” It had been a drug distribution center for a time. Lately it was unused. It was isolated, ideal for this purpose. “You have time to set up the ambush. Abílio has sent us their names and photographs.”

César nodded. “And if they don’t come?”

“That is possible, yes. If they stay in New York, you will have someone there take care of them, though I’d rather not. But I think they will come. The bait is nice and juicy.”

“I will see to it at once and will use my best men. There will be no problems.”

“I want them to vanish, you understand? It must appear they dropped off the face of the earth.”

“As you wish.”

Bandeira discussed other business with César, then sent him on his way. He was finishing his cigar and was considering a drink when he heard a voice calling for him from the bedroom. He rose and walked to the open sliding door. “What is it?” His voice was stern.

“I’m lonely,” Sonia said.

Bandeira was momentarily startled. What was this? What game was she playing?

“Come to bed, my love. Please.”

Bandeira moved closer, testing the situation. Then, satisfied at this unexpected turn he moved to the side of the bed and stood there. “What are you talking about?”

“Come to bed. I’m sorry, please forgive me. I was weak. It won’t happen again.” Sonia moved and the sheet slipped from her body. There was bruising there, but it only heightened his excitement. “Just don’t be so rough this time.” Then she smiled coyly. “Unless you think I need to be punished more.”

38

Marc Campos exited the subway tunnel, stopped at the top of the stairs, and looked back as casually as he could manage. No one was following him from what he could see. He turned left and walked at a steady pace, stopping once two blocks later to tie his shoe, another time to pretend he was confused about where he was. Still no one.

And that was as it should be. There was no reason for the SEC to suspect him. He’d been careful, more careful than Richard Iyers. As he resumed his way, he put his thoughts to that particular problem. Just what was he to do? The man was out of control, gone rogue. He’d killed one man without permission, tried to kill another on his own. He was rash and he would be caught soon, for something. He knew too much, guessed too much, and had done too much. Iyers could tie Campos to one murder and another attempted murder. Never mind that Campos had nothing to do with either of them, the way American law worked, he’d learned, whatever Iyers did was the same as if Campos himself had done it. And when Iyers was arrested, as Campos was certain he would be at some point, he’d roll over in about five seconds.

I should have seen it coming, Campos thought bitterly. That night he’d pitched Casas de Férias to Iyers he’d seen the sudden light in the man’s pale eyes. It had brightly flamed for several seconds and when it eased, Iyers had become animated, more aggressive than Campos had ever seen him.

Campos had already been criticized for hiring him in the first place. Bandeira had chastised him directly when he’d learned about the use of a rootkit planted within the core code. What were the odds the one code writer with critical access he’d selected would turn out to be a psychopath? If anything else went wrong, Campos had to be concerned about just how much goodwill was left with his boss. That, he thought, will depend on just how badly things go. And with this rush to expand Casas de Férias and exploit Carnaval the chances of a disaster were more likely than they’d otherwise be. He had a sinking feeling about what lay ahead.

For one, NYSE Euronext was utilizing a new program for the Toptical IPO launch and there were always risks associated with that. For another, the high-frequency traders were going to be all over the IPO. They’d made a bundle on Facebook despite all the snafus, did very well indeed on Twitter, and were looking to score big again on this one. While this latest IPO was a golden opportunity for Carnaval it meant issues beyond their control could go wrong, disastrously so.

No, Campos thought, there is too much against us and we are being forced to do this too quickly, staking too much on a single operation. His every instinct told him that this was going to be a disaster and in more ways than one.

It was all so confusing. Campos was fully involved with Carnaval. In addition, he had his usual duties to perform at work; then he spent extra hours facilitating the updates and routes. It was complex, and he had to double-check and test everything. The Rio team was doing a good job, but he’d caught too many mistakes from them and couldn’t help but wonder how much he was missing. Some errors meant nothing. The public would be shocked to learn how many bugs existed already in systems they relied on every day. But some of the mistakes could prove fatal to Carnaval. It would take a lot more time and more resources than Campos had to identify which ones.

And what to do about Iyers. Campos wanted nothing to happen to the man until after Carnaval so that gave him a bit of time. He needed him right now. But then what? He’d never killed a man, and from what he’d seen, Iyers’s guard would be up. Even if Campos risked trying, the man’s caution would make it more difficult. Now he understood why the Mafia kept its enemies close. He’d always wondered about that when he saw the movies.

Hire a killer? In that path were at least two risks. First, he’d be known to the man he paid. Second, the assassin might botch the job. Then he’d be in double trouble. Iyers would have no reason to remain loyal and the hired killer would have every reason to turn on him if he were caught.

No, hiring someone himself was out of the question. Anyway, he had no idea how to go about it. All he’d done since coming to New York was write code.

Did he dare suggest the killing to Bandeira? How long would it take for the chefe to set it up? Not long, Campos decided. His reach was extensive, but he’d be unhappy at being placed in that position. This was Campos’s mess, and he’d expect Campos to clean it up.

Which meant he had to kill Iyers himself. Campos swallowed, his throat suddenly aching as he did.

He stopped and tied his other shoe. No one.

Satisfied but still uncomfortable walking the streets of Brooklyn at this hour, he stepped off more briskly. Brooklyn Heights was perhaps the most accessible area off Manhattan Island, which was why he’d chosen it initially. Originally the modest apartment had been nothing more than a bolt-hole in case things turned unexpectedly wrong, as well as a place to stash what he’d need in the event he had to run.

But over the years, he found he’d often come here, especially on pleasant Sundays. It was in many ways a different world from Manhattan and its skyscraper canyons. Even the people were different, more boisterous, more congenial behind their bravado, lacking the edge he dealt with every day across the river.

Montague Street was a delight. Trees lined much of it and the five-story redbrick buildings in their stately decline reminded him vaguely of home in Brazil. Mothers still pushed strollers along the sidewalks and children played in front of the apartment stoops. There were a few hotels built at the turn of the last century, some churches, thrift shops, and small restaurants. “Cozy” was not the word for it exactly, but he found it comfortable. If people didn’t know one another, the lingering influence of Brooklyn’s past dictated that they act as if they should.

Out of habit, Campos glanced back the way he’d come a final time, though if a tail had come this far, locating his destination would not be difficult. He saw nothing and mounted the steps. He entered the front door, then walked up the stairs to the second floor. On the back side of the building he let himself into a narrow one-room apartment. He closed the door behind him and stood silently, listening. The building had been settling, reacting to the changes in humidity, soil, and temperature for more than a century now, and he could still detect the slight creaks of its all but imperceptible movement. It was silly to listen for more he knew. He was alone. He turned on the high ceiling light, which cast a soft glow about the room; then he moved along the walls, turning on lamps one by one.

Campos opened the refrigerator and removed a small bottle of Coke. It was from Mexico, one of his Sunday finds here in Brooklyn. It was made with real sugar and tasted just like the Coke in São Paulo. He opened the bottle and drank half before setting it down on the Formica top of the two-chair kitchen table.

Beside the narrow bed was a small safe he’d bought and had delivered. A professional would have no trouble cracking it, a determined amateur would just carry it off, but it kept prying eyes away. Using his real birth date he opened the safe and removed its contents. He carried these in two hands to the kitchen table and sat.

When Abílio Ramos had first set himself up in America, he’d arranged for another identity. Two of them, in fact. He opened the Portuguese passport, examined the photograph again, then read the name. Rodrigo Emanual Braga. He could handle that. He set the maroon-colored passport down, then picked up the navy blue Brazilian passport. Jadir José Silva. Why not?

His real passport was in his apartment on Lower Manhattan just in case, for some desperate reason, he was forced to travel under his own name. Also there was the existing Portuguese passport in the name of the identity he would have to abandon — Marco Enfante Campo.

Now he fingered three stacks of cash. There was fifty thousand dollars in U.S. currency, mostly hundred-dollar bills, thirty thousand in euros with a fair number of five-hundred-euro bills, which kept the stack smaller, and five thousand in British pounds. Enough. There were also credit and debit cards for each identity.

Until this week, he’d never seriously considered that he’d have to run so soon. He’d always thought Casas de Férias would continue for several years and in time would be wound down into inactivity. Carnaval had been Pedro’s idea initially but it was never intended to be the size Senhor Bandeira was now ordering.

The plan had always been that after a respectable period, Campos would just fade away. Now that was impossible. Either way, this was all coming to an end. He’d have to leave as soon as his involvement with Carnaval was not needed or if suspicion, even mild, was directed at him. Where to go? Portugal? It was part of the European Union and its security computer network. He was wary of trusting his false identities in such a system. Still, as part of Europe, once he was in he’d be free to travel about with no questions asked. He could change his identity after arrival, then go … Where? Italy? Greece? They both appealed to him.

Or maybe his first stop should be Macau. That was tempting as it was in Asia and everything was for sale there, absolutely everything. But it was distant and he’d be trapped on a long flight with no idea who’d be meeting him when he arrived.

Madeira? With its heavy tourist presence, that might be ideal. It was Portuguese, and he’d blend in there but it was a small island and there’d be nowhere to easily run to. He could buy a boat he supposed, but he’d never sailed one on his own.

Brazil? Home? Yes, in time, but not right away.

Satisfied at his efforts and feeling better now that he’d confirmed everything was still here he debated what to do. Leave it and plan to come back if needed? Take it to his apartment? He smiled at that. Leave it, of course. That was the point of having it. Knowing it was here meant he could walk away at a moment’s notice. In fact, now that he’d considered it, he’d move his real passport here as well. No one knew about this place. If there was trouble, it would focus on his official residence.

Campos placed everything back into the safe, closed the door, and spun the dial. He finished the Coke standing up, filled the bottle with water, rinsed, filled it again, and poured it out. His mother had taught him that. It kept ants away. He killed the kitchen light, kicked off his shoes, then stretched out on the narrow bed. He listened again to the quiet settling of the building, of the more distant nocturnal sounds without, and let his mind drift.

What to do about Richard Iyers. And when to do it.

39

Daryl curled her feet beneath her in the aspect of the Buddha as she studied the screen, her right hand resting on the mouse. She was tired but too keyed up to go to sleep. Anyway, her body clock told her the time was just approaching 9 P.M. Customarily a night owl, she was good for some time yet.

When she received Frank’s message urging her to follow the money, she’d turned to the task with relish. She’d chased more than her share of money trails before, both for the government and while working with Jeff, as well as in her new job. It would be a lot more interesting than tracing the code back to its authors.

Daryl still didn’t understand just how the malware worked — she’d leave that part to the boys — but once she’d focused on the cash her attention was drawn to the sequences of numbers she kept encountering. They were not all the same in length, nor did they appear in the same location in the code, but numbers were recurring throughout its functions.

Her first impression was that the numbers were encoded in such a way as to conceal the purpose they served. That was clever on someone’s part. In the event the code was discovered it would still be difficult to decipher. As it was the numbers could be most anything. They could also be of either greater or lesser significance to the money trail. There was no way to know until she’d cracked exactly what they were.

Since this was a financial operation, Daryl’s suspicion was that they were account numbers of some type, and that they’d be part of the routing path for funds once they were acquired. She suspected that the Exchange used internal identifiers for trading accounts, but hoped that the malware had a table of mappings between bank and Exchange accounts. If it didn’t, this approach would be a quick dead end. With that in mind, she researched bank routing transit numbers. These were nine digit numbers appearing on all negotiable instruments including personal and business checks. They served to identify the financial institution on which the instrument was drawn. They were in essence an address. Originally, Federal Reserve Banks processed wire fund transfers by using them but now more people had money directly deposited into their accounts and paid their bills online.

But the numbers she was examining were longer than nine digits. Some were eleven, others as many as nineteen. She began slicing and dicing the numbers, searching for patterns. She recalled reading once that when spies sent messages, they did so in blocks of five numerical digits. Many of the numbers were not actually part of the message itself. They were intended to fill out messages to conceal those that were short or to establish authenticity. She doubted either was the case here, since the numbers were not of the same length, but seized on the idea that any sequence of numbers beyond nine was meant to conceal the fact these were bank routing numbers.

It consumed several hours, but finally she had it. Using a combination of code inspection and study of the numbers looking for patterns and correlations, she discovered recurring sequences of numbers. They were not always in the same order, but she was convinced they were meant to hide the actual number. At last she came up with sets of eight numbers. When she removed these numbers in specific patterns from the sequences, she was, in most cases, able to come up with a nine-digit number. She then ran the numbers through the fdic.gov Web site, and there they were — the names and locations of U.S. banks, one of them as close as Stamford, Connecticut.

So she’d been right. This part of the code was where the money trail began. If she could demonstrate that these numbers were part of a bigger, and longer lasting operation, one in which Jeff and Frank were not profiting, that would help enormously in getting them off the hook.

Daryl was impressed once she’d grasped the vast scope of the rogue code, as Frank had called it. There must be more than a hundred banks involved. If this routing system worked as others she’d cracked had, nearly all the financial institutions were bases the money scarcely touched before moving on. The money wouldn’t come to rest until it had been carefully maneuvered and outpaced possible electronic surveillance.

Before 9/11 and the passage of the Patriot Act, such efforts had not been all that complicated. Money would leave a company, or in this case the Exchange, go offshore and vanish. As long as the country with the offshore bank refused to cooperate with American law enforcement, drugs lords, organized crime kingpins, and tax evaders were free to conceal their assets from the Internal Revenue Service and other government agencies. And most other countries did not cooperate unless a great deal of pressure was brought to bear on them.

If the launderers wanted to be doubly safe, once the money was offshore, they’d move it two or three times, say to Latvia, then to Belgium, then Switzerland, then back to an offshore bank. There a lawyer would set up a perfectly legal company and invest the money back into the U.S. stock market.

But the Patriot Act changed all that. In the guise of chasing terrorists the U.S. government now had the power to strip many foreign bank accounts of their protective shield. If a bank — or, more important, the country — where it was located wanted to have any dealings with the United States, then they cooperated with requests for data. Not every country played ball but most did and it took someone very knowledgeable to keep moving money from bank to bank, country to country, always staying with those prepared to stonewall Uncle Sam.

That was the trail Daryl had to follow, and her first efforts suggested it was going to be too much, at least too much in the time she had. There had to be a faster way.

Seeing Frank had been sobering. His effective disguise and the seriousness with which he presented their problem struck home. She’d understood that their situation was critical; otherwise, she’d never have climbed on an airplane, but she’d not really appreciated just how serious this was. Though Frank had been his usual self, she couldn’t help but notice how he kept an inconspicuous eye on the lobby. And though he’d seemed casual in his manner, she knew him well enough to know he’d been tightly coiled.

Daryl wondered how Carol, his wife, was taking this. Then she realized he likely hadn’t told her. What was the point? If things turned really ugly, there’d be time enough to let her know; otherwise, it was just so much needless worry.

What impressed her was Frank’s tradecraft. She was pretty sure that was the word. She’d heard it from her CIA colleagues when she was still with the NSA. She’d always considered him another computer expert, better at handling the ins and outs of bureaucratic politics than most, but she’d never thought of him as a spy.

She knew he’d been an operative, though. On occasion when he had a bit too much to drink, he’d tell stories of that time, but they were always more travelogues than espionage stories. Listening to them, you’d have thought he’d been working for IBM, and he never related an incident that even hinted at danger. But watching Carol during those moments Daryl had noticed some reserve when she joined in the laughter, her hand placed protectively on her husband, a subtle tightness around her mouth.

Carol knew Daryl realized. She knew just how close to death Frank had come in the years before they met.

Now he was employing all that experience and skill to keep himself and Jeff out of harm’s way. Daryl appreciated that he had such abilities, but wished it wasn’t necessary. But his tradecraft had given her an idea.

40

Frank stood and stretched, feeling the tension ease from his muscles as his joints yielded a slight popping sensation. He looked over at Jeff who’d fallen asleep atop the bedspread in an exaggerated X. Frank was worried about him. Jeff should still be in the hospital under monitoring, not hiding out in a dump like this.

Not for the first time, Frank suppressed the emotions that welled up inside him. He’d never been in precisely this position before, though he’d seen it happen to a colleague in his field days. That hadn’t turned out so well, which was just one more reason he’d elected to fix the problem himself rather than hire a lawyer and fight it out in the system.

He went into the bathroom and scrubbed his face. He’d thought days like this, nights in nameless hotels in the rougher part of town, were behind him. He’d turned in his 007 card and taken to the office and was surprised at how easily he’d made the transition. His bachelor cowboy days were behind him, and he’d transitioned into a suburbanite with remarkable ease. Carol had helped, actually made it possible. She’d intuitively understood what he was giving up and made his reason for giving it up a good trade every day. Then the children had come and there’d been no turning back.

Now this.

Frank wondered just how rusty he was. It was one thing to remember the moves, to still have the contacts, yet another to get into the action. Until now, he’d primarily spent his time on the computer and kept to ground but that was about to change.

He looked at himself in the mirror in the harsh light. He was old, slow. He’d worked at staying fit but only someone who’d worked the field as many years as he had knew how much more finely honed his reflexes needed to be than they were. He’d talked to one of the older agents about it years before. They’d been holed up in Venezuela on a surveillance operation and there was nothing to do but talk, swap stories, and tell lies. He’d asked how the man did it now that he was middle-aged.

“Experience and judgment make up the difference,” he’d said. “There’s no point in fooling yourself that you’re the man you were but you know a lot more, have picked up a trick or two. Actually, what you learn is that most of the action was never necessary, that there’d been another way to do it all along, but you hadn’t known enough to use it.” Then he’d smiled. “Bringing along a young stud like you, of course, always helps.”

Frank wondered if that spy made it to retirement. They’d lost touch after that operation. He hoped so. He wanted to think he had, that he was on a sunny beach where his only concern was drinking too much.

Frank went back into the room and sat before the laptop. He ran through the code again, then began tracing it step by step.

Jeff stirred from his sleep, slid off the bed, and sat on its edge for a long time, muttering something about going back to work, finally rose, used the bathroom, then sat in front of his laptop. As he accessed it an e-mail came in. A message was written across a photograph of two bodies lying in a field, their heads placed beside them like a pair of jack-o’-lanterns.

“Look at this,” he said, suddenly wide awake.

Frank glanced up from his computer, then moved over. “They’re running scared.”

“That’s one way to look at it. Aren’t you troubled that they know enough to send me an e-mail?”

“Jeff, they knew enough to frame us. This just confirms what we already know: There’s someone on the inside in this.” He studied the screen. “This is almost reassuring.”

“You’re a sick man.”

“Not so much. I’ve just been around. Take a hard look at the photo. It might have some useful data.” He flashed a knowing smile. “I’m betting it does.”