Buzzworm (A Technology Thriller): Computer virus or serial killer? (30 page)

Roger was sitting
on the side of the gravel road, looking up into the curious faces of Kyla and the kid. The force of the kickback from the heavy gauge shotgun had hammered Roger so hard in the shoulder that it threw him back, knocking him to the ground. He picked himself up and dusted off his jeans, his eyes on the distant farmhouse. All the lights were out.

“Jake’s going to be here before you know it,” said the kid, moving his hands behind his back in a hopeless attempt to slip through the nylon straps. “He’ll skin you alive when he gets his hands on you.”

“Shut up,” rasped Kyla, pushing him back hard with both hands. The kid went down onto the shoulder of the road on his knees. Roger pointed the gun at his head.

“Where will Jake go?”

The kid looked up at him, struggling to get back on his feet. “He’ll go check out the generator. What do ya’ think? We’re not supposed to let the power go out. Ever.”

Roger looked at Kyla. He could see that she was losing her patience. She wanted to see her father. Roger hadn’t filled her in on Hyde’s plans and wasn’t about to. He didn’t want her rushing down the road and getting caught in the middle of a shoot out.

“Kyla, we’re going to follow your dad’s instructions. OK?” She nodded. “We’re going to give him ten minutes, and then we’ll go see him.” He looked at his watch, the dial glowing green in the moonlight. A sudden thought struck him. If he were Jake, he would be rushing into the generator shed in the dark, a closed space where hundreds of gallons of gas were now sitting, the air inside thick with explosive vapors.

Roger turned to the kid. Even in the dark he could see his brooding anger.

“I’m guessing Jake’s a smoker?” Roger asked.

The kid looked up then. He cocked his head trying to understand the question. Then the sky lit up around them.

The instant I turned my head
to see the ball of flame erupting from the direction of the generator shed, Xavier jumped up and leapt off the side porch. He dove into the same clearing I had just emerged from minutes before. He was headed into the thicket that led down to the reservoir. I could see his back, lit by the angry orange glow of the blast.

I raced after him, swearing as I hit the wall of bush. There was no way I could lose him now. Part of me feared that he had just seen his kidnapping plans go up in smoke, which might mean that Kyla was somehow involved with the explosion. He had said something about the whole place going up just before the blast. But the timing was clearly a surprise to him, so I tore through the irritating thicket towards him, not caring about anything but getting my hands on the psychopath. In the shadow of the farmhouse, there was no longer any illumination from the flames, but I could hear the sound he made crashing through the bramble. I ducked down and threw myself harder in his direction.

When I heard Xavier hit the water in the darkness ahead, I wondered if he knew where I had tied up the boat. To this day, I wonder if it was luck or intention that led him directly to the rowboat. As I closed on him, the branches whipping my face, I saw him tear the rope off, struggling with it as I plowed through the muddy water, tripping over hidden roots and rocks to close the gap.

From only a few yards away, up to my waist in water, I could see him up into the boat, covered in river mud, pushing against the trees with his hands. I was too late. By the time I splashed up to the rim of the reservoir, he had already arrowed clear of the trees, and was now circling in water that was several feet over my head. He had the one oar out, clumsily pushing the boat away from the submerged shore, never taking his eyes off me.

I took my gun out then. I didn’t think I had a choice. Once he reached the other side, he would be gone, and any chance to leverage him to recover Kyla would vaporize forever. If she wasn’t already killed in the explosion. There was a possibility I could wound him enough to slow him down. It was going to be difficult. Shooting to kill was one thing; this was quite another. All my shooting practice was about the head and the heart. I raised my gun, the moonlight reflecting off the dull barrel. I tried to steady my arm, my body gripped by the frigid black water of the reservoir, my teeth chattering.

Suddenly I heard a phone ring, the tones echoing across the water. Xavier looked down, then back at me. Seeing the gun in my hand, raised in his direction, he shrugged and sat down in the wobbly boat. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, the blue glow of the screen suddenly lighting up his face in the darkness. Time seemed suspended as he read his message, his eyes intent on the screen, knowing I had him in my sights. Then he seemed to slump in on himself as if what he just read had wounded him somehow. I thought that maybe Med had failed to keep GIPETTO alive and he had just realized that all of his plans had been crushed.

He put the phone back in his pocket and reached again for the paddle, his movements slow and deliberate. He started to row again in the direction of the far dock. I aimed carefully, my arm shaking from the cold. I bit down hard and willed my muscles to do their job. If I missed, and he died or slipped into the water and drowned, the odds were that I would never see Kyla again. I squinted into the moonlight, applying steady pressure to the Glock's safety trigger.

Then I heard her voice. Kyla’s. Behind me. I turned and she called to me. She was about thirty yards away, thrashing in the water towards me, Roger right behind her. I turned back to Xavier, now several more yards away across the reservoir. He was still watching me, knowing he had been beaten, hardly rowing. This would be an easy shot now; I could just take him out, end his pathetic reign of terror and stop
Buzzworm
forever.

I raised the gun again and aimed, seeing Xavier’s head in my sights. But I couldn’t pull the trigger. I heard Kyla's voice calling to me. I realized then that I didn’t want my daughter to see that side of me, the cold-blooded killer, the hardened cop. Or to see a side of my life I had always protected her from. So I turned then, slipping the Glock back into my water-logged pocket and sloshed back up the bank. She jumped into my arms, crying.

The National Bank of Panama City
was conveniently located on San Martin Street, directly across from a quaint local bar with a small patio called Sharkey’s. Med ordered a Panama, which seemed appropriate, a local version of a Brandy Alexander. She sipped the drink as she watched the front entrance of the bank across the busy two-lane thoroughfare.

Down in sub 6 on that fateful Sunday night a week ago, the minute she realized that
Buzzworm
and David Xavier were the same person, she logged into Bill Warren’s accounts. The reason he didn’t react right away to defend himself, she learned later, was he was facing down Hyde on his front porch as well as dealing with the power outage engineered by Roger. With Jo’s help they quickly tracked his remote access and locked him out of the Avion’s system. The text message he got a few minutes later on his cell phone, sitting in the rowboat in the middle of the reservoir, must have shaken him. He got his termination notice. As well as a quick note to tell him that the Avion was powered down and the authorities were closing in.

At some point on the Monday following his escape across Mott’s Run reservoir, he had attempted to log back into the CIA network remotely. Vienna was able to track him to a location in Boston, but the FBI was unable to make an arrest.

What surprised Med the most, was his link to Xavier. The real Xavier was an experienced NOC agent who had disappeared in action years before while on a mission in the Middle East. He was presumed dead because his body had never been found. Warren had simply reactivated him in the CIA system and taken on his persona. Clearly he had looked for someone with a similar appearance. They were both tall and dark-haired, medium builds. But the resemblance ended there. Warren was a computer intrusion expert, a so-called ethical hacker, and that’s why he had been hired by the CIA.

The real Xavier owned a company that sold global positioning technology to the United States military and had become a trusted NOC agent, working for several US intelligence agencies over the years.

Med also learned that Warren had other issues.

She discovered that his mother had been institutionalized at one point with bipolar disorder, a disease typified by violent mood swings, hallucinations and delusions. It was quite possible that Warren was suffering from the same illness. She found lengthy text conversations between him and his imaginary NOC agent in his files. Reading them gave her a chill. Despite that psyche profile, she could still feel no sympathy for the man.

Med finished her drink and then ordered another. She looked up at a cloudless noon sky, enjoying the sun on her face for a brief moment, then looked down and shaded her hand over her latest handheld device.

On the screen was a detailed map of the local area based on a data feed from the fully functioning GIPETTO system. She knew that near the alcove in front of the bank were stationed two agents, both former Navy SEALs and trusted Panama CIA operatives. She had secured their services back in the States over a secure line; the same secure line that Warren had set up to carry out his activities.

She had explained the problem to them. The CIA had an internal problem, a rogue agent who had absconded with millions of American dollars and was about to turn over highly confidential materials to a foreign power. She gave them the details of Xavier’s Panama bank accounts and a number of aliases he had used, all details she had ferreted out of Xavier’s computerized transactions. She inquired about their fee. It was substantial, but the problem would be handled neatly and professionally. No blowback, she had said. They agreed to the assignment.

The country of Panama had a reputation globally for providing secure and anonymous banking services to anyone with significant capital. The local government even passed a law making it a federal offense for bank employees to reveal the names of individuals or companies hidden behind secret accounts. But the banks themselves, anxious to stay in the good graces of the American government, continued to provide information to intelligence services when required.

They knew who their friends were and gladly turned over details on Xavier’s banking activity.

Xavier had made an appointment the day before with the National Bank to make a significant cash withdrawal. Nothing unusual there, just business as usual. When Med was alerted to the message, she had grabbed a last minute flight from Washington to Panama City. All that Vienna knew was she was taking a well deserved last minute vacation.

As she waited for Xavier to appear, Med wondered what Roger would think of her actions today. He was back in Canada now, back in his minimum-security cell, but hopefully not for long. Vienna had provided a glowing recommendation on his work and the CIA made an official request that he be pardoned.

On Tuesday afternoon Med drove him to Dulles, filling him in on what she had learned about Bill Warren and how the ex-CIA employee had doggedly worked his way around system security. By giving the appearance that his intrusions were the work of a virus he had cleverly thrown everyone off the scent. Roger didn’t seem very pleased at the news. Sure, he was getting out of prison, but in a way, he felt like the virus had still beaten him. And
Buzzworm
had escaped in the end. A very unsatisfying conclusion.

Med told him as well that she had discovered his secret. During his first assignment with the Feds years ago, he had buried an interesting piece of code in the CIA’s security system. The program was designed to alert Strange to any intrusions and send that information to him directly. All very un-American and worth at least ten years in prison
. Buzzworm
of course, had found the code and blocked the messages. She promised him it was now gone and the secret was safe with her.

Standing there in the airport by the international security gate, saying their goodbyes, Med noticed for the first time how icy blue Roger’s eyes were. She wondered to herself how she had missed that before.
A computer geek with piercing azure eyes.
They hugged then, and Roger turned to leave, but before he did he turned back to her. For a minute she thought he was going to try and kiss her, but he only held up his right hand. She smiled as she realized what he was doing and they locked fingers one last time, their pinky-ring swear still in force.

On the Monday morning following Xavier’s disappearance, GIPETTO had a successful debut, which insured the survival of Division 213. At least until another intelligence division dreamed up a better mousetrap. Vienna was committed to not letting that happen and had fallen easily back into twelve and fourteen hour days again.

Buzzworm’s
computer trail led Med to the infamous Archive K, to his requests for cash, to numerous impressive bank transfers. Vienna had asked her to go over everything. Erase everything. Remove every trace of
Buzzworm
. Clean out the system completely. Med hadn’t gone that far yet. By maintaining secret access she was able to connect with the two agents now waiting across the street for Bill Warren, and to pay them their exorbitant fees. She hadn’t decided yet when she would throw away the keys.

On her screen, over a street map of Panama City, she watched a tiny green dot blink. The dot represented Bill Warren. BW.
Buzzworm
. David Xavier. Take your pick. He was close, either walking from a local hotel or in a cab. The signal was emanating from a cell phone he had cloned a week earlier, something he was quite adept at. Locating his phone hadn’t been that difficult;
Buzzworm
had a bad habit. He continued to text messages to an email account he had created for the fake Xavier. For some reason, in his deluded mind, he still imagined that he was communicating with his fictional NOC agent.

Across the dusty street, a cab pulled up to the bank. Med squinted into the sunlight. A man was exiting from the back seat, his back to her. She knew it was Warren without seeing his face. On her screen his green locator light pulsed, the glowing dot superimposed directly over the banks location. She noticed him hesitate as he pulled his carry-on from the back seat and pay the driver. Two men had flanked him immediately, serious looks on their faces. Within seconds they had both of his arms and were moving him down the sidewalk to a parking lot at the rear. Then they were gone.

Med’s throat had suddenly gone dry. She had imagined she would feel some kind of pleasure at his capture, this man who had manipulated and used her for months. But she felt nothing but a kind of emptiness for the hours she had wasted on him. She watched a black Tahoe roll out onto the main street from behind the bank, the windows deeply tinted. She knew it was driven by one of the agents she had hired, the green dot on her handheld now quickly moving down San Martin Avenue west through the city.

Med slowly finished her second drink, feeling more satisfied than she had for weeks, enjoying the sunshine on her face, anxious to close the
Buzzworm
file for good. But she also knew she should keep moving – a good habit to keep. She reluctantly started looking for the waiter so she could ask for the bill.

Med looked up then, a shadow crossing her table. She expected to see her server, but a tall man smiled down at her. He was wearing a dark green sports shirt, khaki Dockers. He removed his sunglasses.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked. American, thought Med, if she was to guess. Probably Boston-raised, judging from his accent.

“I’m just leaving,” she offered, gathering up her phone and travel bag, thinking she was being picked up by a vacationing businessman.

He smiled. “You don’t want to meet the real David Xavier?”

Med stared at him, her heart in her throat. He was tall. Dark haired. Trim. Could this be the missing NOC agent? He sat down across from her and rested his elbows on the small table and set his sunglasses down. He seemed amused by the whole situation, not what Med would have expected.

“I’m not usually this forward, but I’d heard so much about you,” he said and then nodded in the direction of the bank. “And of course I could hardly miss my own arrest.”

Med dropped her travel bag back down on the red ceramic floor of the patio without even thinking. “You’re really David Xavier?”

“Pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand and they shook. “Seems odd that we even need introductions — you know, considering our colorful history together.”

Med leaned forward; fascinated. “But they said you were missing in action. And how did you know about what Warren was doing with your identity?”

Xavier smiled. “Missing and presumed dead can be a useful cover in the field. And I heard about Xavier coming back to life from a contact I have in the FBI. It’s been quite entertaining.”

Med frowned suddenly. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

Xavier noticed her discomfort and touched her arm lightly. “Listen. I’m not taking lightly what he did to you. But I couldn’t intervene. I was … occupied with something else.” Med seemed to accept the apology. He looked at her hand where she was protecting the handheld GIPETTO unit.

“You tracking him with that?” he asked.

Med was surprised by the question. “What don’t you know?”

“Not much. It’s always the stuff you don’t know that gets your ass in a sling. Where are they taking him?”

Med studied his face, the tanned cheeks, a slight scar under his lip. “I told them I don’t need to know.”

“Ahhhh,” was all he responded with, nodding slightly. “Can I see?”

She placed the handheld on the table between them, screen up. They could both clearly see the map and the blinking light that represented Bill Warren.

Xavier pointed at a sinewy yellow line on the screen that ran around the city. “They call that highway
Coredor Norte
. The North Corridor. It runs around Panama. Surrounded by thick jungle. Is your target wearing a transponder?”

Med was staring at the screen. The flashing green dot was now stationary, somewhere off the highway. Probably in the jungle area he was referring to. “I’m tracking his cell phone,” she said, never taking her eyes off the map. Her arrangement with the agents had been straightforward. Make Warren disappear. Permanently. It may seem harsh, but the police couldn’t touch him and he was a serious threat to the security of the United States. Med felt like she had no choice but to do what had to be done.

They both watched for a moment, saying nothing, imaging what was happening under the jungle canopy somewhere off the Nort Coredor highway. SOP was to destroy the transponding cell phone once the task was completed. That way everyone would know the mission had been a success and the final payment could be transferred.

Med heard a gull cry overhead. Then the green light blinked out.

When they ripped the hood off his head, Bill Warren looked up into a thick green canopy of palms, the air thick with the smell of moss and tropical detritus. What did the travel brochure call the color? Viridescent? Marketing-speak for brilliant green. And the air! It was like breathing in hot tea. He could feel the ground underneath him alive with insects and crawling things. Or maybe all of this was just the handful of caffeine pills he had downed before getting out of the cab. His brain was on high alert, all the colors unbelievably brighter, all his thoughts laser focused. In any case he realized he wasn’t fond of the jungle. Human beings had left the trees a million years ago and all he could think of was ‘good riddance’.