Dire Means (45 page)

Morana tilted her wrist to see her watch against the movie screen’s light. “We have exactly an hour to plan. Not a second longer,” she said.

“How do you expect me to help?”

“We have to see how Aldred uses his computer. If I can get you a window of private time on Aldred’s computer, can you find out how he controls suite access and how he overrides consoles?”

The thought unnerved Mark. But then nothing about gaining control of the Nest would be easy or without risk. “I don’t know how much time it would take. It depends on how tight his computer security is.”

“None of us have seen his screen—except Bracks. There are no other desktop computers in the Nest that you can access without drawing suspicion.”

“I know. I don’t trust my laptop’s security anymore.”

“Nor should you. Bracks scoured it on your first visit to the Nest. Your laptop is configured to log and transmit keystrokes and mouse movement to him.”

“So you want me to hack into Pop’s computer, without using my computer, nor any other computer in the Nest and without Bracks knowing?”

“Can you?”

Mark laughed. He leaned back and looked up into the darkness of the movie theater. In all his computer security work, he had mastered the art of thwarting hacks, breaches, and unauthorized surveillance, but had never moved to the “dark side,” using his tools to hack. Gaining control of Aldred’s computer from within the bunker was impossible, and Morana had to know it. Aldred’s ultimate control over the Nest’s technology explained his lack of concern with Mark’s technical ability. Isolate a hacker physically and electronically from your computer and you’ve eliminated any threat.

His thoughts went to Carlos’s TellTale device. It was a completely passive receiver that could record the electromagnetic signals emanating from monitors and keyboards. While the data it collected wasn’t “live,” a TellTale would be the best option for capturing information about Aldred’s computer activities. The biggest stumbling block was the size of the TellTale. There was no way Mark could smuggle a book into Aldred’s office. There
were
no books in Aldred’s office. Without a way to re-engineer the TellTale, it would be useless. There was only one person Mark knew who could perform such a feat. The opportunity would no doubt thrill Jim Kourokina.

“Tell me what you know about Pop’s use of the computer,” Mark whispered.

Morana told Mark all she knew, which wasn’t much. He had a desktop to which he had installed a touch screen monitor. He had a keyboard that Morana never saw him type on. Aldred received regular messages on his phone—Morana did not know what they were, but they happened all day, every day.

Morana suspected there was more than one use for the handheld. Aldred had confessed to his inner circle that he had the walls of the Nest embedded with C-4 explosives. He touted it as the ultimate act of keeping his clients’ confidentiality, but the knowledge of the wall-packed explosives was another tool of fear that kept Morana, Teddy, Raphael, Nannette, Bracks and the rest of the Trail Bladers staff on edge. Bracks had arranged with one of Aldred’s secret contacts to purchase 185 pounds of C-4. Originally purchased under the guise of materials used for additional excavation of the bunker, the sale succeeded. But instead of using the explosives for their intended use, Aldred himself embedded the C-4 along with electronically controlled blasting caps near every weight-supporting beam in the Nest. It contained enough explosive material to annihilate the bunker beyond recognition.

“Can you get more of the lithium polymer batteries used in the shirts?” Mark asked.

Morana thought for a few moments as she nibbled her lower lip. “That depends on how many are in supply. Why?”

“I have no choice but to trust you at this point. Now you need to trust me to handle this and it will save us time. Get me a couple of the batteries ... and I need to visit a friend.”

“What friend?”

“Jim Kourokina. I’m sure you’ve seen us talk,” Mark said.

“Your radio-freak friend…”

“Yes, he’s the electronics genius you already know about and he’s precisely who we need.”

“I know, but you can’t just go visit him.”

“Look, if you want my help you will have to accommodate what I need to succeed.”

“How much time do you need with him?”

“Five minutes.”

“We’ll obtain him for you.”

“No!” Mark blurted.

A person in front of them said, “Shhh!”

“Do not touch him,” Mark whispered as loud as he could. “You would stick him in an oubliette? How do you expect him to help if he’s terrified? I’m not risking anyone else. Period,” he said.

Morana leaned back in her seat. Mark did the same and they watched the movie screen, losing five precious minutes in silent scheming.

“I know what we have to do,” Morana said. For the next forty-five minutes Morana and Mark whispered, developing a detailed strategy and reviewed it three times—knowing that its failure would bring their certain execution.

“Is there any way for us to talk about this again?” Mark asked.

“Aldred has approved one other movie. We can follow up at that one tomorrow or the next day. Until then we don’t so much as glance at each other in communication about this. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Morana checked her watch against the light of the theater screen. “We have to return to our shirts,” she said, nudging Mark with her elbow.

They entered their original theater and tip-toed to their seats. Morana held up a finger telling Mark to wait. She grabbed the back of her Trail Bladers shirt’s collar and squeezed it before she slid one arm into it and then popped her head through. She switched hands and pushed her other arm into the shirt and stood up, tucking the shirt into her black pants. She pointed to Mark and nodded.

Mark grabbed his shirt in the same manner and followed Morana’s sequence for putting it on—careful not to dislodge his pretend mustache. Morana’s timing had been great. Within three minutes, the credits for
The Mullesville Torts
began to roll and the few people in the movie theater stood to exit.

They walked outside and less than a hundred feet to board a Trail Bladers truck idling at the curb.

“ALCO,” Morana said as the driver closed them into the back of the truck.

Morana called Aldred. “Yes, we finished the film. I’d like to show Mark the honey pot on the south side, is that okay? Great, I’ll drop off the driver and we’ll be an extra hour… Oh, I’ll tell you about it when we get there… You are leaving now… Good, thanks.”

She hung up and said, “We’re going to observe some actors. I know you’ve seen the video, but watching in person will put our work in a whole new perspective.”

“Bring it on,” Mark said. He sat forward in his seat and rubbed his hands together. Enthusiasm was easier to feign now that he had a plan and a partner.

The truck rolled into the freight lot at the rear of the ALCO building where a second Trail Bladers truck waited. As it backed up, beeping toward the loading dock, Morana placed her hand on the inside console. The truck’s doors unlocked and then swung open when the rear bumper bumped the dock’s rubber stops. The loading dock was deserted.

Morana dispatched the driver to a container pickup in West LA, instructing him to use the adjacent truck. He obeyed.

Mark and Morana rode the freight elevator to the fifth floor and entered the office outside the obtainment vestibule. Morana opened a locked wall cabinet and produced a set of keys. She flipped through them until she had isolated the key for suite 210. She pulled the key off the ring and gave it to him without saying a word.

It was 4:40 p.m. and the ALCO building management office wouldn’t be closed for another twenty minutes. Morana sat at a table outside the obtainment vestibule and logged onto a laptop. She turned the laptop to Mark. He opened a browser, logged onto Cody’s surveillance camera web site and disabled the cameras. He then gently took off his wired shirt, replacing it with a t-shirt Morana had brought from the truck. As he did so, they discussed the obtainment he had seen the day before and Morana reviewed aloud the overall Trail Bladers mission. This conversation, they hoped, would maintain a banter that would avoid Aldred’s suspicion.

A few minutes after five o’clock, Morana closed the lid of the laptop and stood. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yes,” Mark replied.

He felt the key in his pocket and pinched it between two fingers as though it might try to escape if he let go. He asked Morana to verify that his disguise was still intact. Even though it was after closing time, people occasionally worked late and Mark didn’t want to be recognized by Cody, his receptionist, or anyone from the management office who might have lingered in the hall.

Morana motioned to the door and Mark exited. He rode the freight elevator down and entered the second floor foyer. A cleaning cart was parked outside an open janitor’s closet. He heard running water coming from the closet and footsteps inside. He walked by unnoticed, slid his key into the door of suite 210, opened it a crack. The office was dark and quiet. ALCO management was prompt, especially when it came to closing time. There was no reason for Cody to stay late when Mark had equipped him to perform his surveillance from home.

Inside the office, Mark saw his motion sensing cameras. After his computer handiwork upstairs, Cody would not be reviewing this tape any time soon and neither would Bracks. There would appear to be a camera problem during the next few minutes. After Mark finished here, the cameras would begin to function again—an inexplicable glitch that had corrected itself.

The office was dark except for the main hallway. Mark made his way past Gina’s desk to a wall of shelves behind it. He saw the book containing the TellTale on the shelf. He took it and pushed the books together to fill the gap.

As he turned to leave, he heard footsteps and someone whistling. He crouched beside the desk to determine where it was coming from.

A plastic garbage bag snapped followed by keys jingling. He rushed to the assistant manager’s office two doors in and locked himself inside, hoping the janitor didn’t have an inner office key. He crawled under the desk after placing the full trashcan outside. He clutched the TellTale under his arm and waited.

He heard the janitor cleaning the front office while whistling. Soon, the door handle jiggled, went silent and then jiggled harder. Mark held his breath and heard, “Oh well,” as the janitor’s whistling continued back toward Cody’s office.

Mark waited for the janitor to exit the suite before leaving this hiding spot to follow. He skipped the elevator and rushed back up three flights of stairs to the Trail Bladers suite were Morana unlocked the door to let him in. He put the book containing the TellTale on the table and quickly slipped back into his wired shirt with Morana’s help.

While Mark was gone, Morana had gathered some supplies. She handed him three red Trail Blader pens like those that sat in the cup holder on Pop’s desk, and three poly-lithium batteries in a clear plastic bag. She gave him an inquisitive look, and he nodded slightly to confirm that the book sitting before them was, indeed, the TellTale. She pointed to the laptop. Mark pulled it to him and reactivated Cody’s video surveillance system with unsteady fingers.

On the elevator ride, Morana told Mark more about the actors they would see and the next target fodder who were under surveillance.

Out on the dock, they boarded the truck and Morana plopped her bag on the seat between them.

“I didn’t know you drove the trucks,” Mark said.

“I used to all the time. Now I more often deal with our cargo.” She thumbed toward the back of the truck.

When they drove out of the ALCO building’s lot, she checked the corners of the truck’s cab while steering with one hand. She flipped down the sun visors and opened the glove box. She pulled a small flashlight from her backpack and checked under the dashboard and ran her hand along her headrest and Mark’s. A car behind them honked because Morana had slowed the truck and weaved out of her lane during the search. Satisfied, she tapped Mark, put her finger over her lips, and then pointed to her bag on the floor between them. This time Mark knew what she wanted. As they made their way south on Lincoln Boulevard, Mark pulled his t-shirt from the bag and, again, gently removed the shirt and suit jacket.

“You know, this particular honey pot yields no less than fifty candidates a day,” Morana said, keeping conversation alive.

“Is it difficult to make a choice with so many candidates?” Mark asked, smoothing out the front of his t-shirt.

“Not really. The most egregious cases are obvious.” Morana pointed to the window control on Mark’s door. He placed his finger on it. “You’ll see what I mean in a few minutes,” she said.

As the truck pulled up to the corner of Lincoln Boulevard and Pearl St., Mark’s window slid down and Morana held up ten fingers, indicating the number of minutes Mark had to accomplish the TellTale delivery. She then made a cutting sign across her neck. Mark nodded and slipped his torso out the window, bucking a few times until he fell out and onto the ground. Although his landing was rough, no sound of a closing door would be transmitted to any interested ear listening from the Nest.

The traffic light turned green and Morana pulled away, holding up crossed fingers for Mark to see as he brushed himself off. The drivers that followed the truck stared at Mark as they passed and he touched his nose and skullcap to make sure his disguise hadn’t been dislodged.