Father Night (28 page)

Sometimes it was good to have friends in high places, as well as low, she reflected as she walked down H Street NW. Except for how many strings were attached, she’d have cultivated them herself, but she had no desire to be turned into a marionette, dancing to the tunes they dictated. That was for other people, not her. Not to say that she hadn’t learned this much from her father: trading in secrets was much more lucrative that trading for mere money. Her father had ensured that her application was accepted at Fearington, all in the service of her becoming Alli Carson’s roommate. But now that that assignment was over she could leave Fearington anytime she chose. The truth was, she had no desire to abandon the course of her career. She had done a ton of soul searching and had come to the conclusion that her father had done her an inadvertent service by linking her up with Fearington. Inside the FBI or whatever other federal clandestine agency she chose to apply for, she could amass secrets legally, and, when she was ready, she could begin to trade in them, all under the aegis of the government, the ultimate cover. It was the perfect situation.

She stopped across the street from Silicon Vault, Googled the phone number, and called.

“Yes?”

“Hi,” she said. “I’m looking for Moses.”

“Who’s calling?”

“A friend of Werner’s.”

“Werner who?”

For a split instant, she wondered whether she was wrong. Then she said, with all the confidence at her disposal, “Waxman. But I’ve only called him Werner.”

There was an infinitesimal hesitation, then: “This is Moses. What can I do for you?”

*   *   *

“L
EOPARD WAS
using an IronKey,” Jack said, looking at the matte-black thumb drive sticking out of one of the laptop’s USB ports. “Is it his own?”

“No,” Paull said. “I bought it for him.”

The two men had returned to Paull’s office, where Jack had set Leopard’s laptop onto a table and pulled up a chair. He plugged it in so the battery wouldn’t run down. He had made certain to keep the laptop running on the way over from the hotel room in order to keep the open windows intact.

“Did you get it through the usual methods?” He meant through the DoD procurement office.

“I didn’t want to chance it,” Paull said, coming up behind him. “I had Galliardo buy it.”

“Ask him to step in,” Jack said.

Paull did so without a word; he knew Jack too well to query him. A moment later, a young man with sandy, brush-cut hair, a spray of freckles over his rather wide nose, and a ready smile entered.

“Sir?”

“Mr. McClure wishes to ask you some questions,” Paull said.

“Sir!” Galliardo said, directing this crisp word at Jack.

Jack turned and studied Paull’s aide for precisely thirty seconds before he said, “Secretary Paull tells me that he asked you to purchase this IronKey. Is that right?”

“Yessir, it is.”

“You know the purpose of an IronKey?”

“Yessir. It’s a microcomputer with its own Internet browser encrypted with military-grade software to allow total anonymity when surfing the Internet. The IronKey provides a dynamic ISP address that cannot be traced.”

Satisfied, Jack continued. “Where did you purchase this particular IronKey?”

“At Silicon Vault, on H Street Northwest.”

“How well do you know this store?”

“Exceedingly well, sir. I’ve been buying there for nearly five years.”

“It’s a secure venue?”

“Absolutely, sir. It’s owned by an ex–Secret Service agent by the name of Moses Malliot.”

Jack nodded to himself, and Paull, picking up the gesture, said, “That will be all, Galliardo.”

“Yessir.” The aide turned on his heel and marched himself out of Paull’s office, closing the door behind him.

“Secret Service,” Paull said, seeing Jack’s expression. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

“And more. Going on the assumption that Leopard was murdered because of what his cyber-snooping uncovered, it follows that he raised an alarm bell somewhere.”

“Not through a firewall breach,” Paull said. “Leopard was the best at that.”

“Accepting what you say leaves us with only one other possibility.”

He carefully disconnected the IronKey and, turning it over, used a tiny set of tools to dismantle it.

Paull bent over. “Where in the world did you get those?”

“Present from a distant friend.” When Jack had the back off, he scrutinized the inside. “Through ATF, I took a course once in these things, just as they were coming out. Fascinating concept because they’re completely self-contained. They repel any form of malware or virus picked up over the Internet.”

“The IronKey is completely secure,” Paull said. “Which is the idea.”

“Correct. But see here?” Jack pointed to a spot in the interior. “What it can’t defeat, however, is a hack from inside its circuitry.” He looked up at Paull. “Someone at Silicon Vault sold your man an IronKey ready to be tracked.”

S
IXTEEN

F
RAINE WAS
in his car, coming into D.C. from Bethesda, when he caught the call from Dennis Paull.

“I need you to get over to Silicon Vault ASAP.” Paull gave him the address on H Street NW. “Pick up the owner, Moses Malliot, and bring him directly to my office.”

“What?” Fraine made a screeching U-turn. “The trail I’ve been following leads directly to that guy.”

“Well, that’s interesting. It’s likely Malliot was following Leopard’s cyber-tracks on the Net. If he didn’t poison him, then he knows who did.”

In turn, Fraine told his temporary boss everything that he and Nona had discovered. “So it’s clear that Bishop and this general—”

“We got a name,” Paull interrupted. “Gerard Tarasov.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Fraine said, taking a corner at speed. He was only three minutes away from H Street NW. “You know him?”

“Only by name,” Paull said. “But as soon as you get Malliot here, I’m willing to bet that’s going to change in a hurry.”

Fraine pulled into a parking spot across the street from Silicon Vault.

“No problem,” he said. “I’m at the target.”

It was at that moment he saw a young woman turn a corner onto the street. She wore a peacoat and tight jeans. He turned off the engine and got out of his car. Though she had on dark glasses, he recognized her and his pulse rate went up dramatically.

“Fraine?” Paull’s voice buzzed in his ear like an angry wasp.

“I’ve got eyes on Vera Bard.”

“Say again?”

He watched openmouthed as Vera approached Silicon Vault. He thought,
No, it can’t be
.

“Alan.”

Then she vanished into the black maw of Moses Malliot’s shop.

“Sorry,” Fraine said into his cell. “Gotta go.”

*   *   *

“V
ERA
B
ARD
wasn’t taken with Alli,” Paull said. “Fraine has eyes on her.” He punched in another number on his cell. “Nona, get down to Silicon Vault ASAP to give Fraine backup.” He gave her the address, then listened. He glanced at Jack. “Bishop has ordered her to get a line on your current whereabouts.”

“They must know your plane has brought me back to D.C.” Jack thought a moment. “Have her tell Bishop the truth, that I’m here in your office.”

Paull relayed the message, then disconnected. “Was that wise? They’ll watch for you, then tail you.”

“I’m so hoping.”

Paull shot him a curious look, Jack shook his head, and Paull shrugged his shoulders, resigned. “You were saying?”

“The Three-thirteen group designation was Acacia, according to what Leopard found.”

The secretary grimaced from behind his desk. “But what they were doing in the Horn of Africa is anyone’s guess.”

“I very much doubt Acacia’s deployment destination was anywhere within the Horn of Africa,” Jack said. “That was just a jumping-off spot. They flew there with a battalion of Marines. That was simply cover, a way for Acacia to lose itself in the chaos of an ongoing war.”

“So where did Acacia end up?”

“That was what Leopard was digging into just before he died. There are more files, but they’re heavily encrypted. I can’t read them.” Jack pointed to the kid’s laptop. “All I’m certain of is that a week later, no sign of Acacia remained in Mogadishu.”

Paull swiveled his chair to look out the window of his office. The West Wing loomed large. “So we’ve lost Acacia.”

“I’m afraid so,” Jack said.

Paull glared at Jack, then rose and went around his desk to peer over Jack’s shoulder. “Goddamnit! What in the name of holy hell is going on?”

“Whatever it is,” Jack said, “we’re getting closer.”

Paull stood up. “Give me the laptop. I’m going straight to the president with this evidence.”

“Consider whether that’s wise, sir.”

Paull rounded in him. “What d’you mean?”

“First, Acacia was a Three-thirteen mission. Second, what if the president is in on Three-thirteen?”

“I can’t believe—”

“Third, there’s no point going anywhere with the laptop until Leopard’s files are decrypted.”

Paull grunted like a pig who missed his truffles.

“Okay,” Jack continued, “even if we assume Crawford doesn’t know about Three-thirteen, do we really want our enemies to know how much we’ve found out about them? That will only drive them deeper underground and we may never find them, let alone discover what they’re up to.”

Paull turned on his heel, contemplating the view out his window. At length, he sighed. “To wield so much power and be so helpless.”

“We’re not helpless.” Jack turned back to the laptop. “I’m convinced that a key to Three-thirteen is the Norns.”

“Oh, come on. They’re all dead.”

“Leopard didn’t think so, and neither do I.” Jack worked the keyboard. He was zoned in. His dyslexia allowed him to make connections from the disparate documents Leonard had managed to hack. “This general…”

“Gerard Tarasov.”

“Have you researched him?”

“I was just starting when, as I told you, Fraine notified me of Leopard’s murder. Why?”

“There’s something curious associated with the General. It’s handwritten at the end of this doc.”

Paull frowned. “What is it?”

“‘KWIfA.’” Jack pronounced it carefully.

“Any idea what it means?”

“No. But what about Waxman?” Jack said, half to himself.

“The word scratched on the tarmac?”

“Waxman is someone’s name,” Jack said.

“If so, it’s a poor clue.” Paull began a global search of all the official databases. “It could be anyone.”

“Even if he’s associated in some way with the General?”

“The two of them would be careful to cover their tracks.” Paull, staring at his computer screen, shook his head. “We need someone with Leopard’s particular skills.”

“There’s no one else at your disposal?”

“Plenty,” Paull said. “But none with his intuitive skills. Worse, I can’t trust someone official. These people have their spies everywhere. I mean, look what happened to Leopard.”

“Leopard must have had hacker friends—they’re all part of some network or other.”

“You actually believe any of them would speak to me, let alone take on his project?” He sighed and picked up the phone. “Still, I’ve got to try.”

Moving on, Jack pulled up the last of the cached Internet documents on Leopard’s laptop. “There is a line of warehouses,” he said, “fronting the Washington Channel on First Avenue, between Fort McNair and the War College. They’re long abandoned now, but during World War Two they were used to house warship building materials.”

Paull turned from the phone to stare at him. “I thought they were torn down.”

“Most of them were. But not all.” Jack read down to the bottom of the documents. “In the decade after the war, two of them housed the Norns.”

Paull’s expression turned grim. “Alli was taken a block north of McNair.”

Jack nodded. “And now I have a sneaking suspicion I know where she is being held.”

*   *   *

M
OSES
M
ALLIOT
had been in business all his life, or so it seemed to him. When he was six years old, he had sold lemonade on the street corners of his small southern Illinois hometown. By the time he was eight, he was selling candy he’d snatched from his supermarket prowls to his classmates. It wasn’t much of a reach from there to stealing computers out of schools or buying weed in bulk and selling joints he rolled himself for a fivefold profit. Increasing money brought increased ambition. He had started early on the path of least resistance to making the most money. In his teens, money bought him girls and a degree of fame he instinctively knew was bad for business, so he dropped out of high school.

His parents hit the roof, obliging him to endure two years of twice-weekly psychiatric appointments meant to “cure” him of the “evil” that had “infected” him, according to his father. In no time at all, he had worked out what it was his doctor wanted to hear, and he began to have fun fabricating a curious inner life, punctuated with terrifying dreams, all of which fascinated her while entertaining himself.

She prescribed drugs, which his parents dutifully bought for him every month, and on which he made a tidy profit, pushing them onto rubes on the street. At the end of the two years, his doctor proclaimed him neurosis-free, and he promptly gathered up his ill-gotten gains and lit out for D.C.

He chose the nation’s capital, inexorably drawn to power and to the people hollowed out by it. Politicians seemed to him the perfect marks: devious, compromised, corrupt, certainly, but not yet rotten to the core.

Then he joined the Marines and, by doing so, learned just how corrupt and stupid the government was. He’d found his way to the promised land.

People respected him, trusted him implicitly—
Semper fi,
baby!—and the contacts he’d made overseas provided the springboard into an entirely different and larger arena than he had ever mined before. He was bedazzled.

This was the man who greeted Vera as she entered his shop. He eyed her with the cunning professionalism he’d honed over decades in the villainous byways of the world.

“How can I help you, honey?” He was possessed of a baritone that would be at home at the Met or La Scala. In other words, it could charm people by putting them off their guard. This he expected because it always worked.