Sabotage (12 page)

T
hough Tony waited as long as possible to do it, he finally delivered the message to Britt: she had escaped. He expected hysterics, almost wanted them, but that was not what he got.

Britt took the news with equanimity. He realized he was probably still dazed from the killings he had carried out that day: first Seth and now Muhammad. He had come to the understanding, a little late in the game for his liking, that he could order cold-blooded hits without a problem. But pulling the trigger himself? He didn’t know if he had the stomach to do it often. It was a funny thing to find out on this day, and it was clouding his judgment. All the killings, all because of him, were fine as long as they looked like a movie, something that someone else reported to him about, something he saw on the news. This morning with Seth was marginally okay; it was something about the way the body was positioned and that there was not much of a mess to deal with. He could probably shoot someone like that again. But pulling the trigger like he did in his office? He relived it all in his mind—hearing the report of the pistol, seeing a life explode, feeling the numbness and tingling in his hands after the blast, seeing Muhammad’s guards riddled with bullets—and then he realized it was making him hard and without Caitlin! Maybe there was an upside here.

As soon as he had processed the good news, he now had to hear that Caitlin escaped? He didn’t have a place to put that. His head was full. He needed a few minutes to conduct some of the most important parts of this entire masterwork, and his head was full of dying pansies and unfaithful women.

It once again reminded him that brains sometimes did beat brawn. She was worth more than any of his stupid men, even the best of them. He needed to find her. She was now the only real obstacle to pulling this off. The tough part was done. Much as he wanted to do otherwise, he would have one of the few goons he had left handle her. He wanted to see her face if he could, but that was secondary. She needed to be silenced. She had too many connections, including one which troubled him greatly.

For now, he was too blindsided. He had no rage for Tony. It was his own fault, really. He knew that. He needed Tony, at least for the time being, and wouldn’t let any more emotion swallow him. Britt felt like this day, his masterstroke, was being swallowed up by his feelings. He thought he overcame having those.

“Do you know where she went?” he finally asked the thin voice on the other line.

“Not a clue, boss.” Tony was cautious.

“She’ll go somewhere big and non-descript. She’ll wait there, and I’ll bet she’ll try to call Miller. She’ll find out he’s gone and then try to call common friends with the FBI and the like. She’ll be worried about the airports shutting down. She won’t go there.”

“Where does she have cards?”

“I know she has one at the Wynn and the Bellagio. I don’t think she’ll go somewhere that nice. You know, the places where they know you. Try Treasure Island, or Bally’s, or Harrah’s.”

“I don’t have anyone at Bally’s.”

“Then start with the other two. She is the biggest threat left. Take her down, then head to Lake Tahoe.”

“Will you be there?”

“No,” Britt said. “Not tonight. I’m heading east. I’ll meet up with you tomorrow night.”

Britt wasn’t going to meet up tomorrow night. The place was packed with explosives. Tony would be toast as soon as he keyed in the entry, like all of Britt’s former houses.

Britt looked in the mirror. He looked ashen as he told his driver, “Take me to the airstrip.”

He had an hour until the biggest fireworks yet. There would be no air traffic after that.

T
he traffic on the Sabotage site was out of control. It surpassed Google and YouTube combined in the moments after the attack. A nation raised on
Die Hard
and thriller novels now saw their part to play—amateur detectives.

The site had the video that had scared the entire nation. It also had an embedded Twitter feed that scrolled its own results, #sabotage, with all of those who now worshipped it and hated it. These were mixed with the news reports of the dozens of people who were thrown into cardiac arrest by the crazy nature of the video. Within minutes, strange people made Sabotage tribute sites on Twitter and Blogger. These were receiving traffic, too. It was all too predictable in this era of digital sycophancy. Those who were appalled were much greater in number, but they didn’t make websites. They just counted their children and locked their doors on this scariest of days. They were still numb to all that had happened but interested in what lay ahead.

The main Sabotage site was simple but eye-catching. The clown was featured, a baby wailed, and messages popped up and disappeared:
Your President Won’t Help; You Stand in the Way; Do What Your Leaders Won’t, and this Will Be Over
; and various other anti-motivational lines. Its main feature though was a box in the middle of the home page with a spot for a password.

As you scrolled over the box, the clown appeared and screamed at the user, “Guess the password! Get it right, save a life! Get it wrong, get a virus.” The last words were said in the sing-song of a child, and the clown wrung his hands in mock sadness.

Within the next ten minutes, the virus counter in the bottom right hand of the page kept score. Initially, it counted dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of people, all sure they could crack the code and heedless of what their actions were doing. If they entered the wrong password, they were immediately forwarded to a new page where the clown danced and cavorted. It was funny and well-made but infuriating. While it downloaded, a virus infected the user’s computer. It immediately began sending messages, first innocuous and then vile. Images of child pornography popped up on tens of thousands of computers which had previously been squeaky clean. The only way to stop them was to turn off the device. Some figured this out immediately, others were bombarded with truly depraved pictures of children and animals and things they would never forget. They filled their friends’ e-mails with the same illicit filth. If their friends clicked one of those links contained within, they fell victim as well.

People had to disconnect to end the chaos. In a period of less than half an hour, the counter read 565,000. Those people were now off-line, but their passwords and personal information weren’t.

The people who hadn’t tried to be heroes saw a new image emerge at the center of the Sabotage site. The clown walked to the middle of the screen and unfurled a sign that read,

NO WINNERS. ONLY LOSERS. AND THANKS FOR REMAINING TO WATCH THE NUMBERS SPIN. YOUR COMPUTER GOT IT WORSE. TRY AGAIN!

A new burst of code emerged. Within seconds, the computers that remained on the site now saw the power disappear from their units with a sickening groan that sounded like each computer was gasping for breath.

T
alk about protocol. Grant sat with a confessed mass-murdering terrorist, and the love of his life calls. Jesus, he couldn’t not answer. He would be worthless talking to his subject, knowing she had just called. He hadn’t spoken to her in two years, not since the aftermath of the incident, and he was shocked she would ever call him again. Did she need him with all this chaos? Was it that simple? He knew he had to answer.

He held a finger up to Naseem and walked to the other side of the room, careful not to let him out of his sight.

“Hi. What a surprise.”

Despite the fact he wanted to talk to her more than anything, Grant knew he couldn’t have a casual conversation with her.

Caitlin said nothing.

“Everything all right? I would love to talk, but you can imagine that we’re busy.”

“Grant, I’m so happy to talk to you. I was worried that you were killed in the St. Louis attack.” She knew its exact location and its proximity to him. “I feel so horrible. Now, I know for sure that I know who did it.”

“What?”

“I know who is behind this, and he’s chasing me now.”

Grant looked back over at Naseem. Ice flowed into his body. How could this be? Was Naseem being straight with him?

“What makes you think that?”

“I got involved with a guy. He had lots of money and was kind of an asshole. My type of guy—right? I saw some documents I wasn’t supposed to see.”

“Like what?”

“A list. It included several of the places I know were hit, including the St. Louis FBI office. I should have called you right away, but I couldn’t make myself think it was true.”

“Who do you think this is?”

“His name is Britt Vasher. I’m sure it’s not real, but that’s what he goes by.”

Grant was crushed and furious and mad at himself for realizing how madly in love he still was with her.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at one of the big casinos in Vegas. I prefer not to say which one until it’s absolutely necessary.”

“This isn’t your number.”

“This phone was given to me by a man who tried to set me up. I’ve memorized your numbers. This is the last call I’m going to make from it. I’m going to leave this phone here and let it get lost.”

“Are you safe for an hour or two?”

“I think so.”

“Okay, I’ve got one matter to piece together, and then I’ll create a plan to get you out of there.”

“Involve as few people as possible,” she said, fear creeping into her voice.

“I will,” he said, already half-annoyed she would choose to tell him this. What was her involvement?

“Grant?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for getting you into all of this.”

Oh God, what did that mean?

He told her to get a new phone number and text him the number. Then he ended the call and walked slowly back to Naseem.

“Did Yankee have a girlfriend?”

Naseem nodded slowly. “That’s why I called you.”