Shadow Maker (6 page)

Budapest, Hungary

N
ick parked his team's rented Suzuki Vitara against the chain-link fence of a snow-covered rail yard and glanced across the street at the target address, a six-story brick structure. “An apartment building,” he said. “That confirms the NSA's assessment.”

“Why couldn't it have been a mansion with armed sentries and killer guard dogs?” asked Drake, slowly shaking his head. “That would be so much easier.”

Dr. Scott Stone, the Triple Seven's lead engineer and tech guru, leaned forward from the backseat and pushed a pair of wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Exactly
what
makes hired guns and killer dogs easy?”

“Not easy. Easier,” corrected Drake. He gestured at the building. “The IP addresses captured by the NSA all trace to this structure, but not to a specific apartment. We have to find a way to narrow it down without terrorizing the locals or spooking the target.”

Scott shot a glance at the icy slush that covered the street between the Vitara and the apartment building. He pulled his overcoat tighter around his small frame. “I have to go in with you.”

“Out of the question,” said Nick. “Your job is to sit in the car and play lookout until I send for you.” He hadn't wanted to bring the engineer along at all. Scott had no field experience, but he convinced the colonel that he might have to hack Grendel's hardware on-site, something he claimed would prove impossible for the knuckle-dragging ops team, even with his guidance over SATCOM.

The engineer scrunched his gaunt face into a sneer. “So, what then? Are you planning to search the entire building? Blow in a few doors, rough up a few old ladies and hope that one of them is the hacker?” He shook his head. “Get me into the utility room, and I can tell you exactly which apartment Grendel is hiding in.”

Nick and Scott stared at each other across the seat back for a few moments. Then Nick shut off the engine and cracked open his door. “Fine. Come on.”

The three older operatives gathered at the back of the Vitara, dressed in dark overcoats and slacks to blend in with locals. Scott had added a Windsor flat cap to cover his thinning hair. At the same time, Quinn made his way toward a bus stop a half block west of the apartments. He wore grunge jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt beneath a gray canvas jacket, better suited to the twentysomethings in the area.

“Nightmare Three, I'll call you if Grendel makes a break for it,” said Nick, speaking through his SATCOM earpiece and using Quinn's mission callsign. “I'll give the best description I can. Taser is primary, drugs to knock him out. I want a live prisoner.”

“Copy that, Nightmare One. Check your ten o'clock. I think a good prospect for entry is heading your way.”

Nick glanced left and saw a grizzled old man in a hat with earflaps pass the bus stop and continue down the sidewalk toward the apartment building. He walked briskly, keeping his head down and his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his brown coat.

“That's our cue,” said Drake. He pulled a large cardboard box marked
AQUASTELLA WATER
from the back of the Vitara, pretending to struggle with the weight of it. “Act like this is heavy,” he said, passing the box to Scott.

“It
is
heavy,” grunted the engineer as soon as Drake allowed the full weight to settle into his hands. “What's in here?”

“Your tools, genius,” said Nick. He and Drake each pulled a similar box from the Vitara and then Nick closed the back end and led them across the street. He timed his approach to arrive at the apartment building's entrance just before the old man. He barred the local's way, pretending to struggle with his box and fumbling in his pocket for a nonexistent set of keys.

Within a few seconds, the old Hungarian lost patience.
“Elnézést,”
he said, gruffly excusing himself and squeezing around Nick. He used his own key to unlock the door and pushed through.

Nick caught the door and held it open with his foot.
“Köszönöm,”
he said, but the old man continued on without reply, trudging up a flight of stairs to the left of the door.

As soon as the local was out of sight, Nick led his team down to the basement level and into a short, dimly lit hallway. There were four wooden doors, each bearing a plastic sign. “Anybody know the Hungarian word for utilities?”

“This one.” Drake tilted his head toward the door closest to him. “Has to be. I can hear the heating unit.”

Nick shifted his box to one arm and checked the knob. It turned. The three of them moved quickly inside and set their boxes down. Drake closed and locked the door behind them.

“All right, Scott, you're in,” said Nick, pulling a black duffel from one of the boxes. “Now tell me which apartment is our target.” He tossed the heavy bag at the engineer, hitting him in the chest and nearly knocking him over.

Scott glared at him for a moment and then pushed his glasses back up on his nose and turned to scan the room. He zeroed in on a gray plastic box mounted on the wall next to a row of water heaters. “This area uses DSL. Their Internet will be running through the phone lines.”

Inside the panel was a black hub with sixty phone lines running out of it. Each connection was labeled with an apartment number. “All we have to do,” said Scott, pulling a wire-stripping tool out of his bag, “is find the line with the right IPs. We don't even have to disconnect them.”

While Nick and Drake looked on, the engineer stripped the line labeled 101. Then he traded the wire stripper for a black box with a small LCD screen and a set of alligator clips. He attached the clips to the exposed phone line. A series of numbers scrolled up the screen. Scott compared them to a document from the NSA and shook his head. “That's not the one.”

Drake raised an eyebrow. “That's your method? This is going to take all night.”

“Agreed,” said Nick. “There has to be another—”

Before he finished the statement, his eyes fell on the rows of electricity meters mounted on the wall opposite the phone box. “Hey, Scott,” he said slowly, walking over to the meters, “would you ever be caught dead in a dump like this?”

Scott was busy stripping the line for apartment 102. “I believe you've seen my condo in the Southwest Waterfront district. You already know the answer to that.”

Drake started to catch on. “And you're a megalomaniac techno geek just like our terrorist hacker. No offense.”

“Genius. The word your gorilla brain is looking for is
genius
.” The engineer put down his strippers. “And just because you say ‘no offense' after calling me a megalomaniac geek doesn't make it okay. What's your point?”

“This place is in one of the poorest sections of Budapest,” said Nick. “You wouldn't live here, and neither does Grendel. He's just using the apartment to house a small stack of servers. No oven use. Minimal heating. I bet he's drawing way less power than the other residents.”

Nick's finger moved along the panel as he scrutinized the readout of each meter. It came to rest three rows down from the top and seven units over. The dials were hardly moving. “This one. Three oh seven.”

The door behind them rattled, and then rattled again. A tired voice grumbled in Hungarian just outside. Keys jangled.

Drake shot a withering look at the engineer and hissed, “What did you do?”

Scott stuffed his equipment into his bag. “Nothing! There's no way my reader alerted anyone.”

A key slipped into the lock. Nick pushed the engineer behind the water heaters and rushed to one side of the door. Drake was already on the other side, bent down and digging through a black bag in one of the cardboard boxes. He raised up with a heavy flashlight and two pairs of dark glasses just as the knob turned.

The big operative lobbed one pair of glasses over the opening door and Nick grabbed them out of the air. The two of them backed into the shadows.

A balding man with a sagging middle and two days of dark gristle on his chin shuffled into the utility room, still grumbling. He started toward the row of water heaters where Scott was hiding, but he stopped when he saw the open phone panel.

“
Mi ez
?” he asked, walking over to the panel. He touched the first line with his forefinger, squinting at the section Scott had stripped bare.

While the intruder's back was turned, Nick nodded to Drake. Both men donned their dark glass and then the big operative strode into the open behind the Hungarian. He whistled.

The heavyset man spun around, and Drake aimed the flashlight at his face and depressed its trigger, filling the room with strobing green and blue light. The Hungarian fell forward in a dead faint.

“A little help here,” grunted Drake, catching the overweight super in his arms.

Nick rushed to help his teammate lower the man to the ground. Then he pulled a small cylindrical CO
₂
injector from his pocket and gently dosed the super with a sedative. “That'll keep him down for a while. He removed his dark glasses and glanced around the room. “What happened to the geek?”

They found Scott lying flat on the floor behind the water heaters, passed out. Drake slapped him on the cheek a few times. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Ohhh. Why did you do that to me?” the engineer moaned.

Drake lifted him to his feet and guided him out of his hiding place. “I used a MOID,” he said, pronouncing the acronym as a word, “a multifrequency optical interference device. It knocks you out with sequenced pulses of light.”

Scott doubled over and put his hands on his knees as soon as Drake let go of his arm. “Yes, I know what the MOID is, you idiot. Why did you use it on me?”

“He used it on the super.” Nick nudged the unconscious Hungarian with the toe of his boot. “If you're going to hang with us in the field, you've got to pay attention.”

“I didn't think the MOID would get you in your hiding spot,” offered Drake. “Normally it only knocks people out who look directly at it. Even then it doesn't always work. Some just get nauseated.”

As if on cue, Scott stumbled over to a wastebasket in the corner of the room and heaved up the contents of his stomach.

Drake stifled a laugh. “Apparently some people get both effects.”

Nick was not amused. Before Scott was done retching, the team lead had him by the shoulder, dragging him back to the phone panel. “We're on a time limit now. I dosed our friend here with six hours of juice, give or take, but if someone comes looking for him, our clock will run out fast.” He pulled the reader and the wire strippers out of the bag and shoved them into Scott's hands. Then he used the inside collar of the engineer's coat to wipe the bile from his chin. He slapped the man lightly on the cheek. “I need you back with me, Scott. Apartment three oh seven. Get on it.”

Scott mechanically did as commanded, stripping the wire and setting the clips in place. Once the numbers started rolling up his LCD screen, he stared at them blankly.

Nick's patience grew thin. “Well, genius?”

The engineer blinked a few times and then finally came out of his daze. He nodded. “This is—” He choked on the words, fighting the bile still in his throat. “Ahem. This is the correct line. This is Grendel's apartment.”

T
he t
eam propped the building super up on a chair and left with their black bags slung over their shoulders. They locked the door. With any luck, no one would disturb his slumber.

Despite the late hour, a woman in a flower-print headscarf, stooped with age and leaning on a cane, came through the entrance just as the three of them came up the stairs. She eyed the bags suspiciously.

“
Jó estét
,” said Nick, bidding her good evening. He did not speak Hungarian, but he had picked up a few phrases on previous operations and he had boned up during the crossing. The woman just frowned at him and started up the stairs.

“These people keep odd hours,” whispered Drake once she had passed the first landing.

They gave her three minutes to clear the stairwell and then started up, pausing to listen at the third floor. A rhythmic thumping sounded from the hallway. Nick peeked around the corner and couldn't believe his bad luck. The old woman lived on this floor. Her cane thumped into the worn carpet with every shaky step. Nick stepped aside and nodded for Drake to lean out and take a look.

“You've got to be kidding me,” said the big operative when he ducked back into the stairwell. His eyes widened. “You don't think she's—”

Nick shook his head. “No, although, at this point, I'm not averse to Tasing her.”

After another few seconds, the thumping stopped and they heard the scrape of a key in a lock. They waited until they heard the door open and click closed and then Nick checked the hall one more time. “We're on.”

They moved quickly, padding down the hall without a sound until Scott caught a toe on a lump in the carpet. His shoulder thudded against the old woman's wall. Nick shot him a glare.

The engineer winced. “Sorry.”

The old woman did not reappear and they continued on. At the door marked 307, Nick pulled a small black leather wallet from his coat and flipped it open. A few years ago, it would have held the snakes, rakes, and hooks of his lockpick set, but picking locks was now a dying and largely unnecessary art. These days, the wallet held bump keys. Nick checked Grendel's dead bolt and doorknob and then selected a matching pair, handing one to Drake.

Both men drew pistol-style Tasers from their coat pockets and inserted their keys into the door locks, Nick standing at the dead bolt, Drake crouched in front of the doorknob. After a final check that his teammate was ready, Nick whispered a count to three and they both gave their keys a sharp bump and a turn.

As the door swung open, Nick and Drake rushed in with their Tasers leveled, searching for targets. They saw no one. Scott opened his mouth to speak, but Nick shut him up with a sharp look. He pointed at Drake and with a wave of his hand, directed him toward the kitchen while he moved silently into a short hallway at the back.

The door on the left of the little hall was too narrow to be an entrance to a room. It had to be a closet. Nick checked the door to the right. The knob turned easily and he pressed into the room. Again, there was no one.

Drake appeared at his shoulder. “The kitchen and living area are clear.”

“Same,” said Nick, pocketing his Taser. “No one's here.” He returned to the living area and shut and locked the apartment door.

“Do we even have the right apartment?”

“If I could have permission to speak now, I think I can answer that,” said Scott.

Nick nodded. “Speak.”

The engineer pointed over Nick's shoulder to a short, unobtrusive rack that stood against the front wall of the apartment. There were four shelves, each holding a whirring silver box, ten inches wide, flat and unadorned except for a single green LED blinking on one end. A bundle of cables ran from the rack to another silver box that sat on a small desk. That box was connected to a laptop with a simple USB cable. “This is the place,” he said.

“That's it?” asked Drake. “That's our terrorist communications network.”

“It is. At least, it's the heart of it.”

Drake strode over to the rack. “Then let's pull the plug and get out of here.” He bent down to pull the servers away from the wall. “You can hack into the servers at the hotel while we search for Grendel.”

“Wait!” said Scott, rushing toward him with an outstretched hand.

Drake abruptly stepped back, surprised by the command carried in the engineer's voice. “What?”

“The servers will be booby-trapped.”

“You mean a bomb?”

Scott frowned at him. “No, you Neanderthal, I mean a delete program. It's common practice in the hacker underground. Almost any computer can be hacked if you can get it to the right people, so you have to rig your servers to wipe clean if they're moved.”

Nick eyed the laptop. “Can you hack the system here?”

“Yes, but it's likely that Grendel included additional security measures. If I work too quickly, I could miss a digital trip wire that has the same effect.”

“Then get to work. The clock's ticking.”

Scott picked up his black bag and tentatively approached the desk. A foot away from the chair, he froze.

“What is it?” asked Drake. “Is the desk booby-trapped too?”

“No. It's filthy. How can any hacker work in an environment like this?” Scott pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dusted the laptop keys and the chair cushion. When he finished, he considered the handkerchief for a moment and then flung it at the wastebasket next to the desk. It flopped across the top, knocking a crumpled paper onto the floor where several others were already gathered.

Nick picked up the paper and unraveled it. The fading print listed the address of a nightclub and a hefty bar tab. He set it on the desk and picked up several more. All of them were receipts from the same club, all paid in cash. “We have a hangout,” he said.

“And we have a picture,” said Drake. He nodded at the laptop that Scott had brought to life. The screen saver showed a young man in his early twenties, reclining on a leather bench with three women in micro-miniskirts. His hand was raised to the camera in some gesture that Nick did not recognize and his tongue was hanging out. The women looked bored.

“It looks like our hacker has a taste for the nightlife,” said Nick. “I'll take Quinn and stake out the bar.” He turned to Drake. “Watch the door. Grendel might come here at any time. If he does, bag him and call me on SATCOM. Whatever happens, be out of here in five hours.”