The King of Fear: A Garrett Reilly Thriller (26 page)

B
EACH
H
AVEN
P
ARK
, N
EW
J
ERSEY
, J
UNE
24, 1:28 P.M.

T
he first warning came from ClarKent, the young blond hacker.

“There’s something going on,” he told Ilya, who was smoking a cigarette on the porch. The day had progressed even better than expected, with New York City—and even much of the northeast coast of the country—tumbling into turmoil. Ilya hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, but that was mostly because he was enjoying every moment of being awake. Awake was alive now, and the prize was out there, just out of reach, but he was closing on it.

“There are plenty of things going on,” Ilya said. “Which is how it should be.”

“No, your name. Us. What we’re doing.” ClarKent opened his laptop and set it on a small table. “Crowdsourcing.”

Ilya looked at the screen. It was open to a Reddit thread titled “What would you do?”—which had more than seventy thousand comments. The thread was the number one topic on the entire site and was trending far above any other question. Ilya’s picture, his passport photo, was at the top of the thread, and underneath was the bulk of the question:

“Imagine this: Ilya Markov is an economic terrorist trying to disrupt the American economy. He’s killed a Federal Reserve president, hacked credit-card-processing and ATM machines, sent three trucking companies into bankruptcy, and now he is closing in on New York City. If you were Markov, and you wanted to take down the financial heart of this country, what would you do next?”

Ilya stiffened as he read the paragraph, then scrolled down to look at the
huge number of answers. They diverged out into discrete subcategories, with corollary answers spreading out like the branches of an enormous tree. He clicked quickly through them, reading some, skimming some, ignoring a whole swath of others. Some answers were obvious and broad: shoot the president. Rob the Federal Reserve Bank. Bomb the New York Stock Exchange. The spelling was bad and the logic often nonexistent. Other answers were slightly more specific, but equally as implausible: Short Citibank stock. Corner the market in gold. Destroy an oil refinery. But as Ilya scrolled through the replies, targeted ideas began to pop out of the lists, and those ideas were good. Not just good: some touched on what Ilya was actually planning, and others hit the nail exactly on the head. He pushed the laptop away in a burst of angry energy.

“Are there more threads like this? On other sites?”

“A bunch,” ClarKent said. “A site dedicated just to that question. As far as I can tell, it went up an hour ago. A lot of activity. Also a Facebook page. A couple of darknet threads as well. There’s probably more—I just haven’t found them all. But your picture is all over the place. You’re fucking famous.”

Ilya stepped away from the laptop and sat for a moment on a deck chair. He stared out over the beach and the ocean beyond, listening to the waves crash on the sand.

This was a setback. More than a setback; this was a full-blown counterattack. Reilly was harnessing the power of the Internet against Ilya, just as Ilya had harnessed the power of hacking against Reilly. It was a smart move, and if he went through every single response, Reilly was sure to find one that described exactly what Ilya was planning. But that didn’t mean that he was boxed in. With seventy-five thousand responses on Reddit alone, and more pouring in by the second, Reilly wouldn’t be able to read them all, or to sort and rank them in a reasonable amount of time—certainly not fast enough to stop what Ilya now had in mind.

But that was the issue. With enough time, Reilly would narrow down the options and figure out exactly what Ilya’s goal was. Without time, all he had were unexamined hypotheses.

“We carry on,” Ilya said, popping out of the deck chair. “But we double our speed. Tell everyone to keep pushing. More hacks. More companies. Faster. Much faster.”

“Okay. I’ll tell ’em.” ClarKent hurried back inside the house.

Ilya found Uni dozing on a couch. He woke her gently, told her to get ready, then pulled aside one of the East European hackers, Yuri S. Ilya had met Yuri S., briefly, two years ago in a club in Kiev. He had a reputation for flawless programming as well as for having a borderline personality. He’d been angry when Uni had snagged the first suitcase of money, but had doubled his efforts and won the second cash prize handily, overwhelming the servers of a pair of smaller credit-card-processing companies, which seemed to have kept him from exploding in an uncontrollable rage.

“We’re leaving,” Ilya told him. “Now is the time.”

“I thought it was tomorrow. I thought everything was set for tomorrow.”

“Change of plans. The timeline has been moved forward.”

Yuri S. said nothing. He stared down at his computer screen, which was full of hysterical, panicked tweets and doctored pictures of ransacked grocery-store shelves. Ilya could already guess what Yuri S. was contemplating. He and Yuri S. were on the same side, but they were only partners for this exact moment in time. Ilya knew the world of freelance hackers well enough to understand that in a few seconds Yuri S. could shift his allegiance 180 degrees, and Ilya would be staring at a hardened adversary.

“Perhaps that will cost more money,” Yuri S. said. “Being in a rush. What do the shippers say? You must pay to expedite.”

Ilya scanned the billiards room: a pair of hackers were working quietly in a far corner, just out of earshot; a third was smoking a cigarette in an easy chair.
“Da,”
Ilya said, switching to Russian.
“No ya ne hochu
eto seichas obsujdat’ .”
Yes, but I don’t want to discuss it now.

Yuri S. considered this deeply, and Ilya was again astonished by how brazen hackers could be about their self-interest. They were unashamed of weighing the pros and cons of an offer, right in front of you, as they tried to plot how to get the most out of any employer, legitimate or otherwise. They were little more than con men and criminals, but then again, the rest of the world thought Ilya Markov was little more than that as well. But the rest of the world was wrong: Ilya Markov had something far grander in mind than some paltry amount of cash. Markov had plans for change. Plans and ambitions. Markov could see into the future.

Yuri S. sighed, as if to signal his desire to keep negotiating. Ilya pressed his lips together in frustration.

“Trust me,” Ilya said, again in Russian. “I will give you more than we discussed. You will get what you deserve for your service.”

“Okay. We are good.”

Ilya let out a quiet sigh of relief. He needed Yuri S., and Yuri S. knew it, so Ilya didn’t have much choice. But three steps further, and Ilya was already planning how to get rid of this selfish prick. Ilya waited for Uni to pull herself together; then the three of them piled into Uni’s Hyundai and headed north, toward the city.

They drove for an hour, then exited the New Jersey Turnpike near Edison, pulling up at a truck yard just off the Lincoln Highway, across the road from an Exxon chemical-processing plant. Plumes of smoke rose up from cylindrical smokestacks. A side gate to the truck yard lay unlocked, as paid for, and Ilya, Yuri S., and Uni walked through it, Ilya checking the license plates of the enormous eighteen-wheelers parked in the truck yard. He found the truck that he had arranged for and pulled the keys out from under the stanchion just behind the left rear-wheel quad.

While Yuri S. and Uni climbed into the cab, Ilya pulled out of his backpack the second pipe bomb that Thad White had made for him and slotted it carefully into a metal hinge between the cab and the cargo trailer, just above one of the truck’s gas tanks. The bomb had an internal fuse attached to a cell phone, and only Ilya knew the phone’s number.

Ilya got into the cab. Yuri S. sat in the driver’s seat, with Uni behind him, in the sleeping area.

Ilya pulled the seat belt down across his chest. “To the George Washington Bridge, please.”

Yuri S. started the truck engine, and it growled ferociously, as if in direct response.

W
ASHINGTON
, DC, J
UNE
24, 3:05 P.M.

C
ongressman Harris had not slept in thirty-six hours. All night he had paced his tiny bedroom in the cramped fifth-floor apartment he shared with three other congressmen, pausing occasionally to look out the window at R Street below, and trying to catch a glimpse of the sky to the east, to see whether the sun showed any signs of rising. He had prayed for the sun to appear quickly, so the day would start, so he could occupy his mind with business or politics or just phone calls. Anything to keep from thinking about her. And what they had done.

Every time the memory flooded his mind, he felt his face flush with shame. But also with excitement. Sexual excitement. God, she was lovely. And young. And willing. He could barely stand to think of it. Yet the images flashed back into his mind, over and over, on an endless, unceasing loop.

But now that he was in Washington, DC, far from Rachel Brown, he would be able to resist. He had stumbled, fallen even, but he could overcome the transgression. He would fly back to Atlanta this evening, admit all to his wife, and try to rebuild his life. But first he had to get a grip on himself; he had to shower, shave, put on some clothes. It was midafternoon, and he was still in his pajamas, for goodness’ sake.

He had a 4:00 p.m. appointment at the Eccles Building on Constitution Avenue. The Federal Reserve Board of Governors had called an emergency meeting, and Harris, as the chairman of the House Banking Subcommittee, had been asked to attend the end of the session. The Fed governors rarely in
vited a politician into one of their meetings, but events of the last twenty-four hours had been extraordinary—and they demanded extraordinary responses. The world seemed to be going up in flames—both the larger world and Harris’s personal world.

So, he would wait. He would sit through the Fed meeting, rubber-stamp any demands they made, and promise to move heaven and earth in Congress to change any laws or move any money that needed moving. He was powerful enough to make that happen—probably the only congressman powerful enough to make that happen—and he knew that it was his duty. Country and economy first, wife and marriage second.

And Rachel Brown? She was a physical manifestation of his weakness. Of his lust. And yet . . . her body, her skin, her lips. God help him. . . . He resolved, then and there, to do what had to be done. He would never see that woman again.

Rachel. Not his wife.

Then his phone chimed with an incoming text. The number was from Atlanta, but he didn’t recognize it. He tapped the screen.

Hey, get together again today?

Oh Jesus, it was her. It could only be her.

He typed a response, fingers shaking.
Rachel?

One and only!

Harris’s body tensed from head to toe. He considered what to write, but his brain seemed to have seized up. He had to tell her no, he would not see her, it was entirely wrong and inappropriate, and they would never meet again.

I am not in Atlanta. Back in DC,
he wrote.

I know. Me too
.

Harris’s blood froze. She was in DC? How was that possible? Had she followed him here? As he started to type, another text came in.

Got a treat for you.

He read the words and felt a rush of blood to his loins. More shame swamped his mind. He was one of Pavlov’s dogs, salivating at the mere prospect of food. Or in this case, sex.

Check your e-mail,
she wrote.

Harris booted up his computer, logged on to his public, congressional account, and immediately found the e-mail, from sender Rachel Brown, with the
heading
You’re going to like this.
The e-mail had a link, and Harris took a long, deep breath before clicking on it.

He was taken to a video site, one he had never heard of before, and immediately a player opened, video running, fuzzy at first. Harris squinted to make out what he was seeing. He seemed to recognize the room, but only faintly—a futon, a window, a dresser. Then it hit him in a wave of horror. He knew that room. It was in Grant Park, Atlanta. He had been there recently. Only three days ago.

On the video, Harris himself walked onto the screen. Rachel Brown followed. She took him by the hand and began to kiss him. And he kissed her back. Then she started to undress him with astonishing speed, undressing herself almost as quickly. Almost before Harris could blink, he was naked, erect, and clearly recognizable as Leonard Harris, congressman from the Eleventh District of Marietta, Georgia.

Harris watched the video, frozen to the spot, mortified. On-screen, Rachel Brown did horrible things to him: wonderful, horrible things, which he now regretted with every ounce of his being, but there they were, on video, available, he assumed, for the entire world to see.

His phone chimed again.

Nice, huh?

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t make his fingers move.

Meet me here.
An address followed. It looked to be in central Virginia.
Two-hour drive for you. See you around ten. Gonna be super fun. XOXO. R.

Congressman Leonard Harris put down his phone, and in that same trancelike, autopilot state that he’d found himself in when he first went to Rachel Brown’s apartment, he pulled on a pair of slacks and a shirt, found his wallet and his watch, put on his shoes, and grabbed the keys to his rental car. Then, fully dressed, he Googled the address Rachel had texted him, mapped out a route on his computer, and tried to remember if he knew anyone in the DC area who might have quick and easy access to a handgun.

• • •

Everything about the Eccles Building on Constitution Avenue—its white Georgian marble, its classical façade, the grand sweep of the front stairs—spoke to its solidity, to its enduring purpose, and to its conservative nature. That was the entire point of the structure: it was the home of the Board of Governors
of the Federal Reserve of the United States, the central bank that oversaw the monetary policy of the country, and the building said, to anyone who saw it, You can count on us to protect your money. We are careful, thoughtful, slow moving, and here to stay. We are not going anywhere. The same could be said of the building’s boardroom, with its massive wood conference table, high ceilings, draped windows, and gold-and-white American-eagle fresco above the fireplace.

That is, on most days. But not today.

The hastily called meeting of the governors of the Federal Reserve was frenetic right from the start, before the members were even seated, or the ones who were calling in were on the line. Caroline Hummels, the newly appointed chairwoman, had barely set foot in the room before Gottfried, the director of the Atlanta bank, came at her, his finger wagging in front of her nose.

“What the hell is going on in New York?” He followed her across the room. “My people tell me we’re on the verge of a liquidity event. That it’s 2008 all over again. We’re looking at a credit crunch. Or worse. A bank run. A collapse.”

Hummels pushed past Gottfried and nodded to the seven other board members and bank directors seated around the table: Sanchez from Minneapolis, Higgins from Philadelphia, Dan Stark from Richmond, and Chen, Lattimore, and Cohen from the DC board. And of course Larry Franklin from St. Louis, who was sunk deep into his padded leather chair, a furious scowl on his face. Everyone else would be on the phone.

Lattimore shook his head vigorously in agreement with Gottfried: “I’m hearing the same thing, Caroline. The rumors have been building all week. And New York is going off its fucking rocker.”

Hummels shot a look at Lattimore. “Would you like that in the minutes, Jack? That New York has gone off its fucking rocker?”

Lattimore threw his hands in the air. “At this point, I don’t give a shit what goes in the minutes.”

Hummels turned to Adelaide, her assistant, trailing a few steps behind her. “Is everyone on the phone?”

Her assistant nodded, then punched the conference-call buttons on the phones placed across the table. “All here,” Adelaide said, sitting down to take notes. The meeting would be recorded, but the chairperson’s assistant always took notes as well, as a matter of habit and tradition.

Of course, one person was missing from the meeting, and Hummels felt that absence deeply: Phillip Steinkamp of the New York Fed. He had been the old pro of the bunch, the calming influence. Just the thought of him, and what had happened on that street in Manhattan, made Hummels shiver. She couldn’t help but wonder if his death was related to what was happening now, to the panic in New York City, to the meltdown in the financial sector. She brushed off the flash of memory—there was no time for that now—and leaned in toward the closest phone.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for getting on the line with me—or being here—on such short notice. I think everyone knows why we’re here—recent events in New York City, both this last week and in the last twenty-four hours. And of course we are all mourning the loss of our colleague Dr. Steinkamp—Phil, to some of us—but sadly, that appears to be just the beginning of the problem.”

“Have you heard from the FBI?” Lattimore interrupted.

“Jack, please allow me to finish.” Hummels glared at Lattimore. She knew, instinctively, that he wouldn’t have interrupted Ben Bernanke when Ben was making a presentation to the board. They didn’t step all over you if you were a man; they gave you your moment, allowed you at least to speak your piece. But not a woman—a woman in finance had to claw her way to every moment of airtime, had to shout her ideas over the din of male egos.

“We don’t have time for tidy speeches. You can finish, but Rome is burning,” Lattimore said.

“I have not spoken to the FBI today,” Hummels said. “And if Rome is bur—”

“But why not?” Sanchez blurted out. “Aren’t they supposed to keep you updated?”

“Right now, we need to talk about banking,” Hummels said. “About the solvency of the financial system. I’ve heard the rumors, just as you have. Rumors of low capital at Vandy, rumors of bad loans, of a credit crunch—”

“And what about the credit-processing slowdown?” Gottfried interjected. “That has to mean something. It was all up and down the East Coast and hasn’t been fixed, as far as I can see.”

“I am well aware of what’s happening at AWCP,” Hummels insisted. “I’ve spoken to their CEO, and he says they are working on the problem. He said it was controllable—”

“Controllable?” Gottfried asked with overblown, self-important incredulity. “They’re almost entirely off-line. That’s thirty percent of credit-card commerce in the tristate area.”

“That can be cleared up.” Hummels tried to keep her temper under control. The president himself had warned her before he nominated her for the job, There will be people out there who are desperately jealous that you have reached the pinnacle of your profession and that they haven’t. “Are you ready for that?” he had asked her. Sitting in the Oval Office, surrounded by the trappings of American power, brilliant sunlight streaming in from the windows behind the president’s desk, she had answered yes, of course. But now, on her own, with a crisis coming down around her ears and the president nowhere in sight, she was no longer so sure.

“The entirety of the situation can be cleared up. But we will need to move forward, as a board, with unanimity and purpose. We need to calm the markets. We need to open the lending window to banks if they are feeling strained. The federal government’s spigot of cash must be turned on, full force—”

“No.”

Hummels head snapped up and to the right, to where Larry “Let ’Em Fail” Franklin was sitting forward in his seat, his sharp chin jutting out from the collar of his white, button-down shirt, his gray eyes staring doggedly at Hummels’s. His lips were curled in an angry scowl, and he seemed to be trying to press his fingers through the mahogany of the conference table. “The federal government can no longer be in the business of propping up failing institutions. It’s is not in our charter, it is morally wrong, and it is bad for the economy.”

“Bad for the economy?” Hummels’s eyes widened. “It’s the only thing standing between a decent economy and an utter and complete meltdown.”

“Failure is a natural part of capitalism, and nature has to take its course. And anyway, you call this economy decent?” Franklin spat out. “The economy is in the toilet.”

“It is limping along,” Hummels said. “And we have to keep it limping, and not let it collapse.”

“It won’t collapse. Some things will be destroyed, but others will grow in their place. There’s rot in the system, and we are perpetuating that rot by propping up institutions that are bound to fail—”

“Save the homilies for the book tour, Larry,” Gottfried said, exasperation coloring his voice. “We have serious problems here.”

Franklin pushed himself out of his chair, gripping at the table as he did. “Our problem is that we no longer have moral standing—”

“Give it a fucking rest!” Gottfried yelled. “We’re doing the best we can—”

Franklin waved a crooked finger at Gottfried. “You just want a government takeover of the financial services industry! That would suit you just fine!”

“You’re being paranoid!”

“We are wasting time!” Sanchez barked from the side of the table. “We are all wasting ti—”

“No. This is the crux of the matter. And if you don’t see that, you are a complete idiot!” Franklin said.

Suddenly, everyone was shouting, waving their hands in the air. Someone was pounding on the table; Hummels thought it was Franklin, but he was standing and shouting and turning red in the face. Two of the other governors—and they were all male, except for Hummels—were also standing, one of them pointing at Franklin angrily and the other seeming to be talking to Hummels, but she couldn’t hear him.

“What?” Hummels tried to raise her voice above the din. “What did you say?”

It was Chen from the DC board, a voice of reason, but she couldn’t hear him, and Franklin was moving across the room toward Lattimore, yelling louder now. Hummels thought that perhaps she should call security, but that was insane—members of the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve didn’t need the police to break up one of their arguments, did they?