Unholy Code (A Lana Elkins Thriller) (6 page)

So every day I stoke the panic of Americans. But they’re not fools. Fools fear ghosts in the attic and voodoo at their back door. Americans face real terror. And Vinko? He’s the accelerant I throw onto their fire.

I’ve done a lot to make his threats blaze even brighter. You must have figured out by now, for instance, that the government did not inadvertently release those thousand pages detailing the weak links in America’s most vital infrastructure, along with fanciful methods for how they could be hacked. You don’t really believe that pap, do you?

I hacked those files and released them on the Homeland Security website. But the Department of Defense could hardly stand before the American people and say, “We gave away the keys to the kingdom.” Of course not. They fell on the sword of “inadvertence,” preferring to look vaguely incompetent than definably weak, failing to realize that in cyberwar those two words are synonymous. That was why they offered such a dense technical explanation when they announced the “penetration.” (Well, they had been royally fucked, now hadn’t they?) Their exegesis was so bewildering that it made no sense, especially to me. But I was hardly going to point out that the emperor had no clothes. Besides, Vinko did exactly what I expected of him. He pounced on the government’s purported failure like a cougar on a hare.

I play the long game. I always have. Vinko believes he does, too, because he’s been hacking government sites for six years without getting caught. But the long game is the length of your life
and
what you pass on to those who will carry your flame.

I’ve come to know Vinko better than he knows himself. I’ve sensed the excitement in his fingertips when he’s gained access to Defense Department secrets. And when he released those NSA files last night I remembered how he used to smile with every success. But that was years ago, before he discovered that someone had turned on his computer camera. He immediately ended my surveillance by sealing the lens and has remained far too stealthy for that kind of exposure now.

And his shrewdness came through, once again, when he dispatched those photos of Lana Elkins, her daughter, and the girl’s black Muslim beau. Red meat for that crowd. And the maps of their daily commute? Vinko’s very own cyber crumbs.

He knows how to pander to his subscribers. That’s where
he
excels. My effectiveness with him lies in giving him the truth. It’s taken a long time but I sense that he’s beginning to trust me. I noticed that he blamed his takedown on Lana Elkins
before
he made any attempt to confirm what I’d told him. The confirmation will come easily enough—I’ve made sure of that—but taking my word for what happened to him was a critical step.

When he does his own digging, he’ll also find that while the attack originated at CyberFortress, it was not from Lana Elkins exactly. It hailed from Jeff Jensen. When he discovers that, it will make him feel smarter than his anonymous helper. I want him to feel smarter than me.

Eventually, I’ll even let him find that Elkins has a weakness for gambling. I know she won a hand of
Texas Hold’em
online yesterday by drawing a second jack. After compromising that gambling site and installing a back door, I’d waited months for the alert that Elkins had returned to it. And it was I who made sure she got her second jack. I’d have happily dealt her a third, if she’d needed it.

I’m luring her in much the same way I lured Vinko, by playing to what might prove her greatest weakness. Her $137 win will twitch in the back of her mind. That’s the seductive nature of addiction. The desire burns softly, invisibly, until it bursts into flame with the sudden onslaught of irrepressible need. Elkins and those like her can turn the flame back down, but the memory of pleasure doesn’t die quickly; its dissolution is slow and inversely related to the speed of a quickening pulse.

So the heat lingers for the Lanas of the world, wrapping them in temptation until they succumb, blinding themselves to everything but pure want. Until that delicious tipping point comes, Lana will tell herself that she can beat her addiction, but I will do my best not to let that happen. I’ll replace the ads on her phone with ever more enticing ones. Cards will appear on her screen with jingle-jangle casino sounds, and when she sees them landing on green felt they’ll whisper of the silent thrills she’s known so many times before.

She’ll submit.

But … if she manages somehow not to compromise herself with gaming, then in all likelihood she’ll be at those Gamblers Anonymous meetings to rendezvous with others who share her weakness, a move that will expose her mercilessly.

Fascinating, the way the holders of the nation’s secrets unburden themselves to complete strangers in a church or civic meeting hall. Not everyone who attends those sessions is of good will. That was how I observed Lana firsthand. Once I even sat next to her. We exchanged knowing, empathic nods when a man spoke of emptying his family’s nest egg to bet on the “ponies,” as he referred to them affectionately. When he finished, Elkins rose to admit that she had also squandered unconscionable sums. I nodded at her again, lying once more. Gaming does not appeal to me in the least, not when I double down on my life every day. But my hatred of Lana Elkins is so strong I could kill her.

But I might not have to. Vinko has made it demonstrably clear that he wants her dead, too, now that I’ve linked Elkins to the hacking of his site.

He and I share so much more than our dislike of that woman. We both despise moderate Muslims. Vinko’s absolutely correct when he says they are really wolves in sheep’s clothing. He must be greatly encouraged right now because federal authorities blamed his previous provocations for vicious attacks on Muslims in St. Paul, Dearborn, Oakland, Omaha, even in the liberal bastion of Cambridge, Massachusetts. The FBI is asking anyone who might know his real identity to step forward. Fat chance. Vinko’s secrets are safe with me. A few dead here, a few maimed there … the list of attacks will only grow longer and more welcome.

And I will make sure Vinko’s fire burns brighter.

LANA DIDN’T SLEEP WELL.
Too much unfinished business loomed in the darkness. Emma had stormed upstairs last night, more upset over Tahir’s threat to her relationship with Sufyan than a neo-Nazi’s online threat to her life.
Steel Fist isn’t
real to her
,
but her boyfriend’s uncle
is
, Lana thought, swinging her feet out from under the covers and easing on her slippers.

Don lay on his back, still sleeping, arms flung wide. She let him grab a few extra winks and headed downstairs, knowing she’d have to drive home the gravity of Steel Fist’s words to Emma before she went to school. Lana wished she could just lock the girl up for the duration.
Of what?
Lana asked herself immediately.
Because this is our life now
.

She pushed a button on the automatic espresso machine and heard the grinder go to work. Sitting on a stool, she glanced at a wall clock: 6:36 a.m.

The steam hissed and the beans gave off their enticing aroma. The last drips dimpled the dark surface.

Lana cradled the cup, blowing softly over the steamy brew. She remembered the windswept waters of the Black Sea and Don sailing her to a perilous rendezvous with Galina Bortnik. Lana and Don had been forced to work together after having had no contact for most of Emma’s life. And to think they’d not only survived that mission but been reunited. A potent brew of danger, physical chemistry, and rekindled love had brought them back together. Lana still couldn’t parse the appeal. She just knew it was as real as the rings they’d slipped back onto their fingers. They’d already talked about making it formal—again.

“’Morning, Mom.”

Emma glided past, putting the espresso machine back into service.

“How’d you sleep?”

“So-so.”

“Same here. We need to talk.”

“I’m pretty sure I made my position clear last night.”

“This is not about saying you can’t see Sufyan. I wouldn’t do that, Em. That’s not on my agenda.”

“It’s sure on Dad’s,” Emma shot back.

“Your father’s been worried about the whole religious thing with Sufyan’s family, and after last night I think we both have to admit there were grounds for that.”

“He’s never liked Sufyan.”

“I honestly don’t think that’s true, Em. They’ve talked plenty about basketball and—”

“They’ve talked plenty about everything but Islam. He won’t say a word about that to him.”

“He’s not comfortable with it. Give your father—”

“Neither are you. Admit it.”

Emma’s arms and legs were crossed, her coffee mug pressed against her shoulders hard enough to whiten her fingers.
Closed up like a bank vault
.

“I’m a skeptic about all religions. That’s no bulletin. But I’ve never tried to sway your beliefs. Who drove you to church for choir practice and Sunday services? And if you become a Muslim, I’ll be driving you to a mosque.”

“I can drive myself now.”

“Point taken.”

“Yours, too.”

“Look,
your
happiness is most important to me, not whether you believe what I believe. I could be wrong about all that stuff. Maybe St. Pete’s going to meet me at the Pearly Gates and give me the old heave- ho.” Which eked a smile out of Emma.

“Do you really mean you’d accept it if I became a Muslim?”

“Absolutely. I just want you to know that your choice is yours alone, and not confused with feelings for someone else.”

“I don’t think that’s what’s happening here, Mom, although I do love him.”

“So what are you going to do about his uncle?”

“This is America, not the Sudan. Tahir’s going to have to deal with our feelings.”

“Did Sufyan text you after they left?”

Emma nodded. “I’m picking him up for school just like always. He says his uncle can’t stop him from seeing me.”

“You can’t blame Tahir for being worried, not after what that family’s been through. And you can’t go the same way to school anymore.” Lana pulled out her phone: “Here’s the route that creep put up on the Web about you two.”

Emma studied the screen. “What the hell! That’s
exactly
how I go. How did he even know that?”

“That’s the shortest distance between those two points,” Lana said, hoping that Steel Fist had simply been guessing; the thought of neo-Nazis already tracking her daughter’s movements was too horrifying to consider. “But you’ve got to start changing how you go every day. It’s not hard to do. Look at this.”

She slid a map in front of Emma. Before going to bed, Lana had highlighted half a dozen different routes her daughter could take to and from school, which included stops for Sufyan; a small red dot designated his home. She’d also colluded with Don on another security measure.

Emma ran her finger along the yellow lines, shifting the map to read the street names.

“I figured you’d be doing the driving,” Lana said. Sufyan didn’t have a car.

Emma looked up. “Do you think those threats are going to become news?”

“I hope not, but the
Post
probably has someone monitoring the Steel Fist website. They did a piece about it a few weeks ago when he registered his ten millionth follower. Whether the paper will spread the word about you two, I can’t say. Let’s hope not.”

“Can’t you stop them?” Emma asked.

“No, I can’t. But I’ll talk to Deputy Director Holmes and see what can be done a little higher up the food chain, maybe get someone to nudge the publisher. We could make the argument that neither of you is even a legal adult yet.”

A point that usually made Emma bridle. Not today.

Don straggled into the kitchen, hair bunched to one side. His robe hung open, exposing his prison stripe pajamas. Emma had given them to him for Christmas as a gag gift, which Lana hadn’t known about until he opened his present. She’d held her breath when he took out the top, replete with a prison number—his birth date. But he was smiling and wore them most nights, joking that after years in prison they made him feel right at home.

He was the last of the clan to activate the espresso machine. “Everybody sleep okay?”

“No,” Emma and Lana answered at the same time.

“Me, either. I don’t think I really fell off till about four. You tell her about the dog?” he asked Lana.

“What dog?” Emma lowered her mug.

“We’re looking at getting a Malinois,” Lana said.

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“Remember the story about the Belgian military dog that was on the Osama bin Laden raid?” Don asked.

“Uh, no?”

“That was a Malinois. They’re like German shepherds but they have shorter hair.” Don pushed his own out of his face and grabbed his java. “They make excellent guard dogs.”

“Who’s going to train it?” Emma asked, clearly at odds with any thought of doing it herself.

“None of us. No time for that,” Don replied. “We’re going to have to buy one all ready for duty.”

“Is he going to be okay with me?”

“Of course, but the three of us are going to have to be trained to work with him.”

“You’re kidding,” Emma laughed.
“We
have to be trained for
him?
That’s classic.”