Authors: Nathan Goodman
19
Cade was curious to see what network access he’d been given in his new role. He logged into the administrative console and started by doing his normal duties. He checked server status, looked for any alerts that had been posted, and generally made sure things on the server floor were running on par. An hour later, however, he could wait no longer. He accessed the server log files, searching for the e-mail job that seemed to nearly cause the company to explode. Scanning through hundreds of lines of code, he began to see the code pattern he’d noticed earlier. There was a spike of server activity that occurred on a repeated, timed basis. It was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. Digging further, he noticed that during each interval, the server was calling for a set of code to execute. Cade looked up and down, but the code it was calling was nowhere to be found.
“What in the hell are they calling?” he said. Then, he spotted it. It was a code snippet sending calls to an outside server. That was highly unusual. The servers never communicated outside of the Thoughtstorm building. That was a breach of security protocols.
This code then received something in return, and that something was getting inserted into the body of the e-mails. But what? This was completely outside the scope of what an e-mail server was designed to do. No wonder the server nearly blew up. What kind of assholes try to execute code then inject it into an e-mail right before it sends? He’d have to find out what was being injected into the body of those e-mails. But he also knew that the first thing Kyle would ask was where they were calling the code from. Cade heard footsteps and looked over his shoulder. He closed out of his computer screens and pretended to be reviewing server status. Someone was coming.
20
Baker sat motionless, her mouth hanging open, almost not wanting to believe what she had just heard. It would have been like staring at the series of numbers on a winning lottery ticket, reading them over and over. The men were wrapping up their conversation and would soon split up. She had to act. The question was, which one should she follow? The initial assignment was to follow Waseem Jarrah, but that was before the quiet game of intramural flag football turned into the Super Bowl. They would both be considered targets of the highest priority.
Her hand dashed into the bag to grab her phone. “This would be so much quicker with a radio.” But she knew that typical one-man stakeout assignments had no need for instant communications.
On the other end of the line, a male voice answered, “FBI, Agent Clemente.”
Jana blurted out, “Clemente, this is Agent Baker.”
“Give me the SAC.”
“Baker, the Special Agent in Charge is on a call with Washington right now . . .”
“Clemente, this is priority level 4! I don’t care who he’s talking to! Yank him out of there right now!”
“Good Christ, Baker, hold the line.”
A few moments later, SAC David Stark came on the line. “Priority level 4, my ass. What the hell is it, Baker? You better not have gotten me off that call to discuss knitting patterns.”
“Sir, I just recorded a convo with Waseem Jarrah, the target level six you assigned me to. Jarrah and another man just discussed the funding of the terror cell that’s apparently responsible for the string of bombings. They just talked about Tucson! The targets are at my twelve o’clock right now!”
“Jesus Christ,” said Stark. “Okay, calm down, Baker. You’re sure of what you heard?”
“That’s an affirmative, sir. Sir, they’re about to split up. Who do I follow? Oh, shit, they’re separating!”
“All right, all right. So you’re on top of Jarrah’s current whereabouts? You know where he’s living, his daily habits, affirm?” replied Stark.
“Yes, sir, I’ve been on him several days.” Jana was out of breath, still holding the camera’s zoom lens in focus, shutter banging away.
“Follow the second target. We need full cover on him. We at least know where Jarrah lives. We can find him again. What’s your location? I’m sending a flash team to you right now.”
Stark began yelling over his shoulder, “Clemente! Get your ass in here! Put Blue Team on a code 4 right now! Get them moving, we’ll send them a target package en route.”
“Baker, give me your twenty.”
He scribbled the address of the ball field on a pad as fast as he could.
“All right, Baker, stay with target number two. Turn on the ping. And, Baker, don’t lose him.” His voice echoed in a firm directive, but Jana could hear the faint sound of hope.
Jesus Christ
, she thought,
if I’m right, this will be the FBI’s highest priority
,
and the Atlanta field office will be right in the center of it.
Jana forced the laser mic and camera back into the bag and flipped to the app on her phone that the bureau referred to as simply “the ping.” Once activated, all agents deployed to the scene would be able to track her exact location.
Without looking too suspicious, she grabbed the blanket, not bothering to brush off the clippings of dead grass, and draped it across her shoulder bag. She slid her sunglasses on and watched as the Jamaican exited the first base side of the field. Bastian Mokolo was covering a lot of ground, and within moments, he would disappear into the shuffling streets of Little Five Points and be gone. She ducked behind a row of trees, hoping they would keep her just out of sight, and began to sprint. Her mind raced; her adrenaline surged. But Bastian dropped out of view.
21
Cade tried to ignore the approaching footsteps, not wanting to look suspicious. It was William Macy and his intimidating glare. Cade knew he was about to receive a speech.
“Williams, you have one job here. And that’s to make sure my servers stay up. I want you monitoring things closely. This is the federal zone, and what we do here is important. Oh, and one other thing. Today at three p.m. I’ve got an e-mail job going out. It’s top priority. It’s to receive priority bandwidth across the system, you understand me?”
“Yes, sir. Ah, sir, I just, ah, I don’t know, well”—Cade stumbled to find the words—“I don’t know what to call you, sir.”
William Macy’s perfect Windsor knot looked like it would choke him.
“I’m no one.” He began to walk off. “I’m a ghost, that’s all you need to know.”
After Macy left, and Cade was certain he was out of earshot, he again muttered, “What an asshole.” Cade’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was his father.
“Hey, Dad,” said Cade in a voice devoid of enthusiasm.
“Cade! Hey, glad to catch you. So, how are things going at work?”
Cade looked around to make sure no one was listening. The floor was deserted. It was like he no longer had coworkers, just the sound of server fans running in the background. “Well, Dad, it’s going okay, I guess.”
“Hey, you don’t sound so good. Is anything wrong?” Cal winced, wondering if it was just his phone call that was upsetting Cade.
“Well, no, not really. Things here have changed. I’ve moved upstairs.”
“Isn’t that a promotion? That sounds great,” said Cal.
“Yeah. Kind of. I’m not so sure it’s a promotion I want though. Kind of hard to talk about right now.”
“Cade, listen. I know you’re busy. I need to see you. There’s . . . there’s some things we need to talk about.” There was silence on the phone. “And it can’t wait. Can I meet you for lunch?”
Cade thought for a moment. “Sure, Dad.” He didn’t want to see his dad, but he had run out of excuses.
An hour later, Cade crossed Peachtree in between red lights. It was another busy Monday in Buckhead. On the other side of the six-lane thoroughfare, Cade slowed his pace and glanced at the tall buildings to his left and at all the people. They were moving from place to place, just like any normal day, busying themselves with their various concerns. But Cade didn’t feel normal. There was a sick feeling in his gut. He was concerned something was dangerously wrong at work and that something was wrong with his dad.
Cal Williams walked through the heavy wooden front doors of Fado and found Cade waiting in a booth. A waitress breezed by, heading for another table carrying a platter of four Guinness, their thick creamy heads holding firm. The heavy oak table was still wet from being wiped down after the last customer. Cal slid across the slick, fake-leather booth seat and smiled at his only son. The silence was awkward, and they both knew it.
“Cade, I’m really glad to see you. Listen, I know you don’t want to be here, and I know we haven’t gotten on in the best way in recent years.”
Cade didn’t speak; he just looked his father in the eye. That was one thing his father had instilled upon him—you look a man in the eyes.
“I want you to know I love you.”
The same sinking feeling that Cade had when his father was about to be deployed rushed back. “Dad, you don’t have to say that. I know that.” Cade had not wanted to toss an “I love you” back.
Cal’s mouth hung open like words were trying to come out, but no breath would move them. His eyes darted back and forth; he was fidgety, strangely fidgety. Just before he spoke, Cade blurted, “Are you drinking again?”
There it was. It was out like an eleven-hundred-pound elephant no one wanted to talk about.
Cal’s eyes snapped to Cade’s, full of regret. They misted over, but he held his emotions in check. Then Cal uttered, “No, son, no. I’m not drinking again. I lost everything dear to me doing that . . .”
Cade lashed out, “Except your goddamn flying.”
Cal almost allowed irritation to gush out of him, but stopped himself, knowing Cade was right. He had lost his wife and the love of his son over his constant deployments and drinking, but he had not lost his military pilot’s wings.
“Son, you’re right. You’re right about everything. I lost your mom, I lost you . . . I guess I ran away from you two. Ran away and just jumped into a plane and never came back. I know these are just words to you, but I’m sorry. I mean that, I’m sorry.” This time, Cal’s voice cracked.
In his lifetime, Cade had never seen his father cry.
“Is that what you came here to tell me? Well, you’ve said it.”
A waitress stopped dead in her tracks. She could see this was no time to suggest an appetizer of jalapeño cheese poppers. As she retreated, Cal looked at Cade.
“No, son, that’s not what I came here to say.” Silence was as thick as the head on a Guinness. “Cade, I have cancer.”
22
Jana broke into a sprint, rounded a corner, and accidentally smashed into a teenager, knocking him to the ground. She stumbled but didn’t fall. “Sorry!” She charged across the intersection, knowing that if she didn’t get a clear line of sight, the Jamaican subject would be lost forever. Baker cleared the next block and ducked behind the corner of a building, panting like the bulls of Pamplona. Jana was in excellent shape, but the enormous anxiety took its toll as adrenaline surged throughout her body. She glanced around the corner and saw nothing. He was nowhere. People milled about, walking in and out of shops and sitting at outdoor cafes where the bright sun melted into them. The Jamaican’s clothing and hair made it easy for him to disappear into the sea of body piercings and dreadlocks.
Up at the next block, she looked across the street into the reflection in the store windows. A man with dreadlocks was moving down the sidewalk. The reflection was blurry. Was it him? She rounded the corner but kept her glance downward, not wanting him to turn and see her. As she closed in, it was still too hard to tell. The hair . . . his body size . . . the shirt!
Shit, that’s him!
She wasn’t sure if she was breathing so hard due to the sprinting or due to the adrenaline. The Jamaican was on a cellphone as he crossed the street and disappeared over the hill just outside an outdoor patio full of people at a Mexican restaurant.
Baker had to close ground. She burst forward, knowing the hill would shield her from his vision. Losing sight of him again wasn’t an option. She glanced behind her, hoping to see a bureau car or van approaching.
“Where the hell are those guys?” As she rounded the top of the sidewalk, a sizzling hot plate was being delivered to a table next to the sidewalk. Steam rose from the metal as it scorched the razor-thin fajita meat. The Jamaican was gone. It was like he had vanished. A white work van with a ladder on its roof drove down the street.
“Where the hell did he go?” Baker looked left and right, focusing on anything she could see. Then she turned to a man sitting alone at the sidewalk table, his eyes wide at the sizzling fajitas he was about to lay into.
“Excuse me, did you see a big black guy with dreadlocks just come by here?”
“You mean a Jamaican-looking guy?” he said, rather interested in her athletic, trim build.
“Yes!” She paused, trying to not sound as excited as a nine-year-old schoolgirl at a sleepover. “Yes, did you see where he went?” She reached in her jeans pocket to pull out her credentials wallet. “He, ah, he dropped his wallet, and I want to give it back to him.”
“Oh, bummer, the dude got in a van right there, man,” he said, still chewing the fajitas. Baker’s eyes shot down the street. “Say, you wouldn’t want a bite to eat or anything, would you? You know, I mean, I got all this food and stuff and, you know, maybe you want to eat.”
Baker spun around in a frantic search; that van could be blocks away by now. She needed a car, and she needed one right this second. She looked back at the man, his tie-dyed shirt muted against the backdrop of steam rising from the plate of searing food.
“FBI. I need your car. I need your car right now,” she demanded, speaking through clenched teeth, credentials in front of her.
“Holy crap, man, you mean like FBI, FBI? No way.” He gazed at the identity card and badge; it was the only thing that could draw his attention away from staring at her body.
Jana pocketed the credentials. “Your car,” she said with her hand extended. “Where’s your car? Right now, goddammit,” she repeated, grabbing his shoulder. “Give me your keys. Which one is it?”
His mouth hung open, still full of food. “Right there, man,” he said, pointing to a black Volkswagen Beetle. He fished the keys from his pocket, dropped them on the ground, then hit his head on the table bending over to pick them up.
“Ow! Shit, man,” he said with one hand on his head and one handing over the keys. Jana snatched them and bolted for the car.
“A Beetle, that figures,” she said, revving the engine. She threw the car in gear and tore off, her right hand knocking down the little plastic flower affixed to the dash.
The man stood up, his napkin dropping to the ground as he watched his baby disappear.
Jana gunned the accelerator in a frantic dash to catch the van, only guessing where it might have headed. She flew down Euclid Avenue past Hurt Street and blew a red light at fifty miles per hour.
They can give me a ticket if I don’t die.
She flew past the last stretch of Inman Park, her head wrenching in all directions as she scanned for the white van. The light at Randolph Street was red, and she slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt.
A blur of white crossed her vision and then disappeared. She threw the steering wheel to the right and blasted out into traffic. A Honda Accord locked its brakes, and a minivan screeched to the left to avoid crashing into the Honda. Baker’s foot jammed the accelerator to the floor. It was the van. She had to close the huge gap between them. The Beetle just wasn’t quick enough.
“Damn hippie car!” she screamed as the engine whined in complaint.
The gap was closing, and Jana started to catch her breath. She glanced in the rearview mirror, desperate to see the arrival of her backup, but knew it was a lot to ask for field agents to close in on her tracking device so quickly.
The van headed over Freedom Parkway and continued up Randolph. She was now close enough to the van to maintain a safe distance without being detected. As they neared Ponce de Leon Avenue, the van slowed and jerked to the right.
Baker rounded the corner and took note of a sign that said “Ponce City Market.” The Beetle moved slowly as she watched the van turn into the construction entrance of Atlanta’s sprawling City Hall East building complex, a massive six-story brick building built decades earlier and formerly housing much of the Atlanta city government. The building had fallen into disrepair in recent years and was being redeveloped. The van crunched slowly across the gravel parking area, past a huge pile of broken concrete at least thirty feet high, and came to a stop at the edge of the building.
Baker froze.
What the hell do I do now?
She had to get her car out of sight. Ponce de Leon was bustling with six lanes of traffic. All she could do was pull the car up on the sidewalk, just out of the van’s view. But just as she popped the driver’s door open, she jerked it back as a car in the right lane careened past, nearly tearing it off. Once the lane was clear, she jumped out of the car and ran up to the corner of the building, being sure to stay out of the van’s field of view. She pushed open a rusted metal door into the cavernous brick monstrosity. The door scraped against the buildup of grit on the cement floor. Inside, there was a broken window and a set of stairs. This was obviously an exit stairwell. A breeze blew across the jagged edges of broken glass. More glass crunched under her feet as she peered out the window. The crunching of glass echoed in the vacant cement stairwell.
Jana felt so alone; the sheer weight of the endeavor hung on her shoulders. She pulled the camera out of her shoulder bag, squatted down, and peered through the viewfinder as the camera shook in her grip. She could see the Jamaican now; he was close to the edge of the building, talking to someone just out of view.
It would be mission-critical to photograph whomever he was talking to.
Is this his contact? If I move closer I might be seen.
Her stomach filled with butterflies and began to cramp—the adrenaline was getting the best of the rookie. Her heart surged in stroke to the firing of the camera shutter. She wanted to throw up, yet she couldn’t move without that photo. It was not only a career-making surveillance she was on, it might mean saving countless American lives. Heat rose over her neck and face as she glanced down, dizzy under the pressure. She gagged, then darted behind the terminating stairwell and vomited. She had never in her life been so scared, so jacked, so overwhelmed with responsibility, yet so exhilarated. She hit her head on the cement staircase as she stood up but determined herself to get that goddamn photo. One thought etched itself into her mind
, I’m not going to miss this. Not on my watch. Not on my watch
.
Back at the window, the Jamaican disappeared from sight.
“Shit,” she said as she muscled out past the scraping door. She glanced around the corner of the building, but they were nowhere to be seen. It was time to make a move, “Right now, right damn now,” she said, as she started a brisk walk out into the open. She was totally exposed, but if she didn’t get into a different position, she’d lose the only chance to see the Jamaican’s contact. She walked straight ahead, keeping her face forward, not daring to turn towards the building. Long hair obscured her face, but a strong gust blew it over her shoulder, kicking up some cement dust. At the street corner, she was hidden from view. She peered between bending branches and tree bows full of new growth with leaves painted a vibrant, springtime green.
Through all the brush, and barely visible, was the Jamaican and another man. The camera lens revealed little, her view obstructed by the leaves. Jana felt so conspicuous to the cars on the street that she crouched down behind a clump of Bradford Pear trees and again worked the lens. The shutter fired and captured the Jamaican, but the other man was in the shadows, the lens only recording a black blob. Contrasted against dark shadows was brilliant sunlight reflecting off the Jamaican’s brow as the two men talked. Wind gusts kicked up more dust from the cement pile. The camera couldn’t pick up the dark figure but she kept snapping away. Maybe they could enhance the photos back at the field office.
“Come on, dammit, I need more light,” she said. “Show me your face.” Seconds later the shadowy figure’s hands emerged, one holding a pack of cigarettes.
Holy crap, the cigarette lighter!
Knowing the cigarette lighter would momentarily illuminate his face, she wrenched the F-stop on the camera into position. The instant the flame ignited, the shutter blazed in automatic fashion, capturing every millisecond. Jana had no idea if she had gotten anything, but something in her peripheral vision caught her eye. It was a tow truck, and it was backing up to the VW Beetle.
“Oh. My. God,” was the only thing she could come out with.
Her first thought was to the poor guy who owned the car. But then she realized if one of these subjects got into a vehicle, she was screwed. She’d have no way to pursue. Her eyes darted between the subjects and back to the VW.
I ought to go throttle that damn tow truck driver,
she thought, but stopped herself and instead shot photos of the license plate on the VW and the tow truck, knowing she’d need that information later. Then Jana realized she didn’t have the license plate of the suspect’s van.
You stupid rookie,
she thought, grateful her supervisor wasn’t there to see that one. Several photos later, close-ups of the van’s plate were captured.
The tow truck was moments away from leaving with the VW when the Jamaican eased back into the white van’s sliding door.
Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. How the hell do I tail him now?
The phone buzzed in her pocket and caused her to jump.
“Baker,” she answered.
“This is Agent Murphy, HRT right behind you,” said a thick male voice over the phone.
Baker turned around. On the street behind her was a gray, unmarked work van with several agents inside, all of them members of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team. They were dressed in workman clothes, and looked at her through tinted windows. Jana was both shocked and relieved.
“Don’t move,” she said. “Stay right there. You pull any farther forward, you’ll be exposed. Subject vehicle is the white van pulling out.”
“Roger that,” said Murphy.
“Wait,” said Jana into the phone, “there’s a second subject still on site.”
“What? Oh shit,” said Murphy. He paused, thinking on his feet, “all right, you stay on the second subject; we’ve got orders to follow your Jamaican. He’s the known entity. We don’t know who the other subject is.”
“Stay on him? What the hell does that mean? I’ve got no vehicle!” blurted Baker as the FBI van pulled out onto Ponce de Leon to trail the Jamaican.
“No vehicle? We tracked you here—how the hell did you get here?”
“Check the top of the hill, to your twelve o’clock. See the black VW Beetle?”
Murphy peered up Ponce de Leon through long binoculars.
“You mean the one that’s pushing that tow truck up the hill?” Murphy smiled, knowing Baker wouldn’t find that funny.
Baker knew this was a boys’ club, and she’d have to roll with the punches if she wanted to be one of the guys.
She smiled and into the phone said, “Anyone in HRT ever had their ass kicked by a 118-pound girl?” Jana could see the other agents in the back of the van lean back laughing as their vehicle sped off in stealthy pursuit.
“Don’t worry,” replied Murphy. “Should be another Bue-car coming up right behind us. We’ll radio and give them the sitrep. This is good work, Baker. Really good work.”
Jana smiled as a feeling of relief washed over her shaking body. At least one subject was being covered.
Focusing back on the second subject, she strained through the camera lens but could no longer see him. A vehicle she assumed to be his car was still there, however. Jana looked around for a better place to continue her surveillance. Diagonal across the busy intersection of Ponce and Glen Iris Drive sat a little restaurant called Eats. It had a perfect vantage point if she could somehow find privacy there. She glanced back and forth before crossing six lanes of traffic and entered through the reflective glass door. Inside were a handful of customers seated throughout the sparsely filled room. This location was not going to work. She couldn’t have a restaurant full of patrons staring at her as she pointed high-powered photography equipment at the building across the street. There would be no way of knowing if someone inside would alert her subject. The adrenaline coursing through her system overtook her, and she felt as though she might explode. Before it was too late, she pushed through into the ladies’ room. It was filthy and smelled of stale urine.