Two hours had passed. Callie Faith still had gotten no response from whoever was selling the Files.
“What’s up with this asshole?” she asked Johanna. “Why the delay?”
“He’s probably vetting the information we sent. That takes time.”
“Or he’s already spotted the fake, and he’s talking to somebody else about buying the Files.”
Johanna shook her head. “He hasn’t spotted anything. You wanted a sophisticated story, and that’s what I gave you. Even Warren Buffett would be convinced he was about to walk away from this deal with fifty million dollars.”
“Take me through it again,” Callie insisted.
Johanna sighed. She got up and went to the back of the Gulfstream G700, which was parked in a charter area of McCarran Airport in Las Vegas. They didn’t know when or where the drop would be scheduled, but they were ready to fly anywhere in the world. She prepared herself a plate of mango, prosciutto, and chicken satay, and she poured orange juice in a champagne glass. Then she returned to the white leather seats in the middle of the jet and sat down across from the congresswoman. Callie already had an open bottle of Rombauer cabernet in front of her, with a glass of wine poured almost to the rim.
“We can’t play with government money, right?” Johanna began. “We touch any of the defense or intel budgets, and Shadow is all over us. So the whole thing has to be privately funded. The only plausible private source for a payout like this is a billionaire who sees the Files as an investment. That’s why I created a joint venture for you. You’re in bed with an oligarch from Belarus. Literally. I planted AI-generated hidden-cam photos of the two of you fucking, in a place where someone who knows how to find such things would find it. Your oligarch is kind of a pig.”
“Why is that necessary?” Callie asked. “Shit, what if someone else finds it?”
“It’s the little details that sell the big lie. If anyone else finds it—well, they won’t, because only someone who goes looking for it would find it. And no one will be looking for you fucking a man who doesn’t exist, except for our friend with the Files. Anyway, your oligarch sugar daddy is named Maksim Zhuk. I created a legend for him. Look him up, and you’ll find thousands of hits.”
Callie stared at Johanna from over her glass of cabernet. “How did you do it so quickly? That’s too much detail. There have to be holes in the story. You’re too smart for your own good.”
“Building legends that survive scrutiny is what Treadstone does,” Johanna replied. “And it’s not me doing the work. It’s an AI interface. I create the parameters, and the software does in a few hours what would take me weeks to do manually. It builds an entire life. Dozens of newspaper articles—mostly in Russian and Belarusian, because that’s where Maksim would get the most press. A few photographs, especially background shots, because he’s a private guy. The most important piece of evidence for us is a Czech political podcast, with two guys talking on video—Czech with subtitles—about American sanctions that have hit Zhuk in his wallet and how much he wants the intelligence community to back off. They mention rumors that Zhuk has been cultivating a relationship with someone in the U.S. Congress who thinks American sanctions have gone too far.”
“They have,” Callie snapped.
Johanna shrugged. “Whatever. Do a little digging, and there you are. You met Zhuk on a congressional visit to Belarus four years ago.”
“I’ve never been to Belarus.”
“You have now,” Johanna said. “You see? Anywhere you look, the story fits together. You’re involved with an oligarch with vast financial resources who shares your interest in clipping the wings of the U.S. deep state. That’s where the fifty million dollars is coming from. Oh, and Zhuk owns this jet, too, just in case our guy starts looking into how we get to the drop site. The ownership records lead back to him.”
“Except Zhuk doesn’t exist.”
“Yes, he does,” Johanna insisted. “He exists online. That’s what counts for reality today.”
Callie sighed. “Let’s assume this bullshit story flies. What about the money? That’s what he really cares about.”
“I sent our friend a grid detailing routing and account numbers for six hundred and twelve separate accounts at banks around the world—all legit, all with computer-generated names—of random amounts that add up to fifty million dollars. With a push of a button on your phone, we can begin populating the accounts from Zhuk’s various banks in Eastern Europe. I provided a list of those banks, along with multimillion-dollar balances. As a show of good faith, I transferred one hundred thousand dollars into the first of the accounts. Real money.”
“Where the fuck did you get that?” Callie asked.
“Your IRA.”
“Jesus, did you think to tell me about that?”
“If the deal goes as planned, we’ll get it back,” Johanna said.
Callie checked her phone again and scowled. “Except as of right now, we don’t have a deal at all. I think he saw through your games.”
“He didn’t.”
“You’re goddamn arrogant.”
“I’m goddamn good.”
Callie harrumphed. She yanked a copy of the Wall Street Journal from her briefcase and snapped it open.
Johanna kept her seat belt fastened, despite the fact that they weren’t in the air. The seat belt kept her from pacing, and she really wanted to pace. These were the moments in a mission that made her nervous, when all you could do was wait and see if the pieces fell into place. She wouldn’t have admitted it to Callie Faith, but she was nervous about whether her AI creation, Maksim Zhuk, would stand up to the scrutiny of someone who knew what they were doing. But she’d done the best she could with the time she had.
Another hour passed.
Finally, a text tone sounded on Callie’s phone, and she scooped it up. She read the message out loud.
You found a way to get the money. I knew you would.
“I’ll be damned,” Callie said, and Johanna exhaled with relief.
Another text came in.
Does your husband know about you and Zhuk?
“Told you he’d find the pics,” Johanna said.
“Yeah, great, now what? What do I say?”
Johanna grabbed the phone and typed a reply: Fuck you. I have your money. Do you want to do the deal or not?
“Too harsh,” Callie said. “What if he walks away?”
“He won’t. You need to be pissed off that he mentioned your affair. That way, he thinks he has you where he wants you.”
I’m just saying, you’re vulnerable in lots of ways, Callie. Don’t cross me if you don’t want your marriage falling apart like your congressional career.
“See?” Johanna said.
She typed: You have the laptop?
Of course.
We’ll need to test it before we fund the accounts.
Fine.
When and where?
The Hollywood Bowl. Midnight tonight.
“Los Angeles,” Callie said. “Jesus, I thought we’d have to fly halfway around the world.”
Johanna frowned. “Yeah. I don’t like that.”
“Why?”
“He sounds rushed. Like he’s moving up his own timeline. Something’s going on. He wants to get the laptop out of his hands fast.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
I’ll leave the laptop in the first row of seats. You won’t see me, but I’ll be watching you. I’ll send you a code to unlock it. You’ll have ten minutes to vet the Files before the code expires. Then you start the transfers. Once the money is in the accounts, I’ll send a second code that opens it up permanently.
“I don’t trust him,” Callie said. “What if we transfer the money and don’t get the code?”
“We don’t have the money,” Johanna reminded her.
“Shit.”
Another text came in.
Fuck with me, and I destroy you.
Callie’s mouth pinched into a tight line. “He can, you know. If he releases what he knows about me, I’m ruined. But it’s too late to back out. If we don’t show up, he’ll take me down anyway.”
“Then we’ll have to figure something out,” Johanna said. She typed: I’ll be there.
Several minutes passed. There were no more messages.
“I fucking well hope you have a plan,” Callie said.
Johanna nodded. “I do, but you won’t like it. We need backup.”