| |
Stephanie hadn't even made it out of the parking lot before her phone started ringing again. She glanced at the caller ID and pulled off to the side of the lot, putting the Mustang in park.
“Matt, tell me you have something good!” she answered.
“I have something good,” Matt obliged.
“Thank God!” Stephanie exclaimed. “What is it?”
“I've got a few things for you,” Matt said. Stephanie could almost picture him pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Let's start with the cigarette butt.”
“Cigarette butt?”
“From the maze where you found your informant's remains,” Matt reminded her. “You didn't forget about it, did you?”
“Matt, if you had any idea what's going on, you'd understand how a cigarette butt slipped my mind,” Stephanie told him. “But now that you've brought it back to my attention, did you get anything off it?”
“Of course I did,” Matt answered cheerfully. “I'll spare you the fun, forensic details and skip right to the important points. The cigarette was a regular, full-tar Marlboro, but it was a Mexican-produced Marlboro.”
“Is there such a thing?” Stephanie asked, surprised.
“Oh yes. Marlboro produces cigarettes in several other countries, and Mexico is one of them. They have their own factories there,” Matt explained.
“I'm not going to ask how you can tell the difference between cigarettes produced in the States and ones produced in other countries, but someday, you'll have to explain that further,” Stephanie said, momentarily diverted.
“Anytime you want a lesson, you know where to find me,” Matt replied. “Now, not only was the cigarette Mexican, but so was the smoker. It's a shock, I know, but try to contain yourself.”
“Ha! You're being funny today. Did you get a DNA match off it?” Stephanie asked, her pulse quickening.
“I did,” Matt told her. “I ran it against our databases and got a perfect match. Ramiero Losa. His DNA was collected from a crime scene in Puerto Vallarta last year. He was arrested, but never convicted. He's an enforcer for your new friend, Jenaro Gomez.”
“Matt, if you were here, I would kiss you,” Stephanie said with a grin.
“Now, now, I'm not finished amazing you yet,” Matt retorted. “That's just the cigarette butt. I haven't gotten to Rodrigo's computers yet.”
“You finally have something from them?” Stephanie asked. “It's about time!”
“I beg your pardon!” Matt exclaimed. “Do you have any idea the level of encryption built into those machines? I'm talking government-level encryption here. He had two booby traps built into the layers, not to mention the unique coding he...oh, never mind. You're just lucky I had two of the encryption analysts down here with me, or you'd still be waiting.”
“I'm sorry,” Stephanie apologized. “You've spoiled me, Matt. When you're on the job, I'm used to fast results.”
“I should hope so,” Matt retorted, mollified.
“Tell me what you found on the computers,” Stephanie said.
“Rodrigo planted a virus on the bank's mainframe by injecting it into the back-end coding,” Matt told her. “The crazy part is, the virus was actually injected six months ago. When he went in again just before he disappeared, he didn't do anything with the actual virus. I'll put all the details in my report, but the essential point you need to know now is that the virus is still there. At least, it was when we got the computers. It's been built to work undetected for any amount of time. When you're finished, you go into the mainframe and extract the coding, erasing the evidence. It's like it was never there.”
“What does it do?” Stephanie asked.
“I can't know exactly what it's doing without seeing the extraction logs, but it appears to have been designed to withdraw a designated amount of money at regular intervals from multiple accounts,” Matt said. “My guess would be that it pulls a small amount from all accounts. The genius of it, however, is when it pulls the money, it doesn't transfer it anywhere. So no alarms go off within the system at money being moved around from millions of accounts. Instead, the virus takes it from the accounts and holds it in a file within the system. The system fail safes don't catch it because, even though the money is gone from the accounts, it's still technically in the system.”
“I don't understand. The money doesn't go anywhere?”
“Not until the virus is extracted,” Matt said triumphantly. “It's really quite brilliant. Once the virus is extracted, the money disappears. All evidence of the virus is gone, and so is the money. The system alarms go crazy, the system locks down, but it's too late. Anything able to show what happened has been erased.”
“So the banks would have no idea until it's all over,” Stephanie exclaimed.
“Exactly. Brilliant, isn't it?” Matt sounded almost reverential. “Do you have any idea what they can do with this? They could crash the global economy and no one would know what happened.”
Stephanie was silent, her mind spinning.
“What do you need to find out exactly what this virus is doing?” she finally asked.
“Well, I would need access to the bank's mainframe,” Matt said matter-of-factly. “That's the only way to know for sure I'm right, even though we both know I'm never wrong.”
“Get your report to Rob ASAP,” Stephanie said grimly. “Let's see if we can get you that access.”
“Are you kidding?” Matt demanded, half-laughing. “It's a bank! They're not going to just hand over the keys to the vault.”
“They will if we can stop them from getting robbed,” Stephanie replied. Her phone beeped in her ear and she glanced at the screen. “I have to go, Matt. I have a call coming in. Get that report to Rob!”
Stephanie hung up on him before Matt could argue and switched over to the incoming call.
“Tell me good news, John,” she said without preamble.
“I found Lorenzo Porras,” John told her.
“Fabulous!” Stephanie exclaimed and put the Mustang in gear. “Where is he? Have you talked to him yet?”
“Not exactly,” John replied. “We're at the marina in Riverside. I don't think he's going to be very chatty, though. He's been shot in the head.”
Back in its heyday, the old abandoned building used to be a bustling factory. The factory floor was a huge open space that occupied the majority of the ground level, with a small front room separating the entryway from the rest of the building. The cement floor was crumbling now, and the upstairs offices and foreman areas had long since collapsed, weakened by the elements that poured through gaping holes in what was left of the roof. Located in an isolated section along the River Line train tracks that ran from Camden to Trenton, the old building was almost part of the landscape. People passed by it every day and never gave it a second glance. It was just another decrepit, deteriorating shell from the past that had been abandoned and forgotten.
Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the holes in the roof, making its way through the dank atmosphere in a half-hearted attempt to shed light on the deep shadows of the factory floor. In the far corner were a couple of folding chairs and a camping table. Aside from that corner, the old factory was bare of furniture or debris. It had been swept out and emptied, leaving a wide, desolate expanse of space that was cold and dark. If one looked closely and took the time to notice the details, they would note that the corner still had metal support beams running overhead. Looped over one of the beams were two two-inch thick, stainless steel chains, hanging about seven feet from the cement floor. The walls were discolored and there was a strange odor lingering there, at once both sour and sickening.
The smell didn't appear to bother the men lounging on two of the chairs, playing cards on the camping table. They were using an empty bottle as an ashtray, and the heavy fumes of cigarette smoke hung around them.
Jenaro Gomez walked onto the factory floor from the direction of the front of the building, glancing past them into the corner where a figure lay slumped on the floor.
“Turi, is this his?” he asked, motioning to a laptop sitting at the end of the table.
“Yes,” one of the men answered, stubbing out his cigarette. “He had it with him.”
“Did you have any trouble?” Jenaro asked, stopping at the table and opening the laptop. He hit a key and frowned when a password prompt came up on the screen.
“No.”
Jenaro nodded and closed the laptop, glancing at the two men.
“Where's Lorenzo?” he asked.
“Went to see someone last night,” the other man answered. A cigarette hung between his lips as he selected a card from his hand and laid it on the table. “Not back yet.”
Jenaro watched him, his eyes narrowing.
“Go find him,” he ordered.
The man glanced up at him, startled, and nodded. A line of ash fell off his cigarette and he pulled it out of his mouth, dropping it into the bottle. He stood, pushing the chair back as he did so, and threw his cards on the table.
“You're lucky this time,” he told Turi as he pulled his jacket off the back of the chair. “I had two pair.”
He turned to leave, grabbing his pack of cigarettes off the table, and nodded to Jenaro. He was halfway across the floor when Jenaro stopped him.
“Ramiero!” he called.
Ramiero Losa turned to look at him questioningly.
“Don't come back without him,” Jenaro told him, the scar on his face twitching.
Ramiero nodded and turned to disappear into the front of the building.
“You think he found a drug house?” Turi asked, gathering up the cards and glancing at Jenaro.
“If he did, he won't find it again,” Jenaro retorted. “How long's he been out?” he asked, nodding to the slumped figure on the floor.
“Couple hours.”
“Wake him up. Use the salts.”
Jenaro took off his jacket, draped it over the back of Ramiero's chair, and picked up a steel case from the floor. Setting it on the table, he unsnapped the locks and opened it up. Inside, neatly arranged in padded sections, were a variety of blades, pliers and screws. Glancing up, Jenaro watched as Turi went over to the slumped figure in the corner and bent over him. A few moments later, Turi straightened up and nodded to Jenaro.
“He's coming around,” he said as he stepped back.
“Good.” Jenaro nodded and motioned to a tall metal stand nearby. “Turn on the light.”
Turi switched on a blinding spotlight, lighting up the corner like a beacon. The figure on the floor groaned and raised his bound hands to shield his eyes from the glare as he lifted his head. His dark hair was on the longer side, brushing his ear lobes and flopping over his forehead in disarray. A swelling lump on his temple showed just how Turi and Ramiero had convinced him to come with them.
“You missed our appointment, little Philip.” Jenaro stood outside the circle of light and watched coldly as the man tried to peer past the white light. “I had to send Turi after you. That was an inconvenience.”
“The files weren't ready. I told you. I can't rush it,” Philip replied, struggling into a sitting position.
“According to Rodrigo Frietas, you can,” Jenaro answered calmly. “He was very informative. It only took...a little persuasion.”
“Rodrigo wouldn't understand,” Philip muttered. “We all have our own roles in the project. His was planting the virus. He didn't design it.”
“No.” Jenaro pulled a chair over to the edge of the bright circle and sat down. He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the man leaning against the crumbling wall. “Neither did you. So tell me, how do you trigger the transfer?”
“It takes two of us,” Philip said. “Killing me won't help you. Lowell can't do it alone.”
“Who said anything about killing you?” Jenaro asked smoothly. “No, no, no. I'm not going to kill you. Not yet.”
Philip swallowed with difficulty and Jenaro watched as a fine sheen of perspiration appeared on his forehead. Shifting in his chair, Jenaro crossed his legs and made himself comfortable.
“When you stole two and a half million dollars of heroin from me, you did design that virus, didn't you?” he asked almost pleasantly. Philip was silent. “That is how you altered the manifests, isn't it? Did you and your Korean friend really think I wouldn't know exactly what was supposed to be on those trucks? Did you really think we wouldn't miss it?”
Jenaro watched as Philip stared at the floor silently. He didn't fidget or shift positions. He showed no sign of response. Jenaro studied him thoughtfully.
“I told you two weeks ago, we want our money back,” he said softly.
“You'll get your money,” Philip said, lifting his head, “when we harvest the virus.”
“No, Philip. We'll get it now. All of it,” Jenaro said softly. “I gave you enough warnings. Now, we will take everything.”
Philip's eyes flared wide and Jenaro's thin lips curved into a terrible smile.
“You were kind enough to show us the benefits of technology, you and your friend Lowell,” Jenaro said, standing up and setting the chair out of the way. “People think the cartels are primitive and uneducated, especially here in the States. It's true we prefer more basic forms of human manipulation, but that doesn't mean we're not open to growth and progress.”
Jenaro motioned to Turi and together they advanced on Philip. Grabbing each of his arms, they hauled him to his feet.
“When you exploited our limited software capabilities, you made us realize just what could be accomplished with that kind of technology,” Jenaro continued, dragging him forward. Turi grabbed his tied hands and inserted a long, steel hook into the thick rope. Once it was secured, Jenaro reached up and grabbed one of the steel chains hanging from the cross-beam and tossed it to him. Turi hooked it onto the other end of the hook and Jenaro looked into Philip's alarmed face. “Really, you did us a favor. Once we have the virus, we'll be able to manipulate whatever government we choose.”
“You'll never get it,” Philip announced.
The sweat was pouring down his face now and he watched with wide eyes as Jenaro reached for the other chain. Jenaro smiled at him and pulled. Philip cried out as his arms were wrenched up above his head painfully. Jenaro pulled with both hands again and the make-shift pulley system started to lift Philip up off the ground. Turi grinned as Philip began to kick out with his legs, trying to land a kick on one of them. He circled the thrashing man and joined Jenaro at the chain. Together, they pulled Philip up off the ground until he was hanging with his feet a good twenty-four inches above the cement.
“Of course I will,” Jenaro replied, reaching up and wiping moisture off his thick brow. He turned away to the case on the table and returned with a long, curved blade in his hand. “You're going to give it to me.”
Viper dropped silently into the apartment from the skylight above and glanced around. Karl's third-floor walk-up was small, but unexpectedly tidy. Located in an apartment complex off Route 38 in Lumberton, it boasted hardwood floors and a washer and dryer in the unit. The skylight was a bonus, probably installed to add incentive for walking up three flights of wooden, exterior stairs.
The small dining room she landed in was separated from the kitchen by an open counter with bar stools along one side. On the other side of the dining room, the living room housed a couch, a coffee table, and a flat screen TV sitting on a low entertainment table. Karl kept a neat house, and the table was clear of any clutter, save three remotes and an X-box controller, all neatly lined up in a row. Alina turned her attention to the kitchen, noting the spotless counters and floor. She moved into the kitchen, glancing into the stainless steel sink. A rinsed out coffee mug was inside, along with a single spoon. Viper turned to the fridge and opened it. Aside from a case of Yuengling Lager taking up the bottom shelf, the refrigerator revealed nothing out of the ordinary and she let the door swing closed again silently. Karl clearly lived alone, and did not entertain. A quick look into the cabinets revealed only a four-setting dish set, and the glassware consisted mainly of pint glasses with faded beer logos on them.
Viper moved out of the kitchen and turned to go down the hall to the bedroom and bath. She poked her head into the bathroom. Shaving cream and razor were still sitting on the vanity, but there was a glaring absence of toothbrush and toothpaste. Alina raised an eyebrow and silently pulled the shower curtain back. Shampoo and Axe Body Wash were balanced on the edge of the tub, but the inside of the shower curtain and tub were bone dry. Reaching out a gloved hand, Viper lifted the body wash bottle and glanced beneath at the tub surface. The water mark was clear, but also dry. She replaced the bottle thoughtfully and turned to leave the bathroom.
Crossing the hall, Alina went into the bedroom and glanced around. The bed was made neatly and nothing was out of place. A quick inspection of the closet and dresser revealed the absence of a museum uniform and a half-empty bottom drawer.
No sign of struggle, so he left voluntarily, Alina thought, turning around in the middle of the bedroom. No signs of anyone else staying with him. More importantly, no sign of a little person.
As she was turning to leave the bedroom, something sticking out from under the bed caught her eye. She bent down and gently pulled out the shoebox protruding at an angle. There was no lid on the box, and Viper raised an eyebrow. Stacked neatly inside in rows were piles of money. They were all used bills and each stack was its own denomination. Alina stared at the box of money thoughtfully before pushing it back under the bed, replacing it exactly as she had found it.
Standing swiftly, she turned to leave the bedroom.
Wherever Karl had gone, he definitely expected to return. And that was all she needed to know.
Lowell watched from his car as another van pulled up outside Philip's building. The FBI had arrived at the apartment complex twenty minutes before, swarming to Philip's door like a bunch of black jacket clad bees. He frowned and shook his head, glancing at his phone again. A call to Philip's boss earlier had elicited the information that Philip and his laptop were missing, and the FBI were looking for him. Scott seemed more worried about the FBI than Philip, and Lowell hung up with the promise to call him if he heard anything from Philip.
Now the FBI were searching his apartment.
Lowell started the engine and pulled out from his parking spot across the street, easing into traffic. He had already been through Philip's apartment and was crossing the street, returning to his car, when the first FBI van pulled into the parking lot. He knew they wouldn't find anything in the apartment to incriminate either Philip or himself. Lowell had made sure of that.
But where was his laptop?
Lowell shook his head and turned a corner, heading away from the development. He wasn't worried the laptop would be compromised. They all had the same security layer built into their hardware, and he had designed it himself. There was no way anyone was getting into that laptop except Philip. Lowell scowled and glanced at his watch. They had an hour left. Wherever Philip had gone, and whatever he was doing, he had an hour to extract the virus and notify Lowell. If it wasn't done in time, three years of planning would go down the drain, and Lowell would have to answer for the failure.
Lowell tried to ignore the nagging sense of unease trying to creep into his mind. First Rodrigo, now Philip. Philip had been acting jumpy ever since Rodrigo disappeared. When his head showed up, Philip had been almost beside himself. Lowell had never seen him so scared. He stopped going out and wouldn't even leave his work to go to lunch. Philip had been convinced that someone was going to come after him.
And now he was missing.
Lowell slowed down for a light and stared absently at the car stopped in front of him. What if Philip knew something he hadn't been telling him? Lowell just assumed Philip's unease stemmed from the fear that Rodrigo would talk and reveal what they were doing. What if it had stemmed from something completely different? What if he knew who had killed Rodrigo?
A chill streaked down Lowell's spine and his lips tightened. What if the head had been a warning? And the tongue? What if they had been warnings for Philip, not just macabre tokens of a psychotic mind? What if Philip was right and the killer had come after him?
His phone chimed loudly in the silent car, making Lowell start. The light ahead turned green and the traffic started to move again. Glancing at the phone on the passenger's seat, Lowell sighed as relief washed over him. Philip's unique and encoded alert was flashing on the phone.
The virus had been extracted.
Lowell smiled and reached for his phone, opening the text message alert. It was sent automatically from the system as soon as the virus was extracted from the mainframe. Glancing down at the code on the screen, Lowell frowned. He pulled off the road, flipped on his hazards, and stared down at the code on the screen in confusion.
His first thought was that there was some kind of mistake. The code he was looking at, streaming in from the system, was not the extraction code. Lowell reached into the backseat and hauled his laptop forward. The code looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. Opening his laptop, he pulled a USB cable from his console and plugged one end into his phone and the other end into his laptop. Within seconds, the code was streaming into his laptop.
Lowell stared at it with a frown. Where had he seen it before? What was it? What was Philip doing?
He was still frowning in concentration, watching as the code started to repeat itself, when the realization hit Lowell like a truck. It was Philip's old code that he had come up with back at Stanford, the one he used to steal...
Lowell's head snapped up and his mouth dropped open.
Philip wasn't extracting the virus. He was warning him!
Lowell threw the car in gear and hit the gas, pulling out in front of a truck without a second glance. The truck slammed on his brakes and laid on his horn, but Lowell never heard it. He pressed the gas and flew down the road, heading back to the office.