Meghan connected to Werner through her screen, as Zeb drove, and got it to search for the hospital’s security system. Werner came back in less time than it took for Zeb to reach the exit and hit concrete.
The cameras were part of a standard security install that were routinely seen in hundreds of public buildings. Over the years, the twins and Broker had written programs to hack into most of the off-the-shelf security systems.
You’re sure it’s that make? Meghan typed.
Yes, Werner sniffed and rolled its electronic eyes. It was a supercomputer, one of a kind in the Western world. Its word was not to be doubted.
Meghan activated the program and waited for Werner to inject it into the hospital’s network. Done, Werner blinked when Zeb reached the first stoplight.
Get the camera logs, she commanded.
The logs were conveniently named by floor and position. She skipped over all the internal ones and went to a folder labelled exterior. That folder had twenty-five cameras, Left, Right, Rear, Parking lot, Entrance, and Exit.
She clicked on the entrance file and it opened to reveal two more files. Driveway, and Front-Facing.
The files had a week’s footage, one for each day. The system probably dumps a week’s coverage in these folders and older ones are dumped into some hard drive. Meghan didn’t want the older coverage. She opened the day’s recordings and got Werner to search for all vehicles that passed the entrance and approached the front of the hospital.
You want to search for the whole day? Werner lifted an eyebrow. Humans were so illogical.
Of course, not, Meghan furiously keyed in. She would have added idiot, but that would have been lost on the supercomputer. Search from half an hour before Kalecki’s arrival.
Werner didn’t whir, those days belonged to the stone-age days of computers. It came back by the time Zeb reached Bronx Zoo and had started across the city. Werner had forty cars whose drivers’ faces, caught on the cameras, didn’t match their DMV pictures.
Meghan asked it to dig into their identities and was biting her lip as she stared at an Oriental face on her screen, when Werner popped up a message box.
Maybe you’ll be interested in this Ford. It was seen outside your office a few times. Its owner isn’t the driver. Two images came on the screen.
The cameras had caught two images of the Ford, one a frontal view with the plates clearly visible, the other, a driver’s side view. The frontal view had windshield glare that hid the occupants.
The side view showed a lean face, pale, dark haired man who seemed to be shielding himself from the camera.
‘Yes,’ Beth, peering over Meghan’s shoulder, yelled and pumped her fist. The sisters high-fived each other and Meghan patted her screen affectionately. ‘Good work, Werner.’
Werner was above compliments; it went back to playing chess with its Swiss date, a supercomputer that it had met online.
Zeb risked a quick sideways glance when Meghan turned the screen at him, and recognized the Ford. It was the one that Werner had flagged up for his attention some time back. He made out the profile immediately. The man’s stillness was apparent even in the CCTV image.
The driver was their ghost.
Zeb slowed when they approached the Alexander Hamilton Bridge as the traffic thickened and bunched close together. He glanced out idly when they started crossing the river and for a moment his hands slipped and the vehicle swerved.
Meghan glanced at him and then leaned over him to see what had distracted him. A barge was floating below and on it was a brown container. ‘What? It’s just a barge.’
Beth peered through her window on hearing her sister and shrugged her shoulders when nothing struck her. ‘You okay, Zeb? You’re seeing ghosts now?’
Zeb didn’t answer, a slight smile playing on his lips. Meghan looked out of the window again and this time scanned the section of the river in sight.
Nope. Nothing other than that barge. It seemed to be carrying waste bags, a few men scurrying on its deck, and that brown container.
Container. Containers, Cali had said.
Chinese gang. Northlyn. Chinese ownership.
‘They’re behind the counterfeiting,’ Meghan whispered when it came to her. ‘The 41S is behind all that’s happening.’
They reconvened at the FBI office at Federal Plaza, early next day, after Meghan had briefed Chang, Pizaka, and Burke, about the container connection.
It was Burke’s idea that the three investigations – the NYPD’s, the FBI’s, and that of the Secret Service – come together and a task force be formed. There was a fourth investigation, that by the twins, but she didn’t want to bundle that into the task force.
She knew the twins would never agree to being part of a larger group, and in any case, less than a handful knew of their investigation.
Chang and Pizaka had readily agreed to the task force and didn’t mind the FBI leading it. They had worked with Burke in the past and didn’t see any need to indulge in turf wars. Burke would ensure that they, and the NYPD, got credit.
The Secret Service was a different proposition and after several midnight calls between New York, and DC, it was agreed they would conduct their own investigation, but would share intel.
‘Northlyn is owned by a Chinese business group, the majority of whose directors are in China,’ Burke began crisply, addressing the large group of law enforcement officers. She had introduced the twins as consultants. No one had raised an eyebrow. Special Agent in Charge, Sarah Burke, was a fast rising star in the FBI. She had clout. She could invite anyone she wanted.
‘The group has real estate investments, runs casinos in Las Vegas, and owns the printing plant. The FBI and the NYPD have questioned several of their officers, but we haven’t got anything actionable out of them. Most of them have pleaded ignorance and have lawyered up.’
‘The few who have spoken have said they were following orders and pointed at the directors, overseas. Some key staff are missing, and that’s a separate investigation.’
‘The plant in Ohio is owned by a private equity company that has its base in Luxembourg. We have similar stonewalling there.’
Meghan raised her hand and spoke when Burke pointed at her. ‘You’ll find that the Luxembourg group also has Chinese connections. Probably the same ownership as Northlyn, but that isn’t clear yet.’
Werner had been active throughout the night and had made more progress than the law enforcement agencies. They had to follow procedures; Werner sneered at procedures.
‘Thank you, we’ll look into that,’ Burke moved on swiftly before anyone raised questions on how Meghan knew.
‘We need to find out how many more plants this group or groups have. We need to find out how much currency is already in circulation. Is there a link between the university research spying and the counterfeiting? We need to crack the 41S.’
She broke the task group into teams of five, allocated them pieces of work, and signaled the twins, and Chang and Pizaka to follow her. She led them to a walnut panelled office, and folded her arms.
‘What’s this about the Ohio plant?’ she asked Meghan. ‘And where’s Zeb?’
Zeb was visiting dojos in the city, with a printout of the ghost in hand. He was reasonably certain the ghost was highly proficient in martial arts. Those arts required practice. Practice meant dojos.
He didn’t go to the popular ones, he went to those where references were required. None of those had seen the ghost or had him as a member. Zeb stopped to take stock and recalibrate his thinking after visiting ten establishments and drawing a blank at each one.
I don’t go to the reference-required dojos. I go to one which almost no one knows of. Only masters come there to practice.
The ghost didn’t frequent his dojo, Zeb was sure of that. He knew all the members, and he played an active role in screening new ones.
There should be other such dojos.
He made a few calls to his contacts in the martial arts community, got a few leads and checked out the clubs – that’s what they were essentially – in Chinatown.
No dice. None of those had the ghost.
He went to a food truck and tucked into a burger and while he was doing so, he wondered why he hadn’t gotten Werner to help him.
Werner pointed out several secret dojos that he didn’t know existed – they were secret for a reason – in all the boroughs of the city. None of them took walk-in members. Joiners had to be referred by members who knew them very well.
It was evening by the time he walked into the one in Little Manila in Woodside, Queens, his hopes fading. He had made several calls and had leaned on several people before he got the number and the address of the dojo.
He had decided against calling; it was too easy to hang up mid-sentence. Visiting in person was better.
He spoke to the short man at the entrance who regarded him suspiciously. White men were seen very rarely in that neighborhood and someone who had Zeb’s bearing, were even rarer. Rare was not good.
Zeb cajoled and persuaded the man to allow him to enter, but the guard wasn’t budging. Zeb then switched to Tagalog and the man’s eyes widened. A white man who knew his language?
The man opened the gate and led him to the inside of the dojo. It was no more than a simple hall, wooden flooring with a few practice mats. The guard took him to an inside office where the manager sat, reading through a few papers.
Not manager, he’s a master, a practitioner, a teacher. Zeb recognized the man’s lean build, the calluses on his fingers, and came to a swift decision.
He bowed and spoke in the native language and, taking a leap of faith, he revealed who he was and why he was there.
The man regarded him for a few seconds and then dismissed the guard. He gestured to a wooden chair and when Zeb had seated himself, he rose and brought two cups of green tea.
‘Why?’ the man asked after taking a sip.
There was a TV running on mute, on a shelf, to the side of the desk. Zeb pointed to the news bars on its screen.
‘He’s behind that.’
He brought out the printout and slid it across the table to the Filipino. The master placed his cup down and nodded as if it confirmed something inside him.
‘He is bad. I threw him out.’
‘His name is Zho.’