CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

 

 

 

The Pentagon

Arlington, VA

 

 

Despite its name and shape, the Pentagon is jokingly referred to as the “squarest” building in the world by Washington insiders, since it was filled with letter-of-the-law soldiers in perfectly pressed uniforms doing so many monotonous tasks that the entire place was incredibly boring and mechanical. Of course, that type of regimented precision was needed to run something as massively complex as the United States Department of Defense.

And yet, not everyone who worked at the Pentagon was expected to show up in starched white shirts and recently polished shoes. Deep in the subbasement of the Pentagon lurked a computer researcher named Randy Raskin, who was able to track down just about anything in cyberspace. Thanks to next-generation computer technology and his high security clearance, Raskin was privy to many of the government’s biggest secrets, a mountain of classified data that was there for the taking if someone knew how to access it. His job was to make sure the latest information got into the right hands, whether that be CENTCOM, Capitol Hill, the White House, or two former MANIACs with a penchant for mischief.

Over the years, Payne and Jones had used his services on several occasions, and that had eventually led to a friendship. Raskin often pretended he didn’t have time for them, or their frequent favors, but the truth was he admired them greatly and would do just about anything to help. In fact, one of his biggest joys in life was living vicariously through them—whether that be their missions in the special forces or their recent travels around the globe.

Someday he hoped to join them on one of their grand adventures, but for the time being, he was perfectly content monitoring their escapades from the warmth of his fuzzy blue bathrobe, which he often wore over his wrinkled clothes inside his chilly office. In order to prevent his computers from overheating, the room temperature was set to a nippy fifty-eight degrees.

“Research,” said Raskin as he answered the phone on his headset while continuing to type. If he had taken the time to see who it was, he would have been a tad less formal.

Payne smiled at the sound of his voice. “Mister Raskin.”

Raskin stopped typing. “Asshole!”

“Wow,” Payne said with a laugh. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“How soon one forgets.”

Payne grimaced. “Seriously, I’m at a total loss here. Did I forget your birthday or something? Because if I did, you’re shit out of luck. I can barely remember my birthday, let alone yours.”

Raskin shook his head. “Which is why I send you hourly reminders whenever we’re getting close. I mean, what good is having a billionaire as a friend if he doesn’t buy you fancy gifts?”

“Beats me. I’m not friends with any billionaires.”

“Touché.”

“So, why am I an asshole?”

“I am soooo tempted to place a conference call to DJ right now, just so he can answer that question for me. I’m sure he has a substantial list.”

“It gets longer every day.”

“That’s what she said.”

Payne rolled his eyes. “Seriously, what’s the deal?”

“Hold on,” Raskin said as he clicked away on his omnipresent keyboard while staring at one of the six computer screens that filled almost his entire field of vision. “So you don’t remember sending me a long-ass message from a yacht in Malta with a bunch of next-to-impossible tasks for me to complete once, and I quote, ‘you’ve had enough caffeine that you’re pissing pure Mountain Dew’?”

Payne grinned. “Oh, you’re talking about my email. Of course, I remember that! Truth be told, I thought that part was rather poetic.”

“And accurate,” Raskin said with a laugh. “You know me well enough by now to know the magical moment when urine turns to Dew occurs shortly after lunch.”

“Which is why I sent you an email instead of calling you at dawn.”

“Well, thank you for being so courteous with your list of demands.”

Payne shrugged. “I do what I can.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

“Fine,” Raskin said. “Let’s go in order. Number one, you wanted to see if I could recover any surveillance footage from the murder that took place in Tallinn. I’m guessing to get evidence against the Russian prick who attacked you at the library. Correct?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“Unfortunately, Jon, the answer is ‘no.’ I can’t recover any footage because the security cameras were remotely turned off before the murder occurred. Despite my considerable talents, I’m not a time-traveling wizard who can turn back the clocks to turn on surveillance cameras in order to get you secret footage. Trust me, if I could do that, I wouldn’t be sitting in a windowless office in my bathrobe. I’d be running the porn empire that I’ve always dreamt about in a penthouse office in my bathrobe.”

“Let’s talk about your wet dreams later. Or hopefully, not at all.”

“Works for me. Moving to number two. Can I get any surveillance footage of Volkov in Malta? The answer is once again ‘no.’ And the reason is the same reason as number one, but with a caveat. Do you know what that is, or do I need to explain it?”

“Caveat is fancy fish eggs, right?”

Raskin laughed. “I’m going to assume you’re joking. Otherwise, a Naval Academy education is not nearly as good as my admiral pals claim it to be.”

“Look at you—friends with billionaires and admirals. You’re such a fame whore, I don’t even know you anymore.”

“Yep,” Raskin said as he adjusted his bathrobe, “I’m living the good life. No doubt about that. Want to poke me again with a stick, or can I get back to your list of demands?”

“Proceed.”

“Here’s the caveat I was referring to,” Raskin explained. “I’ve never seen a surgical, rolling blackout like this before. It was as if Volkov had a device in his pocket that wiped out cameras as he approached them. It started when his plane landed in Malta, and it followed him around the city like a black cloud. Airport surveillance, traffic cameras, library cameras, and so on—one camera after another went out until he got back on the plane and left for Moscow. But he didn’t fry them with some kind of electromagnetic pulse. They turned back on after he passed.”

“But you don’t think it was a device.”

“No,” Raskin said with a laugh. “If that technology existed in pocket form, I would have asked you to build one for me. Instead, I think Volkov was carrying a very precise GPS unit that sent his whereabouts back to Russia, where a team of hackers worked their magic from afar. Truth be told, it’s pretty impressive stuff.”

“In other words, these guys are good.”

“Better than good. These guys are great.”

“Better than you?”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Don’t talk crazy now. I was merely giving these guys a compliment, not handing them my championship belt as the world’s best hacker.”

“Please tell me you don’t actually have a title belt.”

“Not yet, but now I know what I want for my next birthday.”

Payne smiled. “So far, it doesn’t sound like you’ve done anything to earn a gift. If my count is correct, you’re oh-for-two on my list.”

“And he’s back to the stick.”

“Just speaking the truth.”

“Like I did when I called you ‘an asshole’?”

“Ouch.”

“That’s right! This hacker has claws.”

Payne laughed. “Fine. I’ll play nice, if only to get this moving along.”

“Yeah,” Raskin said as he continued to multitask, “like you’re the busy one. It must be tough lounging on a smuggler’s yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean. Meanwhile, I’m literally sending schematics to an assault team that is getting ready to breach a terrorist cell in a country that I’m not allowed to mention because my security clearance is higher than yours.”

“Seriously? Do you need to go?”

Raskin stared at his screens. “Fuck it. They have guns. They’ll be fine.”

Payne laughed. “Then let’s move on.”

Raskin glanced at Payne’s to-do list. “Numero three. You need some background information on Sergei Bobrinsky’s business. No sweat. I can help you out with that. I just need a few more details on what you’re looking for.”

“No problem,” Payne said. “According to Jarkko, Bobrinsky used to conduct most of his business on the dark web. That’s where he would buy and sell his goods, whether it be artwork, antiquities, or ancient documents. Unfortunately, Jarkko wasn’t a customer. He worked in, um, logistics, so he doesn’t know the specifics of Bobrinsky’s listings.”

“Since when did ‘smuggling’ become ‘logistics’?”

Payne grinned. “Since I bumped into Jarkko in Malta.”

Raskin laughed. “That’s what I figured.”

“Anyway, as you probably know from following my every move like a stalker, Volkov stole a collection of ancient documents that Jarkko had received from Bobrinsky a few days before he fled with his family from Russia to Estonia. We’re kind of hoping that Bobrinsky didn’t have time to remove his listing about the collection from the dark web. If we’re lucky, maybe there are pictures of the documents, or at the very least, descriptions of what the collection contained. Anything to help us catch up to Volkov.”

“Sure thing,” Raskin said. “That shouldn’t be tough for someone like me. In fact, even if Bobrinsky deleted the listing, I still might be able to help.”

“How so?” Payne asked.

“Remember before when I said I wasn’t a time-traveling wizard? Well, the truth is I lied. When it comes to the World Wide Web, I actually do have the ability to go back in time. I realize you don’t have a firm grasp on the technology involved with computer networks—despite your former title as CEO of Payne Industries—but suffice it to say, my friends over at the NSA spend a whole lot time of taking snapshots of the web and web traffic. They literally have city blocks of storage space that is strictly dedicated to saving and indexing those pictures.”

“For what?” Payne wondered.

“Evidence,” Raskin said before he launched into an explanation. “Let’s pretend our boys at the FBI figure out that there’s going to be a major terrorist attack, and it’s being led by a virtually unknown activist named—I don’t know—John Smith. The FBI does a quick search of the current Internet and finds nothing on this guy, because he isn’t a total idiot and deleted his social media accounts two years ago. So what does the FBI do? They call in a favor from the NSA—because that’s how this game is played, with fucking favors—and the NSA sends over a report on John Smith’s online activities since he was given his first password in kindergarten.”

Payne whistled. “That’s awesome and fucked up at the same time.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Please do me a favor and never tell DJ. For some reason, he’s really gotten into conspiracy theories over the past year or two. If he hears about this, he’s liable to shit himself.”

“Actually,” Raskin said, “do me a favor and never repeat that to anyone. I’m not quite sure what the security level is on that particular topic. I may have just committed treason.”

“No worries. Just call Nick. I’m pretty sure you have his number.”

Raskin laughed. “Trust me, I have a lot more than that.”

“Speaking of hacking, I was kind of hoping you’d be willing to help me out with a certain Russian problem that I’ve been having.”

“Are you referring to Volkov or his hackers?”

“Both.”

“Hell yeah! Let’s kill those bastards!”

Payne smiled. “Wow. I thought it was gonna take a lot more begging than that.”

“Sorry,” Raskin apologized, “that comment wasn’t to you. That was directed to the assault team. They just breached the terrorist’s warehouse and—dammit! I almost did it again. I almost blabbed to you about an ongoing mission. Now you know why I rarely use the phone. Well, that, and I don’t really like people all that much. Anyway, what were you saying about the Russians?”

“I was hoping you could help me take them out.”

“No thanks. I’m kind of busy.”

Payne nodded. “Now that’s more like it. What’s it gonna take?”

Raskin paused. “A piece of the treasure.”

“Excuse me?” Payne said, surprised. “What treasure?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know damn well I know about the treasure. More importantly, I know that you gave Jarkko a cut of your finder’s fee for your discovery in Greece. I also know you didn’t give me diddlysquat for all the intel I provided during that treasure hunt or any of the others. And if you don’t recall what intel, I’ll be happy to pull out my notes.”

“I’m just glad you said ‘notes’.”

“I’m serious, Jon.”

“I’m serious, too.”

“No,” Raskin stressed, “like really serious. I could lose my job for helping you like I do. The least you can do is compensate me for my risk.”

“Fine,” said Payne, who didn’t have an issue with paying Raskin for his services. The truth was that he had been quietly setting money aside in a private offshore account that was to be given to Raskin upon his retirement, knowing full well that Raskin would be flagged and investigated if he suddenly had an extra million or two in his personal checking account. “We’ll give you a cut of the treasure, but only if you help us with our Russian problem. Because the truth is if we don’t take care of Volkov, we won’t be around long enough to find anything.”

“Do you have something in mind, or do you need me to come up with that, too?”

Payne shook his head. “We have a plan. We just need you to set the trap.”

Raskin grinned. “Then consider it set, because the championship belt is staying with me.”