Wired

“Roger that,” said Connelly, trusting Desh enough to follow his instructions without asking any questions.

“I’ll be with a friend: about six-five, 300 pounds, bushy beard. I’ll explain everything when I see you.” Desh paused. “Before we sign off,” he added, “has Smith contacted you yet today to explain what last night was all about?”

“Smith?”

“It’s an obvious alias. I’m talking about the person you asked me to call in when I found Kira Miller. Black Ops officer; short, wiry. Scar under his ear.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, David,” said Connelly in alarm. “Black Ops? I was told that number is to the private cell phone of my boss at MacDill: Brigadier General Evan Gordon.”

22

The army, navy, air force, and marines each had their own Special Operations Command, but all four reported in to the US Special Operations Command, or USSOCOM, at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, headed by a four-star general. It made sense that this case warranted attention higher up the chain of command and that the contact information had been for Connelly’s boss.

Desh felt his skin crawl. The news that Smith wasn’t who he claimed to be significantly increased the chance that Kira had been right and Connelly was in imminent danger. This called into question the veracity of everything that Smith had told him. Desh knew he needed to consider the full implications of this new information and discuss this further with Connelly, but that would have to wait for another time. He ended the conversation quickly so the colonel could begin taking steps to protect himself.

“Ready to go?” asked Griffin when Desh was off the phone.

“Not yet. I need to think,” said Desh. He lowered his head for almost a full minute as Griffin waited anxiously.

Desh finally lifted his head and looked at Griffin thoughtfully. “It’s possible that we’re no longer under surveillance or we’re being surveilled by friendlies,” he said. “But we can’t be certain of this, so we need to freeze anyone watching. We need to make sure they don’t have any reason to point their satellites at the exits of this building while we’re leaving.”

“What are you talking about? Whoever is after us can’t just access satellites and get real-time imagery of whatever they want on a whim.”

Desh raised his eyebrows.

Griffin swallowed hard. “Come on, David,” he said nervously. “Are you saying these people are so high up in Big Brother they can authorize real-time satellite surveillance of us?”

“I have reason to believe so, yes.”

“Holy Christ!” barked Griffin. “We’re totally and completely screwed.”

“Don’t count us out just yet,” said Desh. “I have an idea. If we can convince them we’ll be staying here for a while they’ll have no reason to point a satellite at your apartment complex.”

“How do you know they aren’t watching the exits the old fashioned way?”

“I’ll reconnoiter the area before we leave, but I don’t think they are. They’ve told me they’re calling off the dogs to get my cooperation. They know I’ll be checking carefully to see if they’ve gone back on their word.”

Griffin didn’t look convinced. “So what’s your plan?”

Desh told him. He would remove the bugs from the container in which he had placed them and assume they were still active. Then they would put on a little play for their audience. “For a hacker with your social engineering skills this should be a snap,” said Desh encouragingly. “Don’t overact, don’t speak woodenly as if you’re reciting lines, and don’t speak directly into the bug. They’ll pick up your voice from wherever you are. Just be yourself. If this seems staged it’ll blow up in our faces.”

Griffin frowned. “Thanks for not putting any pressure on me,” he said dryly. He paused for a few seconds to get things straight in his head, took a deep breath, and then gestured for Desh to proceed.

Desh carefully removed the bugs, putting a finger to his lips unnecessarily, and then nodded at Griffin to begin.

Griffin’s face was a mask of concentration. “David?” he said in disbelief. “David Desh? Wake up.”

“Wha—” mumbled Desh.

“Wake up and tell me what the hell’s going on here?” demanded Griffin accusingly. “Why did I just wake up in the middle of my floor? What the hell are you doing here sleeping on my couch?” He delivered the lines convincingly, throwing himself smoothly into the role as Desh had hoped he would.

“Sorry,” said Desh, doing a good job of sounding groggy. “I stopped over a few hours ago and couldn’t get you awake. I fell asleep myself while I waited for you to sleep it off. I was exhausted.” He paused. “Still am for that matter.”

Desh went on to repeat the conversation they had had earlier when he had filled Griffin in on the night before. He then repeated the specifics of the assignment he wanted Griffin to work on, an extensive foray into Kira Miller’s past. “Look, Matt, I’m really sorry about this, but I still need to regenerate. Do you mind if I continue to sleep on your couch while you work?”

“Go ahead,” said Griffin.

“Thanks. Can you wake me in exactly two hours and give me a progress report?”

“Will do,” responded Griffin.

Desh gave the thumbs up signal to Griffin and then put his finger to his lips. He carefully returned the bugs to the soundproof container.

“Nicely done, Matt,” he said appreciatively.

With any luck anyone keeping tabs on them would relax for a while and decide that any satellite use for the next few hours would be a waste of resources.

Desh continued to visualize different scenarios that might arise and considered making a stop at his apartment for bulletproof vests, but quickly ruled this out. It would be risky and take too much time. Besides, the vests could only stop handgun fire and not rifle-fire. If the military were involved in this, even a small rogue element, they would assume he was wearing a vest and choose their weaponry accordingly. In this case the vests would be a disadvantage rather than an advantage. He enjoyed the Star Wars movies as much as the next guy, but had always seen Storm Troopers as the height of stupidity: their head-to-toe white body armor did nothing but slow them down and make their movements awkward while failing to protect them one iota from even the weakest blaster.

Desh removed the thick wad of hundreds from the case he had brought and held them out in front of his face to show Griffin. “An ample supply of cash can prove just as useful in certain emergency situations as a weapon can,” he said, and then shoved the bills into his front pants pocket.

Griffin raised his eyebrows. “And here all these years I was under the impression that carrying a huge amount of cash actually put you in greater danger, not less. Who knew?”

Desh grinned. “Do you have a cell phone on you?” he asked.

Griffin nodded.

“Leave it. I’m sure you know they can be used as homing beacons.”

Griffin pulled his phone from his pocket and set it on his desk. “Okay,” he said, nodding toward Desh. “What about your phone?”

“It’s a special design issued by my firm. It can’t be tracked. You can’t protect people effectively if their enemies can track you.”

Desh slipped out the door and scouted the area for ten minutes, until he was satisfied the coast was clear. Even so, they took separate exits from the building, keeping their heads down and walking as unobtrusively as possible.

Griffin retrieved his car, a blue Chrysler minivan, and met Desh two blocks from the apartment complex. Griffin slid over into the passenger seat. Desh jumped in, quickly adjusted the seat and mirrors, and drove off. The minivan hadn’t had a bath in some time and it was cluttered with empty water bottles, Starbucks containers, and even an empty pizza box.

Desh turned to Griffin and raised his eyebrows. “A minivan?” he said with a smile. “Interesting choice for a single guy like you, Matt. I hear these are real chick magnets.”