On the screen, the large SUV in front of them exploded, lifting off the ground and falling in a heap of flames and burning metal.
There was gunfire and then their truck veered off the road — as if no one was driving it.
Another rocket struck the street beside the truck, barely missing it. The force of the blast almost rolled the van over and seemed to pull the air completely out of the room. Kate’s ears rang. Her stomach throbbed where the seatbelt had cut into it. It was like sensory deprivation. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. She felt the truck fall back to the ground and bounce on its shocks.
Through the ringing she looked over. The soldier was lying on the floor of the truck, not moving.
CHAPTER 23
Secure Comms Room
Clocktower Station HQ
Jakarta, Indonesia
Josh had to think. Whoever had replaced the live feed of the door to the quiet room was no doubt outside, trying to get in. The glass room in the giant concrete tomb seemed so fragile now. It hung there, just waiting to explode, like a glass pinata. He was the prize inside.
Was there something on the door? A spec of orange? Josh walked to the edge of the glass room and looked closer. It was a tiny spec growing brighter, like a heating element. It made the metal look wet, yes the metal was flowing down the door. In that instant, sparks flew out of the top right corner of the door. The sparks slowly crept down the door, leaving a narrow, dark rut behind.
They were coming in — with a torch. Of course. Blowing the door — using explosives — would obliterate the server room. It was just one more safety measure, meant to give whoever was inside more time.
Josh raced back to the table. What to do first? The source, the message on Craigslist. He had to respond. His email address,
[email protected], was clearly fake — that address had probably been available for all of 2 seconds after gmail launched — the source knew Josh would know that, knew he would see it for what it was — just another name with the proper length to decrypt the message using the code. The code… he would have to make up a message and name that followed the code.
He glanced over. The cutting torch was now 1/2 way down the right side of the door. The sparks burned toward the ground like a fuse eating its way to a bomb.
Screw it, he didn’t have time. He clicked the post button and wrote a message:
Subject: To the man at Tower Records.
Message: I wish we could have connected but there wasn’t time. I’m afraid I may be out of time again. My friend sent me your messages. I still don’t understand. I’m sorry for being so direct. I really don’t have time to play games with mixed messages. I couldn’t reach my friend on the phone, but maybe you can contact him on this board. Please reply with any information that could help him. Thanks and good luck.
Josh hit send. Why couldn’t he reach David? He still had internet access — it must be on a completely different connection — a connection the Clocktower operatives didn’t know about. It made sense for the secure phone and video conference. The door camera was easy: they could have cut the cord and connected it to another video source or simply placed a picture of the hall in front of the camera and let it run.
Out of the corner of his eye, Josh saw the display with the red dots change quickly — the dots in the safe houses were massing at the doors. They were making a move. Then they disappeared. Dead.
Josh’s eyes returned to the door. The torch was picking up speed. He refreshed the Craigslist page, hoping the contact would respond.
CHAPTER 24
Clocktower Mobile Operations Center
Jakarta, Indonesia
David looked up to see the woman — Dr. Warner — standing over him.
“Are you hurt?” she said.
He pushed her aside and got to his feet. The monitors revealed the scene outside: the suburban with three of his field operatives lay in burnt pieces scattered about the deserted street. He didn’t see the two men who had been driving the truck — the second blast must have gotten them. Or a sniper.
David shook his head to try to clear it, then stumbled over to the weapons lockers. He pulled out two smoke canisters, ripped the pin out of each one, and walked to the double doors at the rear of the truck.
Slowly, he pushed one of the doors open, then quickly dropped one canister and rolled the other a little further out. He heard the soft hiss of smoke escape the cylinders as they spun around on the street. A small wisp of the gray-white smoke wafted into the truck as he carefully closed the door.
He had expected at least one potshot when he opened the door. They must want the girl alive.
He returned to the weapons locker and began arming himself. He slung an automatic assault rifle over his shoulder and stuffed magazines for the massive gun and his side arm into the pockets of his pants. He pulled a hard black helmet on and re-strapped his body armor.
“Hey, what are you doing? What’s happening?”
“Stay here and keep the door shut. I’ll be back when it’s safe,” David said as he started for the door.
“What?! You’re going out there?”
“Yes—”
“Are you crazy?”
“Look we’re sitting ducks in here; it’s just a matter of time before they reach us. I have to fight in the open, get to cover, and find a way out. I’ll be back.”
“Well, well— are— can I get a gun or something?”
He turned to her. She was scared, but he had to give her credit, she had guts. “No, you cannot have a gun.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re the only person you’re likely to hurt with it. Now close this door behind me.” He pulled his goggles down from his helmet, covering he eyes. In one fluid motion, he opened the door and jumped out into the smoke.
Three seconds into his sprint, the bullets began raining down on him. The rifles’ report told him what he needed to know: the snipers were on the tops of the buildings to his left.
He darted into an alley across the street, unslung his rifle and began firing. He hit the closest sniper, saw him go down, and fired two blasts of automatic shots at the other two. Both withdrew behind the brick edifice at the top of the old building.
A bullet whizzed by his head. Another dug into the concrete plaster of the building beside him, spraying shards of brick and concrete into his helmet and body armor. He pivoted to the source: four men on foot, running toward him. Immari Security. Not his men.
He fired three quick blasts at them. They scattered. Two fell.
The second he let off the trigger, he heard the whoosh sound.
He dove to the other side of the alley as the rocket-propelled grenade exploded ten feet from where he had stood a second ago.
He should have killed the snipers first. Or gotten out of their range at least.
Rubble fell around him. Smoke filled the air.
David struggled to fill his lungs again.
The street was quiet. He rolled over.
Footfalls, coming toward him.
He got to his feet and ran into the alley, leaving his rifle behind.
He had to get to a defensible position. Bullets ricocheted off the alley walls, and he turned, pulled out his side arm and fired a few rounds, forcing the two men following him to stop and take refuge in doorways in the alley.
Ahead of him, the alley opened onto an old dusty street that ran along one of Jakarta’s 37 rivers. There was a river market, with produce vendors, pottery dealers, and vendors of all sorts. They were in full flight, pointing, yelling, and gathering the day’s take in cash and hurrying away from the shots.
David cleared the alley and more gunfire engulfed him. A shot caught him dead in the center of the chest, throwing him violently to the ground, knocking the wind out of him.
At his head, more gunshots dug into the ground — the men in the alley were closing fast.
He rolled toward the alley wall, away from the shots. He struggled to breathe.
It was a trap —
the men in the alley were herding him.
He took out two grenades. He pulled the pins, waited a full second, then threw one behind him, in the alley, the other around the corner, toward the ambush.
Then he ran flat out for the river, firing at the ambush as he went.
Behind him he heard the muffled sound of the alley explosion, then the louder blast in the open at the ambush.
Just before he reached the banks of the river he heard another explosion, this one much closer, maybe eight feet behind him. The blast threw him off his feet, out over the river.
Inside the armored van, Kate sat again. Then stood again. It sounded like World War Three outside: explosions, automatic gunfire, debris hitting the side of the truck.
She walked to the locker with the guns and bulletproof vests. More gunfire. Maybe she should put on some kind of armor? She took out one of the black outfits. It was heavy, so much heavier than she’d thought. She looked down at the rumpled clothes she had slept in at her office. What a weird day.
There was a knock at the door, then, “Dr. Warner?”
She dropped the vest.
It wasn’t his voice, the one who had gotten her from the police. It wasn’t David.
She needed a gun.
“Dr. Warner, we’re coming in.”
The door opened.
Three men in black armor, like the men who had taken the kids. They approached her.
“We’re glad you’re safe, Dr. Warner. We’re here to rescue you.”
“Who are you? Where is he, the man who was here.” She took a step back.
The gunfire had died down. Then two, no, three explosions in the distance.
They inched toward her. She took another step back. She could reach the gun. Could she fire it?
“It’s alright Dr. Warner. Just come on out of there. We’re taking you to see Martin. He sent us.”
“What? I want to talk to him. I’m not going anywhere until I speak with him.”
“It’s ok—”
“No, I want you out of here right now,” she said.
The man in the back pushed past the other two and said, “I told you Lars, you owe me fifty bucks.” Kate knew the voice — the gruff, scratchy voice of the man who had taken her children. It was him. Kate froze, fear running through her.
When the man reached her, he grabbed Kate’s arm, hard, and spun her around, sliding his hand down to her wrist. He grabbed her other wrist and held them together with one hand as he zipped-tied them with the other.
She tried to pull away, but the thin plastic cut into her, sending sharp pains up her arms.
The man pulled her back by her long blond hair and jerked the black bag over her head, sending Kate into complete darkness.
CHAPTER 25
Secure Comms Room
Clocktower Station HQ
Jakarta, Indonesia
Josh watched the other red dots on the screen wink out. The men at the safe houses — they had moved to the door, then disappeared — dead. A few minutes later he saw David’s convoy turn around in the street, then they were gone too — except for David. He saw his dot move around quickly, then one last sprint, and it went out too.
Josh exhaled and slumped in the chair. He stared through the glass walls at the outer door. The torch burned up the other side of it now, the burn mark a backwards J. Soon it would be a full U, then O and they would be through, and his time would be up. He had two, maybe three minutes.
The letter. He turned, rifled through the stack of folders and found it: David’s “open when I’m dead” letter. A few hours ago, Josh had thought he would never need to open it. So many illusions had died today: Clocktower couldn’t be compromised, Clocktower couldn’t fall, David couldn’t be killed, the good guys always won.
He ripped open the letter.
____________________
Dear Josh,
Don’t feel bad. We were way behind when we started. I can only assume Jakarta Station has fallen or is on its way.
Remember our goal: we must prevent the Immari end game. Forward whatever you’ve found to the Director of Clocktower. His name is Howard Keegan. You can trust him.
There’s a program on ClockServer1 — ClockConnect.exe It will open a private channel to Central where you can transmit data securely.
One last thing. I’ve collected a little money over the years, mostly from bad guys we put out of business. There’s another program on ClockServer1 — distribute.bat. It will disburse the money in my accounts.
I hope they never found this room and that you’re reading this letter in safety.
It has been my honor to serve with you.
David
____________________
Josh put the letter down.
He typed quickly on the keyboard, first uploading his data to Clocktower Central, then executing the bank transactions. “A little money” had been an understatement. Josh watched 5 transactions, all five million dollars each, go to first the Red Cross, then UNICEF, and three other disaster relief organizations. It made sense. But the final transaction didn’t. A deposit of five million dollars to a JP Morgan bank account in America — a New York branch. Josh copied the account holder’s names and searched. A man, 62, and his wife, 59. David’s parents? There was a news article — a piece in a Long Island newspaper. The couple had lost their only daughter in the 9/11 attacks. She had been an investment analyst at Cantor Fitzgerald at the time of the attacks, had recently graduated from Yale, and was engaged to be married to Andrew Reed, a graduate student at Columbia.
Josh heard it — or didn’t hear it — the torch had stopped. The ring was complete, and they were ramming the door, waiting for the metal to break free.
He gathered the papers, ran to the trash can and lit them on fire. He moved back to the table and opened the program that would erase the computer. It would take over five minutes. Maybe they wouldn’t find it. Or maybe he could buy it some time; he looked at the box with the gun in it.
Something else, on the screen, the location map. Josh thought he’d seen it — a flash, a red dot. But now it was gone. He stared again.
A boom, boom, boom at the door jolted Josh almost out of the chair. The men were beating on the door like a war drum, trying to make the thick iron come free. The pounding matched the throbbing in Josh’s chest as his heart beat uncontrollably.
The computer screen displayed the erase progress: 12% Complete.
The dot lit up for good: D. Vale. It drifted slowly, in the river. Vitals were faint, but he was alive. His body armor housed the sensors; it must have been damaged.
Josh had to send David what he’d found and a way to contact the source. Options? Normally they would establish an online dead-drop: a public web site where they exchanged coded messages. Clocktower routinely used eBay auctions — the pictures of the product for sale included embedded messages or files that a Clocktower algorithm could decrypt. To the naked eye, the picture looked normal, but small pixel changes throughout added up to a complex file Clocktower could read.
But he and David hadn’t established any system. He couldn’t call. Emailing would be a death sentence: Clocktower would monitor any email addresses, and when David checked it, Clocktower would trace the IP of the computer he used. The IP would give them a physical address, or a very close idea. Video surveillance feeds nearby would fill in the rest, and they would have him within minutes. An IP… Josh had an idea. Could it work?
Erasing… 37% Complete
He had to work fast, before the computer stopped functioning.
Josh opened a VPN connection to a private server he used mostly as a relay and staging area for online operations — transforming and bouncing encrypted reports around the internet before delivering them to Central. It was just added security to make sure Jakarta Station’s downloads to Central weren’t intercepted. It was off the grid, no one knew about it. And it already had several security protocols he’d written. It was perfect.
But the server didn’
t have a web address — it didn’t need one — just an IP: 50.31.14.76. Web addresses like www.google.com, www.apple.com, etc really translated to IPs — when you type an address in your web browser, a group of servers called domain name servers (DNS), match the address to an IP in their database, and send you to the right place. If you typed the IP into your browser’s address bar, you’d actually end up in the same place without the routing; 74.125.139.100 opens Google.com, 17.149.160.49 opens Apple.com, and so on.
Josh finished uploading the data to the server. The computer was starting to run slowly. Several error messages popped up.
Erasing 48% Complete.
The drumming had stopped. They were using the torch again. A round bulge of strained metal had formed in the center of the door.
Josh had to send David the IP. He couldn’t call or text. All the sources and case officers would be monitored by Clocktower, and besides, he had no idea where David would end up. He needed somewhere David would look. Some way to send the numbers in the IP Address. Something only Josh knew about…
David’s bank account. It could work.
Josh also maintained a private bank account; he imagined almost everyone in their line of work did.
The cry of bending metal filled the cavernous room like a dying whale. They were close.
Josh opened a web browser and logged in to his bank. Quickly, he keyed in David’s bank routing number and account number. Then he made a series of deposits to David’s account:
9.11
50.00
31.00
14.00
76.00
9.11
It would take a day for the transactions to post, and even after they did, David would only see it if he checked the account. Would he know it was an IP address? Field operatives weren’t exactly tech-savvy. It was a long shot.
The door broke. Men were through, soldiers in full battle armor.
Erasing 65% Complete.
Not enough. They would find something.