Debris Line (Gibson Vaughn) Page 10

  “I don’t work for him.”

  Semantics. So how did you wind up here? That has to be some story. After the whole Dulles Airport thing? Someday you have to tell me what really went down.

  Gibson was fast wearying of the monitor’s pretense that they were buddies simply because they were both hackers. As a rule, he found most people in the “community” to be arrogant assholes. There had been a time that Gibson fit that description himself, but the last few years had done a good job of humbling him. The person behind the monitor didn’t seem to be an exception to the rule. Time to cut to the chase.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  Why would we kill you?

  That “we” again . . . Gibson assumed he didn’t mean the gunmen waiting outside. The people behind the monitor had clearly subcontracted local muscle. Probably anonymously. Explained why those men hadn’t concealed their faces—they couldn’t lead back to anyone in charge.

  Gibson said, “Because you’re running a real-world ransomware attack, and I’m the only one that can actually stop you.”

  YES!!! the monitor responded enthusiastically. See? I knew you got it. This is what I’m talking about.

  Not the reaction Gibson expected.

  What else do you know? the monitor asked.

  “Not much. Your boys grabbed me before I could make any headway.” Gibson waited, but the monitor made no reply and remained dark. “Is this the part where you say you don’t believe me and bring in the interrogator?”

  No, the monitor finally responded. This is the part where we offer you a job.

  Definitely not the reaction Gibson expected. “A job?” he asked dubiously. “A job doing what? Because I can’t do anything that’s going to jeopardize my people. So if you’re thinking of buying me off so I lead Baltasar in the wrong direction, it’s a nonstarter.”

  No, nothing like that.

  “Then what?”

  We want you to stop us.

  Gibson sat there dumbfounded. “You want to hire me to stop you?”

  If you can.

  “Thing is, I’ve already been asked to do that.”

  True, but you’re not entirely enthusiastic about it. We want a motivated Gibson Vaughn.

  Gibson sat back in his chair. He’d been offered some strange jobs in his life, but this might be the topper. Someone had gone to considerable risk to put Baltasar’s shipment in play. Why would they want him to . . . ? The answer was obvious. They were conducting a dry run against Baltasar Alves’s operation. Prepping for something bigger.

  “You’re running a beta test,” Gibson said.

  That’s right.

  “You’re taking one hell of a risk.”

  There is only so much you can learn from simulations. Eventually you have to do a live-fire drill.

  Gibson filed the use of US military jargon away in the profile he was building of the person behind the monitor. His suspicion that he was dealing with at least one American continued to solidify.

  Baltasar Alves is small-time. Why do you think we chose his operation? It’s inconsequential.

  “Not to him.”

  Kind of the definition of inconsequential, don’t you think? However, the drawback of picking Alves is that no one in his organization is equipped to understand what they’re seeing. No one with a realistic chance of punching holes in our setup. The outcome is a foregone conclusion.

  “So, why do it?”

  It gave us a real-world operation to plan. A chance to evaluate how we run things on our end. But when I saw you at the cannery this morning, I realized what an amazing opportunity had been presented to us.

  “So you want me to pen test this operation of yours? Figure out a way to stop you.”

  Precisely.

  “And if I succeed? Am I supposed to keep a lid on it? I don’t know if I want to be at ground zero when Baltasar Alves loses that shipment. That won’t go well for any of us.”

  Understood. No, if you are able, you are welcome to give Alves back his shipment. Thwart away. You have our blessing. All we require is that you also share it with us. Everything you learn.

  “Must be major,” Gibson said. “Whatever you’ve got in the works.”

  The monitor remained dark.

  “Let’s say I agree. What are you prepared to offer?” There was risk inherent in working for anonymous computer monitors, but if Gibson could get five or even ten thousand euros, it would serve as a down payment toward convincing Jenn to begin extracting the team from under Baltasar. Was “team” the right word for what they were? he wondered.

  The monitor said, We will pay one hundred thousand euros for a complete breakdown of our operational flaws, vulnerabilities, and weaknesses.

  The figure made Gibson immediately suspicious. It was too much. Way too much. The kind of money to tempt a desperate man into throwing caution to the wind. He forgot that they were watching him, and something in his face must have betrayed his distrust.

  It sounds like an awful lot of money. You think that when the time comes, we won’t hold up our end.

  “Something like that,” Gibson said.

  We’d be foolish to cross someone with your reputation.

  “All that money and a hand job too. This is my lucky day.”

  How about a retainer? A convincer of our good intentions.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  There’s a duffel bag under your chair. Open it.

  Cautiously, Gibson reached down and dragged a tan duffel bag out from between his feet. He unzipped it. Stacks of five-hundred-euro notes filled the bag. He looked up at the monitor questioningly.

  One hundred thousand euros.

  “That’s not a retainer, that’s payment in full. How do you know I won’t take the money and run?”

  You already have the US government after you, among other motivated parties. We think you’re smart enough not to add us to the list.

  “And all you want is a report?”

  A thorough report. Also, under no circumstances may you reveal our existence, or this meeting, to any of Baltasar Alves’s people. Doing so will void our arrangement and give you a new problem to worry about. Do we understand each other?

  “What do I call you?” Gibson asked.

  There was a pause. Dol5, the monitor said.

  “Dol-five?” Gibson asked.

  NO. Dol-fin. Dolphin. Come on, man. You know how a five-dollar bill is called a fin?

  “No, I never heard that.”

  Well, it is.

  “Whatever,” Gibson said. “So what are you planning, Dolphin?”

  That’s not any of your concern, the monitor read. Do we have a deal?

  “I don’t know. Is Dan Hendricks dead?”

  I don’t see how that’s relevant.

  “It’s relevant if you want me to work for you.”

  Well, why don’t we take a look, then.

  The leftmost monitor flared to life. It showed a video feed of the inside of the paint store. It looked like a platoon of Marines had used it for target practice. Anibal and Hendricks stood in the rubble, talking silently.

  “This is live?” Gibson asked.

  Give or take a millisecond.

  A worrisome thought came to mind. “What about Jenn Charles? George Abe? They were on the way to check out a lead. Was that bullshit too? Are they all right?”

  Ah, well, that’s a bit of a different story.

  The right-hand monitor turned on to reveal the interior of a hotel room. There was no audio, but Gibson didn’t need it to see the situation was dire. A gunman had a pistol pressed to George’s temple while Jenn pleaded with Luisa Mata.

  A tense scene, the center monitor said. About to get a whole lot tenser.

  “Don’t.”

  Well, that’s kind of up to you, now isn’t it?

  Gibson watched the left monitor as Anibal and Hendricks took out their cell phones and made calls. On the right monitor, Luisa and Jenn reacted to their phones ringing. Gibson watch
ed both sides of the conversation. Luisa snatched Jenn’s phone from her hand. They began arguing again. Gibson could see Luisa’s frustration building. She began searching a badly beaten young man and his belongings. She lifted up a satchel and dumped bundles of euros out on the bed.

  Now watch this, the center monitor said. This will be interesting.

  Luisa flinched. Gibson couldn’t tell why, but all eyes in the hotel room turned to the satchel.

  “What do you want from me?” Gibson demanded.

  A yes. I want to hear an enthusiastic yes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When Luisa’s phone rang, it interrupted their argument over João Luna’s guilt or innocence. In the quiet of the room, Jenn could hear the alarm in Anibal’s voice on the other end. Whatever he told Luisa caused her eyes to widen.

  Jenn felt her own phone vibrate. Hendricks. When she answered, his voice sounded incredibly faint, as if he were calling from deep underwater.

  “I can barely hear you,” Jenn said. “Are you hurt? Where are you?”

  Hendricks made an effort to speak up, but his voice was still little more than a whisper. “We’re at a paint store out on N125. We just got lit up.”

  “Paint store? I thought you were at the cannery.”

  Hendricks explained the receipt he’d found on the bottom of one of the paint cans. Apparently, they’d gone to investigate.

  “Who was it?”

  “They didn’t formally introduce themselves.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Miraculously, no. Although this store’s going to need more than a fresh coat of paint.”

  Jenn could hear something in his voice. “But . . . ?”

  “Vaughn is missing. He was outside when we were attacked. Lost track of him in the firefight.”

  Luisa took the phone out of Jenn’s hand and tossed it to Marco Zava.

  “My people were just attacked at a paint store,” Luisa said.

  “So were mine.”

  “No,” Luisa corrected. “One of your people was attacked. The other decided not to come inside.”

  “So, what? Gibson knew the attack was coming but left Hendricks in harm’s way? Give me a break.”

  “He has been openly antagonistic about helping my uncle from the beginning.”

  “You’ve been openly antagonistic about our assisting your uncle from the beginning. Believe me, if Gibson was working the other side, you’d never see him coming. This isn’t his style.”

  “And what about you? Protecting this man.” She pointed at João Luna slumped in the chair. “What does he know that scares George so much?”

  “George isn’t scared of what he knows. He’s scared the boy doesn’t know shit and you’re going to beat him to death for nothing,” Jenn snapped back. “You honestly think we’re all in on it? This morning I was a drunk whore. Now suddenly I’m a mastermind running an elaborate con? Why don’t you make up your mind?”

  Luisa didn’t answer. She looked from Jenn to George, who still had the muzzle of a gun pressed to his temple. Finally, her eyes settled on João Luna. She asked him how he knew Jenn and George. He shook his head, not understanding, but that wasn’t good enough for Luisa. At her direction, Zava pinned him down and began searching his pockets. Luisa flipped through his passport, looked carefully at his plane tickets. Tossing them aside in frustration, she lifted up the satchel and dumped the money out on the bed. Hunting for anything that might help her make sense of the situation.

  From inside the satchel, they heard an electronic beep and a click like a mousetrap snapping shut. Everyone froze. Slowly, Luisa turned the satchel right side up. With one finger, she opened it wide enough to see inside. Her face paled. She looked up at Jenn then back down into the satchel.

  “What is it?” Jenn asked, although she was afraid she knew.

  Luisa raised one hand and pointed to the door. Her eyes never left the satchel. Her men backed carefully out of the room. Jenn didn’t move. When the men were gone, she approached Luisa and peered inside the satchel.

  The explosive device wasn’t large, but in the small confines of the hotel room, it wouldn’t need to be. If it went off, anyone caught inside the room would be turned to paste. Why hadn’t it already? The device had triggered when Luisa overturned the satchel—a tilt fuse of some kind. Jenn had heard it. They’d all heard it. So why weren’t they dead? The question coiled around Jenn’s throat. She swallowed hard, but it did nothing to lessen her thirst. How badly she wished she were already on her second drink.

  “Why aren’t we dead?” Luisa asked.

  “Maybe it’s a dud?”

  “You really think so?”

  “No, but it’s nice to have dreams.”

  Luisa laughed dryly. “So, what now?”

  “Give it to me,” George said. Jenn had been so fixed on the satchel that she hadn’t noticed he had remained in the room.

  “Sir, no,” Jenn said.

  “Give it to me,” George said, using both hands to support the weight of the satchel.

  “Why?” Luisa said but didn’t let go of the handles.

  “How about you get out of the room,” George said. “And you can ask me from there.”

  Gibson watched the monitor without realizing he was bouncing nervously in his chair. Or that he was sweating.

  Luisa had the satchel by the handles; George cupped the bottom with his hands. Jenn was visibly upset and was imploring George not to do whatever he was doing.

  This is exciting stuff, the center monitor said.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  I think you know.

  “What’s in the goddamn bag?”

  The central monitor played a GIF of a thermonuclear explosion. It cycled over and over. Almost hypnotic. Almost beautiful.

  “Why are you doing this?” Gibson said. “I’m enthusiastic, all right? Enough.”

  Just making a point.

  “It’s made.”

  And now I know who to hurt if you cross us up. Always good to know where a man’s soft spots lie.

  “I won’t.”

  So we have a deal? the monitor asked.

  “Yes. We do. We have a deal. Now deactivate it.”

  It was never active.

  The monitor showing the hotel room went dark. Gibson slumped back in his chair.

  Need me to have the boys bring you a defibrillator? the monitor asked.

  “Funny.”

  Don’t be grumpy.

  “What happens now?”

  We give you an e-mail address to deliver your report. You put the hood back on. Our people will drive you out of here. Then you get to work.

  “I don’t really like hoods.”

  For a hundred thousand, you can get over it. I don’t think we trust each other enough that I believe you won’t peek.

  Gibson couldn’t argue with that. What he needed was a plausible explanation for where he’d been since the attack on the paint store.

  Being out in the fresh air felt good. It helped flush the adrenaline from Jenn’s system. On the nearby chaise lounge, the furry belly of the sleeping sunbather rose and fell. He hadn’t stirred and had no idea that the hotel had narrowly escaped a bombing. Jenn found that oddly calming. Life went on.

  George sat beneath an umbrella at a poolside table. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but he seemed more present. As if he’d woken from a long nap and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He put a hand on her wrist and squeezed lightly.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’d be better if I knew what the hell just happened. Explosives don’t typically disarm themselves.”

  “Agreed,” Luisa said, emerging from the dark of the hotel. She joined them at the small table. “It was wired to a cellphone. Someone decided to spare us.”

  “Why?” Jenn said.

  “My question exactly.”

  “Where is the boy?” George asked.

  Luisa grimaced at the mention of João Luna. “He’s fine.”<
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  “He had nothing to do with your hijacking.”

  “He has something to do with it now,” she said.

  “He goes free.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “He goes free or we’re done here,” George said. “The boy was only there to lure you into that hotel room. Or do you think he was a suicide bomber?”

  “No,” admitted Luisa. “But why? What purpose did it serve?”

  “The same purpose as the paint cans,” Jenn said.

  “A diversion?” Luisa said skeptically.

  George said, “How much time did we just waste? They gave you thirty-six hours to pay up, and they have you chasing dead ends all over the Algarve. I think they picked up your fishing-boat captain sometime this morning, drugged him, planted him in this hotel, and then switched his phone back on so you’d track him here.”

  Luisa thought this over. She clearly didn’t like George’s reasoning, but that didn’t mean she disagreed with it. “We are being toyed with.”

  “We should be cautious about following any more easy leads,” George said.

  “Why didn’t the bomb detonate?” Luisa asked.

  No one had a good explanation for that one.

  Luisa stood. “I would have killed him. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” George said.

  “But show me up in front of my men again, and you’ll go a few rounds with Marco. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” George said. “But the boy goes free.”

  Luisa acquiesced. “He goes free.”

  “Thank you,” George said.

  “I have one more question,” Luisa said. “Where is Gibson Vaughn?”

  Jenn looked at George. That was a good question.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The van coasted gently to a halt. Gibson allowed himself to be muscled out of the back and led away from the vehicle. Hands pressed him face-first against a wall. The duffel bag with the money landed heavily at his feet. His abductors retreated back the way they had come. When Gibson couldn’t hear their footfalls, he counted to ten. Not because he’d been ordered, but because he felt grateful not to be dead and didn’t care to tempt fate now.