Authors: Rick Mofina
Thirty-Two
Manhattan, New York
S
irens howled in the twilight as Kate entered the bar where she'd arranged to meet her source.
It was seven blocks from her building in Morningside Heights, sandwiched between Aunt Dottie's Pie Shop and Loving Care Alterations. This was a region of Harlem and the Upper West Side that locals considered an extension of Columbia University's campus.
Kate threaded through coveys of grad students, making her way to an empty booth. The air was heavy with the smells of beer and deep-fried food. The place was dark, the floor was sticky and the walls were aging brick. Each wooden table had a flickering lamp. The menu was on the chalkboard behind the bar, above the mirror that hung between the muted flat-screen TVs, which were tuned to sports. Thankfully, the music was played at a level that invited conversation.
“I'm waiting for a friend. I'll just have a Diet Coke,” she told her server.
Kate checked her phone for messages, then marveled at how time had flown. It'd been a year since she'd last seen Erich. Sipping her drink, she inventoried the crowd, wondering what young Erich, or “Viper,” looked like now, and, more important, if he could help her.
“Hello, Kate,” said a voice behind her.
“Erich.”
“I was in the corner when I saw you.” He slid into her booth.
The lamplight reflected his intense, deep-set eyes. His hair was cut short; he still had a stubbled goatee and a stud in his left earlobe. She detected a pleasant hint of cologne.
“What're you, twenty-three now?” she asked.
“Twenty-four. You're looking well, Kate.”
“Thank you. So are you. Are you still doing your top secret consulting work as one of the world's best hackers?” She smiled.
“Cyber specialist.”
“So what was the job in New Zealand? Did you have to eliminate anyone?”
He tugged at his ear, smiling.
“Well, keeping this between friends, I was contracted to help with Stone Ghost.”
“Stone Ghost?”
“It's a classified network that shares defense intelligence among the US, the UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand.”
“But if it's secret...”
“You can read a summary of Stone Ghost online.” Erich turned to the server. “I'll have a tomato juice with ice, please.” Then to Kate: “So, how are your daughter and sister doing?”
“Both good.”
Sipping her Coke, Kate caught the reflection of a woman at the bar. She seemed to be watching them.
More likely Erich
. Dishwater blonde, tight T-shirt, jeans, red bag. She was older than the students, and had a hardness about her. Divorced? A cougar? A hooker, maybe?
“Kate?”
She returned her attention to Erich.
“I've been reading your stories on the airliners. Is there any way I can help?”
She ran down the history for him, from the beginning when she'd first heard the EastCloud crew on the newsroom scanners to her current quandary.
“I believe the cause of these two flights' issues is linked to the email. I need help confirming it and I need help determining the source of the email.”
Kate unfolded printouts of the Zarathustra email and passed it to Erich. He studied it, rubbing his stubble thoughtfully.
“I tried to respond but got this.” She tapped her finger on the printout with the error message reading “permanent failure, unknown user” and a long string of technical text. “What d'you think?”
“Off the top, it looks basic, but smart. Your sender is likely routing the message through a multitude of places online, using layers of encryption, characteristic of an onion router. Good chance they're using hidden servers on the Darknet.”
“Can you help me?”
“No guarantees, but there are things I can try, people I can talk to.”
“Thank you. Anything you could do would be great.”
Kate heard a soft vibration. Erich reached into his pocket for his phone and scrolled along the screen, reading a message.
“I'm sorry, Kate, I have to go.”
* * *
After Erich left, Kate stayed, finished her Coke, and paid the bill.
The night was warm and pleasant. Buoyed by Erich's promise to help, Kate decided she'd walk the seven blocks to her building. Along the way she searched her phone and reread the Zarathustra email.
One way or another I'm going to find you.
The sudden growl of a motor prompted Kate to look quickly behind her at a passing motorcycle. She did a double take. Half a block back, she saw a woman window-shopping.
Dishwater blonde, open jacket over a tight T-shirt, jeans, red bag.
The woman from the bar.
Kate continued walking, thinking hard. Something troubled her about the stranger. She was familiar. Why?
Kate crossed the street, throwing her a backward glance. The woman continued window-shopping. As Kate kept walking, she scoured her memory, trying to recall anything familiar about the woman's hairstyle or the shape of her face. As details swam into focus, it hit her.
I saw that woman in the grocery store near my building just before I left for London!
Kate kept walking and glanced back. The woman was still behind her but was now on her side of the street. Maybe she lived in the neighborhood.
No, because I saw her again when I got back from London and took Grace to Central Park. She was on a bench reading a book. She was always in the distance. I remember her. She can't be following me.
Kate walked faster.
I'm going to find out
.
Kate stopped in front of a closed jewelry store and gazed through the steel bars of its storefront. All the while, she watched for the woman. The stranger crossed the street and rounded a corner. Kate resumed walking, rounding the opposite corner. A short time later, she spotted the woman in the distance. Kate thought quickly, deciding to go around the entire block.
With every turn of every corner, the woman had stayed with her.
Kate stepped into an alcove. Her breathing quickened.
Why am I being followed?
Kate peered from the alcove. The woman was at the end of the block, across the street. Kate waited to confront her, unafraid.
She could handle herself.
She'd taken firearms courses, although she hated guns and never carried one. She'd taken self-defense courses. She'd taken courses with private investigators. She had a can of pepper spray and a personal alarm in her bag.
The stranger lingered at the end of the street.
Come on, come on
.
Kate wanted her to get closer. She reached into her bag and slid her fingers around the pepper spray canister.
Come on. I'm ready for you.
The woman kept her distance.
Kate stepped from the alcove and walked in the stranger's direction. The woman turned and began walking away. Kate bolted after her, glad she'd worn flat shoes. The woman ran around the corner. Kate ran after her as fast as she could, rounding the corner, glimpsing her crossing the street and running to the next corner. Kate darted through traffic, adrenaline and anger giving her speed.
When Kate took the next corner the woman had vanished.
Kate stopped in her tracks and scanned the street. A car door shut. An ignition turned. She was near. Kate tore off in the direction of the sound and spotted the woman in a sedan, hearing the transmission shift. As she got closer, the engine revved, the car lurched, tires squealed and it pulled away.
Kate stood on the sidewalk, reciting the license plate as she wrote it down in her notebook.
“Gotcha!”
Thirty-Three
Manhattan, New York
T
he fresh coffee Kate gulped at her desk scorched her throat.
She'd gone to the newsroom early that morning, riding a wave of anger and hammering at her keyboard.
Who was following me and why?
She had to cool off and think clearly. She looked at her notebook again, thankful she'd gotten the stranger's New York license plate and gone on the offensive. Before leaving her building for the subway that morning, she'd taken action.
One of her sources was Ivan Vestrannicki, an NYPD detective, who'd had twenty-one years on the job before his squad took down an armored-car heist in the Bronx. Ivan had taken two bullets in his left leg. It'd left him with a limp and a cynical view of the world. After he'd retired he'd set up his own PI agency. Kate had interviewed him for a series on the challenges cops who'd been wounded on the job faced with disability payments. Ivan never forgot that.
You got a friend here,
he'd told her.
This morning Kate had reached out to him for help with the plate.
Leave it with me. I'll get back to you.
While waiting, Kate had searched the plate online, but struck out. Then she'd thought of Grace and Vanessa. Without revealing that she'd been followed, Kate had questioned them at breakfast. They'd said that they hadn't received any strange calls or hang-ups, or seen anything odd. They hadn't seen anyone following them. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.
She'd considered all of the recent stories she'd written.
Who would do this?
Twice in the past she'd been the target of private investigations. A corrupt millionaire stockbroker who'd been scamming seniors had hired an agency to follow her. It had also happened with a story she'd done on people trying to break away from a cult. In both cases they'd tried to find dirt on Kate to scare her off the story. In both cases they'd failed. Their tactics had become part of the story. Her line rang.
“Kate, it's Ivan.”
“Hey, what'd you find out?”
“The plate belongs to a woman who works for a private investigation agency, who subcontracts for a larger one.”
“Any idea who her client is and why she was hired?”
“I won't be able to get that info. It'd be like asking you to name your sources. I can tell you the larger agency is Infinite Guardian Shield, a global security operation.”
“Really? Do they have offices in London, England?”
“Yup. Say, aren't you working on that airline story?”
“You think it could be related to that?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Could always be something you wrote about prior to that. Hard to say.”
Kate glanced around the newsroom.
“Ivan, could they bug my phone, intercept my emails?”
“It wouldn't be easy, given your office environment, but it wouldn't be impossible, either.”
“What about at home?”
“Quite possible.”
“Holy crap.”
“Look, Kate, the fact you challenged this woman and made it clear to her that you knew what she was doing means her surveillance of you was blown. That could end the case right there.”
“Think so?”
“Again, anything's possible. Let me do a little digging and see what I can find out. Meanwhile, try not to piss off anybody.”
“Very funny.”
“Thought you'd like that.”
Kate took another sip of coffee and pulled her thoughts together. She had to tell Chuck what was going on. She went to his office. His jacket was draped over his chair but he wasn't there. On her way back to her desk she saw Sharlese Givens from the news library.
“Oh, Kate, I've got those printouts of the articles you requested on airline security. I just dropped them off at your desk.”
“Thanks.”
The clippings were in a yellow legal-size folder. Kate had just sat down and opened the thick bundle when her phone rang.
“Newslead. Kate Page.”
“Kate, Tim Yardley at the Washington bureau. Got a minute?”
“Hi, Tim. Sure.”
“I didn't want to put this in an email. You know Chuck assigned us to help out on your EastCloud stuff, look into the companies involved and any political connections, anything we could find.”
“Right, but I thought nothing came up.”
“It was looking that way until we got an interesting lead. It concerns Sloane Parkman, who's working at headquarters with you.”
“What about him?” Kate looked across the newsroom just as Sloane was arriving at his desk. “I can see him now.”
“Are you good to talk?”
“I am. Go ahead.”
“It turns out Hub Wolfeson, who sits on Richlon-Titan's board of directors, is Sloane's uncle.”
“What?”
“That puts Sloane in a serious conflict of interest when working on stories concerning Richlon-Titan. Newslead policy states that you cannot report on issues or subjects where you, or your family, have a direct personal or financial interest, or can be perceived as having one.”
Looking more closely at Sloane, Kate saw that he was wearing a jacket over his Brooks Brothers shirt. Every hair was in place but there was no gleaming white-toothed grin today. In fact, he looked somber.
“Does Chuck know?” Kate asked.
“He does. This all came up last night. Very few other people know and since you were working with him, I wanted to give you a heads-up, Kate.”
Sloane had placed an empty cardboard box on his desk and was putting personal items in it.
What's going on?
At that moment, Chuck Laneer stepped into the newsroom, which was still largely empty because it was so early. He gestured for Kate to come into his office.
“Kate?” Yardley said on the phone. “You still there?”
“Yes, Tim, thanks. I appreciate the heads-up, but I have to go.”
* * *
“Shut the door,” Chuck said. “Have a seat.”
His collar button was undone and his tie was loosened. He remained standing and rolled up his sleeves.
“I just met with Lincoln and Fitzgerald in Human Resources. We've let Sloane go this morning.”
“He's fired?”
“Yes, for violating Newslead policy. He not only failed to disclose his direct family connection to Richlon-Titan, he tried to direct coverage in a manner that deflected any criticism of the company. We'll post a memo to staff underscoring Newslead policy on conflicts of interest.”
Chuck tossed his pen on his desk and put his hands on his hips. Stress lines cut deep into his face.
“I can't tell you how much this sickens me,” he said. “Sloane's uncle is a senior board member at RT.”
“How's Reeka taking this? Sloane was her hire.”
“She was advised to take some time off and reflect,” he said. “We can't afford this kind of bullshit at a time when we're trying to strengthen our credibility. That's why I was pushing you hard on getting confirmation.”
“I get that.”
“So where are you at on the story? We could use a big score right now.”
“I've reached out to my best sources, but something's come up.”
“What?”
“I was followed last night.”
“Followed? By whom? Have you been threatened?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Kate brought Chuck up to speed on what had happened the night before. While listening, he ran his hand over his face. Then he interrupted her several times to ask questions, staring hard at her when she finished.
“Are you sure you're okay?” he asked.
“Yes. I've been through this before.”
“This is what we're going to do. We're going to talk with Newslead's lawyers and you're going to report this to the NYPD. I doubt there's much they can do, but I want this on the record. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“If, at any time, you want off this story, or want help of any sortâ”
“Thanks, I'll let you know.”
Kate went downstairs for a fresh coffee.
The morning had barely started, but she felt as if a week's worth of stress had washed over her. Back at her desk, she resumed reading the batch of articles the librarian had left for her. Kate tried to push her concerns aside and focus on her research. She paged through story after story, but she was familiar with many of the reports.
Not much here,
she thought, but then she came to one story that was written shortly after September 11, 2001, and froze.
“Oh my God! How did we miss this?”