CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“Kagemusha”
Sunday night.
Hornbuckle stretched in his Barcalounger waiting for the call to go through. The gash in his ankle had prevented him from working out and he was bored and frustrated. His attempts to track the source of the cyber-attack had led nowhere. Whoever was behind it--and Hornbuckle was convinced it was Black Widow--was two steps ahead of him.
His APB on Kleiser had produced zip and he was too new to Denver to have developed a network of informants. He suspected that cyber-cafes who had received the APB were either ignoring it or telling Kleiser.
They’d never met but Hornbuckle knew Kleiser was aware of him. He’d made his presence felt. Two months ago, when he’d still been based in Virginia, he’d come this close to nailing Black Widow but by the time the local feds had obtained a search warrant for the artists’ collective housing the server, the spider had moved on.
Hornbuckle listened to clicks and beeps through his headset. Secure lines had their drawbacks. His gaze fell on the photo on the wall, the one with him and his older brother Pete, shirtless, tanned, lithe bodies by the lake, arm in arm. Hornbuckle had worshiped Pete. Pete had been an Army sergeant. He’d died during Desert Storm. The Army posthumously awarded him a bronze star. Now they were trying to jew his widow Deborah out of her pension benefits.
God love ya, bro. Wish you were here
.
The ear unit snapped and the weirdly transmogrified voice of control entered Hornbuckle’s skull, dry as the Serengeti. “What’s happening.”
“White’s up at Pawnee Grove.”
“Do you think there’s anything there?”
“It’s a connection we hadn’t noticed but as for this thing being developed and deployed from there I don’t believe it. It’s contrary to what they stand for. The whole thing’s a red-herring.”
Hornbuckle listened to Control thinking, which came across as a series of light crackles.
“Have you seen the spectrographic charts?”
“No. I didn’t even know there were any.”
“Mmm. There appears to be a lot of unusual electro-magnetic activity up there.
There are rumors they’ve got a Cray up there.”
“Cray can account for every unit.”
“Or worse--not a Cray. Something we don’t know about.”
“You’d never know it from their electric bills.”
“We got the autopsy report from New Mexico. Froines’ remains contained the same unknown element as Senator Darling’s.”
“Can you send that to me?”
“It’s there. What about Kleiser?”
“I’m closing in on him,” he lied.
“You have one week. We ran an extrapolation. If the immolations continue at the present rate, they will become self-evident and we’ll suffer a worldwide panic. Millions will die. Apocalyptics are already citing them.”
Hornbuckle clenched his jaw and sucked air in through his teeth. “Okay.”
The line went dead.
Hornbuckle’s heart pounded. Why did talking to Control exact such a toll? It was simply an electronically-altered voice. He brought the chair to full upright and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes seeing an Escher-like world of Mobius stairs and moiré patterns.
Finally, there were no options left save Farouk.
***
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“Arrival”
Sunday night and Monday morning.
Goldfarb had reserved a room for Otto.
Otto opened his laptop. The icon for his home surveillance unit was blinking. Otto downloaded the file. Through the tiny camera concealed in the headlight of his model monster truck, he observed Hornbuckle enter his home and look around, including the extreme close-up when Hornbuckle admired the model.
Otto smiled grimly. He composed a short note and forwarded the file to Margaret Yee. He took a shower and hit the sheets.
Otto dreamt he was back in the palace, Malik approaching smiling beatifically surrounded by a heavenly nimbus, holding out his hand. The hand of Brotherhood. The hand of Peace. But his other hand was behind his back and Otto was terrified of what it held.
Malik came closer and closer until his perfect grin seemed to fill Otto’s vision. He burst into flames.
For an instant Otto felt an overwhelming rush of heat. His skin melted like wax and the fat crackled.
He woke up. It was too warm in the room. He got out of bed and opened the window admitting cold mountain air. It took him a long time to fall back to sleep.
Otto woke at seven--late for him--feeling exhausted. Putting on sweats, he went for a long loping run down the road to a shopping mall, through the mall and back up. His room phone was blinking when he returned. Winner had left a message to meet them for breakfast at ten. They met outside at the Cascades where the morning sun had breached the mountain and was rapidly warming up.
Winner was already seated, wearing white shorts, a polo shirt and sunglasses, a copy of the
Denver Post
and what looked like a script in front of him. The headline was about the burnings. As Otto sat, a young waitress with a Scandinavian accent came over with a fresh pot of coffee. Otto nodded enthusiastically as she poured. Winner waited until Otto had doctored his coffee and taken his first sip.
“I talked to Stella last night,” Winner said. “She sends her love.”
Otto grunted and studied the menu.
Goldfarb appeared in a purple and yellow Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and Birkenstocks wearing sunglasses, an unlit cigar jutting from his jaw like the 20 mm cannon on the
USS Ticonderoga
, designer bag slung over one shoulder. He pulled out a cast iron chair with a nerve-scraping sound and plopped down. The waitress appeared immediately to pour coffee.
“Whassup, boys? Everybody sleep all right?”
Otto grunted in assent.
“Said on the news this morning there’s a big fire in Aspen.”
Otto looked up sharply, reached for his laptop. “Do you know where in Aspen?”
“Yeah. At the Institute. Probably some nut doesn’t like their position papers.”
Otto wrote a note to cross-check Aspen Institute guests that week with those who had visited Pawnee Grove. They ordered, they ate, Goldfarb picked up the bill. Otto reminded him to forward his hotel room receipts for reimbursement. They agreed to meet in the lobby for a noon departure.
Otto returned to his room and began cross-checking Aspen Institute guests who had also visited Pawnee Grove. There were three: a physicist from UCLA Berkeley, an economist from the Freedom Foundation and a playwright. The playwright had been invited to speak at the current Aspen Institute event. It was he, Otto thought, who had burst into flame.
A playwright? If this were terrorism, why attack a playwright? Otto researched the playwright’s works but there was nothing risible.
Internet news was sketchy as authorities did not know whether anyone was in the building when it burst into flame. Simply those three fire departments were battling the flames and there was fear it would spread to the surrounding mountains. When Otto looked up it was time to go.
They checked out as valets brought their cars around. Winner slid into the black Infiniti’s driver’s seat. Goldfarb took shotgun. Otto tipped the valet a buck and got in his Denali. The two big black vehicles looked like a diplomatic convey as they wound away from the Stanley and headed north on Devil’s Gulch Road toward Glen Haven. The road curved around exclusive condos and resorts, free-form log cabins on odd lots and pink granite boulders. Several miles out of town they came to Pawnee Grove Drive, a shut gate and a gentleman in a blue blazer and sunglasses lounging against the front fender of a forest green Jeep Cherokee. “Pawnee Grove” appeared in gold letters on the hood.
The smiling watchman approached Winner. They talked, Goldfarb leaning to fork over a letter and pointing to Otto behind them. The man examined the letter, had a brief conversation. Goldfarb retrieved a box from his luggage, Winner signed it and handed it to the watchman.
The watchman opened the gate, waved them through followed by Otto. As Otto passed, he saw that the watchman was holding the boxed Complete
Detonator
DVD set. In his rearview Otto saw the man shut the gate and gone back to his Jeep.
The road was smooth and black as a licorice whip. Soon they were surrounded by towering Ponderosas and the sound and scent of the breeze through the open car windows. Two miles down the trees fell away and they entered an open area in front of the main lodge, a three-story log cabin with a great peaked gable looming over the main entrance like the prow of an ocean liner. The logs were massive. An apron of flawless blacktop flowed from the main structure, fresh yellow paint demarking parking spots gleaming in the sun. The big lot was largely empty save for a half dozen pick-ups, vans, and 4X4s parked in the far corner, obviously those of the staff.
Otto pulled up behind the black Infiniti that had come to a stop in front of the main entrance. Otto shut the engine off and stepped out. He wore a Broncos ball cap he’d found in the Denali, sunglasses, short-sleeved knit sport shirt and khakis. Before Goldfarb could reach the broad stairs the double front doors burst open followed by a human tank--blue blazer, tan slacks, sunglasses, crew cut, broad as an ox. Bob Casey.
Witherspoon followed gliding on long legs, arm extended, wearing black knit wool trousers, a white dress shirt and a dark green sport jacket with a theatrically long tail and “Pawnee Grove” embroidered in gold over the breast pocket.
“Ralston,” the caretaker boomed. “So good to see you again! And this is the famous Gabe Winner.”
Otto hung back. Witherspoon appeared simultaneously vigorous and withered, in that way some thin men achieve in their later years. His skin was taut over high cheekbones, a hooked nose, thin lips, lank hair falling straight down from a balding skull, a cross between Ebenezer Scrooge and Uncle Creepy. He and Winner shook hands and exchanged small talk. Witherspoon used the Double Hand Clasp to signify special meaning. Winner turned to Otto and motioned him forward.
“Otto, Emil Witherspoon. Otto’s a retired Special Agent who’s helping me write a screenplay.”
Witherspoon’s spade-sized mitt completely enclosed Otto’s hand. Up close, Otto saw that Witherspoon’s eyes were close together and deeply set, an arctic blue that made him feel there was something behind them watching, something that couldn’t or shouldn’t be revealed. “Very pleased to meet you,” the caretaker said.. “Why don’t you come inside, we’ll have coffee, or something stronger if you prefer. The boys know where to take your luggage.”
The tall man turned and led them into the lodge.
***
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“Farouk”
Monday morning.
Farouk Ben Fakir had been born Robert Weinstein in Evanston, IL. While attending Northwestern he had become radicalized by the Muslim Student Society, dropped out of school, went to Pakistan to attend a terrorist-training camp, and changed his name to Farouk Ben Fakir.
Farouk had majored in computer science. He was an autodidact who could build his own computer out of the bits and pieces of others. Al Qaeda set him up in Pakistan with a network and urged him to wage cyber-war on the Great Satan. Three years ago Farouk succeeded in invading the computer-run coolant pumping station at the Birch Bay Nuclear Power Plant in Upper Michigan.
Fortunately, the redundant safety system noticed the intrusion long before the reactor was in any danger of meltdown. Civilians wearing radiation-proof suits manually corrected the pumps while the Cyber Warfare Unit tried in vain to track the source.
But.
A high-level Libyan minister defected during the first week of the insurrection supplying intel that led directly to Operation Firebrand. Farouk was fast friends with Malik Ghaddafi whom he met at a meeting of the Pan Arab Conference.
Hornbuckle had set up the sting operation that lured Farouk to Abu Dhabai, leading to his arrest. He’d baited his trap with a totally fictitious twelve-year-old Arab beauty named Farrah, complete with photos, who promised to fuck Farouk’s feathers off.
Hornbuckle made the arrest and conducted the initial interrogation. Farouk copped to the cyber-attack but knew nothing about the other matter for which Hornbuckle was tasked.
White had been in the right place at the right time. For anyone else it would have been the wrong place and the wrong time. But White had damnable luck. His survival of the missile attack was one in a million.
It was nine-thirty when Hornbuckle turned his Jeep into the entrance to the Florence Supermax, a long, low beige structure on the high plains east of Colorado Springs and the repository of the worst of the worst. It was here Farouk was serving his thirty-six year sentence. Hornbuckle would have come earlier but for the past six weeks Farouk had hovered between life and death in the hospital due to some bug he’d brought back with him. A bug with a delayed reaction time.
Finally Farouk was well enough to answer questions.
Two massive concrete silos with gun turrets on top framed the main gate, flanked on each side by a ten foot double hurricane fence topped with concertina wire. The guard examined Hornbuckle’s badge and picture ID and waved him through. Hornbuckle drove to the administration building and parked the Jeep next to a series of bland sedans belonging to prison guards and administrators.
Inside the main entrance he surrendered his cuffs and pistol and submitted to a pat-down and a wand search.
“You know the way to the Warden’s office Agent Hornbuckle?” a guard the size of a dumpster said.
“Yes, thank you.”
Hornbuckle followed a green linoleum trail down the disinfectant-smelling hall and turned into a suite of offices with a secretary seated at a desk in front of a wall bearing the Seal of the Great State of Colorado and flanked by American and Colorado flags. She was young enough and good looking enough to remind Hornbuckle that people made bad decisions everyday.
“Agent Hornbuckle?” she chirped, indicating a door to the left. “Go right in. He’s expecting you.”
Hornbuckle pushed the heavy walnut door open and stepped into Warden Cruz’ commodious office. Cruz was putting into a plastic hole. He was a stocky man in gray slacks, white shirt and gray and red argyle vest sweater with a full head of black hair and a dust mop mustache. He leaned the putter against his desk and shook Hornbuckle’s hand.
“Thanks for setting this up,” Hornbuckle said.
“No prob. Anything for our friends at the Bureau. What’s it about?”
“I need Farouk’s expertise in ferreting out another cyber-terrorist.”
“Good luck with that. Let me walk you back and if you don’t mind, stop in before you go.”
They entered the prison through a steel portal similar to those used in old-fashioned photography studios, a fat cylinder with a revolving door. Cruz accompanied Hornbuckle to the unit’s desk, manned by two uniformed guards.
“Bring Farouk up, would you boys?” Cruz said. He slapped Hornbuckle on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
The guard unlocked the interrogation room, a cold white cubicle with a beige linoleum floor, a stainless steel counter bisecting the room. Another door behind the barrier led to the cells. The steel chairs were bolted to the floor. Seconds later the inner door opened and the prisoner entered wearing a day-glo orange jumpsuit, legs and wrists shackled to a chain that went around his waist. Farouk Ben Fakir wore a buzz-cut and round steel-rim glasses. He looked pale and thin with dark circles and red dots. He had learned to keep his face immobile, betraying no emotion. It was very un-Arab.
Farouk sat in the chair opposite, chains jingling.
“Good morning,” Hornbuckle said. “I need your help.”
Farouk stared at the wall.
“If you cooperate it may result in a reduced sentence.”
Farouk barked mirthlessly.
“I’m trying to catch a right-wing hacker. A white supremacist.”
For the first time Farouk looked at him, his gray eyes bereft of hope but not without interest. “Who?”
“Black Widow.”
There was no recognition in Farouk’s eyes. He’d been in Supermax for eighteen months. No TV. No newspapers. No internet. Let out of his cell one hour every twenty-four when he was permitted to work out beneath the sky in solitary.
“What did they do?”
“First off, this is mostly one guy. Randall Kleiser from Arvada. I have every reason to believe he’s in the area. He invaded the FBI’s central computer system and shut it down for forty-five minutes.”
“How did he do it?”
“He used robot computers to overload the system.”
“You have domain names for the rogue computers?”
“We’re on top of that. What I need from you is insight.”
“Tell me about this guy. What’s his tag?”
“Calls himself Black Widow. Blames the government because his girlfriend died in a terrorist incident.”
“What happened?”
Hornbuckle gave him the rundown.
Farouk’s eyes focused on the far distance on the other side of the wall. “I know that guy…Spider…met him in a chat room in ‘09…”Hornbuckle’s heart raced.
“Hangs out in cyber-cafes…” Farouk trailed off, his mouth open.
“Anything you can remember,” Hornbuckle prompted.
Farouk gazed into infinity. His chains jingled. “Yeah. Big basketball fan. What’s the team here?”
“The Nuggets.”
“Yeah. Spider loves him some Nuggets. Goes to their games, the whole nine yards. He doesn’t like one of their players. Caramel Something.”
“Carmello Anthony.”
“Yeah. Says Anthony sucks dead squirrel meat.”
“They traded Anthony.”
Unfortunately the basketball season was months away but it was more intel than Hornbuckle had been able to gather since his arrival.
“What else?”
“Sci fi…plays
Halo
…loves movies…
Star Wars
,
Matrix
, he loves that
Nexus
series. He waited in line for twelve hours to see
Nexus II
at midnight. That’s all I remember. You gonna be able to help me?”
“I said I would.”
Hornbuckle stood and signaled for the guard to unlock the door. He looked back. Farouk stared at the wall.
***