The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (28 page)

“There was a Federal Reserve branch that correlated with most of the dead hackers,” Turner said.

“True. We can consider major locations for the big banks that correlate with Fed branches,” Grayson suggested. “It’s something else to narrow things down.”

“Sounds good.” Turner thought about the results from Cannibal. “What about the hackers that turned up dead on Interpol?”

“I’ve put a couple of analysts on that, and they haven’t come up with anything,” Grayson said. “We’ll look for connections to big banks.”

“The Federal Reserve is the central bank for the United States, so it’s got more money than any other target,” Turner pointed out. “We should assume they’re going big, considering the level of sophistication.”

“You know the Fed could well have its most significant assets abroad,” Grayson replied. “The politicians have been fighting for visibility into its foreign dealings since the dawn of time.”

“Good point. Try digging into its overseas accounts and see if anything lines up,” Turner said. “Also see if there are ties to The Collective.”

Grayson didn’t respond immediately, and then said, “We’ll focus on that angle for now and assume the US is the target.”

The Stradivari Society, Chicago, IL

PAVEL KOZLOV’s EYES were cold, void of emotion. “I understand,” he said in Russian.

The man on the other end of the phone didn’t like to rush a plan, but recent events and a lifetime of experience had made the decision to put Operation Berlin on the fast track easy for him. Yuri Khrushchev was also smart enough to know that no good battle plan survived first contact with the enemy, so he wasn’t alarmed. They needed to stay nimble.

“Are you on track with the operation?” Khrushchev asked, but the question was more of a command.

“Yes, we are. Tomorrow, correct?” Kozlov answered. There was too much at stake, so he wanted to make sure they were in sync.

“Tomorrow,” Khrushchev confirmed. “Did your men take care of The American?”

Kozlov closed his eyes and bowed his head. He knew his delayed response had already given his mentor the answer.

“No. He has proven to be a very difficult man to kill.”

There was an uncomfortable pause that could only mean the confidence in him from his comrades back in the Motherland had begun to wane.

“And the internal situation? The hacker that chose the senator’s son?” Khrushchev pressed. When the response wasn’t immediate he added, “No more mistakes, Pavel.” His tone was reprimanding.

Kozlov raised his head and prepared to deliver new details he knew would strain their relationship further. “We had a problem with delivering the codes last night,” he admitted. He could hear his mentor take in a deep breath.

“What kind of problem?”

“Our man was not there for the pickup. Other arrangements were made, and they made it safely to the backup site.”

Khrushchev didn’t respond for a long moment and finally said, “Continue.”

“The men discovered an FBI agent was following them. They led her into a trap and were able to take her alive.”

“What?” The hard line communist was irate.

“Yes. We will find out what she knows. Our men can be very persuasive.”

Khrushchev was taken aback. The situation was much worse than he had thought. He knew Kozlov was loyal to their cause, but Yuri Khrushchev was now joining the ranks of those who doubted their comrade’s effectiveness.

Kozlov heard a squeak from what he assumed was his comrade’s chair as he sat down. Next he heard the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the desk, like Khrushchev always did before he made a big decision.

“It is wise to keep the two operations completely separate,” Khrushchev finally said.

Kozlov felt the loss of faith in his ability to execute physically. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and did what any good soldier would do.

“Yes, it is the best option,” he said. “We’ll remain prepared to handle things if the situation changes.”

“Take care of this, Pavel,” Khrushchev demanded, the importance of their operation evident.

This wouldn’t be the first time Pavel Kozlov had his back against the wall, and his resolve to prove his doubters wrong was absolute.

“I will,” he said.

“There is a meeting with The Group today,” Khrushchev said. “Andrei will set everything into motion.”

“We are receiving the latest data from the targets,” Kozlov confirmed. “Dimitri said he will have everything completed to send the final commands in plenty of time.”

“Good. And the FBI woman?”

“I have told the men to do whatever it takes to extract the information from her quickly,” he answered in a dark tone. “Whatever it takes.”

Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA

SHE WAS FORCED to strip down to her underwear as soon as they entered the room. The sheer purple underwear she had once considered cute now made her feel vulnerable. They were intimidating. Hard men, definitely killers, and they enjoyed the show. At first it wasn’t clear whether the two men were planning to rape her or just wanted to cause humiliation. They spoke in Russian, but lewd comments were a universal language, and she understood.

When they motioned her over to the bench, she reluctantly obeyed. She was paralyzed by the cold, deliberate eyes of her captors as they approached. Everything happened so fast. There was no time for her to react. They had strapped her to the bench and draped a damp cloth over her face before she could manage to take a breath. Her heart pounded as they fastened a restraint around her neck. She forced herself to breathe. She felt the bench rise up, which brought her feet above the rest of her body. Instinct told her to hold her legs together as the blood rushed to her head.

That was some minutes ago, she believed. She wasn’t sure… Now she listened, her covered eyes wide with terror. The next assault was on its way. She could visualize what was making the sounds—a spigot shooting a stream of water into a metal bucket. The initial pitter-patter on the bottom, followed by a crescendo of water as it tinkled its way to the top. Then three steps toward her. At first they weren’t sounds that tormented her. It was the third bucket that turned once-benign sounds into something she feared.

This was bucket number four, and the familiar noise had transformed yet again. Cathy Moynihan didn’t know how to describe what she felt. It was beyond fear; she was much more than horrified. Whatever it was, it numbed her. It was what she imagined a claustrophobic person might experience when locked away in a small, dark place. She contemplated whether this was karma, after what had happened to the man in the trailer. Maybe this was his way of coming back to haunt her.

The Russian didn’t bother to repeat the question this time, and he began to pour the water over her head. Panic set in.

“They took him!” she yelled through the water-soaked cloth.

The Russian poured the rest of the cold water over her bare skin as she coughed her airway clear. The last time they had emptied a full bucket over her head, she’d passed out and woke up with a Russian pressing on her stomach to drain the fluid through her mouth and nose.

Breathing was difficult. She gasped for air in between coughing the rest of the water out of her lungs. She didn’t want to go there again. They had broken her. The violent shivering was a brutal combination of cold and fear.

“Who?” the Russian said.

“The FBI.”

Moynihan began to cough violently again. She was afraid to tell them he was dead in case his life represented a way out of this.

“Where did they take him?” the Russian barked.

“I don’t know. Maybe back to headquarters.” She tried to control her breathing to suppress her panic.

There was silence for a moment, and then the two soldiers began to converse in Russian. She felt her muscles tense up as they turned on the water. Controlled breathing wasn’t enough to keep her calm, the sounds triggering a frenzied hysteria to which her restraints answered back and held her down. The Russian had just taken the three steps toward her. Her eyes were covered by the cloth, but she still closed them tight, hoping doing so would somehow take her away from this nightmare.

The Russian dribbled some water onto the cloth, and her body jerked reflexively. The goose bumps on her body felt like they were growing with each shiver. She couldn’t see the maniacal smile of satisfaction he shared with his accomplice, but she felt it.

“Why were you following us?” he demanded.

“You killed our people,” she said, her voice desperate as she prepared for the inevitable.

“Tell me what you were looking for, or I will kill you.” His voice was cold and calculating.

“The person who killed Senator Soller’s son,” Moynihan pleaded.

“What else do you know about us?”

Her fear turned to anger as she teetered on the edge of shock. The Russian poured the water over her head and stopped just before she was out of breath.

“Nothing!” she said coughing. “We thought you were Americans!”

This was good news for the Russians.

The Stradivari Society, Chicago, IL

THEY HAD SPENT the last thirty minutes huddled in the hallway, listening to her warm up. It was an extraordinary moment for Dr. Nathan Becker and his wife. Their attention glided along every passage as they instinctively inched closer to the door. The hairs on his neck stood up when he took his first glimpse of Victoria Eden through the narrow, rectangular window in the door. The couple held hands, their cheeks pressed together, astonished by the sight.

He had stolen a glimpse of the sheet music stowed in her violin case and reasoned it would be impossible for a musician he’d never heard of to do that particular composition justice. By the time she was ready to perform the piece, it was clear that she was special. Her hands glided effortlessly up and down the neck of the violin.

He had left the door to the soundproof practice booth open a crack for two reasons: to let the musician know she was welcome to approach them if she needed anything further, and so he and his wife could listen in as she played. Seven and a half minutes went by, and he felt as if he hadn’t taken a breath. Becker was considering an appropriate response, given the circumstances, when a deep voice startled him.

“Bravo! Bra-vo!” it said. His words carried the enthusiasm of a child waking to presents on Christmas morning. He clapped his hands triumphantly while he nodded his head in approval.

The couple joined in with smiles of adoration as Becker pushed the door open.

“Please. Excuse us. I’m at a loss for words,” he admitted. There was a spark in Becker’s voice that matched the fire in his eyes. “Absolutely enchanting.”

“Yes, yes,” the newcomer chimed in. “I don’t believe there is an English word to describe something so beautiful. Please,” he said with a raised index finger, “one minute. Come, Nathan. Come quickly.”

The man gave a gentle tug to Becker’s tweed suit and urged him toward the hallway. The proprietor hurried his pace when he remembered the provenance of an instrument he had locked in the vault down the hall.

“You’re not thinking…?” Becker said, his eyes energized.

“Yes, I think it would be.” The instrument’s owner looked up as if he would find the appropriate word hanging in the air. “How do you say in English? Apropos?”

“Oh yes.” Becker nodded emphatically. “Apropos is the word. Eugène will look down upon us with a smile!”

He unlocked the walk-in vault, and they both went straight to the place where the priceless treasure was stored. Its owner carefully removed the case and placed it on a mahogany table in the middle of the vault. He unlatched the case and handed the violin to Becker. They shared a knowing look.

Becker was blessed with perfect pitch and instantly responded. It took less than a minute for him to confirm that the instrument was in tune, and he handed it back to its owner, before they marched back to the practice space.

“Please.” The man offered his violin to the musician with a slight bow. “Could you do this wonderful instrument the honor.” He made a circle with his index finger as he smiled and said, “Your admiring trio here would also be most honored.”

The old man could sense the butterflies that fluttered through his stomach were shared by the violinist. She handed him the violin she had been playing and accepted the mysterious instrument. She tilted the violin so she could peer into its f-hole.

Becker saw the sparkle in her eyes, and imagined her reading the maker’s inscription. He knew exactly what it said: “Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1732.” He noticed her hands begin to tremble and her breathing quicken.

She cleared her throat. “It’s beautiful.”

The owner offered a broad smile. “Together you are a match made in heaven,” he said.

Eden blushed, still unable to fully grasp the moment, the instrument, the stranger.

“Please, please. Get familiar with it. Become one with its song,” the man insisted.

His enthusiasm managed to snap her out of the trance, and she began to play. First in short, quiet bursts, and then her fingers began to attack the instrument with confidence.

“It once belonged to Eugène Ysaÿe,” the man said with an approving nod. “He no doubt performed, perhaps even composed, the ballade you just played on that very instrument.”

She looked up in amazement, and he continued, “Herkules is his name, and it deserves to be played with the depth of expression and unbridled passion you command.”

Victoria played scales up and down instrument for a minute. She then took a deep breath and began. The instrument sang the opening vocal-like passage that began the movement.

Becker, his wife, and the owner of the instrument were left hanging on every note. She swayed and shifted, sometimes violently, expressing the longing half steps and executing the composition’s incredible leaps in pitch. She moved on to flawlessly play the rapid triplets and double-stops that climbed as she reached its conclusion.

There was absolute silence when she finished. She was exhausted from the emotion of it all, but after brief reflection, she came to life.