The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (35 page)

“How long until you’ll have it downloaded?”

“An hour or two,” she said. “We don’t want to risk the Fed knowing we’re there. It could bring with it a whole new set of problems.”

“Better to be safe. There’s a lot at stake here,” Turner agreed. He considered the new information and realized they might have a problem. “Do you think they’re onto us?”

“No, no. This happened well before we even knew the botnet existed. The backup image might not have anything on it, since it’s a couple of days older than the time stamp for the traffic.” She sighed in frustration. “It’s a shot in the dark at this point, but we don’t have much else to go on where the Fed is concerned.”

“Have you been able to get Tak on this yet?” Turner asked, slightly annoyed.

“No,” Grayson said. She fumbled her next words. “There is a personal issue. He can’t be involved.”

“Personal?” Turner asked with the tone of a skeptic.

“Finger,” she said, obviously flustered, “I’ve probably said too much already. You know how it is. I’m not at liberty to say. I wish we could have him on this too.”

Turner looked to Millar and shook his head. “I get it,” he replied. “Thanks.”

He knew the way it worked. He wasn’t going to get any more information out of her. There was an awkward moment of silence before the operative turned to Millar.

“The bot modified another system then?” Turner asked. “Or maybe the Fed discovered their presence, and they bailed.”

“It could be something destructive,” Millar suggested. “Maybe there’s some sort of code set to run on a certain date or trigger to wipe their systems out.”

“You said it was sophisticated,” Grayson said to Millar. “That’s not a very sophisticated attack.”

“Sure, but the Federal Reserve is the central bank. I’m a step ahead of you. If the plan is to target banks that are connected to it, maybe they’re trying to bring the systems down after they do whatever they’re going to do, so things can’t be verified.” He looked to Turner.

“Interesting thought,” Turner agreed. “That’s a good point.”

“I’m not sure how the financial system works,” Millar said, “but if you’re going to take down something that massive, you’ll need to coordinate and make sure you cut off all of its heads at once.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” Grayson admitted. “You could be onto something, Etzy. We have two CEOs involved from large banks that use the DataBank software. They’ve been kind enough to direct their technology staff to work with us on this.”

“That’s good news,” Turner said.

“Well, they’ve been a bit slow, unfortunately.” Grayson was clearly frustrated. “I can understand their reluctance to break policy, but we can’t give them as much information as we’d like to, since this is classified. It’s also slower, since we’re only using communication channels that aren’t connected to the bank, just in case.”

There was still an area that bothered Tuner. “What about the deaths overseas?”

“We’re still working on that but have made some progress.”

“Have you gotten into the Fed’s accounting systems to see who they bank with internationally?”

“Yes,” Grayson confirmed. “They have sizable balances at several institutions. Most correlate with the murdered hackers that belonged to The Collective. We have a team of analysts digging through all of the connections.”

Turner’s brow creased with concern. “What sort of balances are we talking about?”

“Trillions. They have vast amounts of money parked overseas. There’s also continual movement. We’re talking huge transfers, so we definitely can’t rule that out.”

Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA

THE WAIT HAD been interminably long. Cathy Moynihan watched as the girl powered on her iPhone and began to wave it through the air. It was as if she were trying to wipe away the message on the display that indicated there was no signal. She waited on the edge of her seat, ready to recite the FBI deputy director’s number, but the good news still hadn’t been delivered. She glanced over at the teenager and could sense she was about to ask the same question again.

“Has it connected yet?” Melody Millar whispered.

The room was thick with anxiety, and the question grated like an impatient child on a long car trip.

“No, Melody,” the girl said, clearly frustrated. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know as soon as it does.”

Moynihan decided to break the tension. “Just let it charge for a few more minutes, and then slide it over to Melody. She can pass it to me if it doesn’t work for her. There might be a signal in our part of the room.”

“Okay,” the girl said nervously.

They heard heavy steps out in the hallway, and all three of them turned toward the door. Soller started to reach for the plug that fueled the charger, but the noise quickly faded into the background. They shared sighs of relief.

Moynihan noticed the girl with the phone was bothered by something, and she sensed she was about to find out what it was.

“So why did the FBI want to take Melody?” she asked.

The agent thought about how to answer the question. At this point she decided it couldn’t hurt to tell them the basics of what she knew. It wasn’t much anyway, and maybe she could learn something from the others.

She was careful to keep her voice down and said, “They wanted to question her about her brother.” She noticed the girl sit up in her chair. “He was at the scene of a murder. The bureau wanted to find out the extent of his involvement. Right now he’s a person of interest.”

The girl lowered her gaze and stared down the FBI agent. “So, let me get this straight,” she said, her voice growing louder with each word. “You think Etzy, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, had something to do with Max’s murder?”

Moynihan pushed the palms of her hands toward the floor in an attempt to quiet her down, but it only served to wind the girl up.

“He didn’t have anything to do with it. I can tell you that much,” the girl insisted, this time a little quieter but with the same sentiment.

Moynihan shook her head. She didn’t understand the girl’s intended connection.

“Etzy?”

“Etzy is Francis Millar’s nickname.” She nodded to Melody. “Her brother. Nobody calls him Francis anymore,” the girl said dismissively.

Moynihan inclined her head. “I see. And how can you be so sure about that?”

“For starters, Etzy is a good person.” Tears began to well up in the girl’s eyes. “He was taken by the man who killed Max.” She turned to Melody and then back to the FBI agent. “They said they had taken her, and if he didn’t do what they said, they were going to hurt her. He didn’t have a choice.”

Moynihan squinted in disbelief. “How do you know this?”

“He sent me a text just before they took him. He was scared to death.”

Tears streamed down the girl’s face while Moynihan tried to piece everything together.

“He did? How do you know Francis…I mean Etzy?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” the girl said.

Moynihan’s eyebrows raised at the news. “What?” Still taken aback, she realized she needed to approach this delicately. “Is it possible…?” She paused to consider whether or not to edit what she was about to say. “Is it possible that you don’t know him as well as you thought you did?”

The girl’s teary visage hardened with anger.

Doing her best to sound compassionate, Moynihan said, “Love is a crazy thing. Sometimes it can affect the way you reason things.”

“No!” the girl shouted, her voice echoing through the room. “He would never do anything to hurt my brother. I can promise you that!”

Melody cowered from the volume of Maria Soller’s voice, and Moynihan was stunned by the revelation that the girl wasn’t only Francis Millar’s boyfriend, she was Senator Soller’s daughter, Maria.

Moynihan shook her head. “What the…?”

Footsteps pounded their way down the hall toward the room. The FBI agent looked helplessly at Maria Soller. She had been overcome with emotion, and the men were almost to the door. Her heart pounded as she tried to motion for Soller to stash the iPhone away out of sight, but she wasn’t responding to visual cues.

Fillmore Hotel, Chicago, Illinois

HE WAS RUNNING late; it was atypical for the former operative. The Gulfstream G650 was a fast plane, but with the aviator’s equivalent of a traffic jam at the small airport, they were forced to circle above the Illinois skies for more than thirty minutes. Time was short, so he dressed himself in the confines of the corporate jet.

It had been quite a while since Heckler had put on a tuxedo—so long, in fact, he was thankful the fashion had remained constant. He had been told it was a black-tie event, so wearing a regular suit would attract unwanted attention.

The plane was at the airport for less than fifteen minutes. Immediately after he climbed down the stairs, Heckler sealed the plane so the pilots could get their wheels up as soon as possible. Their next stop was New York to pick up more assets for the operation. There would be no time to spare, so every second saved had the potential to make a difference. Heckler had taken a cab into town and was in a rush to check in to his room so he could get to the theater to meet the Island Industries operative.

“Mr. Smith?” the clerk said as Heckler handed him his ID.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he replied. He liked the name: nice and forgettable. Heckler turned to size himself up in the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling mirror and muttered an explicative to himself.

The clerk looked up at him, unable make out the words. “Excuse me?”

“Ah, sorry. It’s nothing.”

He frowned at the unsightly hanger crease that dominated the horizontal axis of his slacks. There was no time to iron, so he shrugged it off. The smell in the lobby had him wondering whether they had sprinkled baby powder on their cheesy plastic flowers.

“Do you have something for me here?” he asked.

The clerk disappeared below the counter and popped back up. “Why yes I do, Mr. Smith. Here you go.”

The clerk wore an overly enthusiastic smile as he handed Heckler a sealed envelope.

He nodded and said, “Thanks.”

Heckler quickly headed up to his room and unloaded the rest of his gear. He checked his watch to see how late he was. It was already well after six o’clock, so he proceeded down the stairs, headed out to the street and flagged down a cab.

“The Studebaker Theater,” he told the cabdriver as he slid into the back seat.

The driver turned his head toward him and nodded without saying a word. Heckler noticed a vibration from his phone. He had felt it earlier, but when he checked the display, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The occasion had served as a reminder for him to turn the ringer off.

As the cab approached the venue, the vibration got stronger. Heckler pulled the device out of his pocket to see if he had pressed a button inadvertently. This time the display was dominated by a message:
Proximity Alert Warning, 34 meters to your east
. He touched the display, and the device provided more details. It indicated that a cell signal that had been flagged for alert had been detected. He handed the driver a ten dollar bill and told him to keep the change.

“Goddamn it,” he said as he exited the cab. He took careful inventory of his surroundings, knowing things were about to get complicated.

Studebaker Theater, Chicago, Illinois

FROM THE MOMENT Victoria Eden walked out onto the stage, everyone in attendance had been captivated. Her black evening gown, with its low-cut top and full-length slit down the side, showed just enough skin for her to exude the perfect combination of beauty and class. There was no doubt that the violinist was in her element. She had been showered by a standing ovation as she walked gracefully out of view from center stage, the sight nearly as stunning as the flawless execution of the sonata she had just played.

He was a big fan; he had to admit it. It wasn’t just her playing, it was her performance. She drew you into her world and left no room for distraction. Trent Turner considered what he’d just witnessed and it felt good. It was better than good—it was intoxicating, as evidenced by the smile still plastered on his face. It was as if she were playing for him, and he knew making people feel that way was the mark of a great entertainer. But the operative felt something more. The eye contact they shared while she was performing served as his introduction to a whole new degree of uncomfortable. She was talented, smart, persistent, attractive, and witty. Everything you could hope for in a person.

But when he considered the danger she would put herself in by associating with a man in his line of work, he shook off any illusions that it would be a good idea for them to get involved romantically. Turner wasn’t about to start a relationship with someone outside the business despite what he felt inside.

His resolute decision was interrupted by a gentle touch from a hand that now shook his arm. He sensed her presence and could feel every eye in the venue was now trained on the woman seated next to him. Turner dreaded the exposure the next few minutes might bring as he tried subtly to conceal his face. Whispers of intrigue circled the theater. He had a bad feeling about this place, and his instincts were rarely wrong. He needed to get rid of her quickly.

She smiled cautiously and asked, “Where’s your date?”

“He’s not here yet,” Turner replied.

Victoria Eden sized him up playfully.

“He?” she said with a sense of relief. “Hopefully he won’t give me too much competition in the dress-and-shoes department.”

Turner couldn’t help but laugh. “You never know.”

As he smiled, he considered the chance that Heckler might be a woman.

Victoria Eden’s smile now reflected that she already knew the answer to her next question. “So no girlfriend?” She sat up primly awaiting his response.

He shook his head, thinking this would be funny if it wasn’t so dangerous. “No. I’m too complicated for relationships.”

She rubbed his arm affectionately and said, “Hmm. A man of great mystery.”

He pulled away slightly, but her touch stopped him.