Code 6, p.28
Code 6, page 28
“Do you have the ransom?” asked Kate.
“I’d prefer not to have this conversation by phone, even if it is encrypted.”
“I need an answer from you before the eight p.m. call.”
“Let’s meet at your hotel and talk.”
“That’s impossible. There’s not another person on the planet who knows where I’m staying, and I’m certainly not going to tell you. Nothing personal.”
They agreed to meet in the lobby of a boutique hotel in one of Cali’s wealthiest neighborhoods, Ciudad Jardín. Kate hung up. She looked at Enrique, who was sitting in the armchair in her hotel room.
“I’m worried,” said Kate.
“Stay cool,” he said. “You took control in this morning’s call. Kidnappers hate it when negotiators do that. So it’s no surprise that Javier would try to reestablish control by pushing off the next meeting to eight p.m.—to a time selected by him, not you.”
“I agree with all that,” said Kate.
“Then what worries you?”
“From the previous calls, my impression of Javier is that he’s impulsive and quick to react. I would have expected him to call me right back, immediately after I hung up, and retake control. He didn’t. Instead, he waited two hours, called Jeremy Peel on a line that I’m not even privy to, and asked him to pass along a message to me. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“I hear what you’re saying, Kate. You think he hurt Patrick.”
“I can’t live with myself if my plan backfires.”
It was a cumulative effect: Patrick’s disappearance, meeting Sandra Levy, her negotiations with Noah, the calls from the kidnappers, standing up to Jeremy Peel—all in the wake of her mother’s suicide. Kate needed a tissue.
“Hey, it’s okay,” said Enrique, handing her a whole box of them.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Not a problem. If it means anything, I cried like a baby when I lost my interpreter.”
Kate gathered herself and said, “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Me, too,” he said.
Chapter 57
Christian Gamble arrived at the Washington office of BJB Funding before noon. He was there to see David Walker.
The CIA headquarters is in Virginia, but the agency fastidiously guards against any claims of overlap between its national security operations and its venture capital arm, so BJB operated out of a nongovernmental building on the other side of the Potomac River. The George Bush Center for Intelligence is too far north to be seen from the District, but Walker seemed to have gone the extra mile to assert his independence from the agency by choosing a corner office facing the National Mall to the south, his back squarely to the CIA while seated behind his desk.
Gamble hadn’t spoken to Walker since the meeting at Peel’s house, where Kate had told the chairman of the board and the CIA to fuck off and announced that she was “going private” to negotiate for Patrick’s release. Gamble had phoned ahead from the helicopter on the flight back from FCP Alderson to set up what he described as “a critical follow-up meeting,” just the two of them in Walker’s office.
“I went to visit Sandra Levy,” said Gamble.
“I know,” said Walker.
Smug remarks like that one, the air of omniscience that Walker conveyed, made Gamble question the actual degree of separation between the agency and its venture capital arm.
“Then am I correct that the prison guard’s sudden decision to cut my visit short was no coincidence?”
“It was my understanding that her visitation privileges have been restricted due to a rule infraction.”
“I’m sure. The fact that you know so much about it tells me that’s bullshit.”
“Christian, if you’ve come here to give me a tongue lashing, I have far more important things to deal with.”
“Then allow me to readjust your priorities. My conversation with Sandra Levy gave me serious cybersecurity concerns. The DOJ’s security audit is ongoing. I came to you because I wanted to discuss my concerns with you first. But if you don’t have time,” he said, rising, “that’s unfortunate.”
“Sit down, Christian. Before you embarrass yourself by going to the DOJ, what do you know about Sandra Levy?”
Gamble settled back into his chair. He didn’t want to divulge too much of his conversation with Sandra, but it was simply a good negotiating tactic to show Walker that he wasn’t there on a fishing expedition—that he had some critical level of knowledge.
“I know that the CIA played a key role in structuring what appears to be a very favorable sentence for her.”
“Yes, that’s true. You do realize Sandra Levy works for the CIA.”
“What?”
“She was a plant, Christian. The CIA was concerned about a possible leak at Buck Technologies, and to protect its investment in the company, the agency sent in Sandra to find it. ‘Management coach’ was her cover. We wanted her close to you.”
Gamble did a double take. “Wait. Are you saying I was the suspected leak?”
“Your wife, to be more precise. Using credentials she stole from you.”
There was no use in denying that Elizabeth had compromised his credentials. “She never actually used them to access anything.”
“Your wife was an alcoholic who dialed nine-one-one and falsely accuse you of abuse. Who really knows what her intentions were?”
“She wasn’t a criminal. Sandra’s investigation must have confirmed that, right? If Elizabeth was actually using my credentials to steal company secrets, this wouldn’t be the first time I’m hearing about this.”
“Yes. Sandra Levy concluded that neither you nor your wife were the problem. And then she went badly astray.”
“In what way?”
“She shifted her focus to Jeremy Peel without authorization. To make matters worse, she violated some cardinal rules about methods of extracting information from a target. I will spare you the lurid details.”
Gamble had already heard it from Sandra, but hearing it from Walker put it in a new light. “Is that why she’s in prison?”
“Very astute observation, Christian. She pled guilty to three counts of lying to investigators. Most people think those lies relate to espionage. In actuality, she had sex with Jeremy Peel in violation of CIA rules, and she lied about it. The CIA did her a favor by not making that public.”
“All that aside, Sandra must have had a reason to target Jeremy. Has anyone ever followed up on that?”
“I can’t discuss the status of an investigation with you.”
“Forget the status of the investigation. Here’s all I really want to know: What would make a person throw away her career like this? What was driving her?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss her motivations.”
“Well, fuck your liberty. Sandra discussed them with Kate. She said, ‘I did it for Megan’—her daughter. Call me crazy, but that sounds an awful lot like the suicide note my wife left: ‘I did it for Kate.’ So I’d like to know what the hell is going on here!”
“Could be a coincidence.”
“I’m not asking what it could be. What do you know?”
“I wish I could say more. I really do.”
“Damn it, David! Your firm is the largest shareholder in Buck Technologies. My daughter’s in Colombia right now negotiating with kidnappers to get one of Buck’s key employees released. If you won’t say it for my benefit, say it for hers. What does this all mean?”
“I have no idea what was in your wife’s head.”
“Fine. What was driving Sandra Levy? What did she mean when she said she did it for her daughter?”
Walker glanced out the window. It seemed that Gamble’s plea was getting through to him. Finally, he spoke.
“I’ll say this much. Whatever she thought Jeremy was up to, Sandra saw it as particularly dangerous for girls and young women.”
Gamble froze. It was as if he’d been in a dark room for months, with the answer sitting right beside him, and someone had finally switched on the light.
“I’m sorry, Christian. I can’t tell you more than that.”
“I got it,” said Gamble. “You don’t have to say another word.”
Gamble showed himself out, rode the elevator to the lobby. A black SUV was waiting outside the building. He dialed Kate’s number as he climbed inside, but she didn’t answer. He thought carefully before making the next call, but decided it was the right thing to do.
“Noah, it’s Christian Gamble,” he said into the phone, leaving the prosecutor a voicemail message. “Call me back immediately. It’s important.”
Chapter 58
Diego picked up Kate and Enrique at the Hotel InterContinental to take them to the planning meeting with Jeremy Peel in Ciudad Jardín.
“Safety on?” asked Enrique. He was talking about the gun in her purse, and it was the third time he’d reminded her since leaving the hotel room.
“On,” she said.
South Cali had some sketchy areas, but Ciudad Jardín was not one of them. Caleños called it a “city within a city” or, perhaps more accurately, a city apart from the city. Mansions lined the lush green avenues. The best high schools and universities were nearby, and an array of fancy restaurants and upscale bars made this wealthy neighborhood a pleasant and safe place to live. On the downside, Ciudad Jardín was a long way from the livelier and equally safe areas along the river to the west and north, where Kate was staying, and it was closer to the massive hillside neighborhood known as Siloé. Diego pointed it out on the ride south.
“Never go there,” he said, pointing from the driver’s seat. “If you get into trouble, even the police are afraid to go there.”
The rule of thumb in Cali was to avoid the east, but gangs also controlled Siloé and other pockets of turf to the south.
They reached the hotel in plenty of time to talk strategy before the 8:00 p.m. call. Diego waited with the car. Peel’s bodyguard was in the lobby and took them to a suite on the third floor so they could speak in private. It was Kate and Enrique on one side of the rectangular table, with Peel and his bodyguard on the other. The encrypted phone on which Kate received the kidnapper’s calls was resting beside the centerpiece of white and purple orchids.
“Did you bring the flash drive?” asked Kate.
Peel laid it on the table. “Coke Zero,” he said, confirming that he wasn’t giving up the “secret formula,” as Kate had called it.
“In terms of communications,” said Kate, “I don’t like you having separate phone calls with Javier. I need to be part of all negotiations going forward.”
“I didn’t initiate the last call. He called me. After you hung up.”
“I was asserting control.”
“You may have watched one too many Die Hard movies.”
Kate had been second-guessing herself all day, so she couldn’t push back too hard. “What’s done is done. Going forward, we should speak with one voice, and that voice should be mine.”
Kate’s encrypted phone vibrated on the table. It was not yet time for the 8:00 p.m. call, but it wasn’t a call anyway. It was a text that contained no message, just a voice recording. Kate played the voice message on speaker. It was Patrick.
“Kate, it’s me, Patrick. I’m fine. Do exactly as the man says.”
Kate looked at Enrique, who seemed equally bemused. “That’s our proof of life? A voice recording? How do we know that’s not from a week ago?”
Her phone vibrated again. This time, the text bubble contained a message:
Negotiations are over. No more voice calls. My orders to follow.
Kate stared at the message bubble, then looked at Peel. “This doesn’t sound like Javier.”
Peel didn’t answer, but Kate didn’t drop the matter.
“Who did you actually speak to on the phone earlier, Mr. Peel?”
“I told you it was Javier.”
“I know what you told me. But I want the truth. Who did you talk to?” she asked, her voice rising. “I need to know who has Patrick!”
The phone vibrated. Another text message:
Mr. Peel: Take the flash drive to Café de Mariscos on Calle Obispo at 9 p.m. A table is reserved in your name. Sit and wait. One bodyguard is allowed. No one else.
Enrique googled the location. “He chose a public place in a good neighborhood to make you feel safe. That’s a constructive first step.”
“But what about Patrick?” asked Kate. “This has to be a simultaneous exchange.”
The telltale moving ellipses appeared below the previous bubble message on Kate’s phone, indicating another text was on the way.
“There’s more,” said Kate, and the message appeared.
If I’m convinced you were not followed, I will join you. The girl will be with me. I take the flash drive. You keep the girl.
“By ‘the girl,’ I assume he means Olga,” said Enrique. “The one you told me about?”
“Yes,” said Kate, shooting dagger eyes in Peel’s direction. “The girl in the white string bikini.”
Another text bubble quickly followed.
As soon as I verify that the code is genuine, I will release Patrick.
“Looks like he’s not settling for Coke Zero,” said Enrique.
“Shit,” said Kate. She grabbed the phone and fired back a quick text.
Not acceptable. Simultaneous exchange only. Both Patrick and Olga.
It took more than a minute for a response to come. It was a phone call this time. Kate answered on speaker, so all could hear, but she didn’t even get the chance to speak.
The sound of Patrick’s scream filled the hotel suite.
Silence followed. The call was over, short but with the desired impact, as it had made Kate’s skin crawl. A text bubble followed.
Final warning. Don’t fuck with me.
Kate buried her face in her hands. Enrique laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We can work within his rules,” he said.
“What choice do we have?” she said, her voice quaking.
Chapter 59
Patrick breathed deeply, in and out, trying to quell the pain in his left biceps.
Liu the pyromaniac had apparently left his napalm science experiment back at the ship, but he’d managed to improvise. A welding machine was standard equipment in any chop shop. He’d spared Patrick the direct and potentially lethal flame of the welding blowtorch—possibly an act of mercy, but more likely he was just too lazy to carry the entire machine from one side of the warehouse to the other. Instead, he’d selected a steel welding rod—one-sixteenth of an inch in diameter, by Patrick’s estimate—and held it to the flame until the tip glowed like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.
“This is really going to hurt,” he’d said, whereupon the white-hot tip had burrowed into Patrick’s arm like a lit cigarette, but so much hotter.
The pain was utterly disproportionate to the freckle-sized mark left behind. He worried where his scream into the cellphone must have led Kate’s imagination.
“It’s showtime,” said Liu. “Olga, you’re coming with me.”
The hostages were chained to the same post but with separate padlocks. Liu unlocked Olga with the key, removed the chains, and pulled her to her feet. The gun to her head served to remind them who was in charge.
“Patrick, your life is in Olga’s hands. If she obeys me, all will be fine. If she doesn’t, then here’s something you should know. That welding rod I jabbed into your arm was probably five hundred degrees Celsius. A welding arc is about fifteen thousand degrees. Tell Olga you don’t want to go there.”
Patrick noticed that the rod was still resting on the hood of the car nearest to the hostages, where Liu had left it to cool.
“Tell her she needs to be a good girl,” said Liu.
“You’re an animal,” said Olga.
“You have to do as he says,” said Patrick.
“How ’bout that, you’re both right,” said Liu. He led Olga away at gunpoint, wending between vehicles toward the side door to the warehouse. Patrick kept one eye on them and the other on the welding rod that Liu had left on the car hood. A foot-long rod of stainless steel was just a few feet away from him. He was padlocked to a pole, making it impossible to reach it, making it all the more imperative that he find a way to get it.
The rod was about the same thickness as a bicycle spoke, and the fact that Patrick’s mind drew that comparison was no coincidence. Once, as a kid, he’d biked to the beach and, when it came time to pedal home, discovered that he’d lost the key to his bike lock while building a giant sandcastle complete with a moat, drawbridge, and three-foot-tall turrets. He had thirty minutes to get home or be grounded. For Patrick, it was just another episode in the long-running series Internet to the Rescue. His smartphone pulled up a YouTube video on how to pick a padlock with a reshaped paper clip. As it turned out, a 1.8-millimeter bicycle spoke worked even better.
With a stainless-steel welding rod, this job would be a piece of cake.
The side door opened and closed. A car engine started outside the building, and Patrick could hear the vehicle pull away. Olga and Liu were gone. He was alone in the warehouse. It was time for action.
Patrick would call this episode, “Harry Potter and the Quest for the Rod of Steel.”
One end of the chain was fastened to a post. The other end coiled around his wrists and was secured behind his back with a padlock. His most comfortable position was seated with his back to the post, but the chain was long enough for him to lie flat on his back, if he could put up with the pain of a padlock pressed between his lower back and the floor. He concentrated on making his spine as long as possible, taking up every millimeter of slack in the chain. With his body fully extended, he finally managed to brace the crown of his head against the post and plant his feet squarely on the front bumper of the nearest vehicle—the car on which the metal rod rested.
Patrick pushed with his legs and released. It was like doing leg presses at the Buck fitness center. Push. Release. He built a rhythm, and before long, the car was rocking like a baby carriage.
