Business Doctors - Management Consulting Gone Wild (12 page)

“I’m sorry. Blame the media for it, but the image in my mind of hackers was quite different - young, male, kinda nerdy.”

“Well, if it makes you more comfortable hiring me, you could assume I was a young, nerdy kid who had a sex change - and excessive smoking caused me to age rapidly,” Blizzard smiled.

Joe didn’t find it funny and tried to change the topic. “So whaddya want to get started?”

“A computer with an internet connection, space where I won’t be disturbed and a continuous supply of caffeine.”

“That should be ok. Follow me lady.” Blizzard followed Joe as he led her through the maze of computers and files. “Would this location be ok with you?”

“That’ll be perfect. When do you pull down the shutters? I prefer to work late.”

“Not a problem. We’ll keep the office open till you want to stay. Mr. Woody has specifically requested to give this task high priority.”

Blizzard pulled out her iPod, navigated to the heavy metal folder and hit
Play
. Joe could hear the music blasting through her ears as he walked back towards the exit.

The next day in the morning, as Joe walked into the office, Sonja handed over a package to him, “The lady who came in yesterday left this for you. Looks like a bunch of CDs.”

“Thanks, Sonja,” Joe took the package and kept walking.

On reaching his desk, Joe called up Schneider.

Schneider picked up the phone, “Michael Schneider, good morning.”

“Hi Schneider, this is Joe from WFB. Just called to let you know that the stuff is ready. Blizzard worked all night and left a bunch of CDs for us.”

“Already? Wow, I had heard that she’s fast but this is amazing. Unfortunately, the data in its current form is useless till we filter it down. We haven’t completed the short-listing criteria. So just hold on to those CDs for now. We’ll get back to you with the next steps soon.”

* * *

Blizzard was back in the WFB office a couple of days later. “Hello, Joe. How are we doing today?”

“I’m doing good, er, Blizzard ma’am,” Joe struggled. He wasn’t sure of the right way of addressing her. “We have received the filtering criteria from Schneider. You’d need a cozy place, internet and coffee, right?”

“We won’t need the internet now. All we needed to download is here in these CDs. The other two – cozy place and caffeine – would still be good, dear,” the soft voice responded back.

“Right-o,” Joe turned around and started moving towards a vacant room.

“So methinks you’ve been doin’ this for a while now,” Joe kept walking with Blizzard following him.

“It’s been a while, yes…several years. In the earlier days, hacking into computers had more to do with brute
force techniques. You know, punch a hole in the computer and get the data out.”

Blizzard noticed that Joe was taken aback by her last sentence. She clarified, “Well, not exactly, but you get the point. The sophistication was missing. The internet changed all that and created a whole new world of opportunities for people like me,” Blizzard walked slowly and Joe kept turning back to ensure he wasn’t going too fast.

“But this is not a full time job for me. I just take on these special assignments once in a while. The money is good and makes me feel financially secure. But it is risky business and I could end up spending the rest of my life in prison with hardened criminals. I don’t want that to happen. So I have to be alert and ensure I don’t do anything stupid or leave a trace - and that’s where the caffeine helps.”

“What do you do otherwise? I mean, when you are not punching holes in computers.”

“I sell flowers. My son gifted me a computer when he moved to London, so I could be in touch with him over email. Works much cheaper than international phone calls, you see. He got me introduced to the internet - and I picked up the rest of the skills. I had lots of spare time anyway. Instead of spending it on Tai Chi, and all the wonderful flavors of what they call social networking, I used it to learn technology. The internet can be a dangerous tool - if you only know how to use it.”

“Thanks, Blizzard ma’am. I’ll leave now. And take all the time you need.”

“Thank you, son.”

* * *

“Another CD for you, Joe. Ms Blizzard left it for you. Strange name, don’t you think?” Sonja handed over the cover to Joe when he entered the office the next day.

“Strange name, yes. Thanks, Sonja”, Joe collected the CD, pulled out his mobile and dialed Schneider’s number.

“Hey Schneider, this is Joe. We’ve got the final data. What next?”

“Good ol’ Blizzard, delivers it yet again with supersonic speed. The CD has the list that Mr. Woody needed, Joe. What he wants to do next is for him to decide. I’d suggest that you talk to him.”

“Okay, Schneider. Thanks,” Joe put the phone back into his pocket.

* * *

“We’ll need a lot of cash to get them out, boss, ya know what I mean,” Joe was on the phone with Woody. “We get this bunch of consultants to help us out. They tell us we are bleeding. And what do they recommend finally? A huge, complex operation that’ll make us bleed further, bleed faster. I don’t know if that’s a real good plan, boss. Cut an already bleeding person in more places so he bleeds to death faster? I ain’t no genius, but I can tell you for sure, something’s not right with that plan. Do you really wanna go ahead with this? Where do we get the money from?” Joe mentally tried to recollect how many times he had used the word ‘bleed’ and its variations in his last few comments.

“
That’s a thought that’s been on my mind as well, Joe. You are right. We’ll need a lot of money to pull this off. And our pockets are close to empty. I have talked to a few of my business partners. One of them has agreed to lend us five million. That should help us keep our show going. It is a gamble, I agree. I hope it pays off.”

Chapter 1
1

Three months after Schneider first met Woody in the Dungeon,
Chang’s escape from Los Angeles county jail wasn’t going to be the only incident that would cause ripples in the press.

Two years in the Chicago prison had hardened Jamal, and he had learned his lessons as well. He had realized that he would never be able to lie low in there and stay out of the radar. His six feet eight, well-built muscular frame probably had something to do with it. He had also learned that his muscles were no match for the collective strength and persistent will-power of those around him pining for an entry into his rear. The inmates knew how to break new convicts into submission, irrespective of their size and stature in the outside world. In spite of being in a high-security, controlled environment, Jamal had been overpowered several times and had survived a couple of attempts on his life. However, he wasn’t certain that the motive was just rivalry. There were many secrets from his outside business dealings that his well-trusted partners-in-crime would love to bury for ever.

Real weapons were hard to come by in the jail. But the inmates had found innovative ways to convert everyday objects into deadly killing tools. A toothbrush with a razor blade mounted on its ‘head’ with chewing gum served as a decent knife, and the sharpened stem of an unsuspecting spoon that might have served its earlier life scooping up food, might be transitioned into the role of a dagger. The extent of improvised design that prisoners came up with would put the engineering departments of many an Ivy League school to shame. The prison guards would swoop down unannounced, into the cells of unsuspecting convicts, and look under beds, in toilet bowls, mattresses, walls, and every other imaginable hiding location for such improvised weapons. Next came the strip search, which was sometimes a mildly intrusive one, in an effort to fish out drugs, pieces of paper with cryptic gangland messages, suspicious balls of chewing gum, or anything at all that could be shoved into one of the naturally occurring crevices that the human body offered.

Jamal was in prison because of his association with a gang of drug-dealers in the outside world. He had started off as a small time gambler and had quickly learnt the advanced tricks of card counting to gain an undue advantage over the house. But his days of glory were short-lived as he started frequenting the bigger joints, unlike the likes of the Pecker, and had been caught red-handed. Once he featured on the central databases of casinos, he decided to put some bulk on his lean frame and considered the possibility of pursuing an alternative career. From an ace gambler, he found stability, in comparative terms, in his role as a bouncer at an up-market night club in the city. The clientele was semi-elite and the only excitement for his itchy knuckles was the occasional black eye he’d have to inflict on erring customers. However, this was hardly comparable to the kind of action he had seen growing up. The fights then would be less predictable, more volatile and often dangerous. The guys on the losing side of the battle would get more than a black eye. Knives, iron rods, and the sporadic appearance of guns would increase the stakes. Jamal had witnessed the death of his close friend, though he wasn’t sure if the reasons that led to the killing were justified. 

At the club where he worked as a bouncer, the reason for the black eye was, more often than not, a drunk customer getting out of control. Back in the
hood
, the reasons were not always obvious. Eve-teasing, inter-locality rivalry, turf wars, a deal gone bad or just plain boredom. They were all perfectly legitimate reasons for knocking the daylights out of the other guys with little forewarning. In a way, the bouncer’s job was less stressful on Jamal’s cardio-vascular system than his customers would generally assume. It paid for the bills and kept him away from the company of the other jobless buddies from his neighborhood.

Then the first deal happened. Jamal was asked to hand over a little packet of a white-colored powder to a high-profile customer, one who was having a good time inside. The gentleman that requested the favor was the owner of the club and Jamal found it difficult to refuse his request. He assumed this was an exception. He was wrong. The number of such requests, and hence the number of packets of white-powder and customers consuming them all increased. Jamal also got handsomely compensated for falling in line in the supply chain. He realized this additional service that he was providing required very little from his side, but the money he received in return seemed way out of proportion. In due course of time, it overshadowed the salary he was
earning as a bouncer. He soon left his job and focused full-time on the drug distribution business. He didn’t know where it came from. The guys handing over the small packets to him changed frequently and so did the customers. Jamal’s invincibility ended as the cops zeroed in on him during a drug bust and he was hauled off to prison.

He realized soon, that the only way he could survive inside jail, would be by aligning himself with one of the power centers inside. It was almost as if a smaller version of the same gang structure of the outside world, complete with their own fiefdoms, rivalry and fights, had been replicated inside. Jamal’s gang members who’d been picked up from the street were in other jails and he found himself alone and isolated. He would have been eaten up by the bigger sharks in Chicago prison, had it not been for the protection that he got from the Slugs, another local gang that had more gang-members inside the prison than outside.

After two years, it was time to transfer him from the overcrowded Chicago prison to a smaller correctional facility in the outskirts. This could mean one of two things.

One – Jamal would have to build his entire ecosystem all over again in the new jail.

Two – Escape!

Jamal thought the latter was a possibility since he had received a cryptic message similar to the one that Chang got in Los Angeles county prison. All it said was,
The journey can be more exciting than the destination
.

* * *

The bus carrying the inmates to be transferred rolled out of the Chicago facility early in the morning. Traffic on the highways was usually bad, but unimaginable during peak
hours. So it was always good to start moving early and hope that there would be no traffic snarls en route.

In about an hour, they had left the city traffic behind them and the bus picked up speed. As it entered a tunnel, there was a loud blast, loud enough to shatter the window panes of the bus. The driver, stunned for a moment, quickly recovered and struggled to keep control of the bus as it skidded across the concrete shoulder. Flat tires - it was an ambush! There was very little time to think of probable causes. The driver hit the brakes as hard as he could. Bad move. The bus overturned and continued to skid. The driver hit his head against the side and was knocked out instantly. The bus skidded past the shoulder and hit the side wall of the tunnel, and came to a halt. Before the guards or the convicts inside could react, gun shots broke the temporary silence. A volley of carefully aimed bullets caused the door lock to fail, and as the back door opened, three masked men barged in.

Ten seconds and three dead guards later, Jamal, still handcuffed, found himself being pulled out of the bus and pushed into the assailants’ car. Within moments, the car zoomed out of the tunnel and the masks came off. All weapons were concealed and hurriedly thrown into the trunk, and the car merged into the traffic.

* * *

Hendrik Mckinney was in Michigan jail, awaiting trial for armed robbery. The evidence and case against him was water-tight. Hendrik knew that very well. He’d be convicted in a few months and was sure to get at least ten years in the slammer. But Hendrik did not seem overly concerned about the verdict. He had received details from a guard on the exact patrolling schedules of the other guards responsible for keeping an eye on cells in his area. He wasn’t sure why
the guard was being so generous with him. He also wasn’t sure what he’d do with that information. He had tried asking the guard a few questions to quench his curiosity. “What I gotta do, I gotta do,” was all he got back in response.

Subsequently, Hendrik had also received the layout of the prison with a suggested route. That’s when he realized, what he was expected to do. He still did not know who was coordinating all this and what they wanted in return. After the supremely useless responses he had received earlier from the guard, Hendrik didn’t bother asking him further questions. Anyway, if someone was helping him get out of prison, he didn’t really have a burning desire to cross-examine his benefactor’s intentions. All he had to do now was to wait for D-Day to execute the plan.

Hendrik had played out the escape in his mind a million times and knew exactly what he needed to do to make the plan work. The fact that he could hack into some of the most secure servers in the world by deploying complex bots made this a relatively easy task for him. Over several days, he had validated how and when the guards changed. With clockwork precision, he could predict what would happen outside his cell on a minute-by-minute basis. He knew exactly when the sounds outside would subside and the floor would become empty. However, the view from his cell was limited and the entire simulation that he had carried out on how he would escape had only happened in his head. The biggest challenge for him was the uncertainty that lurked beyond his direct line of sight. This is where he had to have blind faith on the layout and the directions that he had received.

The day finally arrived. At the time of change of shifts, between 8:59 and 9:01 P.M., there was just one guard patrolling the area, checking each cell one at a time. This was unusual. The general drill had at least four guards
patrolling in teams of two. Never in his two years in the prison had this rule been broken. Hendrik knew that this was his cue. As the guard reached out to check the locks on Hendrik’s cell, Hendrik reached out and grabbed him by the neck with one hand and pulled his head into the iron bars. The choke had the desired effect. The guard passed out and collapsed on the floor. Hendrik pulled him into the cell, stripped him off his clothes, his gun, his ID and his keys. A couple of minutes later dressed in the guard’s uniform, he was confidently walking towards the exits as marked in the map. Hendrik realized the guard he had KO-ed was much shorter than him. His clothes felt a little tight, the sleeves reached only up to his wrists. The trousers were tight too and ended at his ankles. Hendrik guessed he was looking like a not-so-flattering version of MJ. As a tribute to his icon, he kicked in the air and started moonwalking his way out. Bad idea. He heard the ripping of his pants and decided to defer his tribute to another better day. He hoped no one would notice the ill-fitting clothes on him and kept walking. He passed through two corridors, stopping at each door for it to be unlocked by the guard in the control room. The latter was anyway too busy watching the game on the portable TV on the desk, and since he had repeated the same drab routine a million times, he couldn’t care less – he was more worried that the Detroit Tigers were down, and shuddered at the prospect of his favorite team losing the game.

Once Hendrik was out of the secure zone, with his thumping heart becoming calmer with the thought of fast approaching freedom, he quickly sprinted down two flights of stairs, and opened the side door. Whoever had planned the escape route knew very well that the main door would be a lot more risky – guards were always loitering there, some coming back in after a smoke or a gossip, and others on their way out. Within no time, he was out of the building.
Once in the parking lot, just as the layout had suggested, he approached the third car from the left, used the keys hidden below the car’s boot to get into it and drove out. He used the access card that had been carefully placed in the coffee mug holder. The gates sprung open gracefully, and after a quick confident flash of the badge to the guard manning the exit, he gently exited the compound. Though his heart was beating like crazy, there was no hesitation in any of his actions to raise eyebrows or indicate that anything was amiss. Quarter of a mile down, from the stop sign, Hendrik took a right and hit the main road as he heard the familiar sirens go off behind him, from the general direction of the prison. His accomplice had timed it perfectly – the mastermind knew exactly how long to wait before hitting the alarm bells. He gulped down a deep breath of fresh air, felt sweet smell of freedom, floored the gas pedal, and disappeared into the night.

Over the next few days, newspaper and television reporters raised many questions.

“How did Hendrik Mckinney know how to time his escape?”

“Did the violent actions (that brought the guard down) not generate any noise?”

“Why didn’t any of the inmates in his neighboring cells raise an alarm?”

“How did Mckinney know where to go?”

“How did he manage to bypass multiple levels of manual and electronic security?”

“How did h
e manage to get hold of a getaway vehicle, right in the parking lot within the compound?”

* * *

“Do you think we could stop here for a minute?” Jason Stone asked the guards. He was being transported from the
prison to the court for his trial. The former police informer had been lured back into the world of crime, when his former bosses found out that he was the one who had squealed to the cops. They offered him bigger incentives, including pardoning him for his sins, if he were to join back. He believed that his earlier professional circle within the underworld was in a better position to provide him with security than his new buddies wearing uniforms. The cops in turn had moved swiftly to get him arrested. They had more than enough evidence against him to ensure that he would be in for a long time. His newly updated database now had information about the cops
and
the criminals. He had been on both sides of the fence, and it was too risky for them to set him free.