Kill Switch (51 page)

Priest smiled. “Very well done. Yes, I want the book code. I want, in fact, access to your computer here, since it has the administrative authority to access any project. Who knows what other delicious things I will find? You've done considerable work for Dr. San Pedro and Dr. Erskine, I believe? Yes? Then I want everything connected with them, no matter how small or tangential.”

The tears began rolling down Kang's cheeks. “Please don't hurt my family.”

“That is entirely up to you. If you do what I want, absolutely nothing will happen to them. And just to comfort you, here is how it will play out. You log me in, I do what I came here to do, then I leave. You will sit here and do absolutely nothing for one hour. You won't answer the phone, you won't make any calls, you will not touch a single key on your computer. Those are the rules, and believe me that I will know if you break any of those rules. At the end of one hour I will call you on this.” Mr. Priest produced a small disposable phone and placed it in the center of Kang's desk blotter. “This is what we call a ‘burner.' Untraceable. It has been configured to receive a single phone call. Once you get that call, I will tell you whether I need more time or if everything is all clear.”

“All clear—?”

“Yes. At that point you may ring all the alarms, call the authorities, and do what you like. At that point you will also know that the teams overseeing the welfare of your family have been withdrawn.”

“How … how…?”

“How do you know you can trust me?” Mr. Priest gave a small wave with his free hand. “Trust is such a difficult thing to ask, but I insist that you trust me.”

“How do I know you haven't already…?” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

“You don't. That's the real challenge, isn't it? It's all about trust, and you have no choice at all whether to trust me.” Mr. Priest reached into the side pocket of his trousers, removed a sound suppressor, and without hurry began screwing it onto the barrel of his gun. Kang sat there, tears rolling down his face, staring in dreadful fascination. When Mr. Priest was done he once more laid the pistol on his lap. “Shall we begin?”

 

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

THE PIER

DMS SPECIAL PROJECTS OFFICE

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

SEPTEMBER 9, 10:09
A.M.

Church and Bolton got into an argument about what to do next. Bolton wanted the book tested to see if invisible ink or some other kind of concealed text had been used. Church tried to convince him it was a waste of time. Violin looked absolutely devastated, and I couldn't blame her. She'd fought and killed for this book, and she'd been hunted halfway around the world by Closers and the psychopaths from the Brotherhood. To find out that it was all for nothing crushed her. It also pissed her off. A lot.

I called Bug to try and get some news, but got nothing.

I saw Harry standing like a lost soul by the window and I went over to talk to him. “Hey,” I said, “buy you a cup of coffee?”

He looked down at the coffee cup he was already holding. “I…”

“Just an expression, kid. C'mon, let's get some air.”

With only a flicker of doubtful reluctance he followed me out of the conference room and up to the back deck that overlooks the ocean. Harry Bolt did not look like a spy. He didn't even look like the kind of spy who wasn't supposed to look like a spy. At a distance he looked like a frat boy who'd had a few too many pizza and beer nights and too few afternoons at the gym. But at closer range you could see that there were some cracks in the shallow-rich-boy-jerk façade. There was a furtiveness in the eyes that spoke to a life spent dodging sharp criticism, and a sad resignation that I've seen in kids who know that they are disappointments. Some excitement because all of this was big, and a lot of the kind of fear a passenger has on a sinking ship; the kind of person who doesn't know how to work the lifeboats and who's sure he won't make the cut for bench space on the boats being lowered into the water.

I could see all this and know it because I know people, but it wasn't something to which I could directly relate. My dad had money and my brother, Sean, and I grew up in comfort. Not millionaire comfort, but definitely upper middle class. My dad is mayor of Baltimore, working through his second term. There is a lot of love, support, and respect flowing in all directions. Our Thanksgiving and Christmas family gatherings were fun, easy, without the usual kinds of infighting I often hear about. I'd expected Harcourt Bolton, Senior, to be as good a father as he was a role model, but what I'd witnessed a few minutes ago changed all that.

We were alone on the deck and we stood for a moment watching fleets of clouds sail majestically across the endless Pacific. We'd brought fresh cups of coffee up with us and Harry sipped his, looking up and out rather than at me.

“Sorry you had to see all that,” said Harry.

“Your dad was pretty rough on you.”

“You have no idea.” He stopped, shook his head. “Shit. Forget I said that. Everything's fine, it's all good.”

I turned and leaned against the rail, standing more squarely in his peripheral vision until he finally cut a sideways look at me.

“What?” he asked cautiously.

“Can I give you a nickel's worth of free advice?” I asked. “One guy to another.”

“Let me guess, something like ‘man up'? Or one of those ‘that which does not kill us' speeches? No offense, Captain Ledger, but I've heard a lot of those over the years. I get them all the time from my station chief. Or … well, I used to. He's dead now.”

“Yeah, well that sucks, too. I didn't know him,” I said. “I barely know you, and I only met your dad yesterday.”

“And yet you want to life coach me? This should be fun.” He gave me a tentative up-and-down appraisal. “My dad hates you. Did you know that?”

“Bullshit.”

“Hand to God. He's been talking about you for a couple of years now.” Harry nodded toward the building. “You and what you do? The Department of Military Sciences. You're the real deal. You are actual superstars in special ops and top-grade espionage. You've out-CIA'd the CIA by like … miles. There is no one in Washington who isn't scared to death of Mr. Church. They all think he has files on them and on the president and that's why he's still in power. Everyone knows about MindReader and how it can intrude anywhere. They're as afraid of that computer as they are of the Chinese Ghost Net and the North Korean hackers. You know what's happened since word about MindReader got out? People—here and all through the world's espionage communities—have switched back to verbal orders and paper records. That made my dad's job a shit-ton harder because he relies so much on computers to keep his Mr. Voodoo vibe going. But you, Joe, you're the real problem. You're Dad's boogeyman. You're him thirty years ago. You're what Dad hoped
I'd
be. That's why I was born. I was his career equivalent of buying a midlife crisis sports car. He found a trophy wife and got her pregnant and when she gave birth to a son my dad went to work on trying to make me into Harcourt Bolton Two Point Oh. It's all about the Bolton legacy. For thirty years he was the top spy. Not top ten or top five. The best. No one had a win record like his. Maybe Church did. He was a field operator, but all of the records of his operations have mysteriously vanished.” He fake-coughed and made it sound like “MindReader.” “When the DMS was formed I remember Dad going through a real shit-fit. He took it as a slap in the face that the president chartered the DMS and gave it the autonomy to pick its cases and even cherry-pick jobs away from the CIA, the FBI, the DEA, ATF, and NSA. I remember Dad saying how unfair it was. How it was a betrayal after giving America the best years of his life.”

I said nothing. Pretty sure that henceforth the dictionary entry for “dumbfounded” just shows a picture of my slack-jawed face. Harry nodded, though, as if I had spoken.

“Yeah, the DMS came at the wrong time. Dad was starting to lose his swing. He may know more about being a spy than anyone, maybe even more than Mr. Church. But James Bond versus the villain's hollowed-out volcano fights aren't really for middle-aged knees and middle-aged reflexes. Dad's resentment started with the first real DMS superstar, Colonel Samson Riggs. Man oh man, Riggs came on the scene like a rocket. He
was
James Bond. Riggs worked two assignments with my dad and I'll bet if you looked real close at the after-action reports you'll see that it was Colonel Riggs who made the biggest plays. But because the DMS tends to step away from the spotlight, Dad got the commendation. You guys don't give commendations, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Of course not. Humility along with nobility,” laughed Harry. “That torqued Dad's nuts even harder. Maybe you're one of his cheerleaders, so this might all be coming out of left field, and you might be thinking this is a brat kid dissing his old man, but think again. I'm a fucking disgrace as a spy. I'm done, probably. I got nothing left to lose so I might as well tell the truth. Want to know what my dad did when he got the news that Samson Riggs was killed? He opened a seven-hundred-dollar bottle of French champagne. Didn't offer me a glass. He sat in front of the fire and drank the whole thing. He never stopped smiling once.”

I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.

“And then,” said Harry, “
you
come along. You even
look
like Dad. Blond-haired, blue-eyed all-American boy with a good tan and laugh lines and all that hero shit. You could play Captain America. You
are
Captain fucking America. And now Dad's older and he's not a field op anymore. He sits at a desk and has to rely on his contacts and his network to keep putting numbers on the scoreboard. And, okay, so he's making some big plays. Mr. Voodoo still has some magic, but how long can that last? He's not out in the field making
new
contacts. His network has to be getting up there, too. Soon he'll be yesterday's news and he won't be relevant and it'll absolutely kill him. It's already eating at him. He's always taking naps, and my therapist tells me that's a sign of depression. You sleep to run away. Well, Dad's taking a lot of goddamn naps, because he's scared.”

“You are absolutely out of your mind,” I said, finally finding my voice. “I'm just not that impressive. I'm a grunt with good aim.”'

Harry Bolt laughed. A harsh, bitter laugh. “God, you don't even know, do you? You might actually
be
that humble or that focused on the prize that you don't know what people in the intelligence community are saying about you. After the Jakobys? After the Seven Kings? After Majestic? Oh, don't look surprised. The public may not know who scored those touchdowns, but the intelligence community knows. The DMS was on the clock, and in most of those big wins you were running the touchdown plays. You. Joe Ledger, superjock.”

I drank most of the coffee in my cup without tasting it. “Your dad and I are friends. We respect each other.”

Harry dumped his coffee over the rail. “For a guy who's supposed to be sharp you are kind of a dumbass.”

He gave me a mock salute and went back inside.

I stayed out there and watched the clouds. Before, they were a gorgeous fleet of magical ships sailing across the sky. Now, like the old song said, they only blocked the sun.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

HUMPHRIES-BELMONT ELECTRONICS SOLUTIONS

THE ABSALOM FOGELMAN BUILDING

6082 CENTER DRIVE

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

SEPTEMBER 9, 11:32
A.M.

Mr. Priest made Dr. Kang stand in the corner like a naughty little child. He did this after Kang had gone through the complex log-in procedures, which included a phone call to the security officer to give that day's code. Then Mr. Priest had the scientist remove his cell phone and then turn to face the corner, hands deep in his pockets.

“If you turn around or speak even a single word,” said Mr. Priest, “I will have one of your children shot in the stomach. You're not a field operative and have never served in combat, but I'm sure you've heard stories about the degree of pain associated with a stomach wound of that severity. It's a slow death marked by unimaginable suffering, though I'm sure you will be able to imagine everything.”

Kang was too terrified to even nod.

Mr. Priest smiled. “Very well. Now do as you're told. I don't even want to hear you breathing loud. I have important work to do and need to concentrate.”

Twenty minutes later Mr. Priest sat back from the keyboard and turned to Kang.

“Good lord, man, did you just piss your pants? You did. You're standing in a puddle of it.” Mr. Priest shook his head in disgust. “Some people have no self-respect.”

He went back to his work.

Downloading the files was time-consuming because they were so large and because there were so many of them. There were only twenty-six project files of interest to him—those for which he already had buyers—but Priest wanted to take all of the active R & D files from the last five years. That would confuse the computer forensic techs who would be assigned to determine the purpose of this theft.

To facilitate the theft he'd brought six ultrahigh-capacity external drives and the necessary cables. He also used the military intranet to transfer large portions of it, routing them to 111 dummy mailboxes he'd created over the last three years. Those e-mail addresses recoded everything and bounced them out to hundreds of other e-mail accounts around the globe. At each step the data would be coded again and again until not even a superintrusion computer like the Department of Military Science's MindReader could tag it as being what it was. Mr. Priest had spent millions to hire the very best hackers to build his network.