Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (19 page)

“I may
be dumb but I’m not stupid.”

Tommy
laughed, waving his hands. “No, I don’t mean it that way. What I mean is, you
know what the Internet
is.
”

Acton
frowned, now feeling dumb and stupid.

“Okay,
I’ll take it from the stunned silence that nobody is willing to admit they
don’t know what it is. Well, I won’t bore you with the details because you
won’t understand it without the technical knowhow, but essentially it is a
communications network. It passes data back and forth either completely
unencrypted, or sometimes encrypted with accepted protocols, bouncing around
between servers all around the world sometimes, before it reaches its intended
destination. It’s completely decentralized so that in the case of a major
outage in one area, it will still work everywhere else.”

Milton
poked the air with his finger, leaning forward. “That’s right. I read about
that somewhere. DARPA designed it years ago to be able to survive a nuclear
war.”

“Gold
star for the Dean!”

Milton
gave Tommy a little look.

Tommy
blushed, discovering how much rope he actually had to dangle from.

“But I
read the web was invented in Switzerland, at that CERN thing where they have
that collider thingy,” said Sandra.

“That’s
the World Wide Web. Completely different thing. The Internet is a
communications platform, the World Wide Web is an interface. Everything you see
on your screen is just data, whether it’s text or images, it’s just data, which
is broken down into bits that are transmitted across the Internet. The basic
tech of the backbone hasn’t really changed that much in decades; it’s just
become faster and more widespread. And in some cases, more secure.”

“The
Dark Web?”

“Exactly.
See, some people learned long ago that the Internet was just too public for
their liking. They dubbed it the ‘clearnet’. To allow themselves to take
advantage of the infrastructure, but protect themselves from the prying eyes of
the public and law enforcement, they created darknets, which are networks that
run on top of the Internet, but require specific hardware or software to use
them. Some even use the Internet as a gateway to an entirely separate, private
network that can be global in itself.”

Milton
whistled. “Sounds like spy stuff.”

“It is
in some cases. So if I have a special darknet interface in my home, I send my
data through it, it goes onto the public network, but only someone with the
same software or hardware can access that data. To anyone else it’s just
gibberish. Or, I can send my data to a specific device on the public Internet,
encrypted of course, and then it can be a jumping off point to send that data,
and any replies, across a separate, private network without anyone ever
knowing.”

“Sounds
sinister,” said Laura as Acton took another swig of his beer. “And this is
legal?”

“Sure, the
tech is legal, what you do with it might not be. Child pornographers live on
the darknet, so do piracy sites, arms dealers, you name it. But it’s also used
for innocent things like anonymous Bitcoin transactions or just the paranoid
conspiracy crowd who don’t want ‘the man’ monitoring them. Like any technology,
it can be abused.”

“And you
think this darknet or Dark Web is how they’re monitoring this?”

“Possibly.
What I do know is that we need someone with a lot more access than we have in
order to check this out.”

“Any
suggestions?”

“Know
any spies?” asked Tommy, laughing.

Acton,
Laura and Milton all exchanged glances.

“What?”
asked Sandra, suddenly noticing.

“Nothing,”
replied Milton a little too quickly.

“Nothing,”
said Acton, draining his beer.

It
might be time for some Kraft Dinner.

Unknown Location, New Orleans, Louisiana

Christopher Jones sat at a table, the chair he was in quite
comfortable, though his trip here hadn’t been the most pleasant. He had been
led out at gunpoint and taken via the freight elevator to the basement where he
was put into the back of a black SUV with heavily tinted windows. Once clear of
the hotel a hood had been placed over his head and they had driven for less
than fifteen minutes where he found himself placed in a chair after a brief
elevator ride, the hood removed.

A large
wall filled with flat screens came to life, a dozen silhouetted faces
appearing.

“Show
him the letter,” said a man’s voice, distorted, the effect disturbing enough to
send a shiver up and down his spine, his heart already pounding with fear.

A fear
he was keeping hidden from his captors as best he could.

Quaid
stepped out of the shadows, producing an envelope. He held it up, showing the
scrawl on the front.

To my
family.

Jones’
eyes narrowed as Quaid removed a single piece of paper from inside, unfolding
it gently before handing it over. Jones took it, his eyes narrowing further as
he read it.

To
whom it may concern,

My
name is Brett Jones. For several years now I have been under the employ of an organization
that is tremendously powerful and ruthless. When I met the love of my life,
Margo, I decided I had to leave this organization in order to have a life with
her. Unfortunately as part of this, I betrayed the organization and was
discovered.

In exchange
for letting me and Margo live, I was forced to write this letter, committing
any future children and grandchildren to fulfill any demand this organization
might have in the future.

If
you are reading this now, then they have for some reason decided to make good
on their threat.

I’m
truly sorry for this.

Please
do not ignore them. These people are ruthless and won’t hesitate to kill you
and the ones you love.

May
God forgive me for what I did. I never realized the ones I would hurt would be
the ones I loved.

Yours,

Brett
Jones

Jones re-read
the letter, his skepticism growing, not sure what to make of it. He recognized
the name of course, Brett Jones his grandfather, dead many years ago, but who
was he talking about, and why would he possibly think his children and
grandchildren would have to repay some debt of his a century later? It was
preposterous.

He
handed the letter back, saying nothing.

“Do you
have any questions?” asked Quaid.

Jones
shrugged. “No.”

“So
you’ll cooperate?” Even Quaid sounded skeptical.

Jones
nodded toward the letter. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. You’ve shown
me a letter that
might
be from my grandfather, who’s been dead for almost
forty years. What could possibly make you think I would pay any attention to
it?”

This
seemed to be the response Quaid had been expecting. He smiled, that same,
“you’re so naïve” smile that Jones wanted to wipe off his face every time he
saw it. “Mr. Jones, I’m going to explain something to you, so listen carefully.
The employers your grandfather referred to are from an organization so
powerful, you couldn’t possibly comprehend. This organization is eternal, has
been around for longer than the country we both love so dearly, and are the
ones financing your campaign because they believe in you and your policies.” He
held up a finger. “For the most part.” He smiled, as if there was room for
humor in this situation. “These people also do not tolerate dissent or failure,
and when one agrees to work for them, one makes a commitment. A long-term commitment.
In your grandfather’s case, the price for leaving the employ of the
organization, with the wealth he had stolen, was the next two generations of
his family.”

Jones
looked at Quaid. The man clearly believed every word he was saying, and the
fact he himself was here suggested at least part of what Quaid was saying was
true. Clearly these people had power and money and were ruthless.

Yet so
were criminals.

“That’s
ridiculous.”

Quaid’s
smile broadened slightly. “What did your grandfather do for a living?”

Jones
was about to blurt out a reply when he stopped himself, thinking back on the
family stories. His grandfather had been in the military at one point, but
other than that, he had no real clue. He had just been “grandpa”, and nothing
more. They had always been fairly wealthy. Nothing insane, just very
well-to-do. “I-I don’t know.”

“Your
grandfather was in the military. Did you know that?”

Jones
nodded.

“He was
dishonorably discharged, but his skill level was very high so my employers
hired him.”

“Your
employers weren’t alive then.”

Quaid
shook his head gently. “You’re failing to grasp the situation. The organization
we work for is ancient. No, the people behind me did not hire your grandfather,
but those in power at the time did. And your grandfather betrayed their trust,
and failed to fulfill his final mission, instead stealing a substantial amount
of money and gemstones, along with a priceless painting that risked
compromising the mission.”

“I know
nothing of that.”

“Of
course you don’t. Your grandfather’s silence was guaranteed when we threatened
to kill the woman he loved, your grandmother Margo.”

He
remembered her. She was so full of life, always with a smile, always baking
pies and banana bread. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the two of them
together.

They
were so happy.

“I still
don’t understand what that has to do with me. What my grandfather might have
agreed to is irrelevant today. He had no right to commit his children or
grandchildren to anything. What you’re implying is ludicrous.”

“It
would be if it were anyone else demanding it, however the organization we work
for made a deal. Your grandfather’s services were no longer reliable, however
his progeny’s might be. None of his children had skills that the organization
needed, so they were never called upon. But the next generation did have one
person who possessed a set of skills that the organization considered
valuable.”

“You
mean me.”

“Of
course.”

“And
those skills?”

“Charisma.
Ambition. You showed a desire to enter politics from the moment you ran for
class president and won. From that point forward we have manipulated things to
make sure you won each step of the way, either through financing you or
discrediting opponents. Whatever it took to make sure you rose in prominence.
All to bring us to this point in time, where you have a legitimate shot at
becoming the next President of the United States.”

“That—that
makes no sense. I won all those elections, fair and square. There were no
tricks.”

Quaid
chuckled. “Yes you did win, but sometimes with a little help. Didn’t you ever
wonder why any serious challenger you ever faced either dropped out due to some
scandal or from funding problems? You won every time, sometimes on your own
merits, other times with a little help from us.”

Jones’
shoulders slumped as he quickly ran through the elections he had been involved
in. In college he had won in a landslide when his main opponent was accused of
rape, a girl coming forward just days before the election, then recanting and
disappearing days after. He had run for city council, his opponent discredited
because of personal financial troubles, the bank inexplicably calling several
business and personal loans, Jones then capitalizing on the fiscal
mismanagement angle.

And his
first shot at congress his opponent had died.

His jaw
dropped.

“You
didn’t kill…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Quaid
laughed. “No, that was just luck. Besides, you were going to beat him anyway. I
see you’re starting to realize that everything you have now you owe to us. We
were content to let your grandfather’s agreement lapse with your generation
should you continue to follow our wishes, but your refusal tonight has forced
our hand.”

“The
Russian sanctions.”

“Yes.”

Jones
shook his head. “I don’t understand. If you’re so powerful, so ancient like you
claim, what do sanctions matter?”

“Sanctions
threaten to destabilize the Russian economy. With a megalomaniac in power, it
could lead to war, a war we do not desire, nor should you.”

Jones inhaled
slowly. It was his firm opinion that the Russian leadership had no stomach for
a war with a real enemy, nor would they have any hope of winning such a
war, their military still formidable, yet no longer the threat it once was
despite recent efforts at modernization.

And with
an army that still relied upon conscription to fill its ranks, he was certain
the volunteer armies of NATO could handily defeat them.