Unallocated Space: A Thriller (Sam Flatt Book 1) (11 page)

S
PACE

F
inding
the hack of Houston's toll road system had expanded my investigative mind on this case in a big way. This wasn't just about hacking a casino. This was an organized operation, massive in scale. By this point, there was little doubt in my mind that when it was all uncovered, this thing would dwarf any nefarious hacking operation that had come before. Well, at least operations outside the NSA. Who knows what all that bunch had pulled off, and they fell squarely into the nefarious column as far as I was concerned.

Houston was one of many. The portal led to connections inside toll road systems all over the country. In each one, the hackers had basically installed taps between the automated car-counting systems, and the database that stored and processed the money transfer from each driver's account into the account of whatever government agency administered the toll roads. These taps siphoned off a tiny percentage of those transfers, but because of the amount of money involved, those siphons were pulling off a staggering amount of funds. I spent a little time trying to figure out where the money was going, but that was going to be a lengthy process because every dollar was riding a pipeline into the deep web, where it was converted to Bitcoin. That would have to wait for later, and most likely for someone other than me to solve. If my client hadn't wanted to get the Las Vegas Police Department involved, they would really freak when all this had to be turned over to an array of federal agencies.

Oh, toll roads weren't the only targets involving government agencies. These guys were running similar hacks on "smart" utility meters, siphoning pennies here and there off payments of water bills, electric bills, gas bills, you name it, but always in systems run by some form of local or state government. Towns or cities that ran their own utilities. Never private electric or gas or water providers. The more I dug, the more incredible it became. On the other hand, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Why go after hard targets like banks, or Amazon.com, or other major corporations? Go soft. Smaller government agencies were exactly where you'd find systems without the protections put in place by the Amazons of the world, outfits with huge resources and not beholden to the lowest bidder.

The one outlier in all this? SPACE. Exactly the kind of hard target they appeared to avoid with the rest of their operation. Dr. Jerry Rose may be a dweeb, but for the most part casinos hired some of the top minds available in security, both the electronic and brick-and-mortar flavors. So why go after them? It was a mystery, one that didn't fit. I hate things that don't fit.

I
started
one of my periodic scans through my email to be sure nothing important had come in, and stopped cold when I saw a subject line that read CONFIDENTIAL AND URGENT: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION. I opened the email and saw that it was from Courtney Meyer, the FBI agent who had called a few days earlier.

G
iven the brevity
, I wondered if Ms. Meyer hadn't been coerced into sending that one. She'd been much more verbose while spewing venom and threats, and I suspected that was the real Special Agent Meyer. I typed and sent a quick response thanking her for the email and explaining that, regrettably, I still couldn't cooperate.

I also spent a fair amount of time pondering her request, wondering exactly what she was looking for. Federal involvement made a lot more sense since I'd found the hacking operation, but there was no way to know if she was looking for what I'd found, looking for something altogether different, or fishing in the blind for something—anything—on a suspect she'd been unable to pin down.

One thing was sure: Hearing from her again made me uncomfortable. She was an unknown factor, a wild card who wanted something and thought she was entitled to it, whether I could give it or not. Feebs in that situation have enough power to create trouble. I'd have to think some more on how to handle the
oh-so-Special
Agent Meyer.

C
RIMEA
, UKRAINE

S
asha Maslov

M
ax was waving
around a piece of paper as if Sasha could know what was on it. "Why has the income from the casino machines stopped?" He shoved the paper at Sasha.

Sasha took the paper and looked it over. It was a printout of the computer operation's harvest for the past week. The harvest from SPACE had dropped to zero. "I've been busy, Max. I don't know. Do you need me to investigate?"

"No, I will pursue this," Max said, launching a stream of spittle halfway across the room. "I will handle this."

Sasha nodded, then waited while Sultanovich switched topics. He threatened, humiliated, and ridiculed Christine. In Sasha's view, Maxim Sultanovich was more animal than man. He had known him more than thirty years. In Sasha's line of work, he had seen a lot of cruelty from a lot of sadistic men (and a few women, too), but none like Max. He was a monster, plain and simple, and Sasha had long regretted the day he agreed to partner with him on occasional projects, no matter how much money he made. He wanted to grab the scrawny husk of a man and choke him until he stopped twitching. Not today, however. And not here, not in his home. He would wait, but in the past minutes he had made the decision that enough was enough.

Max finally stopped talking, put his palms on his knees, and pushed himself to his feet. He walked across the room and toward the entrance foyer, his goons tethered to his old carcass like flies hovering over a pile of shit. Sasha did not follow and did not say goodbye. The cordiality and manners would have been wasted. Just before Max reached the door, he turned and motioned for Sasha to come. Sasha went, vowing that his time of being a dog on Max's leash was almost at an end.

When he reached him, Max leaned toward him and in a soft rasp said,
"Vbyty yiyi,"
then stepped through the door one of the goons had opened for him.
Kill her.

S
PACE

I
t was nearing
8 p.m. and I had covered an awful lot of ground that day, and I did it on little sleep following an all-nighter. My body ached and my mind hurt. I shut down and secured my work, then jumped into my email for a quick check before I headed to my room. I answered the messages that needed it, deleted the junk, and was about to close the lid on the laptop when I noticed a news headline that read NINE WOMEN ESCAPE CAPTIVITY NEAR TUNICA CASINOS. I clicked into the message.

S
PACE

I
woke
up the next morning with my daughter on my mind. Glanced at the bedside clock: 7:42 a.m. After brushing my teeth and readying myself for the day, I prepped and powered up the little coffeemaker, then grabbed my phone and dialed her number.

"Hello," she said, her sleepy voice music to my ears.

"Hey, baby."

"Daaaaaddy, what time is it?"

"Almost eight, shouldn't you be getting ready for school?"

The coffeemaker gurgled and gasped its aroma into the room while I waited for her to respond. "Ally?" I said.

More awake now: "Dad, it's Saturday."

Crap. I sometimes forget other people don't work, or go to school or whatever, seven days a week like I do when I'm on a case. "Wow, sorry. My days run together when I'm on a case."

I heard a long, exasperated sigh, the kind only teenage girls can do. "S'okay. What's up?"

"Just wanted to talk to you a minute. You haven't answered my voicemails or texts over the past few days. We okay?"

"Why wouldn't we be?"

"I don't know. You usually answer me, so I wanted to be sure."

"Just busy. I'm in this new school and they're giving us a stupid amount of work to do."

Her new school was a magnet school for gifted math and science students, and I'm sure she wasn't exaggerating about the workload. "How you like it?"

"Fine, lots of nerds."

"Like you?" I said.

"Daddy!"

I laughed. "Hey, just calling it like it is, baby girl. Be happy, nerds make all the money and end up running the world today, especially beautiful ones like you."

"I give that recovery a six," she said.

"Six? At least an eight! Three separate positives."

"No way. You called me a nerd. Seven, tops."

"I can live with that."

"Hey, Daddy?"

"Yup."

"Did you talk to Mom yet? About me getting to see SPACE for real?"

"Not yet, but I will as soon as I wrap up this case. And hey, let's get together again in the next day or two, okay? We'll find something fun that has nothing to do with casinos."

"Sure. When will you finish the case?"

"Not sure, no more than a few weeks."

Another teenage-girl sigh. "O-kay. Listen, I really gotta go to the bathroom."

"Okay, sweetie. You go. I'll talk to you later."

"Love you!"

"I love you too," I said, and ended the call.

L
iving
outdoors most of the time, with a horse and without a car, presents some logistical challenges. Thankfully, I have Charleen "Charlie" Papa to handle these things. She has a little company—little, as in it's just her—that provides "personal concierge" services, helping out folks who don't have the time or means or desire to take care of life's pesky details but who do have the money to hire her. In my case, she serves as quasi-accountant, errand runner, and some other things. I pay her well because I trust her. I dialed her up.

"Velvet Glove," she said when she answered.

"Is this my favorite paid flunky?" I said.

"I'm your girl, handsome. Anything for a buck." She laughed. I laughed. Then she got down to business. "What can I do for you today, Sam?"

"You near a computer?"

"You know it."

"Pull up my accounts."

I listened to her click and type for fifteen seconds or so.

"Done," she said.

"What's the balance in the main business checking account?"

"Let's see, Sammy boy, looks like…a hundred and twenty-four thousand and change."

"Can you get me two bars and put them away?"

"You got it. Anything else?"

"Yeah, can you go to the stables and check on Johnny?"

"Now that's something I'd love to do."

"You rock, Charlie," I said. "Later."

"Damn right I do. See you."

I hung up and touched into the Kitco app I use to track the price of precious metals. I don't trust our currency these days, paper that's backed by nothing, and worse, paper that our government keeps printing with abandon. I also don't like having all my assets tied up in bank accounts that may be vulnerable to the shenanigans of a troublesome FBI agent with her panties in a bunch. If that sounds paranoid, chances are you haven't dealt much with today's federal government.

So I keep most of my money in gold and silver. The two kilobars would set me back about $84,000, leaving me plenty of cash on hand if I had a quick need. Charlie would make the necessary calls and transfers, then take physical possession of the bars and stash them in a safe deposit box for me. Like I said, I trust her. A lot.

Business handled, I left the room and headed for my forensication chamber, ready to chase bits and bytes and the bad guys behind them. The day was just starting and I had already talked to my daughter and arranged for a couple more shiny ingots. This was going to be a good day.

C
RIMEA
, UKRAINE

C
hristine Gamboa

C
hristine stretched
, opened her eyes, and looked at the clock on the nightstand. Thankfully, numbers were the same here. It was almost 3 p.m. She couldn't believe she had slept that long, even though she had been exhausted from the long flight. Even more surprising was the fact that Sasha hadn't expected her to sleep with him. He had shown her where everything was, brought her upstairs to this room, said good-night, and left. She had undressed, gotten into bed, and fallen asleep instantly, not taking time to notice anything about the room.

The bedroom was huge and lavish, like something out of a fairy tale. She had stayed in five-star hotels before, but none compared to this. Her bed, far larger than king size, was covered with a silky blue canopy with metallic gold stripes woven in. Sasha was obviously big on the Ukrainian national colors of blue and gold. She stepped out of the bed and her foot sank into carpet that seemed to caress her feet as she walked to the bathroom. It was an expanse of white marble, lit by gentle indirect lighting hidden in a valance at the top of the walls. On the counter she found a variety of toiletries, everything she could possibly need, and more.

She showered and put on a fresh T-shirt and pair of jeans from the tiny bag she had brought along for her failed escape. No makeup. Nothing or no one here warranted the trouble. When she descended the stairs, she found Sasha in the living room, pacing back and forth with a phone stuck to his ear. She went to the kitchen and put together a plate of fruit, then returned to the living room and curled up on a sofa with her food. After about five minutes, Sasha finished his call and sat down beside her. His face was heavy, his eyes bloodshot.

"You okay?" she said.

"Chrissy," he said, "we must to leave here. We must to leave here now."

She stopped eating. "Why? I thought I'd be safe here."

"You think I was expecting to come home to find Maxim Sultanovich? In Sasha's house? No!"

Now she was worried, because she saw something in his big face she would not have thought possible twenty-four hours earlier: He was scared. "What's going on, Sasha?"

"Maxim is telling me I must to kill you."

Tears flooded her eyes and the few bites of fruit threatened to come back up. She had originally thought Sasha meant to kill her. Then she had started to think she was wrong, starting to believe he really did want to help her, starting to relax, the terror of her situation beginning to wane a bit. Now it all came back in a rush.

"Do not to cry, Chrissy. I will not to kill you. Sasha will not let the old man to kill you. We must to leave. We must to leave now."