Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Read online

  “Sorry,” said Max. “Eight men to a team. Garrett, if you’d like to watch, there are stands all around the game floor. The room opens at seven-thirty, thirty minutes before start of play.”

  “No worries.” Garrett thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to get something to eat. I’ll see you.”

  “See you.” Jessie stared at him hard so that he wouldn’t even think of doing something cheesy like try to kiss her.

  “Later.” Garrett headed off down the hall. Jessie adjusted her shirt, bending to get a look at the design of a cartoon ninja putting his samurai sword through a laptop. The drawing was lame, but she didn’t care. She was a Ninjaneer now, too, and she wouldn’t allow a word against her team.

  “Come with me,” said Max. “We’re doing some warm-ups. Root-the-box problems. Standard stuff. You’ll need to meet everyone and let them know what we can expect of you.”

  He pushed open the door and Jessie followed him into a cavernous ballroom. Only eight out of two thousand teams had qualified for the finals. Each team occupied a U-shaped configuration of tables arrayed around a central command square. A scoreboard on one wall listed the teams. Besides the Ninjaneers, there were the Plaid Purple Pioneers, Team Mutant X, Big Bad Daddies, the Mummies, Team Koo Teck Rai, Das Boot, and, finally, Rudeboy.

  “New rules this year,” said Max. “We’ve got a TV audience, so they’ve shortened the game. We’ve got eight hours to solve four problems. Each problem is broken up into parts—‘flags’ that you have to win.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Short and sweet. Fewer hacks, but harder.”

  Max arrived at the Ninjaneers’ command post. Six guys in team T’s were in various states of preparation—attaching network cables, plugging in laptops, lining up bottles of Red Bull for easy access. Max introduced Jessie to each member of the team. All were polite enough; none of them tried too hard to hide his skepticism. Jessie looked at the other teams. Of course she was the only girl.

  “We divide our team into three squads,” said Max. “Attack, Research, and Defense. Attack analyzes the problem we’re given—usually it’s an admin code—for vulnerabilities. Once we find one, we hand the problem over to Research and they figure out any possible ways of exploiting the vuln. Defense keeps a watch on our own board to stop the other guys from stealing our flags once we get them.”

  “I’m Attack,” said Jessie.

  “I’ll make that decision.” Max pulled up a problem on his laptop. “Show us your stuff, hotshot.”

  Jessie scanned the code. Within a minute she’d spotted three “vulns,” or vulnerabilities, and called each out to Max. “How’d I do?”

  “Like I said, you’re Attack.” Max pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. “Linus said you want to beat Rudeboy.”

  “I have to beat him.”

  “No one has ever beaten him,” said Max. “But if you can spot vulns that quickly when the game starts, we just might have a chance.”

  80

  Tank parked the Ferrari next to an old oak on a deserted side street in East Austin.

  “Pull up your shirt,” said Mary. “Let me take a look.”

  “I’m okay. Let’s check that key.”

  “The key can wait.”

  Tank reached for the tablet on the rear console and Mary blocked him, pushing him gently back into his seat, raising a warning finger to let him know there would be hell to pay if he tried it again. She opened the glove compartment and freed the flashlight. The tan seat ran wet with blood.

  “Gosh, Tank. You really are hurt.”

  Tank lifted the tails of his shirt, revealing a pale, corpulent midsection. Blood dribbled from a hole the circumference of a pencil eraser in one of his rolls of fat. She helped him lean forward. There was an exit wound on the opposite side of his love handle. “Went through.”

  “I knew there was a reason I decided to put off getting in shape till fall.”

  “You need to say a prayer tonight.”

  Mary opened the car’s first aid kit and took out a roll of gauze, tape, scissors, and an antiseptic. Carefully she fashioned two bandages and put them on the center console. She cut another piece of gauze and doused it with disinfectant. “Sit still. This may hurt.”

  “I played ball, remember.”

  “One…two…”

  Tank hollered and drove a fist against the armrest. “You didn’t say three.”

  “Old trick. Now, relax. The second won’t be as bad.”

  “The second?”

  “I thought you played ball.”

  “That was a long time ago. Be gentle.” Tank looked away, eyes watering, and bit back the pain as Mary finished dressing the wound.

  “Try not to move too much. I’m not sure how secure the tape is.”

  Tank pulled his shirt over the wound. “Can we check the key now?”

  Mary grabbed the tablet and plugged in the flash drive. An icon of a hard drive appeared on the screen. It was named Snitch. “Let’s see what Mr. Stark has to offer the FBI.”

  She double-clicked on the icon. A directory listing three folders filled the screen.

  “Merriweather, Orca, and Titan,” said Tank.

  “Merriweather. That’s the guy who accused ONE of extortion.”

  “Your boy Fergus Keefe led the investigation that cleared ONE of any wrongdoing.”

  “He’s not my boy.”

  Mary double-clicked on the folder. It contained a list of over one hundred documents, Word files, photographs, and spreadsheets. Her eye landed on one titled “Prince Directive to Briggs/Nov. 10.” It was an internal e-mail from Ian Prince to a Peter Briggs, head of corporate security, and read: “Peter, pursuant to our conversation regarding M, follow up on attached list of target shareholders with a view to influencing positive outcome: our interests.”

  “Clever,” said Tank. “Prince says everything and nothing. Doesn’t specify who M is, doesn’t come out and say, Extort the uncooperative bastards who won’t get with the program.”

  Next Mary opened a file titled “Weekly update/Keefe to Prince.” It was an e-mail sent from Fergus Keefe’s private address to Ian Prince and offered a detailed summary of the latest developments in the FBI’s investigation into ONE. “Keefe was in Ian Prince’s pocket all along.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tank.

  “You just might have your story.”

  Tank started the engine. “I’ll need a lot more than that. One thing’s for sure. We can’t stay here and read it.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Tank pulled away from the curb and drove down the street, lights dimmed. “Off the grid.”

  81

  “Ed, this is Don Bennett.”

  “Don…hold on…Jesus, what time is it?”

  “It’s five o’clock here in Texas.”

  Edward Mason cleared the sleep from his throat. “Five o’clock. Yeah, all right. Give me a second.”

  Don Bennett stood on his back porch, gazing over his share of the American dream: a large, rolling square of crabgrass, dichondra, and dirt that made up the backyard of his home in Westlake Hills. Toys were scattered everywhere. In the dark he could make out a tricycle, a Big Wheel, baseball mitts, and a Slip ’N Slide that did double duty as the family pool.

  He picked up his oldest son’s mitt, a black Rawlings Gold Glove Gamer. In his day it had been a Steve Garvey with a webbed pocket. Don Bennett had bled Dodger Blue his entire life. Vin Scully had called the play-by-play of his youth, and though he hadn’t lived in L.A. since he was eighteen, he was still a die-hard fan. He tapped the glove against his leg.

  Garvey. Valenzuela. Kershaw.

  It was all about loyalty.

  “Hello, Don—sorry about that. I had to get clear of the wife. I don’t imagine you’re calling with good news at this time of night.”

  “It’s about Mary Grant.”

  “Christ…what now? Did something happen to her?”

  “She stopped by the impound
yard where we were keeping the Ferrari, posing as an FBI agent.”

  “Asking about the car?”

  “Yessir. Details are sketchy, but at some point there was an exchange of gunfire and a significant explosion. One woman was slightly injured.”

  “And?”

  “She stole the Ferrari.”

  “Mary Grant stole the fucking Ferrari?”

  “She was in the company of a tall, dark-haired male. We assume it’s Tank Potter, the reporter who drove her to the airfield yesterday. Apparently his car was towed to the same yard after he was arrested for a DUI. He must have seen the Ferrari when he came to claim his vehicle.”

  “And this happened when?”

  “Thirty minutes ago. I’ve been working with local police trying to locate the vehicle, but so far we’ve come up empty-handed.”

  “She came at three-thirty posing as an FBI agent to steal the car?”

  “That’s about all of it, sir.”

  “Shit,” said Mason, almost to himself. “That’s where it was. He must have told her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing, Don. Just thinking out loud.”

  “So you have an idea why she wanted the car?”

  “This matter doesn’t concern the Austin residency.”

  “A question of national security. Yessir. I remember.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you see, Stark worked at ONE. Even if it’s a question of national security, as SAC here in Austin, I think I ought to know about a case involving one of the biggest corporate concerns in my area. At least about what angle Joe Grant was following.”

  “If you needed to know, we’d have told you already.”

  Don Bennett laid his son’s mitt on the porch and set out across the lawn, the dew cold on his feet. He told himself that he was an obedient man. He believed in the chain of command. He was a reliable man. Above all, he was loyal to his own. And that included Joe Grant.

  Bennett was thinking about the call Mary Grant had asked about when they’d met for lunch two days earlier. Who, she’d demanded, had called 911 to look after Joe?

  Bennett hadn’t answered, though he’d already heard the call himself. It was standard practice in a homicide to gather data from emergency responders. Since then he’d listened to it so many times he had it memorized.

  “This is Special Agent Joseph Grant, FBI. Send an ambulance to the Flying V Ranch on Highway 290 exactly nine miles outside of Dripping Springs. I’m parked in a blue Chevy Tahoe. The victim is suffering from a gunshot wound.”

  “What is his age?”

  “He’s forty-two. Look, I don’t have time. I have to make another call.”

  “Is the wound life-threatening?”

  “I don’t know yet…I mean, yes, it is—possibly fatal. Send someone. Hurry.”

  “Sir, do you know the victim’s name?”

  “It’s me. Do you understand? Now do it. And hurry.”

  Bennett winced at the memory. Joe Grant had known he was about to be killed and had called in his own evac. And the other call? It was to his wife. The voice message that had been mysteriously erased from her phone. The message that Edward Mason had ordered him to do nothing to help restore. And that was what had Bennett so upset: why hadn’t Joe called him or any one of the other agents at the Austin residency? Why had he called his wife instead?

  Edward Mason went on. “Where are they now?”

  “No idea. The police tried to follow them, but they didn’t have any vehicles able to keep up.”

  “It’s a fire-engine-red sports car. There can’t be too many on the streets at this time of night. All right, then. Get a team out to her home, and to Potter’s, too. I want both of them brought in for questioning.”

  “I doubt they’re there. I mean, given the circumstances…”

  “She’s got to be somewhere. She’s a mother, not a criminal mastermind. Just do your job. Find her.”

  “And the car, sir.”

  Bennett could just make out a mangled expletive before the phone went dead.

  —

  Inside his home, Don Bennett poured himself a shot of whiskey. He took the glass and sat at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers on the surface. A minute later his phone rang. He checked the number and answered.

  “You get that?” he asked.

  “Every word.”

  “And now?”

  “Just do your job.”

  82

  Seated in the cockpit of ONE 1, Ian Prince completed his preflight checklist. Takeoff was scheduled for 0630. Weather en route was calm and clear. He forecast flying time to be two and a half hours, so he’d be arriving in Utah at approximately 0800 local time. He put down his clipboard and watched the sun creep over the horizon.

  Today was the day.

  Serena, the chief flight attendant, poked her head into the cockpit. “Everyone present and accounted for.”

  “Mr. Briggs manage to find his way aboard?” It was a rhetorical question. Ian had seen Briggs arrive at the FBO and hurry across the tarmac, looking far worse for wear. Noticeably, Briggs had not come inside the cockpit to say good morning or to offer his usual briefing.

  “He looks like he had a pretty rough night,” said the attendant.

  “Well, we all know Peter.”

  “Katarina is ready for you anytime after takeoff, but she says to hurry if you want to take all your fluids. Mr. Gold and Mr. Wolkowicz are sleeping in the guest compartment. Forward door is secured and ready for takeoff.”

  Ian taxied to the main runway and radioed the tower for clearance. He received it, and a moment later eased the thrusters forward. As the speedometer touched 120, he eased the yoke toward him. The nose rose effortlessly. The wheels left Earth’s embrace. ONE 1 climbed into a cloudless blue sky.

  Ian remained at the controls until the plane reached its cruising altitude of 38,000 feet, then handed off responsibilities to his copilot. “Stick is yours.”

  “I have the stick.”

  Ian made his way into the main compartment. Briggs sat upright in his seat, reading from his tablet.

  “Interesting night?” asked Ian, taking the seat across from him.

  “Had worse.”

  “And Mary Grant?”

  “Nothing to report. The ball’s in your court, right?”

  “So it is. I don’t anticipate having any more problems with her.”

  “If you say so.”

  “See you when we get to Utah.” Ian patted Briggs on the shoulder and headed aft to his private quarters. He felt like a man whose vision had been restored after long years of blindness.

  Finally he could see.

  83

  The cabin sat on a patch of grassland at the end of a dirt road, as lonely as the sole house on a Monopoly board. They’d passed the last dwelling several miles back, and that was already twenty miles due east of the highway.

  “When you said ‘off the grid,’ you weren’t kidding,” said Mary as she got out of the car. “And you come here for what, exactly?”

  “Quail hunting. I call it my lodge. Not much to look at this time of year, but in the spring the creek fills up and the grass grows waist-high.”

  “And no one knows about it?”

  Tank hauled himself out of the car and walked unsteadily to the house. “Plenty of people do. But they’re my buddies. There isn’t any paperwork or court records or deeds that Ian Prince or Edward Mason can check to give them the idea we may be hiding out here. Water comes from our own well. Power from my generator. Nothing they can trace.”

  “I can see that.”

  Mary stood behind him as he fished his keys out of his shorts. She was thinking about the poster on Jessie’s wall and its line about “information wanting to be free.” She believed she understood what it meant. Words, ideas, expressions, all had a life of their own—if not a life exactly, some inchoate animus that screamed for attention. You might keep them quiet for a while, but their very existence militated towar
d exposure and dissemination. The same went for the evidence Stark had put on the flash drive.

  Tank threw open the door. “After you.”

  Couch, table, potbellied stove, cabinets. “Nice,” said Mary. “Abe Lincoln would have felt right at home. You’re only missing a chamber pot.”

  “Facilities are out back. This isn’t the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “I noticed that. Even have the half-moon painted on the door.”

  “We aim to please.”

  Tank locked the door behind them before collapsing on the couch. “Coffee and mugs are above the sink.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “I’ll make it.”

  Mary fed the stove with kindling and got a fire going, then heated a pot of water and made coffee while Potter sat with the tablet, immersing himself in Stark’s files. “He delivered the goods. No question.”

  Mary sat beside him. There were the three folders, Merriweather, Orca, and Titan, each brimming with hundreds of files. They began with Merriweather.

  The directory showed e-mails from Ian Prince to Edward Mason and from Mason to Prince; from Prince to Peter Briggs, and from Briggs to a Wm. McNair. (It was Briggs who’d texted McNair: “Done?”) There were also e-mails from Prince to Harold Stark. Next came a dozen FBI case files that should never have appeared on a private corporation’s server. Joe had worked the Merriweather case along with Randy Bell and Fergus Keefe, and it appeared that Ian Prince had obtained every witness interview, every progress report, every request for evidence the agents had ever filed.

  A cursory examination showed that the Merriweather investigation had begun promisingly. Several key Merriweather shareholders gave sworn affidavits about intimidation tactics directed against them by individuals they suspected of working for ONE Technologies. Another shareholder spoke of an anonymous threat to expose his son’s drug addiction if he did not vote his shares for ONE. There was an affidavit from Merriweather’s chief financial officer that confidential sales data had been stolen from the company’s servers, and laterally, a complaint by the chief technical officer about the theft of secret engineering data for a project called Titan (which Mary and Potter presumed was the subject matter of the folder of that name).