Terror: Zeb Carter Series, Book 4 Page 7

  ‘We’ll keep kicking doors,’ he squeezed Beth’s shoulder, ‘until we find who’s behind this.’

  ‘What if we never find out?’ she replied hollowly.

  ‘Then our theory was wrong,’ Meghan replied.

  ‘It isn’t,’ the younger sister’s jaw clenched.

  ‘Then stop wallowing in self-pity,’ her twin snapped. ‘You thought this was going to be easy?’

  A reluctant grin spread across Beth’s face. She fist-bumped Meghan, equanimity restored.

  They dumped Valdez, who was unconscious by then, in front of the Federales building on Paseo de la Reforma.

  ‘Just like that?’ Bwana fumed. ‘We let him go just like that?’

  ‘Capturing him isn’t our goal,’ Zeb replied.

  ‘He’s the worst criminal in Mexico,’ the dark-skinned operative flung his hands in the air, looking back at the body on the sidewalk, as it shrank the further they got away from it.

  ‘Not the worst, but he’s up there,’ Meghan smiled.

  ‘What?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘What have I missed?’

  ‘That water he drank…it had a soluble GPS tag in it. It’ll stay in his body for thirty days before it dissolves.

  ‘And,’ Beth made an innocent face, ‘I might have inserted a listening device on his phone.’

  Zeb couldn’t help laughing at the expression on Bwana’s face. ‘Now, we’ll know what he discusses with his tech people. They might reveal names. Details that might help us.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Meghan announced from the front.

  Bwana raised his hands solemnly to silence them. ‘She’s been thinking. Enlighten us,’ he beseeched the elder sister.

  ‘We should talk to the Russians.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Zeb’s team gathered in their office the next day to discuss on the intel received on the Brussels killer.

  Meghan’s idea of talking to the Russians was debated, but shelved temporarily despite her protests. More work needed to be done before that discussion happened.

  Aliases had to be set up for the twins, as hackers, so that they could visit various message boards on the darknet. The idea; listen in on any mention of the killings, any names.

  At the same time, Alexander Rubix, part of a protest march in Paris, on the Champs des Elysees, brought out a revolver and fired into the mass behind him.

  He then stood calmly and offered no resistance when police and gendarmerie officers surrounded him and disarmed him.

  In New York, Chloe turned on the TV volume and they crowded around the screen.

  ‘This march was about climate change,’ the reporter said breathlessly. She was a professional, a well-known journalist, but even she couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes. ‘It wasn’t against it however. It was organized by non-believers. Rubix made a short statement as he was led away. That his killing was a warning to everyone who were pulling France in a certain direction. He didn’t say anything more, but it seems obvious he is one of the right-wing extremists all over Europe who have taken to the gun.’ Her professional façade crumbled for a moment. ‘Ce qui, arrivee a mon pays! What’s happening to my country?’

  Meghan reached over her shoulder to turn off the screen. ‘Back to work,’ she snapped.

  They got back to their seats. There was no more doubt that any of the killings were random.

  I wonder how many more will die before we find the mastermind, Zeb thought bleakly, and picked up the phone to make a call to Pierre Guertin, the director of the DGSE, France’s intelligence agency.

  * * *

  Leslie, Williams and Smith met again, this time in Geneva, Switzerland. Over cheese fondue and rosti, accompanied by a fine wine, they compared notes.

  ‘More killings from my list,’ Williams, the host, said proudly.

  ‘We planned for that,’ Smith snorted. ‘But we need to be careful, distribute the kills evenly.’

  ‘About that,’ Leslie took a delicate sip of his wine, savored it for a moment before swallowing. ‘Where are we with the other developments?’ He knew, but he was checking to make sure they were all on top of matters.

  ‘America’s trade war with China has stalled,’ Williams jabbed the air with his fork. ‘That case against the telcoms company, that will die down, my sources say. Right now, they’re so focused on these killings that everything else is a distraction.’

  ‘Good. Just as we predicted,’ Smith smiled smugly. ‘In Europe, any talk of regulation on the internet companies has disappeared. Poof! Just like that. They are more worried about keeping their countries together. The European Union has to deal with multiple problems. Brexit, the rise of nationalism in its various countries and our killings.’ Which,’ he said triumphantly, ‘is only fueling that sentiment. People are unhappy with their governments. They want action. They don’t know what that should be, people never do,’ he snorted contemptuously. ‘And the governments are equally clueless. Everything,’ he said in satisfaction, ‘is progressing well on the killing front.’

  ‘Now,’ he leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘What about the acquisitions?’

  ‘The stock markets have fallen,’ Leslie replied, ‘but they have further to go. We are ready at my end. We have set up shell companies to buy stakes. I hope you two have, as well.’

  Smith and Williams nodded. The three of them had identified target companies in Europe, USA and Asia. Internet companies, telcoms firms, organizations that held customer data, because that’s what they were really interested in. Customer details, consumer behavior. With that, they could influence people, they could nudge them into certain behaviors. Like the killings they were enabling. Or influencing their choices at the polling booths.

  With data, they could rule the world.

  ‘Remember, we have rules,’ Leslie warned. ‘The three of us acquire stakes in companies and countries without competing with each other. We will meet again to decide when we start buying. In the US, our approach is different.’

  ‘We don’t act until the Dow falls further,’ Smith said in a bored tone. ‘And we all buy the same stake in the US companies. We haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘What about the G20 Summit in London?’

  ‘What about it?’ Smith challenged.

  ‘That’s two months away,’ Leslie explained patiently. ‘By then we should have built enough stakes to take control in all these companies.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ Williams snorted. ‘At the rate the world stock markets are falling, we’ll get there quickly.’

  ‘And the announcement at the G20?’

  ‘My boss will begin briefing our leader,’ Smith announced. ‘I am confident we can make that statement.’

  ‘My superior knows where we are with everything,’ Leslie briefed them. ‘He is ready to tell our leader when the time is ripe.’

  ‘The same, here,’ Williams replied in satisfaction. ‘But what about the riots? We haven’t seen any, so far!’

  ‘You will,’ Leslie predicted. ‘Shall we make a bet, a gentleman’s wager, on which country will see the next killing?’

  ‘Germany!’

  ‘USA!’

  ‘Britain!’

  Williams made a note of the monies they put on the countries and showed it to them. They agreed and then the host called for a toast.

  ‘To riots.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Zeb was on the roof of their office building that night. Clear sky for a change. Thousands of stars like pinpricks against a backlit, dark fabric. A few clouds. That red, blinking light over there was an aircraft, passengers in an aluminum tube as they crossed the Atlantic.

  He scented her before he felt her presence. Summer and lilac. Meghan Petersen. Bedrock. Anchor as well as sail.

  She joined him and looked up without a word.

  ‘It’s not like you to be out here, all alone,’ she said after a while.

  He looked sideways, in astonishment. It’s just like me!

  H
er lips curved when she felt his gaze. ‘Alright. Who else would escape his friends and be alone?’

  ‘You ever think about how much longer we can do this?’ he asked her. ‘Going after terrorists, criminals.’

  ‘No. It’s what I love.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Zeb,’ she turned to face him and crossed her arms. ‘What’s up? Why that question?’

  ‘I’m not getting any younger. None of us are. And at times like these, when we have made no progress, I wonder, are we making any difference? Why are we doing all this?’

  He stopped suddenly, aware that he had never confided in any one. Not in this manner and not after what had happened to his family.

  He shifted uncomfortably when he felt her green eyes on him, as if she could read his innermost secrets.

  ‘That,’ she pointed to the sky, ‘those stars, the planets, their movements, that’s order. What do you think will happen when that order’s broken?’

  ‘There will be a reaction. A new order will take its place.’

  ‘Correct. Now, that,’ she looked down at the traffic far below, crawling like insects. ‘That too is order, but manmade. What happens when those rules are broken?’

  ‘Repercussions.’

  ‘And that’s the difference, Zeb, between what’s happening up there and down below. There’s order on our planet and in our universe. But what we have, we can control. We should control. Don’t you think so? Do we want to have a repeat of what happened to Johann Schwann?’

  Flash of memory. Green, faded digits on a forearm.

  ‘Nope,’ he shuddered.

  ‘And that’s why we do what we do,’ she smiled triumphantly. ‘That’s why you’re up here at night, awake, while the world is sleeping. Because it is what you do. It is what you want to do.’

  ‘Besides,’ a laugh bubbled out of her and floated and shimmered in the night. ‘I can’t see you spending your time, fishing.’

  You could, honey, when the time is right. With the right person.

  He started. That wasn’t his inner voice. It was warm and rich, a sound that he had woken up with and slept to, years ago. It was his wife’s voice, her dancing eyes in his mind.

  ‘What? What did I say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Zeb swallowed. ‘An old memory.’ He turned abruptly and headed downstairs.

  ‘Zeb,’ she stopped him.

  ‘Will the world be any different if we stopped what we were doing? Who knows? Maybe some other agency would go after these killers and maybe not much would be different. But you know what? You wouldn’t be you if you stopped. Neither would I, or Beth or Broker or any of us. Sure, we can’t do this forever, but neither can we stop for as long as we’re capable, because that’s who we are.’

  Of course, it’s as simple as that, Zeb thought as he watched the way the moonlight glowed around her like a halo and then he nodded, a small movement of his head but it conveyed a wealth of emotion and he went downstairs, ready, energized, to do what he did best.

  Take down bad actors.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘Tverskoy Bratva,’ Meghan announced to her assembled flock, some of the most lethal bunch of people in the world, the Agency operatives.

  Assembled was describing it loosely for the way they were spread out across the couches, listening to her findings.

  ‘Isn’t that a Russian Mafia gang?’ Bear stroked his beard, a thing of beauty that flowed from his chin, down to his neck. He tended to it every day, kept it trimmed and tidy. Said it won him half the battles. Looking at him, one could believe his claim.

  ‘Yeah. Not the largest gang, but the most vicious. They’re into everything criminal.’

  ‘Why are they of interest to us?’ Broker toyed with the golf club in his hand, wiped an invisible speck of dust on its handle with a piece of lint.

  ‘Beth and I, we’ve been hanging out in the darknet, posing as hackers –’

  ‘While you’ve been lounging around in the office,’ her sister glared at them balefully.

  ‘We found something,’ the older twin shushed her. ‘A mention about all these incidents. That the bratva was busy. It was a remark made by one poster to another, in that snarky way these dudes have. And they’re all dudes. No women in there. I looked up his post history and he’s been dropping comments about the gang for a while.’

  ‘He specifically referred to the killings?’ Broker sat up straighter, ‘and took the bratva’s name?’

  ‘Nope, but there were enough clues in his post…You been watching the news? Some Moscow people, have been busy.’

  She pressed a button on a remote and the message appeared on the screen. A frisson around the room. The sisters’ faces alight with excitement. The first lead.

  ‘How did others on the board respond?’ Zeb asked. The sisters had become reputed hackers themselves, they needed to be if the Agency had to access various databases in the world. They frequently visit all those forums, to know what’s happening in the darknet. They’ve programmed Werner to listen in as well. Disposable aliases for different forums, their tracks hidden by layers of crypto security.

  ‘Here’s the thing. He deleted his post immediately. Hold fire,’ she said when Bwana made to comment. ‘We went to the archives, the database behind that board and got his message.’

  ‘That’s wicked,’ Broker said admiringly. ‘I would’ve expected the darknet to have more security.’

  ‘Most of the sites out there, do. But this one is more vulnerable. It’s frequented not just by hackers but everyone. It’s like a clearing house for goss, rumors, that kind of stuff.’

  ‘What else has he posted?’ Chloe asked, looking at the message which was in Russian, which all of them were fluent in.

  ‘He seems to be a street dealer. Meth, crack, smack. He’s posted about the quality he’s got, how he can be contacted.’

  ‘All that in the open?’ Roger’s jaw dropped.

  ‘It’s called the darknet for a reason,’ Beth smirked. ‘Only those who know the IP addresses of those sites can visit it. And then there are elaborate registration mechanisms to overcome.’

  ‘Surely cops can go to those sites just like you did and see these messages.’

  ‘They could. But proving what’s on a forum and what happens on the streets is a different matter.’

  ‘I’m missing something here,’ Bwana said. ‘How does this dude connect to that gang.’

  ‘This is where it gets better,’ Beth pointed to the poster’s image and enlarged it until it filled the wall. A pale-skinned face, dark hair, dark eyes. ‘That’s him. Our poster.’

  ‘That could be anyone. Heck, it could be a fake image.’

  ‘Yeah, and that’s what we thought at first. Most posters don’t have profile pics. Just their aliases. We ran facial recognition on that image.’

  A click. A newspaper report of a crime. The same face in the coverage.

  ‘Meet Roman Azarov. Hitter for the Tverskoy Bratva. Killed two years back in a shootout with another gang in a Moscow night-club.’

  Silence as they read through the report and then Bear rumbled, ‘I still don’t see the connection. That poster could have just used that photo.’

  Here it comes, Zeb thought as Beth flashed a triumphant look. The knockout punch.

  ‘And this is Oleg Azarov,’ she brought up a Facebook page, ‘Roman’s younger brother. Officially a ride-share driver in Moscow. You want proof? Oleg was online at the same time that message went up on the darknet. All those other posts of his? Our man was on the internet all those times.’

  Ride-share drivers, Zeb thought. Russian Mafia recruits them to be their eyes and ears. Because they see and hear a lot.

  He was convinced. ‘You know where Oleg Azarov hangs out?’

  ‘Troitsk settlement. In an apartment that he can’t afford. It’s possible it’s gang accommodation.’

  ‘Let’s ask him a few questions.’

  ‘That’s what I said a while back,’ Meghan snarked.
‘We gotta talk to the Russians.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Gulfstream was on its way to Moscow that night as news broke out during the day of more incidents.

  The first one was in Dallas. A man was seen driving around a school in Oakcliff. Middle-Eastern looking. Parents reported him to the cops who arrested him for suspicious behavior. It turned out that the man had recently moved to the city and was checking out schools for his kids. As for his looks…. he was recently discharged from the US army, after serving a long spell in Afghanistan, which was where he got his tan.

  Several hours later a group of protesters marched to the Dallas PD’s headquarters, claiming that the officers had acted on racial bias. Another bunch of citizens marched to support the cops. Words were exchanged, matters escalated, guns were pulled on both sides and, in the brief, ugly shootout, three men were killed. That led to more protest marches, more confrontation scenes, standoffs between the cops and citizens, between groups of protesters and supporters.

  In London, in Twickenham, a leafy, affluent suburb, a bus driver crashed his vehicle into a crowded shopping mall killing seven people and injuring many more. When arrested, he claimed he was standing up for the English who were tired of political correctness in the country.

  The first riots broke out in Britain’s capital when the Agency’s aircraft lifted off from JFK. They spread to Berlin when they were halfway across the Atlantic.

  ‘We’ve got to shut this down. Fast,’ Beth said soberly, as they followed the news on the onboard TV.

  ‘What do we know of this gang?’ Zeb asked in reply.

  ‘Nikolai Tverskoy, pakhan, the boss. An orphan, found in Moscow, in the Tverskoy neighborhood, from which he took his name. Juvie record of shoplifting, assault. Graduated into dealing and as he grew older, kidnapping, extortion. Killed his first victim when he was nineteen. Served three years in prison. Seemed to make political connections because he was released early and after that, he rose fast. He’s smart. He’s got connections, like all the gangs, but he’s one of the few gangs who are active in cybercrimes.’