Wired Page 6
“She’ll be expecting that. I’ll try to plant a red herring for her to find and then a more subtle tracking program, but I suspect I won’t fool her.” Griffin shrugged. “Worth a try though,” he acknowledged.
Desh didn’t expect a tracer to work either. This wasn’t his real plan. What he hadn’t told Griffin was that he planned to imbed information on his computer for Kira Miller to find, indicating he was closing in on her. Perhaps he could force her hand. If she really thought he was skilled enough at pursuit to be dangerous to her, perhaps she would take the bait and come after him. It was the best strategy he had been able to come up with on the long drive from North Carolina. If you can’t bring the mountain to Mohamed …
Desh handed his laptop to Griffin and watched carefully as the giant worked his magic, downloading software and setting traps on his system.
About ten minutes into the exercise a troubled look came over Griffin’s face. He glanced at Desh but said nothing for several more minutes as he worked the mouse and keyboard. Finally, he stopped what he was doing and met Desh’s eyes worriedly. “I’m afraid your plan’s not going to work,” he said grimly.
Desh tilted his head in confusion. “Why not?”
“Because you were right. She does know you’re after her.”
“How in the world do you know that?”
“Because she’s already paid a visit to your computer,” explained Griffin evenly. “Last night.”
Desh felt his stomach clench. “You’re positive?”
“I’m afraid so. I confirmed it twice. She got through your firewall and invaded your computer. And she downloaded everything she needs.”
“What do you mean by ‘everything’?”
“I mean everything. She has a copy of it all. Your hard drive, your e-mail logs—everything.” Griffin looked back at the computer monitor and shook his head in disbelief. “She may just be as good as me, after all,” he said with just a hint of admiration creeping into his voice.
8
Matt Griffin performed computer forensics on Desh’s laptop for several hours, but in the end was unable to come up with a single lead. Kira Miller had worn the computer equivalent of gloves for this theft, leaving no fingerprints or DNA behind to help give them a direction in which to search for her.
But Griffin did discover she had created a backdoor entrance for herself: one that would make future journeys into his laptop’s inner sanctum to retrieve this and other data routine, regardless of any added security.
Connelly’s suspicions were certainly warranted. There was a leak in USASOC—wide enough to steer a supertanker through. Whether this was due to a mole or otherwise was unclear, but it was the only way to explain how Kira Miller had known about Desh being put on the operation practically before he had known himself. She had been one step ahead of him before he had even taken a step, which was very troubling. If Griffin had not been placing sophisticated tracking software on his computer, Desh would never have known it had been compromised.
Kira Miller must have invaded the computers of all of Desh’s predecessors, only they had never discovered the intrusion. If they would have, Connelly would have warned him. Given her access to their computers, it was little wonder they had failed to find her. Not hard to avoid being caught when those searching for you were—quite literally—telegraphing their every move.
Desh knew he had almost been caught with his pants down. But he had been lucky. Once discovered, Kira Miller’s computer invasion played right into his hands. He wanted to lead her to his computer and plant false information: now he had the perfect conduit for this, one that was above suspicion. He instructed Griffin to leave the backdoor entrance alone.
Now, while Desh continued his search for her, he would be planning the specifics of his trap. He knew he needed to be patient. She would never believe he had closed in on her in only a day or two, so he would need to wait a while longer. And the more progress he made prior to setting his trap the better. The closer he got to her, the more clues he uncovered, the more convincingly he could craft his misinformation.
Desh returned to his high-rise apartment in the heart of Washington. He had chosen it almost entirely on the basis of its location and premium fitness center. While his daily workouts couldn’t compare to his regime while still with Delta, they still managed to keep him in excellent shape.
While upscale, the apartment was a bit cramped. Not that he cared. Being single, he didn’t need much room, and he traveled much of the time on protection assignments, anyway. Saving money while he determined what new course his life would take was more important than additional square footage. His apartment was tidy, but he had been too busy and too numb to personalize it in any way. His taste in art was eclectic, from the reality bending, impossible constructions of Escher, to the surrealism of Dali, to the serene, impressionistic work of Monet. Yet his framed reproductions of favorite works by these artists remained entombed in brown paper in his closet, a telling sign that his spirit had been sapped and he had slipped into a steady depression. Even more telling, he loved books beyond all else, and had collected many thousands over the years: but while being surrounded by shelf upon shelf of his favorites in their myriad of colors brought him great pleasure, he had yet to unbox them.
Connelly had read him perfectly. Even before Iran he had been contemplating leaving the military, struggling mightily with the decision. On the one hand, he had found friendship and camaraderie in Delta, and the importance of what he was doing could not be overstated. His work had saved thousands upon thousands of innocents from horrible suffering and death from dirty bombs, nerve toxins, train derailments, and the like, including children who were in some cases the principle targets of planned attacks, unconscionable as this was. Many Westerners were still blissfully unaware that the future of progressive society was anything but assured. Desh had been on the front lines and seen the fanaticism that threatened to turn the world’s clock back a thousand years. He was helping to defeat a rigid and destructive ideology. It was a fire that was blazing across the world that, if left unchecked, would surely consume civilization.
But he had also dreamed of settling down one day. Of becoming a father. Of raising a family. And if he remained in Delta, this was impossible. He was always on the move, being called away overseas on missions about which he couldn’t discuss with anyone—including a future wife. Being married was the sharing of two lives, and he would be unable to hold up his end of the bargain. And if he did have children, each time he left his family would wonder if this would be the time Daddy wouldn’t be coming back—or be coming back inside a body bag, in pieces—leaving his children fatherless. What kind of life would this be for them? The answer: no life at all. He had refused to even consider it.
But now he had no excuse not to pursue a wife or family. He was no longer in the military and soon wouldn’t even be involved in something as dangerous as executive protection. He had wallowed in self-pity long enough. Desh made a vow to himself: once he finished this final mission, he would find a way to get beyond what had happened in Iran and get on with his life.
He rummaged through his near empty refrigerator and found just enough leftover food to cobble together a dinner. He then spent several hours re-familiarizing himself with the contents of his laptop and the thousands of e-mails in his log. He needed to know the full extent of the data to which Kira Miller now had access.
Finally, he sat down in a comfortable chair in his living room and began reading the dossier on his quarry yet again. He knew he would probably read it dozens of times before this was over. And each time, as he learned more and more about her, he would bring a slightly different perspective to the material and would glean fresh insights.
Desh’s cell phone began vibrating, an unwelcome intrusion. He reached into his pocket, removed it, and examined the screen. It was a text message from Matt Griffin:
key discovery 4u. visit me asap. don’t call. computers, walls, phones: all might have ears.
Now it was time to find out if his computer expert had truly earned his pay.
Desh armed himself as usual, threw on an oxford shirt and windbreaker, and rushed to Griffin’s apartment, his mind racing almost as fast as his armored Suburban. The traffic was light, but even so the trip should have taken forty-five minutes. He made it in just over thirty.
Desh felt butterflies in his stomach as he strode briskly through the short, musty corridor of Griffin’s building, anxious to learn what the giant had uncovered. He passed several doors until he came to number 14D. He rapped once on the door and waited, staring at the peephole to help Griffin make a quick identification.
He waited for Griffin to disengage the deadbolt and chain as he had done before, but instead the handle began to turn. Years in the field had trained his subconscious to set off alarms when it encountered anything unexpected, no matter how small, even before his conscious mind could reason out why. He instantly became hyper-alert, just as a woman emerged from behind the door with a gun aimed at his chest.
Already moving forward in anticipation of trouble, Desh lashed out with his right arm to knock the gun lose, and at the same time threw his body sideways to offer a smaller target. But even as he lunged, he realized the woman had anticipated this move, and had begun backpedaling rapidly. She fired as she moved backwards, but despite her rapid retreat, she was forced to jerk her arm aside to avoid Desh’s vicious blow.
If the gun had contained bullets, Desh would have won the day. Despite her quick action and reflexes, he had interfered with her aim enough that the shot only hit his leg, and even injured in this way he would have been on his attacker in an instant, easily able to overpower her.
But she hadn’t fired bullets. She had fired electricity.
With a stun gun, a hit to the leg was just as effective as a hit to the chest. Instead of bullets, two electrode darts had leapt from her gun and stuck like Velcro to Desh’s pants, discharging their massive electric payload in an instant. The electricity completely overwhelmed the tiny electrical signals his brain was sending to control his muscles, causing him to convulse and collapse to the floor, disoriented and paralyzed.
From the instant his assailant had emerged from behind the door, he had known she could only be one person: Kira Miller.
A vague realization came across Desh’s addled mind that he was now sprawled on the floor, completely and utterly helpless, while one of the most dangerous women in the world stood calmly over him.
PART TWO
Encounter
9
David Desh vaguely felt his legs, arms, and torso being repositioned, and his body being dragged a few feet across the floor like a 180-pound sack of cement, and then heard the apartment door shut quietly. He could see Kira Miller out of the corner of one eye. She was holding a large black duffel with three zippered compartments. Her hair was now longer than in the photos he had seen and she had dyed it blond. She was wearing bulky clothing that was far too large for her, in such a way as to add ten pounds to her appearance, and wire-rimmed glasses. Even dazed as he was, Desh was impressed with the simplicity but effectiveness of her disguise. Unless you had reason to suspect this woman was Kira Miller, you’d be hard pressed to pick her out of a crowd.
Matt Griffin was a massive speed bump on the carpet a few feet away; unconscious or worse.
Desh’s attacker knew his paralysis would only last about five minutes and didn’t waste an instant. She moved as if a Guinness Book official had a stopwatch on her, removing his windbreaker and watch and frantically conducting a full body search, not leaving a single inch of David Desh unchecked. She immediately found both guns and both knives and relieved him of them expertly, along with his shoulder holster.
With this completed, Kira Miller pulled a pair of stainless steel fabric shears from her duffel and hastily cut through Desh’s button-down shirt and white undershirt, tossing both garments aside and producing a large gray sweatshirt from a bag beside her. She pulled the sweatshirt over his head and slipped his arms through as if he were an infant, with remarkable facility but with a decided lack of gentleness. Finally, she produced an assortment of thin white plastic strips from the bag, between two and four feet long.
Desh recognized these thin strips instantly: plastic handcuffs. These plasticuffs, also called zip-strips, could only be removed if someone cut through the hardened, injection molded nylon plastic; a surprisingly difficult task.
She pulled Desh’s right arm out from his body as far as it would go, wrapped the bendable plastic stick around his wrist, and ratcheted it tight. She pulled Griffin’s heavy, lifeless left arm closer to Desh and used a long plasticuff bracelet to cuff the two men together.
Finished, she quickly backed fifteen feet away; showing tremendous respect for Desh’s training and abilities. She was smart and careful. Even the fastest, most accomplished street fighter or martial artist couldn’t disarm a vigilant assailant as long as they maintained a respectful distance. In addition, she had tied him to a virtually immovable anchor—the 300 pound dead-weight of Matt Griffin—who, Desh noted with relief, was breathing shallowly, indicating that at least he wasn’t tied to a corpse. For the moment, anyway. So far, her tactics had been flawless.
When the effects of the stun gun were beginning to wear off, Kira Miller held up a sheet of paper on which she had used black marker to write a message in large, block letters.
SAY A SINGLE WORD, EVEN BREATHE TOO HARD, AND I’LL PUT A BULLETT IN YOUR HEAD.
She put a finger to her lips to underscore the point and pointed his own gun at him meaningfully. She held up a second sheet.
NOD IF YOU UNDERSTAND.
Desh nodded warily. From the look in her eye, he didn’t doubt for a second she would carry out her threat.
She pulled out a third sheet, already prepared, an indication that she had planned her attack with military precision.
STRIP. WAIST DOWN. COMPLETELY NAKED. NO WORDS. NO NOISE.
Desh kicked off his shoes and clumsily pulled off his socks, pants and briefs: a difficult task from a supine position and anchored to Griffin that involved flopping about like a fish out of water and contorting like a circus performer.
Desh was focusing too hard on the imminent threat to his life to waste any energy feeling self-conscious or humiliated about his nudity, but it was human nature to feel more vulnerable when naked, and he was no exception.
Kira tossed him a pair of gray sweatpants that matched the sweatshirt he was now wearing and motioned with her head for him to put them on. He was only too happy to comply. All in all, while she didn’t seem to like his taste in clothing, he was encouraged that she was taking the time to see that he was re-clothed. If her plan was to execute him in the apartment, this wouldn’t have mattered. On the other hand, Desh remembered Jeffrey Dahmer, and he realized it was dangerous to make any assumptions about her actions or motives. She could be dancing to a song that only she could hear.
When he finished re-dressing, she tossed him a pair of soft leather slip-on shoes from her bag, and he managed to get them on his feet. The fit was perfect. And why not? He had bought several pairs of shoes in the past, online, and she now had ready access to the e-mail confirmations of these orders.
She tossed three plasticuff strips to him, one after another, and he gathered them up wordlessly. She held up another sign.
ONE TIGHT AROUND EACH ANKLE. THE OTHER BETWEEN THEM.
It took several minutes, but Desh did as she had ordered. His feet were now cuffed together in a three-plasticuff chain, leaving about eighteen inches of play between them.
Kira motioned for him to
roll onto his stomach and put his arms behind his back, which he found a way to do despite having to drag Griffin’s arm along for the ride. She held the gun against his head with one hand and slipped a plasticuff lasso around his crossed wrists with the other, yanking it so tight that it bit into his skin.
With Desh’s ankles linked and his wrists now firmly secured behind his back, Kira cut him loose from Griffin using his own knife and retreated rapidly to a safe distance the moment she had. Desh noted she was quite agile and light-footed.
Kira motioned for Desh to get up, which he did awkwardly and with considerable difficulty. She opened the door, checked the hallway, and directed him to enter. Only being able to move his feet a slight distance apart, he was forced to shuffle them in a rapid-fire series of tiny steps. Kira followed about eight feet behind, her gun tucked beneath her oversized sweater but not wavering from the target.
It was now after 10 o’clock and the hallway remained deserted. A rental car was parked just outside the exit from Griffin’s building; a large Ford sedan. As Desh shuffled toward the car, Kira pushed a button on the remote and the trunk popped open. It was completely empty.
Kira motioned for Desh to climb inside.
Frowning miserably, he bent at the waist and slid into the trunk headfirst, having to curl up into a ball to fit inside the tight quarters.
Kira didn’t waste a moment. The instant he was fully inside, she pushed the trunk door closed in a single, smooth motion, and Desh was plunged into an all-enveloping, claustrophobic darkness.