The Gatekeeper, page 24
“Aye, that’s right. The lot of them was counting on things going their way in Boca Serpiente County, but that went pear-shaped. Major Guerrero sends his thugs to put the boot into me mate Alonzo. They fail. Again. Get ’em stirred up, they’ll have a right bull.”
Naomi and Beth Swanson look at each other. Beth shrugs. They look back at Dez.
“Bull,” he says. “As in bull and cow.”
They blink.
“Cow rhymes with row.”
Blink.
“Row means fight.”
Beth says, “This is America. Speak English.”
The phone in Dez’s hand rings. It’s Vincent Guerrero.
He ignores it.
The captain says, “You keep pushing them, they’re going to get desperate. I don’t like desperate people. They do stupid things.”
Dez barks a laugh. “This lot led with an armed assault on the Hotel Tremaine and a rolling jailbreak on Highway 1! An’ that’s when things were going their way! They started at desperate. I want to kick ’em up a notch to berserk.”
The phone keeps ringing.
Beth seems unconvinced. “Locked doors work both ways. They can keep us out but it keeps them in, too. We could just go old-school: cordon off the place and drag out the megaphones.”
The phone in his hand stops ringing. Dez tucks it away, draws his own phone. “Look at this.”
He calls up Twitter. The image on display is a megayacht with three decks, a helipad, and an infinity pool.
“Had an inkling this tug might show up here. It’s moored at Malibu, according to Twitter. Belongs to the Russian ambassador to the UN.”
Cardona peers at it over the tops of her glasses. “And you know this how?”
“It was moored off the coast of Boca Serpiente County this weekend. Petra told me who owns it. The ambassador is up to his borscht in all this. Means there’s a foreign national in the house, an’ one with diplomatic immunity, to boot. Means he can come and go on his merry, cordons and megaphones be damned.”
The borrowed phone in Dez’s pocket vibrates. He pulls it out, checks it.
It’s coming from Guerrero.
He ignores it.
Naomi says, “You have a plan?”
“Keep them restricted to the house. Let ’em know they’re well and truly fecked … sorry. Petra’s in there. She’s smarter than the three of us combined. If she knows she’s got allies, she’ll get ’em dancing to her tune.”
“What can we do?”
Dez says, “Borrow a boat?”
“A what?”
“Boat. Floaty thing. Prow, aft, starboard…”
“I know what a boat is. What do you need a boat for?”
“To sink it.”
Naomi opens her mouth. She pauses, then shuts it. There is literally nowhere to go with that. “Can I ask you something? The Russian ambassador to the United Nations is on scene. What aren’t you telling us?”
“Some bits,” he concedes. “Nothing that would interfere with you and yours, guv’nor. Got my word.”
Naomi Cardona studies him, her face as serious as sunstroke. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
The phone in Dez’s hand rings.
He answers it, puts it on speaker mode.
“Who the hell—”
“Hi.” Dez goes for totally bland in his voice. “You’re reached the office of Desmond Aloysius Limerick. I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m in your mother.”
He turns and overhands the phone into the wall of the apartment building. Dead center between two arcs of blood from the man who fell. The phone shatters.
Naomi Cardona turns to Beth Swanson.
“Okay, he’s sure.”
CHAPTER 73
Malibu Colony Beach, California
Vincent Guerrero stares at the disconnected phone in his hand.
He’s just been shown a photo of the dead body of one of his most trusted men, his neck broken so badly that a greasy white bit of spine is visible. The left rear quadrant of his skull is staved in.
Guerrero has also seen images of three more of his men, all badly injured.
And he’s heard Limerick’s voice.
Guerrero’s hand shakes. He wishes like hell he hadn’t had the phone on speaker mode. He wishes everyone hadn’t heard Dez’s childish taunt. Standing around him in the living room of the Malibu house are Constantine Alexandris, Colin Frye, Brittany Kinney, General William Tancredi, and Ambassador Dmytro Rudko. They stand, more or less, in a circle around Guerrero. They can see his hand shake in rage. No one speaks for several seconds.
Petra stands barefoot at the far end of the room and chuckles.
“Goddamn it, Petra!” Constantine wheels on his daughter. “You laugh? You have no idea the stakes at play here!”
“Do the stakes at play here have anything to do with homicide and conspiracy to commit treason?”
Brittany Kinney freezes up. “Homicide?”
“Two members of my security detail were shot at the Hotel Tremaine. Remember? Military police were shot doing a prisoner transfer on Highway 1. The assassination of Admiral Gerald Lighthouse, secretary of the Navy.”
Dmytro Rudko, in an expensive, camel-brown suit and bespoke suede shoes, turns slowly to her and smiles knowingly. Dmytro has always admired Petra’s ability to analyze situations and to drill down to the heart of any matter.
Colin Frye, the chief financial officer, blanches. “That … none of that had anything to do with … you know. All this.”
Brittany turns to Constantine. “Does it?”
Constantine ignores them both, approaches Guerrero. “Limerick. You need to send men, now, to—”
“I sent four men,” Guerrero uncharacteristically cuts him off, then amends, “sir.”
“Then send more! Send everyone! That prick is laughing at us!”
Guerrero steels himself. “Sir. Must strongly advise that securing this site is our top priority. The opposition could be here at any minute.”
Petra has figured out Dez’s game. He wants to turn up the heat? Fine. “And by opposition, Vincent means Homeland Security.”
Constantine shoots a blizzard-cold glare at his daughter.
Colin Frye looks like his head is about to explode.
Brittany Kinney is recalibrating all these new facts so quickly, the others can damn near hear her brain churning.
Petra says, “I’ll be going now, Father. I’m still chief legal counsel of Triton Expediters. With the CEO, CFO, and CTO sharing a cell at Guantánamo Bay, someone needs to salvage as much of the company as possible.”
“Actually, no.” Dmytro Rudko’s voice is melodic and cultured. “You shall not be going now, Petra. My apologies.”
He nods to Vincent Guerrero. Guerrero nods to his two security men stationed in the room.
He and the men draw their sidearms.
“Nobody is leaving just yet,” Rudko says.
Constantine dismisses this with a wave. “Vincent. Holster your damn weapon. Petra actually has a point about the future of the—”
Vincent Guerrero aims his gun at Constantine’s heart. “You heard the man.”
Constantine’s eyes bulge. “What in God’s name do you think…?”
His daughter laughs again and drawls out in Russian, “Polezni durak.”
Rudko also laughs, shakes his head in appreciation.
Constantine looks staggered.
“You used the term earlier, Father. Useful idiots. It’s Russian. From Lenin, I think. The concept of the foreign fool who carries water for Russian or Soviet interests, even if it means damaging his own nation.”
Rudko nods, smiles.
“I know you and Dmytro meet often, Father. Hours-long dinners with vodka flowing. I know now who first whispered this idea in your ear. Who planted the concept of Lexington. Of a new Vatican. Of a nation-state driving the military and political will of other nations.”
Constantine’s face turns red. His fists are clenched and pale white. His small body fairly vibrates.
Petra keeps her voice cool. “An Alexandris Center, just like Rockefeller Center? Only taller? A chain of Alexandris Libraries in every small town, like Carnegie Libraries? That’s what he crooned to you, didn’t he, Father? A robber baron for the twenty-first century. Statues of you in every town square.”
“Shut up,” Constantine whispers. “Shut up, Petra. Shut up.”
“It wasn’t ever the nation-state of Lexington, was it, Father? Let me guess. New Constantinople? Or, no, wait! New Alexandria?”
“Shut. Up.” Spittle flies from his mouth.
She knows she hit the target with one of those guesses. She can see it in the rage, in the undertone of embarrassment, on her father’s face.
“Polezni durak,” she says. “Useful idiots.”
Dmytro Rudko chuckles. “Petra. My God, you’re impressive. Vincent?”
Guerrero nods.
“If she speaks again, shoot her in the stomach, please.”
CHAPTER 74
The house in Malibu Colony Beach stands on stilts over the beach, letting the tide sweep in and out beneath the deck and the transparent glass floor of the living room. The walls are alabaster white. The entire west-, north-, and south-facing walls are floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s three stories tall, with twin dining rooms, a dozen bedrooms, and an office from which Constantine, once upon a time, and Petra, up until a couple of days ago, could run their entire international empire.
Dez knows there are exterior surveillance cameras; he’d spotted them and mapped them out the morning after his first dust-up at the neo-Nazi bar in Los Alamitos. He also knows they are brand-new. It gives him an idea.
There are several ways to further isolate the coconspirators in the great house, but Dez doesn’t know who all is in there. Some of the players seem emotional and squirrelly. For instance, he’d only ever seen Colin Frye, the chief financial officer/lobbyist, via Skype, but the man seemed like a stiff wind would blow him away. Constantine Alexandris is a stick of sweaty dynamite. And Dez has been pushing Vincent Guerrero’s buttons pretty hard.
Isolating them will ratchet up their insecurities. But at some point, that puts Petra in jeopardy.
The only way to read the scene, Dez decides, is from inside the house.
Getting in will be the least difficult part of his plan.
* * *
Dez taught himself to hack. But he’s an amateur. When his skills weren’t enough, he learned to reach out to much better hackers across the globe.
Sitting in the cab of his pickup, Dez goes online and connects with an anarchistic hacker collective in Shenzhen, China. They know his alias and he knows theirs, and a certain respect and trust have evolved.
Dez informs the collective that Triton Security, a subsidiary of Triton Expediters, has greatly improved its online protocols in the past seventy-two hours and now claims they are perfectly impervious to any denial-of-service attacks.
Several hackers respond with the equivalent of oh, is that so…?
A denial-of-service attack means bombarding a site with so much unwanted traffic that everything online grinds to a halt. The bigger the attack, the slower the internet connection. And Dez has just put a worldwide bull’s-eye on Triton Security.
By the time he drives to his next destination, several million attacks have slammed up against Brittany Kinney’s cyberbarricades. Kinney is very, very good at what she does. But unless Dez is mistaken, her internet access has just been rolled back to AOL dial-up circa 2002.
* * *
Naomi Cardona has seen to Dez’s one request. She contacted not her own LAPD, but her counterpart at the Port of Los Angeles Police, the independent law enforcement agency serving the city of Los Angeles and the Los Angeles Harbor Department.
Dez had explained to Cardona—and Cardona to her counterpart—that he needs to borrow the worst possible, barely floating piece of crap in the agency’s stockpile of confiscated boats. Whatever they lend him definitely will be worse for the wear. Dez intends to use this borrowed boat as a blunt object.
CHAPTER 75
Malibu Colony Beach, California
The dynamic inside the estate has changed dramatically.
Dmytro Rudko had been an uninvited guest, an uber-rich petrochemical industrialist turned diplomat with a long and cordial relationship with the Alexandris family.
Now he’s very much in charge.
Vincent Guerrero had been the patriotic, veteran Marine officer and Constantine Alexandris’s most loyal watchdog. Discovering that Guerrero and his security personnel are working for Rudko throws a wrench into everyone else’s perspective.
Petra has gone very quiet. Partly because Guerrero’s man is holding a gun on her. Partly because she’s recalibrating all the elements of the quickly evolving situation.
Constantine Alexandris is apoplectic. His daughter now is concerned he’ll blow a valve in his heart before she figures a way out of this mess.
Brittany Kinney and Colin Frye are in way, way over their heads. Colin shakes like a pampered Pomeranian. Brittany keeps her eyes on her smartphone and, with every passing minute, her frown grows more perplexed.
General William Tancredi, U.S. Army and, soon, likely to face charges of treason, has folded in on himself. His plan to save America has fallen apart at every single stress point: the murders at the Ryerson Ranch; the propaganda boost by media mogul Oliver Lantree; the taking of the nuclear power plant as leverage; the Russians acknowledging the existence of this new independent nation and establishing diplomatic relations.
All gone to hell.
Every good military commander generates alternative strategies for each engagement. Tancredi had. Every one of his contingencies has evaporated like dew under the gaze of a vengeful god. Now he sits tucked into a corner of the leather couch, feet planted on the clear glass floor of the living room, arms folded petulantly, staring into the middle distance.
Petra stands at the westward-facing windows, watching the ocean and the beach and the private dock. She turns to survey her captors; some of whom, themselves, are now captives.
Brittany’s frown almost darkens one corner of the perpetually well-lit room. “Trouble?” Petra asks.
Dmytro Rudko had been on his cell phone, speaking sotto voce and in Russian. He disconnects, glances at Petra and then at Brittany. “Yes,” he drawls. “Trouble, Ms. Kinney?”
“We’re under attack,” she says, eyes on her phone.
Petra says, “I know.”
Rudko steps toward Brittany. “How so?”
“Denial-of-service attacks. Not on Triton Expediters. On the Triton Security subdivision. We’re being flooded with unique visitors. Tens of thousands per second.”
“Surely a woman of your genius has ways to combat such vandalism?” There’s no irony in his voice. Rudko sounds kind, almost avuncular.
“Of course we do, but…”
“Yes?”
“These are coming out of Asia and Southeast Asia. Now Australia and New Zealand. We’re getting … thousands of separate attacks. We just became the number-one hacker target on Earth. Our internet access is down to a crawl and dropping fast.”
Dmytro Rudko draws his smartphone and attempts to log on to Yandex.ru, one of the top five search engines internationally, headquartered in Russia. The site starts to load and freezes like a Siberian landscape.
Rudko feels his avenues of communication diminishing.
He glances up from his screen to Petra, sun-dappled, backlit by the western windows.
“Petra, darling?”
“Hmm?”
“When Ms. Kinney said we were under attack, you said, ‘I know.’”
Petra hears hard-soled shoes pounding their way from another room. “I did.”
Rudko waggles his phone in the air. “Did you have something to do with this attack?”
“Hmm? Oh, no. Sorry.”
“Then…?”
Two of Guerrero’s men burst in and vector toward their boss.
Petra says, “Sorry for the confusion. No, I was just observing that someone rammed into your motor launch and it’s sinking.”
Rudko and Guerrero rush to the window. Rudko uses his inert phone as a sun shield above his eyes.
They watch as the prow of his motor launch arcs to face the sun, the rear of the boat fully underwater. A greatly rusted, flat-prow scow bobs in the rough waters near it, also taking on water. Rudko can’t see his own crew swimming for the dock.
But he does spot Dez, standing on the dock, messenger bag over his shoulder, dusting off his palms and looking pleased with himself.
He begins strolling up the dock and turns toward the Alexandris estate, bowlegged, happy as a clam.
Guerrero draws his phone and toggles it to walkie-talkie mode. “External Westside: Limerick spotted. He’s on the dock, heading for the house. Get him.”
Petra forces herself not to react. She reaches for her long-empty coffee cup, sets it back down on the fireplace mantle, which puts her within arm’s reach of a tall, brass, standing lamp. One swing, and she can hold it around Rudko’s neck, press Rudko’s body against her own, much-taller body, as a human shield. It might—might—be enough to give Dez time to get away.
Every eye at the window watches as Dez saunters and grins like an idiot. Two Triton Security guys in dark suits, SIGs drawn, sprint up to him.
Dez stops, palms forward. He holds a piece of white paper. Nobody in the house is close enough to see what, if anything, is written on it.
Dez’s lips move as he speaks to the guards.
They don’t fire. Petra exhales.
After several seconds of dialogue, Dez doffs the shoulder strap of his bag, lets it fall to his feet, and backs up. One of the guards retrieves it and rifles through it.
The other draws his phone.
Guerrero’s phone vibrates. He listens for several seconds. “You’re shitting me.”
Apparently, the guard outside is, in fact, not shitting him.
“All right. But slowly.”
