Hack, page 17
“Of course. It’s the small technology company that’s suing the federal government for stealing its software,” Sam said.
“Allegedly,” Maggie said.
“Sorry. Stand corrected,” Sam said. “For allegedly stealing its software.”
“I’m concerned that Nik is being led on a wild-goose chase,” Maggie said in what Sam suspected was her most sincere voice, the corners of her mouth turning slightly down like a pair of parentheses, a squint forming on her brow.
“How so? Nik’s a pretty seasoned reporter. Can’t imagine what would be troubling you.” Sam may have had her own doubts about the story, but if she did, she would keep those to herself.
“Oh, it doesn’t have anything to do with Nik’s abilities,” Maggie said dismissively. “I know he’s a good reporter. Gets out over the tips of his skis at times, but then, if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be Nik. But there are national security implications to the story that I don’t think he fully appreciates. I can’t go into details, unfortunately, but I thought since the two of us—you and me, that is—are in law enforcement, well, that together we might be able to persuade Nik to be more careful about what he writes and not be so trusting of some of his so-called sources.”
Sam nodded. “I see. By any chance, did Nik mention what I did before I joined the sheriff’s department?”
“Not that I recall,” Maggie said. “Why, is it important?”
“Could be,” Sam said and popped the last bite of croissant into her mouth and washed it down with a sip of coffee. “I’ve only been at the sheriff’s department for two years. Before that, I was a reporter for nearly ten years, the last couple at the Washington Post.”
“I’m sure I would have remembered that, had he told me,” Maggie said. “Just like Nik to forget.”
“So, you see,” Sam said, standing and gathering her book and backpack, “I couldn’t possibly betray Nik’s trust.”
“No one said anything about betraying anyone’s trust,” Maggie said coolly.
“That’s true, you didn’t ask that exactly,” Sam said, “but nevertheless, that’s what I’d be doing if I were to try to manipulate Nik or influence his reporting. I’m running late for a meeting I need to be at.” Sam offered Maggie her hand and a quick it was nice to meet you nod of the head, turned, and walked away.
“Samantha,” Maggie called out. Sam stopped and turned back toward Maggie, a quizzical look on her face.
“Yes?”
“Let me know what you think of the book,” Maggie said, revealing the slashing smile again, but, this time, just a flicker, as quick as a firefly.
Chapter 41
January 8, Washington, DC
Nik’s cell phone erupted with text and voice mail messages when his plane touched down at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport in DC, and Signal, the encrypted app Cal Walker recommended that he download, was blinking like a beacon.
Nik wheeled his suitcase to a Green Beans coffee shop in the terminal, ordered a grande drip, no room for cream, and started plowing through the messages.
Mo had texted to tell him that he had a printout of all the names of servicemen and women in Cooley’s outfit and was now tracking down contact information for them.
Keep me posted, Nik fired off in return.
Mo quickly replied. Several live in the DC area. Should be a piece of cake locating.
Nik didn’t respond. He knew Mo had a tendency to be overly optimistic, and he’d wait for confirmation before breaking out the celebratory champagne.
There was a long, rambling text from King Kobe telling Nik that he had fired his lawyer, had no intention of settling the lawsuits against him, and vowing to take his case all the way to the state supreme court if necessary. He said he was getting out of the cattle business and was starting a company to manufacture and market plant-based meats. Not for the first time, Nik regretted ever hearing the name King Kobe.
Mia texted and said she was in New York and had a solid lead on Mr. Liu and that she needed to talk to Nik as soon as his flight landed.
The first voice mail was from a blocked number with no caller ID. He recognized the voice immediately.
“Someone’s been stalking me and Sara and tried to kill Pontiac, Byron. Pontiac’s at the vet’s, barely hanging on,” Grant Dilworth growled. “Who the hell you been talking to? I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you—fucking reporters. Don’t ever set foot on my property again.” There was a pause, then: “I’m going to get the son of a bitch who did this.”
Before he departed Michigan, Nik had emailed Dilworth a link to his story about Nukowski’s and Cooley’s murder-suicide. He received a three-word reply: Not buying it.
Nik searched his memory, trying to recall if he had slipped up and mentioned Dilworth’s name to anyone. He was certain he had not. Someone else had connected Dilworth to Cooley and Nukowski. Nik wasn’t sure who that person was, but he recalled Jud Beck’s assertion that there had to be a third party involved because the pair wasn’t capable of masterminding the Trident attack themselves.
Nik sent Dilworth an email assuring him he had not divulged his name to anyone and repeated his telephone number, home address, and instructions on how to send him a message on Signal if he wanted to get in touch. Nik held out little hope he’d hear back from him. As a rule, Nik did not give out his home address, but he wanted to demonstrate to Dilworth that he had nothing to hide.
There was a short voice mail from Maggie. “Um, Nik, bumped into Samantha. She’s lovely. I can see why you’re attracted to her. We need to talk about OmniSoft. It’s kinda important. Call me. It will be to our mutual benefit, I promise you. Bye.”
He had no idea where or how Maggie had managed to run into Sam, but, knowing Maggie as he did, he was certain it wasn’t just by happenstance.
The next message was from Nik’s landlord, who never called unless Nik’s rent was late, which it wasn’t.
“Nik, happy new year. We slipped a note under your door yesterday, but in case you missed it, my mother-in-law is moving in with us, and we need to install her in your apartment. This is officially the ninety-day notice we’re required by law to give you before terminating your lease and evicting you from the apartment. I hate that word, ‘evict.’ It sounds so harsh. Wish there were a nicer way of saying it. Anyway, you need to be out by April seventh, or thereabouts. Believe that’s a Wednesday. Hope you’re having a good day otherwise. So long.”
“Unreal,” Nik muttered.
Nik opened the encrypted app and read the message from Cal Walker: Nik, no longer feel safe here. Mr. L fears another attempt will be made on his life. Wounds are closing up nicely, but he’s extremely paranoid. Can’t say I blame him. Will be back in touch shortly after we’re on safer ground. Don’t trust anyone.
Nik messaged Walker back about Cooley and Nukowski in case he was living under a news blackout. Men who planted bomb at Trident dead. Murder-suicide?
Next, Nik dialed Mia.
“You back?” Mia asked when she picked up.
“Yeah, just landed. How’s New York?”
“Cold, but fun. The Dateline New York podcast and singles events are really taking off. I always knew it would be a big hit here in”—and she paused a moment for effect—“the Big Apple. Anyway, we’re set to launch our new app that will integrate with dating sites. It’s exciting.”
“That’s great, but I’m not sure they still refer to it as the Big Apple,” Nik said, feigning mild interest, having never actually listened to the popular podcast on single life in Washington his whole while in DC. “So, what’s this about Mr. Liu?”
“Right,” Mia said, “Mr. Liu. Pretty sure he’s who he claims to be. I should have a picture of him in the next couple of hours or so. I’m at the airport and flying home in about an hour. Once I get it, I’ll send it to you.”
“Fantastic. So your friend at the UN was helpful,” Nik said.
“Super helpful. She liked playing the part of investigative journalist, even if it was just for a day. She said the United States just assumes most of the Chinese delegation is made up of spies, in one form or the other, but even she was surprised by the response she got when she approached her China counterpart asking about whatever happened to Mr. Liu. She said the woman is normally pleasant, but she berated my friend for interfering in what she called China’s internal affairs. Later, the Chinese colleague called my friend back to apologize for the outburst and claimed Mr. Liu had become very ill and it was hard on the whole staff. She said he had been sent back to China for an unspecified medical treatment.”
“Good work, but don’t push too hard,” Nik said. “We don’t want to tip our hand.”
“Well, you haven’t heard the strangest part yet,” Mia said. “When the woman called my friend back to apologize, she told her Mr. Liu never worked for the Ministry of State Security.”
“Why’s that a surprise? Isn’t that what we’d expect her to say?”
“It is.”
“So?” Nik said, distracted by an incoming text from Sam, mentioning the meeting with Maggie.
“Because my friend never asked her about Mr. Liu’s work with the ministry. The woman just volunteered that he never worked there. Why would she do that?”
Chapter 42
January 8, Washington, DC
Nik made a quick detour to his apartment before heading to the office. He was there just long enough to take a fast shower, brush his teeth, change his clothes, and pick up his mail, which included a certified letter from his landlord with the official eviction notice enclosed, just in case he hadn’t seen the note that they slipped under his door and had ignored the voice mail.
As quirky as his apartment was, with the amputated staircase suspended over his bed, the place had its charm, and he’d miss it when he was gone. The idea of having to look for a new apartment made him tired, and he pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
He texted Sam about her bumping into Maggie but hadn’t received a reply. He wasn’t entirely surprised. Sam often said she was pulled into new investigations at the sheriff’s office without notice, and sometimes it took her hours, and occasionally days, to respond if she got involved in a murder case. He’d wait to connect with Sam first before returning Maggie’s call.
Nik texted Frank to tell him he was on his way to the office and should be there in a half hour. The traffic was light and he made it in just under fifteen minutes.
Nik strolled into Newshound’s office with his head down, reading a text message on his phone, a large cup of coffee in one hand, his satchel hanging from his shoulder, and when he looked up, he was staring directly at the soles of Dick Whetstone’s shoes, the editor having planted himself in Nik’s chair, his feet propped up on his desk.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the Galloping fuckin’ Gourmet returning from God knows where on his quest to capture the Unabomber,” Whetstone said scornfully, “or maybe I should call you the Conspiracy Chaser.”
“You’re a little behind the times, Dick. The Unabomber was in the nineties, but I’m not surprised. News has never been your strong suit. Would you mind removing your shoes from my desk?” Nik said.
Whetstone’s feet hit the floor with a thud, and he swiveled the chair and stood. “It would seem you’re the one who lacks news judgment, my friend. I’ve scoured the other local media and can’t find any recent coverage of the Trident bombing. Seems you got this phantom story all to yourself. Congratulations, scoop.”
“The two guys who investigators believe blew up the office park killed themselves,” Nik began to explain.
“Yeah, yeah. I read that happy horseshit. No one cares about a couple dirtbag losers from bumfuck Michigan. Can’t you get that through your head, Byron?”
“Guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree,” Nik said.
“Not for long, we won’t. I need to see you in my office.”
“Okay, but give me twenty minutes. I’ve got to knock out a quick story.”
“You’ve got ten minutes, and when you come, bring your Newshound identification, office keys, company-issued computer, cell phone, and credit card, and any other property that doesn’t personally belong to you,” Whetstone said as he walked toward his office.
“Sure thing, Dick. Can’t wait to hear all about the media conference,” Nik said as Whetstone stormed off.
_______________
Trident Park, Indiana Victims Laid to Rest
By Nik Byron
Newshound Deputy Editor
Dorothy Pence had plans to attend her best friend’s wedding this weekend. Instead, she paid her last respects to her former college roommate as she and three other Trident Office Park victims were laid to rest in Northern Virginia. All told, seven lives were lost in the blast that authorities now blame on two Midwestern men who themselves have now been killed.
Separately, funeral services were held in southeast Indiana for a state trooper and a store clerk who were allegedly gunned down by the same pair who blew up part of the Washington office park in December.
The Northern Virginia deceased were identified as Margaret Stanley, 44, Arlington, Va.; Scott Tompiks, 62, Alexandria, Va.; Bert Pope, 42, Tysons Corner, Va., and Terry Willows, 33, Falls Church, Va.
Willows was engaged to be married this weekend, according to her longtime friend Pence. “It’s unbearably sad,” Pence said. “I’ve never seen her so happy. She was looking forward to starting her new life with her fiancé, and then this happened.”
Officials believe the bomb was planted by Lawrence Cooley and Rodney Nukowski, a couple of farm laborers from northwest Michigan. Both men were loosely affiliated with the Three Percenters, an anti-government group, and were subsequently killed in what authorities have described as a murder-suicide. It’s still unknown exactly what motivated the two to bomb Trident, but the office park is home to several high-tech companies that carry out classified research for the US government’s spy agencies and has been the target of anti-government protests in the past.
Cooley, a military veteran, and Nukowski are also blamed for the deaths of Indiana State Trooper Clinton Ward, 36, and store clerk Patsy Howard, 29. Ward and Howard were shot to death at a roadside truck stop shortly after the Trident bombing. Ward and Howard were laid to rest in separate ceremonies this weekend. Ward was the first Indiana trooper to be killed in the line of duty in four years, a spokesperson for the state police association said.
Chapter 43
January 8, Washington, DC
“Remember boozehounders’ motto,” Mo wrote in an all-staff email inviting everyone in the newsroom to join him, Frank, Mia, and Nik at the Third Edition that evening after work for drinks, “All the Booze That’s Fit to Nip.” Mo explained Mia was returning from New York and might arrive late to the party if her flight wasn’t on time.
The rumors had spread fast about Nik’s run-in and follow-up meeting with Whetstone in the editor’s office, which included a company attorney, security guard, and an HR official. It wasn’t the first time the two had butted heads publicly, and everyone was dying to hear how it had been resolved.
“Kinda reminded me of a Mafia lunch,” Nik told Mo afterward. “A kiss on each cheek and a bullet to the head.”
Nik said he had no sooner sat down than Whetstone launched into a preamble of all of Nik’s acts of insubordination in the course of covering the Trident Park story while Whetstone was out of town at the media conference and on vacation.
“He gave chapter and verse on how I didn’t answer his calls, blocked his text messages, had his emails routed automatically to my junk mail folders, and pursued the story against his direct orders not to do so. I have to admit, he did a good job of prosecuting his case. He nearly convinced me that I had crossed a line when he was done.”
“So, did Li’l Dick actually fire you?” Mo asked in astonishment.
“Yup,” Nik replied. “Really, can’t say I entirely blame him, and that’s coming from someone who doesn’t even like the guy.”
“What a prick. He can’t do that,” Mo protested.
“Oh, but he can and he did. When the previous owners sold their media operation to Newshound, they got the company to agree to keep old management in place for eighteen months, and they granted them the authority to hire and fire as they saw fit. It’s in the contract, and they wouldn’t have sold without that stipulation.”
“What’re ya going to tell folks?” Mo said now as he looked around at the largish Newshound crowd that had gathered at the Third Edition. There were reporters and editors from nearly every department on hand, most of whom Nik knew, some he didn’t.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” Nik said and jumped up on a table and called out, “People, I got an announcement to make.”
Other than a few bottles slamming down on tabletops or ice rattling around in glasses, the group fell mostly silent, shifting their attention to Nik, who was now straddling two wobbly tables and looking a little uneasy.
“First things first,” he announced. “Drinks are on me.”
A roar went up.
“Until seven p.m. Then you’re on your own.” It was six forty-five.
A load moan and a few boos.
“I just wanted you to hear it from me before you get an email in your inbox when you arrive at work tomorrow morning. As of midnight tonight, I will no longer be Newshound’s deputy editor.”
A murmur rolled through the crowd.
Nik raised his hands, palms out, to quiet the crowd and continued, “I know what you’re thinking—I didn’t know Newshound had a deputy editor. Well, it did, and it was me. Tomorrow, Whetstone’s going to name my successor. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I’ll give you a hint: he’s a bodybuilder.” And he looked directly at Mo, who had a stunned expression on his face. In their meeting, Whetstone conceded that, as much as he didn’t like Nik, the staff seemed to admire him, and, to preserve newsroom harmony, such as it was, he decided to give Patrick Morgan the deputy editor title.
