The Backup Asset Read online

  ...San Diego, California

  She’d had a moment of inspiration while in the client’s office, working with Brian on his new case, and couldn’t wait to see if it made sense in front of her crazy wall. When she arrived home, she went straight to the blue bedroom, not even bothering to get rid of her high-heeled shoes, and pulled open the curtain hiding the corkboard timeline.

  She’d been stuck in this long, boring planning session at the client’s firm, where her role was to observe who might have had a different agenda. While sitting and observing, her mind started speculating on how people gain access to positions of power. What makes them get it, what makes them seek it? What makes others want to be their followers? We all want the same things, she responded to her own thoughts. We want achievement, financial stability, security for our families, and a sense of purpose.

  So, then, what the hell could the mysterious Mr. X promised his followers? His followers had been some of the wealthiest men on Earth, natural born leaders, not followers. So how does one enroll the support of such moguls? What would they still want to achieve that they hadn’t already?

  The answer was simple: a sense of purpose. The men who had it all had followed Mr. X, or V—if that piece of intel about his name would ever prove to be accurate—to gain or satisfy a sense of purpose.

  Her initial thinking might have been wrong. She’d always assumed the common denominator had been the Islamic connection of all conspirators, which canned them as typical Islamist militant terrorists. But that didn’t tie into Russia’s beliefs, interests, or agendas at all. And V was definitely Russian; several sources had confirmed it. That’s why she couldn’t find V. He wasn’t about Islamism, or typical Muslim terrorism. He was about something else, something they all had in common, Muslims or not. Something she hadn’t thought of yet.

  She stood in front of her crazy wall, eyes fixated on the Post-it note marked X. Her cell phone rang, startling her. Still thinking of Mr. X, she accepted the encrypted call.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Hey, Alex, it’s Brian. Did you send it?”

  “Umm . . . send what?” she asked without thinking.

  “Oh . . . you forgot,” Brian responded, his disappointment discernible in his voice. “You were going to send me the email activity logs for the product and R&D teams.”

  Oh, shit, she mouthed quietly as she heard Brian’s explanation.

  “Oh, that,” she said, trying to fix it. “No, I haven’t forgotten. I’m on it as we speak. I thought you meant something else. You’ll have it in just a few, Brian.”

  She ended the call with an irritated hand gesture and rushed to her laptop, swearing colorfully as she trotted in a hurry to make up some of the lost time. She hated to disappoint her team; yet lately it seemed that was all she was capable of doing.

  Her old case was killing her, driving her crazy. She needed to close that chapter once and for all. She needed to catch the bastard.

  ...20

  ...Friday, March 25, 10:02AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)

  ...Walcott Global Technologies Headquarters

  ...Norfolk, Virginia

  John Baxter, Navy liaison and VP Navy Programs, entered the conference room wearing a smile that didn’t fool anyone. Tall and slim, with thinning, buzz-cut, gray hair, and a very straight back, Baxter emanated corporate efficiency. His charcoal suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie brought the final touches to his professional demeanor; the man was all business.

  He looked around the conference room, nodding greetings to the five people present, then checked his agenda briefly.

  “Good, we’re all here. Let’s get started.”

  Baxter cleared his throat quietly, then continued, “Welcome to Project Z1005LC1, everyone. You have been invited to participate in this TOP SECRET project based on your skills, expertise, and record of achievement. Congratulations!”

  Most of Baxter’s audience nodded a silent thank you. Some even smiled a little.

  Baxter continued his introduction.

  “The project’s scope is the evaluation, readiness, and installation of the first laser cannon onboard a stealth destroyer, the USS Fletcher. The Fletcher is a Zumwalt-class destroyer, as some of you may know, hull number DDG1005.”

  Baxter paused for a few seconds, waiting for questions that didn’t come.

  “Let’s introduce the team and define roles and accountabilities,” he stated. “You probably all know Bob McLeod, technical director, Navy Installation Projects. He will be the project manager for Z1005LC1. Most of you have worked with him before. Some of you report to him. Bob has excellent experience in prototype assessment and installation; that experience will come in handy on this project.”

  Bob McLeod nodded slightly, thanking Baxter for his appreciative words.

  “Sylvia Copperwaite,” Baxter continued, making an introductory hand gesture toward the only woman in the room, “will be in charge of the mobile platform installation. She’s a highly accomplished electromechanical engineer, and holds a PhD in computational modeling for mobile-platforms installations. She’s also an expert in mobile remote-sensing technology. Both her areas of expertise will prove useful for this particular project. Welcome, Sylvia.”

  “Thank you, John,” she replied.

  “Faisal Kundi,” Baxter continued the introductions, pointing toward a dark-haired man with an intense look in his eyes, “is the embedded software engineer who’s going to make sure the laser cannon can actually be fired and can hit the target.”

  Faisal nodded silently, the expression on his face remaining concentrated, intense, serious.

  “Quentin Hadden,” Baxter moved on, “is our weapons systems expert. He will be in charge of deploying controls and running tests. He has some exposure to the laser cannon from its research and prototype testing days.”

  Quentin’s frown didn’t disappear as he acknowledged Baxter’s comments.

  “Finally, Vernon Blackburn,” Baxter said, “brings to the project team a PhD in laser applications. He will be our laser optics expert. The cannon’s ability to fire a shot is under his purview. He is also familiar with laser weapons systems, or LaWS. He was part of the original R&D team, so he can probably answer more questions about the laser cannon than I can.”

  Vernon smiled shyly.

  “Any questions so far?” Baxter asked.

  No one offered.

  “All right, then. Deployment starts on Monday. Please use the rest of today to wrap up or park your remaining active items. Please make sure your attention will be undivided while you work on this project. The Fletcher is ready for your visit; her location is in the documentation in front of you. Captain Anthony Meecham will make himself available to you at all times.”

  Baxter gave them a few seconds to process the information, then continued.

  “Pay attention, think sharp, make notes of everything you see that will help us deploy laser weapons systematically without any hiccups. Part of the project’s list of deliverables is writing the first draft of the laser cannon installation manual.” He straightened his tie a little, then said, “Good luck to all of you. Make me proud!”

  ...21

  ...Friday, March 25, 10:54AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)

  ...Walcott Global Technologies Headquarters

  ...Norfolk, Virginia

  Back in his own office, Bob McLeod closed the office door gently and immediately leaned against it, staring at the ceiling and letting out a long sigh.

  “Motherfucker . . .” he whispered.

  He loosened his tie a little, not leaving the support offered by the door. It was unbelievable . . . He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that no matter what he did, he never got promoted.

  He had joined Walcott eight years before, as technical director for Navy installations, and he was still technical director for the same Navy installations. He had a top-notch record of accomplishments, yet it was always people like Baxter who were the vice presidents, while he was being forgotten in
the director role. What did Baxter have that he didn’t?

  Project after project after project, they were all the same routine. Yes, bring in the invaluable Bob McLeod to do the work for us, spend his days on and off ships of all sorts, moored all over the place. This way, he can enjoy the cold, humidity, and oblivion, as far from corporate headquarters as possible for yet another year or so, while people like Baxter become senior vice presidents, climbing the ladder on the fruits of his labor. How did Baxter even become a VP? He seemed to have had that role for a while . . . Was he born a fucking VP?

  No matter how hard Bob tried, he couldn’t figure out why he was repeatedly assigned on projects as lead, but never promoted. His career had been at a standstill since the day he entered the corporate headquarters of Walcott Global Technologies, a thick, impenetrable glass ceiling keeping him from advancing. Even his applauded patents didn’t make much of a difference; for the most impressive one he had received a ten-thousand dollar bonus, then nothing. No mention of it again. And he knew for sure that patent was worth many millions for his employer.

  If things didn’t change, if a miracle didn’t happen soon, he would probably end up retiring as technical director, having effectively killed his career by waiting on these people to recognize his value and promote him. He still had a good twenty years until retirement, but at this pace, yeah, he’d still be a technical director at that point.

  Bob McLeod was one of the best electrical engineers in the country. He’d graduated from MIT, second in his class. Then he had decided to pursue a career in defense technologies. He felt his work should have meaning, help a great cause. And for what? Probably any of the Silicon Valley mediocrities, carrying bachelor degrees from dubious Midwestern online universities, made twice his pay, and climbed the corporate ladder every two years so that he wouldn’t go work for the competition. Huh! How infuriating.

  He had been lured by the glamour of a worthy cause, by the thought of doing his job in the service of his country, but he felt he was taken advantage of. Simply put, he had bet his career on the wrong horse.

  ...22

  ...Monday, March 28, 12:07PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation (FSB) Headquarters

  ...Moscow, Russia

  Major Evgheni Aleksandrovich Smolin was a visiting officer on FSB territory; yet he was treated with the utmost respect and deference. The FSB had been nothing but cooperating, especially since rumors had started surfacing that he’d been assigned to work on a special project with the recently reappointed Defense Minister Dimitrov.

  The rumors took only a few days to transcend the invisible border between the Defense Ministry and the FSB, despite their rivalry and physical distance. People talked. With the rumors, of course, in Smolin’s case came the jokes. The latest one was, Why was Smolin promoted to work with Dimitrov? Because his penis enlargement surgery was very successful.

  The jokes and the rumors that he used to love before made him a bit uncomfortable now, considering his career had ascended to the point where he wanted to be taken more seriously. He could be a lieutenant colonel in a few months; the damned jokes had to stop. He had been offered the opportunity of a lifetime, to lead his own network of agents on foreign soil. On American soil. This was his time to shine, and he would stop at nothing to get the job done. Mr. Myatlev had been clear; one’s allegiance and duty toward Mother Russia never ends. Mr. Myatlev believed he had what it took to become a national hero; Smolin wasn’t going to let him down; not on his life.

  Smolin took the elevator down to the interrogation level. He checked the file he was carrying briefly; the detainee was waiting in Interrogation Room 9.

  He walked the semi-dark corridor looking for the assigned interrogation room. Distant wails were tearing the silence of the tomb-like floor. It reeked of chlorine and human excrement, a nasty side effect of extracting information forcefully from people. In there, the interrogators had life-and-death authority over the detainees. If a detainee happened to die during the interrogation, the paperwork the interrogator had to file was simpler than an application for a new parking permit. Human life had no value on this floor; only information mattered.

  He opened the door and walked in. The detainee, a young girl, looked at him with fearful eyes. She’d been crying; her face was all swollen and smeared with makeup and tears. Good; she was ready. It shouldn’t take that long.

  Without saying a word, Smolin went to the video camera installed in one of the corners and unplugged the connectors. The girl gasped.

  “Good,” Smolin said in a low voice, almost whispering. “It’s just the two of us now.”

  He reached out to touch her face. She squirmed and whimpered, but couldn’t withdraw too far because of the chain tying her handcuffs to the table.

  He touched her cheek, softly, smiling, watching intently how her pupils dilated with fear. Then he grazed the back of his hand against her breast. She whimpered some more, tears flowing freely from her eyes.

  “Nyet,” she begged, “please, no.”

  “Hmm . . . ” Smolin responded, feigning offense. “All right, then, let’s get down to business if that’s what you want.”

  She blubbered something unintelligible.

  “Let’s look at your file.”

  He took his time going through the pages, quite numerous for a nineteen year old. He took his time, using time against her, fueling her anxiety. Smolin’s interrogation technique had gained expertise over time, making him one of the most effective interrogators in the intelligence service. He knew how to extract information even from unwilling, non-participative, and unaware targets, people who would later swear they weren’t interrogated.

  “Interesting . . . ” he mumbled, loud enough for her to hear him, but ignoring her.

  A long, agonizing wail tore the silence from the hall, followed promptly by the girl’s gasps and quiet whimpers, while she fidgeted pointlessly in her chair.

  “Don’t worry,” Smolin said without looking at her, “we won’t get there unless we really have to. It’s messy . . . I don’t like it. People . . . well, people can’t control their bodily functions very well when they reach that level of pain, and that is disgusting. I’d rather avoid that if possible.”

  He looked at her and liked what he saw. She was pale, her mouth half opened, letting out quick bursts of air in a shallow, rapid breathing, and her eyes were dilated with fear to the point where he couldn’t discern the color of her irises.

  “Valentina Davydova, yes?” Smolin asked.

  “Yes,” she whimpered.

  “Says here you were an orphan, living in the streets after fleeing your foster home. What happened to your parents?”

  She sniffled a little and cleared her throat.

  “Social orphan,” she managed.

  “Huh?”

  “I was a social orphan. That’s what they call it when your own mother kicks you out in the street.”

  “What did you do?”

  “She was a mean drunk. I didn’t do anything but refuse to give her new boyfriend a blow job, that’s all.”

  Smolin turned a page in the file. “You were . . . umm . . . twelve then, right?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed, looking at her hands and sniffling a little. “They picked me up from the streets and put me in an orphanage.”

  “Says here within a year or so you ran away and weren’t heard from again until last year. Why did you run?”

  “Have you seen an orphanage?”

  “No . . . can’t say that I have, no,” Smolin answered, letting a faint smile flutter on his lips.

  He already knew enough about what made his detainee tick. She was strong-willed and had a sense of right and wrong, of pride, and strong self-preservation. She wanted to have a good life. She wasn’t going to sit idle and let people, no matter who they were, ruin her life or play games with her. Smolin knew everything he needed to make her comply, because he knew exactly how he could break her
.

  “Tell me about the missing years,” Smolin continued, tapping his index finger on her file. “What did you do? Where did you live?”

  She hesitated before answering, searching his eyes, as if to weigh how much truth she needed to put in her answer.

  “In the streets, mainly. Lived off people’s trash, here and there a kind person would give me money or something to eat.”

  “You panhandled? Begged for money at street corners?”

  Moscow had hordes of street-corner beggars, polluting the city streets with a constant reminder of the country’s descent into poverty and stringent social issues.

  “Yes, I did. Cleaned windshields too.”

  “Prostituted yourself?”

  A split-second hesitation before she answered, “No.”

  “What else? Where did you end up living?”

  “Nowhere, just the streets, that’s all. I couldn’t get a place until last year.”

  Smolin stood and walked toward her side of the table, then leaned against the table in front of her. He reached out and grabbed her chin gently, forcing her to look him in the eye. She shivered, her whole body trembling uncontrollably.

  “It’s not gonna work like this, you know,” Smolin said firmly. “I can protect you from the pain and misery detainees endure within these walls only if you don’t insult my intelligence by lying to me about obvious things.”

  “Umm . . . I’m sorry, I don’t un–understand,” she whimpered, stuttering and shaking.

  “You were arrested for cyber crimes, for one of the most advanced hack attacks ever performed on an American retail chain. The Americans have a reward on your head.”

  He stopped talking, looking intently at her as she averted her eyes.

  “Don’t tell me you learned how to do that by washing windshields and panhandling at street corners.”

  She sighed, a shivered sigh mixed with an almost inaudible whimper, almost like a stifled sob. Another wail of agonizing pain resonated through the walls from a neighboring interrogation room and she reacted again, gasping and trying to crouch in her chair.