The mortician hung up, and Jane returned her attention to the computer screen, to the exquisite architecture of the telecom provider’s integrated systems.
Before she’d gone on leave from the FBI following Nick’s death, she had known a sweet, funny, white-hat hacker who was employed by the Bureau—Vikram Rangnekar. From time to time, Vikram took a ride into black-hat territory when instructed to do so by the director or by some highly placed person in the Department of Justice. In spite of Jane being a married woman, Vikram had an unrequited crush on her and delighted in showing her what he had created—“my wicked little babies”—with the sanction of his superiors.
Although Jane had been a by-the-book agent who never resorted to illegal methods, she couldn’t resist learning who was corrupt over at Justice and what they were up to. She allowed Vikram to take her on tours of his black-hat installations, which was, for him, the equivalent of a male peacock spreading and shaking its magnificent tail of iridescent feathers. Some of his wicked little babies were back doors by which he could easily and secretly invade the computer networks of every major telecom provider. By various means, he’d installed a rootkit, a powerful malware program, in each of those companies’ systems. The rootkit functioned at such low levels that Vikram could navigate those networks without leaving tracks; and the most skilled IT-security specialists would be unlikely to detect his activity even while he was buccaneering through their systems.
He had shown Jane how to exploit those back doors, and for all his peacocking, he had received only a kiss on the cheek—which it seemed was more than he’d expected.
Because every computer had an identifier built into it and could be located in real time by track-to-source programs, she did not own a laptop or other computer, not since she had gone on the run. For the same reason, she used only disposable cellphones.
Two days earlier, in short sessions, sitting at the public-access computers in a series of libraries, she had opened Vikram’s back doors and had gone searching those company records for Booth Hendrickson’s telecom accounts. The Department of Justice provided a smartphone for him, and he owned a second that he paid for himself.
Now, with Simon’s computer, Jane entered those account files and deleted Hendrickson’s private number, terminated it with extreme prejudice, which should at once have caused a cascade of changes through the strata of the company’s system, resulting in immediate deactivation of the number and cancellation of service. She turned her attention next to the account provided to him by the Department of Justice.
5
As the Cadillac limousine pulls away from the terminal, Booth Hendrickson requests that the driver close the partition between himself and the passenger cabin. Booth needs to make an urgent phone call, for which he requires privacy.
If the driver is an imposter and if he suspects that perhaps Booth has identified him as such, he nevertheless complies with the request.
Booth and Simon have different worthless fathers, therefore different surnames. They have taken pains to obscure that they are half brothers, lest some diligent inspector general at Justice—or at another department where Booth exercises authority—might one day discover that tens of millions of dollars in public funds have been, by contract, funneled into Simon’s various enterprises by his kin, in violation of several federal statutes.
He and Simon tend to discuss everything face-to-face. When they speak by phone, which is rare, they either rely on disposables or Booth uses his personal smartphone, never the one provided by the Department of Justice.
Now he discovers that the preferred phone is not working. The screen brightens but is blank: no telecom name, no signature music.
With no other choice, he tries his business phone, but with the same result.
He is not carrying a disposable.
The days when limousines provided a phone in the passenger cabin are long gone.
As the Cadillac slows to a stop at a traffic light, Hendrickson tries the door beside him. Of course it’s locked. Safety regulations and insurance-company provisions require that a limousine driver control the locks on the passenger compartment when the vehicle is in transit and release them only when parked, lest some idiot drunk or willful child should open a door and spill out into traffic.
Although Booth has his laptop, he entertains no illusion that he will be able to send a text message precisely as, by chance, they pass through the spillover zone from an unsecured Wi-Fi network. And even if he can send a text message, no one will read it in time to help him, as Simon’s house is but fifteen minutes from the airport.
He withdraws the pistol from the shoulder holster under his suit coat.
6
As Simon earlier revealed to Jane, the limo driver customarily brought Booth directly into the garage, rather than drop him at the front door. The brothers were discreet about their relationship and preferred that Booth not be seen by neighbors.
Jane carried her tote down to the garage. She didn’t turn on the lights, but found her way to the workbench with her small LED flashlight. She put the tote on the bench and took the spray bottle of chloroform from it and slipped the bottle into a jacket pocket.
A stepladder hung on the wall. She took it down and opened it under the ceiling fixture that would light automatically when the garage door began to ascend. The fixture was a high-security model, sealed so that the cover could not be unscrewed. She retrieved a hammer from the tool collection, climbed the ladder, smashed the hard plastic fixture, and smashed the LED bulb beneath. After putting the ladder and hammer away, she used a push broom to sweep the debris into a corner.
She opened the door on the section of the storage cabinets that stood empty, through which she’d earlier accessed the vault where the attaché cases of cash had been stored. She didn’t step inside right away, but switched off the flashlight and waited in the dark for the sound of the limo in the driveway.
In all likelihood, Hendrickson would have a gun. Jane and Gilberto were armed as well, but the last thing they wanted was a close-quarters firefight.
So she had a plan. Plans were comforting. As long as you always remembered that even the best plans seldom unfolded as intended.
As soon as Gilberto drove into the garage, he would use a remote control to close the big door, and he’d get out of the limo, leaving the engine running and the ventilation system set not on air-conditioning or heat, but on fresh air. As the segmented door lowered, the incoming sunshine would diminish, and he would proceed to the front of the vehicle, open the hood, and switch on his own small flashlight.
Because the passenger-compartment doors would be locked with the master control, Hendrickson would be unable to exit the limo.
When the big door fully closed, the subterranean garage would fall into complete darkness. At that point, Jane would step out of the cabinet and make her way to Gilberto.
Because of the privacy panel between the passenger compartment and the driver’s seat, Hendrickson would not be able to see what was happening at the front of the Cadillac. At that moment, if not before, he would know that he’d fallen into a trap, but he wouldn’t be able to see anyone to shoot at through the side or rear windows.
He might start firing wildly, blowing out windows, but that seemed unlikely. He would want to conserve his ammunition for the moment when he finally had a target.