David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“What were you planning to do with the servers?”

Andras shook his head and looked at his plate.

“Don’t know,” he whispered. He was having a harder time lying to Foos than he had to me.

“Bullshit, man!” Foos said. “I get up at five a.m., travel all the way up here for this kind of crap?”

He said it with a smile, but the voice was bordering on hard. Tears formed in the kid’s eyes. He was between a rock and a hard place—and the hard place’s name was Irina.

Andras shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s true. I…”

“Don’t make it worse,” Foos said. He looked at me. “Let’s blow. We got work to do.”

I used some of Warren Brandeis’s cash to pay the bill, and we drove back to the motel. Upstairs, Foos eyed the servers and took out a laptop and a handful of cables from the duffel bag.

“Set ’em up, let’s see what we got.”

“I can help,” Andras said eagerly.

Foos turned to him, the usually sparkling eyes dark and hard. “Uh-uh. I’ll explain a few facts of life. Turbo here has put his ass on the line for you. There’s guys out there willing to kill for these things. You and I are friends, but I’m on his side, and you’re not playing straight. That means we can’t trust you. So, no, you can’t help. Go get some sleep.” He turned his back, shutting him out.

Andras teared again as he stood there, hoping Foos would relent. When he didn’t, the boy walked slowly to the connecting door to his room, shoulders slumped.

“Leave it ajar,” I said.

He did as he was told.

“That’s some hold that girl has,” I said softly.

“You sure it’s her?”

“Can’t see who else.”

“Thought I could crack the shell, but it’s tough, as you say. I’ll take another shot later.”

I don’t normally bet against him, but in this case I wasn’t ready to give his chances better than even money.

We stacked up the servers, sixteen in all, and connected the cables. Foos plugged in his laptop, sat at the small motel desk, and went to work. I checked on Andras, who was curled up, asleep, still clothed, on top of the bedspread. I felt sorry for him, but he didn’t make it easy.

I thought about calling Victoria, but decided to wait and see what Foos found. I took the shower I’d passed up earlier. Hot, hard spray massaged tired muscles. I stretched out on the bed in the third room and went under immediately. I was dreaming about Victoria and video cameras when I heard him call.

“Turbo! You better check this out.”

The bedside clock radio said 8:15. I felt the stiffness and lethargy you get with too little sleep after too long without any. I stretched, rinsed my cotton mouth in the bathroom and went next door.

Foos’s laptop screen was filled with rows of data—names, numbers, amounts. A digital carpet of information.

“Remember that case I told you about, the one the Feds busted? Based in Belarus, ninety thousand customers?”

“Yeah.”

“Double it. They’re close to two hundred thousand accounts here, averaging ten K a year each, maybe more. I need more time with the data. But we’re talking two billion a year, minimum. Say ConnectPay took five percent, that’s a hundred mil.”

“Real money.”

“Uh-huh. Before the scamming.”

“What scamming?”

“Looks as though someone’s expanding the revenue stream by keyboarding the client base. Once they get bank and credit card access, they’ve got an app that starts adding small charges or making small withdrawals. Money moves through a series of banks, bogus accounts no doubt, then overseas. Guess where?”

“Belarus?”

“Very good. Looks like they’re still testing the waters. Started a few months ago. They’ve only hacked a few thousand, netted about twenty mil so far. Tip of the iceberg. They’ve got endless material to work with.”

In my exhaustion, I had another vision, this time, a lineup of old-fashioned western wanted posters across the wall, Konychev, Batkin, Lishin, Coryell, Nosferatu. At the end of the row, looking out of place, but maybe not, were Andras and Irina.

I shook my head and the image vanished. “I never met the guy, but this sounds a little too advanced for our late friend Walter Coryell.”

“Actually, you can buy apps like this online if you know where to go. But you’re right. The scamming’s being run remotely. Some other computer, some other place working through zombies, hacking in. That and the money trail that heads for your old ’hood suggests other involvement.”

“Like BEC involvement?”

“Good place to start.”

“BEC ripping off the BEC?”

“Technically, no. BEC ripping off BEC’s customers.”

I had a thought. “Or the reason Alexander Lishin is no longer among the living. He had the expertise. He tried a solo venture, figuring what Konychev and Batkin didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Probably would still be getting away with it too, except Konychev had someone searching for whoever was ripping them off, and that guy found Lishin’s trail.”

“Works for me.”

I lowered my voice. “Where do the kids fit in?”

He shook his head. “It’s not the scamming. Timing doesn’t line up, for one thing. For another, I can see where someone hacked into the frankyfun account months ago, and it’s a whole different picture. Does leave hanging the question of what Andras was going to do with the servers.”

“I’m guessing it was her idea—and that’s why he’s so close-lipped. He’s told us all about himself, but every time the story gets close to her, he veers off in another direction.”

“Protecting her?”

“Could be what he thinks.”

“Then what’s she up to?”

“No good, I’m all but certain, but beyond that…” I shrugged. “She’s also gone underground with eight grand in cash.”

“She’ll fuck up. Everyone does.”

“Maybe. Time’s not on her side—or ours.” I told him about Nosferatu.

“Think he really wants the kid?”

“Yeah, I do. Get the Basilisk to recheck Coryell’s calls on Tuesday, after he got out of the slammer.”

He worked the keyboard and the ConnectPay data field was replaced by the familiar Q&A screen. A short list of numbers, then names, came up. Andras. Nosferatu. Sebastian Leitz.

“Leitz call Coryell or the other way around?”

“Leitz placed the call.”

“And got through on the first try?”

“Right.”

“How’d he know Coryell was out? Anybody call Leitz right before?”

“Hold on… Guy named Patrick Burns.”

That name didn’t mean anything, unless… “Burns call Leitz two Tuesdays ago, from Bedford?”

The key board clattered. “Called from Bedford twice that morning, then from Midtown that afternoon.”

Tan Coat. I had a bad feeling.

I told Foos what I was thinking, and he grunted, which is what he does when he doesn’t have anything constructive to add.

I called Leitz. “We need to talk. Meet me at your house in an hour.”

“Where the hell’s my son?”

“Safe.”

“I could have you arrested for kidnapping.”

“I saved his life last night.”

“What the hell happened? The hotel said broken window…”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Can you baby-sit?” I asked Foos.

“No problem. Maybe I can convince our young friend to be more forthcoming when he wakes up.”

I called Victoria from the road.

“Where are you this time?” she asked without preamble, her voice flat and neutral. I listened for anger or concern or hostility. Nothing there—yet.

“Just leaving Stamford.”

“And what’s in Stamford?”