Dale Brown - Puppet Master

Still, Massina had never viewed computer security as a potential business area; he’d been under the impression that there were already plenty of other businesses in that field. But maybe that wasn’t true: if the banking system could be so easily compromised, then surely there was room for innovation.

And innovation was what they did. For a profit, of course.

So he had both altruistic and business reasons for pursuing the matter as he walked into Number 2 conference room to meet with Chelsea and his head of security to discuss it.

“The FBI has dropped out. We’re pursuing this on our own,” he told them as he walked into the room. It was 10:40, five minutes before the time he had specified for the meeting, but both Chelsea and Bozzone had worked at Smart Metal long enough to know they were expected early. “What do we know?”

“We know that sticking our nose into police matters is in general a very bad idea,” said Bozzone.

Massina smiled. It was exactly because of remarks like that — speaking his mind even though it was not what Massina wanted to hear — that he valued Bozzone.

Not that he was necessarily swayed by his advice. But the reality check was useful.

“What else do we know?” Massina asked.

“That most likely we’re looking at a gang with connections to Eastern Europe,” said Bozzone. “Most likely suspects. And that the CIA is involved.”

Massina followed Bozzone’s gaze over to Chelsea. Number 2 conference room was small, arranged somewhat like a living room with a sofa facing a ring of three chairs and a love seat; there were side tables next to the chairs and at the ends of the couches. It was the only room in the entire building, aside from the restrooms, that did not have hardwired computers. It was something of an oasis.

Chelsea and Bozzone were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, looking slightly uncomfortable; Massina sat in the leather chair at the center of the circle, as was his wont.

“That’s what one of the task force members told me,” said Chelsea. “The FBI backed off because of that.”

All the more reason for us to pursue it, thought Massina.

“I’ve been thinking about the situation a lot,” continued Chelsea. “If it’s not on the card, then the command string must come from the accessed account somehow. It nests in the ATM machine for a limited amount of time, then self-erases.”

“Not at the processing points?” asked Massina.

“Well, the FBI looked there, so presumably no. Anyway, if I could examine the account that was accessed when that string was sent, it might tell me a great deal.”

“Do it,” said Massina.

“With the bank’s permission or without?”

Massina waved his hand. “However you need to.”

Bozzone cleared his throat. “You know, breaking into accounts, whatever the purpose, it’s pretty much an illegal act.”

“Is it?” asked Massina. He was not speaking theoretically; as he understood the law, stealing something from a bank account was definitely illegal; manipulating something in the account was almost surely illegal; but looking at something in an account — that wasn’t covered.

“You bet it’s illegal,” said Bozzone.

“We’re not doing anything to the account,” said Massina. “I can get a legal opinion if you want.”

Bozzone shook his head.

“It’s possible the FBI already has the data,” said Chelsea.

“Talk to them,” said Massina.

“But they don’t want our help,” said Chelsea.

“Maybe national security is involved,” said Bozzone. “We don’t know.”

“How would that be?” asked Massina.

“I don’t know. But if the CIA is involved, there may be a lot of things we just don’t know.”

“So let’s find them out,” said Massina.

A long moment passed. “The idea of attacking the account seems pretty sophisticated, but on the other hand, they don’t take much money,” said Chelsea, interrupting the silence. “I would think if a gang was involved, they’d go for a big kill.”

“I agree with that,” said Bozzone.

“Maybe that’s what they’re planning.” Massina slid forward on the chair.

“Maybe the FBI has actually already solved this, and they’re just waiting for that hit,” said Bozzone. “Then they strike. It’s possible the CIA is actually helping them.”

“I didn’t get that impression,” said Chelsea.

“Let’s stop dealing in the dark,” said Massina, springing to his feet. “By the end of the day, I want to know what resources we need, what people, whatever it takes to pursue this. Chelsea, come up with a plan.”

Massina was already out the door before either Chelsea or Bozzone got up.

“OK,” said Chelsea.

“Listen, I don’t think this is a good idea at all,” said the security chief. “Bad, bad, bad.”

“I kinda got that.”

“If you are doing anything even borderline illegal, I don’t want to know about it. And for the record, I don’t think you should do it either.”

Chelsea nodded.

“I don’t think you should do anything illegal,” repeated Bozzone. “Nothing.”

“I heard you.”

“Is the FBI really out? Or is that a smoke screen to get us to stop being interested?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Ask your boyfriend,” said Bozzone.

“My boyfriend?” Chelsea felt her face warm.

“Don’t you have some sort of connection there?”

Was he just being a bit of a wiseass, or had he somehow seen her? Or had someone else seen her and told him?

“If you hear anything of use from your police friends,” Chelsea told him, “let me know.”

Tolevi was just getting into his car at the parking garage two blocks from his house when a large man in a dark suit approached from the shadows. This was not entirely unexpected; if it had been, Tolevi would have stepped on the gas and run him down.

Actually, he was sorely tempted to do just that now, even though he knew the man well. Or more accurately, because he knew the man quite well.

Instead, he held his temper and rolled his window down.

“What are you doing, Stratowich?”

“Looking for you. Medved wants to talk to you.”

“What a coincidence. I want to talk to him.”

Stratowich snorted. He didn’t believe him, though it was in fact true.

“Get in,” Tolevi told him.

“That’s not how this works. I drive you.”

“I’m not getting out of my car. You can get in, or you can follow. Your choice.”

Stratowich thought about it for a moment, then went around to the passenger side. Once again, Tolevi suppressed the urge to hit the gas.

“Nice car,” said Stratowich as he closed the door. “New?”

“Six months.”

“You could have used this to pay your debt.”

“I need a car.”

In truth, though expensive, the Mercedes E63 S wouldn’t come close. And it was leased.

Tolevi played with a bit of its twin turbo V-8 power as he raced the light. The big brakes worked pretty well, too; they kept him from crashing into the side of a Nissan Altima that pulled out in front of him just ahead of the intersection.

“Jeez, take it easy,” croaked Stratowich.

Tolevi grinned. “I will if you put the pistol away.”

“It’s in my pocket.”

“Then take your hand out of your pocket. You’re likely to blow your nuts off and mess up the leather.”

Tolevi drove at an easier pace for the next half hour, skirting the airport and heading north along Route 1A, heading for a bar Medved owned not far from the Boston Yacht Club; how he had managed to get the zoning changed to permit the conversion of two former family homes to commercial was a mystery only to those naive enough to believe in the Tooth Fairy. The Russian mafya was not particularly large in the Boston area, at least not when compared to places like New York and L.A., but what it lacked in absolute size it made up for in connections, with both the legitimate power structures and the illegal underground, still largely dominated by the Irish and the Italians, respectively.