Don Pendleton - Infiltration

Godunov shook his head in disbelief. “You just don’t seem to understand what I’m telling you. Yes, that must be it….You are stupid, perhaps? Let me explain this in a way that will assuredly make things clear for you. Your monies and holdings, all of them, will be transferred to the control of my people within the next twenty-four hours. If you attempt to interfere with us, we will take everything you own and exploit it for our gain. That includes those lovely children of yours. How are they enjoying that special school they attend? Are they getting good grades? I would hope that their father would want to cooperate with me, because I can tell you that they would fetch a very nice price in some areas of the world.”

Capistrano could hardly believe his ears, but he didn’t doubt a single word of it. Godunov hadn’t come here to kill him, despite waving the gun. He’d come to explain that everything Eduardo thought was his didn’t, in fact, belong to him at all, and probably never had. He’d made the crucial mistake of not looking too closely at his business associates, and in the end it had come back to bite him. He was left with no choice now but to cooperate. Just as the people he thought had been working for him, but had actually been working for Godunov, were doing.

Capistrano sighed and leaned back in his chair, suddenly feeling much older than his thirty-eight years. “What do you want me to do?”

BOGDAN LUTROVA STARED absently at the computer monitors as rows of data whizzed by.

The program he had written to penetrate the New York banking system had involved much more than simply hacking the data. No, this system had taken months to build, putting the pieces in place a little at a time so as not to alert the security sniffers and lockout programs meant to deter individuals from doing the very things he had done. When it came down to it, breaking down those barriers involved a give and take; it was the equivalent of an electronic dance, really.

Getting into the system required Lutrova to insert specially designed scripts to test various areas of the New York Central Financial Data Exchange, allowing some scripts to be discovered while he deftly diverted others. There was an unspoken rule in the information security field that the more American security specialists were able to stop attempted hacks, the more confident they became in the integrity of those systems. Such attacks were intended to make them put more faith in their systems than they had a right to expect. It was an old trick, but one that worked frequently.

Once Lutrova had discovered the weaknesses in the system security, it had just been a matter of sending bits of his program into the system. When it came right down to it, computers knew only one language—the binary language of ones and zeroes—and it was a language Bogdan Lutrova had become extremely fluent in over the years. He wasn’t about to let this slip out of his hands.

Godunov’s plan had been simple enough, ingenious really—using the embezzled funds from the RBN’s biggest financiers against them. The monies and securities they had buried weren’t difficult to find; in fact, the money was right under everyone’s noses. It just wasn’t easily accessible. The RBN could have attempted blackmail or extraction by more conventional methods, but by doing it in this fashion they wouldn’t draw any attention to themselves.

It would still take some footwork on the part of Yuri and his mercenary team, but Lutrova had decided not to bother himself which such trivialities. His only concern, as his masters in Russia had instructed, was to get the information they needed so the funds could be moved. How the “contributors” dealt with their sudden change in fortune wasn’t anything he needed to concern himself with. His only task was to make sure the transfers took place when Yuri Godunov wanted them to.

In a way, Lutrova wondered why he was so worried. There wasn’t anything they could do to him without ruining their own plans. At this point in the game, the leaders of the RBN had invested a tremendous amount of resources into this operation. The payoff for Lutrova alone would be half a half-million dollars and a place of his own for the rest of his life. He’d picked an estate outside of Geneva for his retirement, a strange choice to many, but one he knew would suit him perfectly. Who would think to look for the RBN’s premier hacker there?

In spite of it all, Lutrova knew he was expendable. Everyone was expendable in the RBN; the organization thrived on self-reliance and survival. When they had something, they took it. When they needed to generate money, they beefed up their pornography sites and sexual slave trading. If they wanted to bring down some high-tech corporation, they would turn to their vast pool of talents, which comprised many like Lutrova, to destroy that company’s information systems infrastructure.

The slam of a door caused Lutrova to jump, breaking his concentration. Or had he been daydreaming? he wondered. His vision was blurry and his eyes itched. He turned in his seat to see Yuri Godunov enter, a newspaper under his arm and a briefcase in his hand. He would look like any other businessman on the crowded streets of New York City’s financial district, but beneath that facade was a heartless killer and taskmaster. Lutrova didn’t really like Godunov and never had; he always acted superior to anyone else. And in a way, Lutrova felt glad that he’d managed to keep his new relationship with the Americans from the man’s scrutiny.

Godunov stepped into the spacious quarters he’d set up. The place certainly was roomy, and Lutrova had to admit he couldn’t complain about his accommodations. He was well fed, and there were plenty of changes of clothes—all in his size and to his discerning tastes—with just about anything he wanted being little more than a request away. Godunov had set him up with an intercom where he could call on the house staff to fulfill every wish.

Of course, heavily armed guards patrolled the grounds day and night. A large wall of thick mortar ten feet high and topped with wrought-iron spires surrounded the estate. The grounds were fully wired, according to Godunov, with electronic motion and sonic monitoring by day and infrared by night. The place was a veritable fortress, and despite his elegant surroundings, Lutrova could not help but feel he was in more of a prison than an estate.

His mind screamed at him to open his mouth and confess his indiscretions, to beg for his life and promise never to be weak again. But his flesh could not bring himself to do it, and he simply looked at Godunov, with a masked expression he hoped would be unreadable.

“How are the operations coming?” Godunov asked as he set his props on a leather couch.

That was just like the bastard—only concerned with business. “The information is being downloaded as we speak. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours before we have everything we need.”

Godunov sat on the sofa, crossed his legs and withdrew a silver cigarette case and matching lighter from his suit coat pocket. He sighed as he chose a slender brown cigarette and lit it. Through a cloud of smoke he said, “You are certain we cannot do this remotely. We must be on-site?”

“There is no way to actually transfer the funds unless we are on-site and able to physically plug into a terminal. The program can only retrieve the information we need, such as the account numbers and balances. We must still be on-site to plug into a terminal, so that the actual transfers can take place. The bank computers will not permit movement of funds of this size without that confirmation. It’s part of the security features.”

“And the time we will have to be inside,” Godunov said. “It will not take more than five minutes?”