Chapter One
FRIDAY, APRIL 17, THE PRESENT
6:15 AM EDT
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Nomad flexed his right wrist, and with the palm of his hand, eased the joystick forward. The motor on his wheelchair hummed, and he maneuvered toward the center of the workstation. This environment was his creation. The height set to accommodate his chair with room beneath to manipulate the joystick. With subtle right or left pressure on the stick, he could navigate the full semicircle desk and jump between clients and projects.
There were traditional keyboards and mice, but the layer of fine dust revealed little use. Nomad’s world was one of proprietary speech recognition technology and the pressure-sensitive controls he designed and added to his chair. His forearms, wrists, fingers, head and voice all served as system navigation and command-and-control interfaces.
A matrix of monitors, stacked three high and eight across, spanned the arc of the desk and formed his window on the outside world. As a C6 quadriplegic, what he lost in physical mobility he regained in the virtual world. He chose the name Nomad for the irony, and believed his world offered freedom, control, and safety.
Nomad scanned the monitors. His building’s security cameras, global news feeds, random engineering musings of a few MIT grads on Slack. Another monitor was hammering away on a client’s file with one of his decryption algorithms. No challengers yet on any of his virtual chess boards, and that brought him to the Frenchman, his favorite opponent.
The central monitor was a live, split-screen camera feed from the Frenchman’s Paris apartment. One feed came from the Frenchman’s laptop, and the other from the camera embedded in the smart TV. It was Nomad’s practice to plant malware on the systems of anyone in his inner circle. What began as a safety protocol became something more, and he watched and lived vicariously through his contact’s living rooms and their digital and social media lives.
Nomad glanced at the camera feed’s system clock. Twelve-fifteen. It was almost time. He hoped the apartment would be empty, but saw Francois scurrying about, preparing for the meeting. Nomad knew it was pointless, but he had to try one more time.
Francois’s laptop rang with Nomad’s encrypted call request. He watched the Frenchman approach the laptop and press cancel. Nomad tried again, and this time he watched Francois accept the call.
“I admire your determination,” Francois began, “but there’s nothing left to discuss.”
“Look, I know how it sounds, but I’m begging you to trust me,” Nomad said. “You need to leave.”
“You ask for trust, but hide in the shadows.”
“Who I am is not important. All you need to know is that your life is in danger.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “For one thing, I know who you are, but rest assured, your secret is safe with me. Why you’ve chosen this life, I will never understand, but that is your business and now you must leave me to mine.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, no, my friend. You misunderstand,” Francois said. “This is just a promise that I will keep you out of the discussion, but Moore Industries needs to know what you found. They believe the device is impenetrable, exceeding even the capabilities of quantum computing, and with millions relying on this technology, I have no choice. There is no room for debate.”
“You’re missing the point,” Nomad said. “Tens of millions of customers is exactly why Moore will do anything to protect the NanoVault’s reputation.”
“Again with the conspiracy theories,” Francois said. “You watch too much American TV. I am a respected academic meeting with a representative of a major corporation, not the KGB.”
“I pray I’m wrong,” Nomad said.
“Au revoir, my friend.”
“Wait,” Nomad said. “Before you hang up, what makes you think you know who I am?”
“I understand some hackers have a signature, patterns of behavior, code or techniques they use, that help identify the author.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“So do chess players.”
Nomad heard the knock at the Frenchman’s door. Francois called out to his visitor, and the call ended.
Chapter Two
FRIDAY, APRIL 17
12:17 PM CEST (Central European Summer Time)
PARIS, FRANCE
Francois LeGrande imagined his meeting with the Moore Industries representative. They’ll want to see my research and review my findings. A lucrative offer for my work would be nice, but it would be an honor to receive one of Moore’s Distinguished Fellowships.
Francois rushed to answer the door. He never saw what the masked man pressed into his side, but the effect was immediate. His body convulsed, knees buckled, and his head struck the floor. Next came the duct tape over his mouth and around his wrists and ankles. He lay on the floor of his apartment, dazed and in pain, only half-aware of the large black boot that passed over his face.
Adrenaline surged. His heart raced. He fought to focus his thoughts. Blinked and squinted to clear his vision. He squirmed and wrestled against the restraints. Tried to call out, to scream. Nothing worked. In the futile struggle to free himself, his breathing was rapid and shallow. His vision blurred, and the room spun. Don’t pass out, he thought. Just breathe. Slow down. Listen.
From the hallway, it was difficult to know what the stranger was doing. Was Nomad right? No. Can’t be. If he was here to kill me, I’d be dead already. Then what? What does he want? His head throbbed as he thought back to the fleeting image of opening the door and looking up at the face. There was no face. Just a blur of gray and white rectangles. The man’s ball cap and hoodie obscured any chance of street cameras catching his approach to the building, and the camouflage mask stretched tight from his forehead to his neck prevented facial recognition.
Francois tried to follow the sound of the stranger’s steps. The attic apartment, converted from an 18th-century mansion, was elegant but small. While it suited the Frenchman, it took only moments to explore. He heard the wheels of the office chair as they rolled across the hardwood floor.
He’s in the bedroom.
The bedroom served as his home office. Stacks of books and papers shared his bed, and most of the floor. He pictured the stranger seated at his laptop and cursed his decision to close the connection with Nomad. If he knew, if he saw, he would call the police.
There was an odd sound. An electronic chirp beeping slowly at first, then faster and louder, then slow again. Finally, a solid tone for a moment, then silence.
Francois heard the tones of a cell phone. Too many digits, he thought. Not a local number.
“I have it,” the man said. “No, it has to be tonight. And count yourself lucky I could make this work on short notice.” There was another brief pause and then the call wrapped up. “Yes. Yes. I’ll keep it safe. Now, send me the drop site.”
American, Francois thought, and at that moment, all hope vanished. The businessman he thought might still arrive, might somehow intervene. The man he was expecting was already here. Despair wrapped him in an ice-cold blanket and he trembled. He stopped fighting back the tears and sobbed.
The American dragged Francois down the hallway and into the living room, and the tears gave way to terror when he surveyed the room. A chair from the small kitchen table was in the center. A rope stretched over the ancient oak beam that framed the ridge-line of the apartment’s ceiling, and a noose hung above the chair.
The duct tape muffled his attempts to cry out, and the masked man had little trouble setting the slight Frenchman on the chair. He slipped the noose over Francois’s head and pulled on the rope. Francois stiffened his back, lifted his chin, and gasped for air. The man kept one hand on the rope and the other drew a knife. With a flick and click, the blade locked into place, and in one sudden move he cut the tape binding Francois’s feet. He pulled the slack from the rope and Francois’s only escape from suffocation was to climb up on the chair.
The American tied the rope to the radiator, then stood directly in front of Francois and stared. The mask was disorienting, and Francois found it difficult to focus. He saw a black leather jacket and a gray hoodie. He saw dark blue jeans, and the boots. Large black boots. He could be anyone on the streets of Paris, even one of my students. What is he waiting for? What does he want?
“Let’s talk.”
The words startled him and Francois wobbled atop the wooden kitchen chair. The noose made it difficult to breathe, much less answer questions. When he raised up on the balls of his feet, he could almost take a full breath, but the old chair flexed and creaked when he moved. He knew at any moment it might collapse and he would hang.
“I’m going to remove the duct tape,” the masked man said. “I suggest you remain still. And quiet,” and he gave the rope a slight tug. “Understand?”
Francois nodded, and the stranger ripped the duct tape off the old man’s face. The Frenchman scrunched his eyes, gritted his teeth, and wrinkled his nose. Tears and snot seeped into his mustache. The American balled up the tape and noticed the collection of gray hair.
“Trust me,” he said. “Faster is better.” And then he reached into his jacket, fished out the shiny black device, and held it out for the Frenchman to see.
“Did you crack it?”
Laying in the palm of his glove was a Moore Industries NanoVault. The polished black onyx device, about the size of a woman’s lipstick, was ringed with seven combination dials that controlled access to the device’s unique properties. For the first time since the masked man crashed through his door, Francois thought he understood what was happening. He thinks I’m after the bounty. He thinks I’ve cracked the encryption.
The offer of a bounty, paid in anonymous, untraceable, and tax-free Bitcoins, intrigued cryptographic researchers and enticed the hacker denizens in every corner of the Darknet. Crack the encryption on a Quantum NanoVault, known affectionately as a portable Swiss Bank account, and you’d learn the location of 1,000 Bitcoins. What started as a clever promotional stunt became a worldwide phenomenon when Bitcoin values rose exponentially, and the bounty, still unclaimed, grew to tens of millions of dollars.
“No. No, Monsieur. I assure you, this device is worthless.”
“My client insisted I retrieve this specific device,” he said. “And paid handsomely to recover it immediately. I’d like to know why. What makes this device so valuable?”
“Please. Just take it and go.”
Francois imagined his ordeal might soon be over. He has what he came for. He can just leave.
The American slipped the device back into his pocket and glanced at his watch.
“What’s the combination?”
“It’s not locked.”
“What’s on it?”
“Nothing. I assure you, it’s completely blank,” and Francois nodded toward the laptop. “Go. See for yourself. You will see. It’s empty.”
The American took the device back to the desk, and the NanoVault connected automatically. He returned moments later.
“You’re right, it’s blank,” he said. “But if you’re not using it, why have one?”
“Research,” and Francois nodded toward the back wall. The American turned to see a lifetime of achievement and accolades. Among the faded degrees hanging on the wall were journal clippings, edges curled and fraying, a small shelf of dusty mathematics awards, and a handful of student group photos. Missing was any semblance of a life outside of academia. No wife. No family.
“Then, tell me Professeur,” he said, exaggerating the Frenchman’s academic position. “What makes this device so special?”
“Oh, but it’s not. It’s like any other. Available at any— ”
The slap caught him before he could finish.
“You’re lying.”
“I swear. I’m telling you the truth.”
The American pulled out a phone, launched an app and hit a few keystrokes, and there was the noise again. The same as before. When he extended his arm and pointed away, the tone was low and slow. When the phone was closer, the chirp grew higher and faster until he came within an inch or two of his jacket pocket.
“They sent me to retrieve this specific device,” and he tapped his pocket. “It’s different alright, and if you want to live, you’ll tell me why.”
Francois lifted his heels, and balancing on his toes, took a deep breath. His lower lip quivered.
“I want to live. If I knew anything useful, anything at all. I would tell you.”
“OK. Have it your way,” he said, placed a boot on the chair and pressed.
“Stop. Please. I beg of you.”
“I’m listening,” and he let the chair settle back on all four legs.
Francois closed his eyes and cleared his throat.
“He warned me,” he sobbed. “I didn’t listen.”
The American remained silent.
“He found it. He said it was dangerous,” Francois said. “I didn’t believe him.”
“What did he find?”
But Francois wasn’t listening anymore. He coughed and lifted his heels again. He thought about the decision that brought him to this moment. Did he really believe contacting Moore was the right thing to do, or was it just the pride of an old man at the end of his career?
“He said I was a fool, and he was right,” Francois muttered. “An old fool.”
“Who? Who were you working with? What did he find?” The urgency of the questions crept into the American’s voice. “Tell me and I’ll set you free.”
“Le Nomad,” he spat out with such force the chair shook and rocked onto two legs, but the American caught him and steadied the chair.
“Who is Le Nomad?”
Francois just closed his eyes.
* * *
Nomad opened an audio-only channel to the Frenchman’s laptop.
“He can’t help you,” echoed a synthesized male voice. From the TV camera feed, Nomad saw the masked man draw his knife from behind his back and scan the room.
“Over here,” Nomad said, calling the man to the Frenchman’s computer. The masked man grabbed the office chair and sat down.
“Nice of you to join us,” the man said. “I assume I’m speaking with Le Nomad.”
“Just Nomad, and you are?”
“Well, ‘just Nomad’, they call me Ronin.”
“Ah, the wandering samurai, no lord or master,” Nomad said.
“Shall we focus on the matter at hand?” Ronin asked. “You say Frenchy can’t help me, but I’m guessing you can.”
“I could, but we both know you’ll kill him, anyway.”
“Then why speak up?” Ronin asked. “Why not just grab some popcorn and watch the show?”
“Because I believe in second chances,” Nomad said and paused. “I was given a second chance. Now I’m offering one to you. Just take the device and go.”
“That’s not much of an offer. I have the device. I can leave any time.”
“I’ve been watching you,” Nomad said. “The laptop’s camera and the apartment’s TV.”
“That’s clever, but it doesn’t change anything.”
“You’ve checked your watch three times since you arrived,” Nomad said. “You’re in a hurry. Perhaps the client is waiting, or you’re expected elsewhere. And now you’re wondering when the police will arrive, which should be any minute now. So, I think we can agree you’re running out of time.”
“Smart, and correct,” Ronin said. “I do have another engagement, but I also have my reputation to consider. The contract was quite explicit, and failure has consequences.”
“There’s nothing to be gained by killing an old man. You have what you need to satisfy your employer.”
“You don’t know my client, but this is interesting,” Ronin said. “It makes no difference to me if the Frenchman lives or dies, but it means something to you.”
“Then let’s make this meaningful for you as well,” Nomad said. “I see your client is someone calling him or herself, Grandmaster. That’s amusing. And I see you received $100,000. That’s a tidy sum, and I assume you’ll collect more on delivery. No wonder you’re curious.”
“What the hell!” Ronin said. “How could you know — you hacked my NanoVault.”
“Just take the device,” Nomad said. “Cut the Frenchman loose and walk away. You can keep the money. But if you kill him, everything on your device will vanish. You’ll lose it all. Do we have a deal?”
“No can do,” Ronin said, and stepped away from the laptop. “Mission first,” and with a swift kick, the chair flew out from under Francois.
The Frenchman’s body bucked, his legs flailed, and eyes bulged. Within seconds, Francois was unconscious, and his limp body swayed on the rope. Ronin cut and removed the duct tape from Francois’s hands and monitored his pulse. Two minutes later, the Frenchman was dead.
Stuck in his chair, continents away, Nomad watched and cried. He never felt more helpless and powerless. Where were the police, he wondered, and sobbed? Why hadn’t they come? There was time. They could have saved him.
Nomad struggled to clear his throat and find his voice. “I’m so sorry, my friend,” Nomad whispered, but the synthesized voice from the laptop echoed cold and distant. This is all my fault, he thought. I never should have asked for your help.
Ronin pocketed the duct tape and scanned the room. He returned to the computer.
“Nomad?” Ronin asked. “You still with me?”
“Yes.”
“You know it doesn’t end here.”
“I know.”
“This client is rich, resourceful,” Ronin said. “He will find you.”
“I’m counting on it.”
* * *
