Infiltration

CHAPTER SIX

Eduardo Capistrano had made his fortunes on the philosophy there was a sucker born every minute.

He didn’t see how this made him any different than the hundreds of other traders and foreign investors. After all, dealing with companies in other countries—particularly those in the E.U.—had always been more lucrative. There weren’t the regulations to deal with that he faced in the U.S., and he didn’t have the IRS crawling up his ass every tax season. No 1099 interest statements or foreign income investment slips; nobody from the Securities Exchange Commission sniffing around, crapping on his lawn and the like.

No, all Capistrano had to do was sit back and watch the cash roll in.

Sure, every once in a while he’d have to field a complaint from some yuppie calling from his mansion up in the Cape, take the occasional panicked call from a rich bitch sunbathing her sculpted body courtesy of modern medical science. But a kickback here or a few grand in interest dividends usually kept them at bay.

After all, they didn’t need to know Capistrano was pulling down over a mil-and-a-quarter a month. He’d given up his personal integrity and kept his mouth shut, and it had definitely paid off.

And it wasn’t just the cash. There were the other perks to think of, like the young, dark-haired Hispanic woman squirming her head deeper into his lap as she stretched her sensuous, athletic body on the sofa. His sixty-inch plasma televisions with the wireless internet and the high definition picture-in-picture. The vacations to exotic locales like Cancun, Rio de Janeiro and Greece, or the “business trips” twice a year to Paris. Ah yes, and how he could he forget Italy? Eduardo Capistrano had never thought such a lifestyle could be his, but it was there for the taking if one was willing to take a few risks.

Despite the fact the activities weren’t exactly on the legit side, Capistrano had never worried about repercussions. The people with whom he did business—rumors flew around circles that it was the Russian mob, but nobody really had any proof—weren’t willing to show their faces in public. They couldn’t afford that kind of scrutiny, so it didn’t much matter what he said or did. He could go where he wanted and when he wanted, and the people who took his money had nothing to say about it.

Capistrano enjoyed the very best life had to offer. He worked from home, kept his nose clean and attended all the latest social events. He had two kids in a posh Catholic school. He went to the best parties, wore the best clothes and rubbed elbows with others as rich as him—although they were typically a bit more famous. And he never allowed himself to be in the limelight.

There were two men he paid who were responsible for making sure he stayed that way. They accompanied him just about everywhere he went, made sure his path was clear and that nobody was putting his nose in Capistrano’s business. His men were more than just bodyguards; they ran his errands, maintained round-the-clock security on his home and prevented anyone from getting too close when he was in public.

Capistrano never allowed anyone to photograph him and he didn’t do interviews. Hell, even the half-dozen companies he owned were managed by boot-lickers who got their jollies from driving their BMWs to work and throwing wild poolside parties with others of their species. As long as they did what they were told and signed the papers they were ordered to sign, Capistrano didn’t give a shit what they did.

But all of that lent to his surprise when a tall, distinguished looking type showed up at his front door asking to speak to him. Capistrano’s security chief told the man to go away, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. He wasn’t an overly big man, tall but lean, and not very dangerous looking, so Capistrano thought about telling his man to throw the guy out on his ear. Still, discretion was the better part of valor, and so he let Nick show the guy into the parlor, Capistrano still lived in a part of the world where houses had parlors, near the Hudson River.

“What can I do for you, Mr….”

“My name’s Godunov, Yuri Godunov,” the man said.

Capistrano could feel his blood run cold at his extremities, and he had the sensation of a marble being lodged in his throat. He had only a moment to decide how to react, and he decided not to react at all. But the very name alone told Capistrano just about everything he needed to know. He hadn’t really believed the rumors about the Russian Mob, but this guy, his accent and his name and just every damn thing about him, screamed of Russian until it practically dripped from his pores.

“And what can I do for you, Mr. Godunov?”

“You know what you can do for me,” Godunov replied, his smile chilling Capistrano more.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I think that you do,” Godunov said. Capistrano started to reach for his panic button beneath the desk, but the sudden appearance of a small pistol in Godunov’s hand stayed him.

“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Capistrano,” Godunov said. “I am not a man taken to violence, but I can assure you that I know very well how to use this. So instead of doing something you will regret, albeit only for a very short time, perhaps you should listen to me very carefully.”

Capistrano merely nodded as he pressed his lips together. “You have my attention.”

“There are a number of things that have occurred recently, things that greatly disturb me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Godunov waved the muzzle ever so slightly and said, “Remember that I said you should listen carefully. That is best done with your mouth shut. Now as I was saying, the people to whom I answer are very disturbed by your recent indiscretions. You’re being downright greedy, in fact. You see, we’ve allowed you to continue for about as long as can be reasonably tolerated. But in these very tough economic times we must protect our assets…which means protecting you, Mr. Capistrano. You enjoy the freedom you do because you’re a producer, a man who knows how to get money out of even the most destitute. The difficulty that is presented to us, however, is that you have not been quite as generous as we’d hoped. That is about to change.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are or who you work for but—”

Godunov’s laugh dripped with derision. “Come now, Mr. Capistrano, do you think me a fool? Look at this place. Look at it! You live like a king, but you give like a peasant. And I’m here to deliver a message, one that would be in your best interests to heed.”

“I don’t respond to threats, Mr. Godunov. I make them.”

“You make nothing apart from us, Eduardo. We have been patient and allowed you to keep the majority of the funds from your investors. Now it is time to return what you have borrowed.”

“Borrowed?” Capistrano laughed so loudly he thought he might fall out of his chair. “Everything that I have I earned.”

“No.” Godunov shook his head like a petulant child. “Everything you have we earned. You are not an independent operator. You never were, in fact. We just let you think you were. All the paperwork for those companies you allegedly own is utterly worthless. None of it is legal or binding. You were so busy scooping up the pot that you forgot you had put others in to play the game for you. Those individuals were very cleverly placed through our own machinations, and they have done a marvelous job of keeping our operations afloat while making money. Now it’s time to return what you’ve borrowed, and with interest.”

“I don’t have any of this money that you’re yapping about, pal,” Capistrano lied.

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?”

“I’ve already explained that three times to you, Yuri. Why do you keep asking me?”

“Because we are running a tremendous risk here,” Godunov said. “We have planned this down to the last detail, and we are relying on you to make good on the numbers you give us. Not to mention that we cannot be expected to hold our position any longer than that. As soon as the transfers start, federal authorities will be alerted and agents will be sent to the New York First Financial Bank immediately. If they catch us while we’re still inside, we will be required to fight our way out.”

“If you already have the money by then, what difference will it make?”

Godunov chuckled, inhaled smoke from his cigarette and shook his head. “Oh, my dear Bogdan, you really have no idea. It is not merely about having the money. Having it does our people little good if we aren’t there to make sure the wealth is distributed. Only you know the locations where the money is going and only you have access to them. If we are forced to do battle with the police, there is little chance that you will survive, since nobody will be able to protect you.”

“I will do my part, Yuri,” Lutrova said, “just as I’ve promised.”

“But of course you will. I never doubted that. Why are you acting so furtive, my friend? You have been as nervous as a cat since you arrived.”

“It is nothing,” Lutrova replied, his mind racing furiously. “My time with that American gangster shook me up a bit more than I thought.”

“You have been around such men before.”

“Yes, men on our side. But there was something about him I did not trust.”

“Well, his references checked out, and he does appear to have some unique talents that I feel we can exploit. However, if it turns out he is not who he says he is, then I can assure you that he will be dealt with accordingly. You no longer have to worry about him.”

“Good.”

“I am a bit curious, though, what transpired while you were in custody of the U.S. Customs.”

“What do you mean?”

“You did not talk to them?”

Lutrova cocked his head. “Talk to them about what? What exactly are you trying to imply, Yuri? Do you think that I would betray you?”

“Did you?”

“Absolutely not!”

Godunov’s eyes flashed as he stared at Lutrova, although he smoked calmly. After a time, he said, “Okay, my friend, okay. I believe you.”

But something in Lutrova’s gut told him that Yuri Godunov knew.

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