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“I gotta tell you,” Bob said, as he dragged his soles reluctantly across the sidewalk, Raoul’s ham-sized hand on his arm—Bob’s real name was Wesley Bunne, pronouncedboon—“this whole thing scares me. Why would anyone put up that much money to get us out?”
He looked down at the limo, parked in the sunshine outside the Metropolitan Detention Center.
“Because the guy in the limo needs to talk to you about some hacking activities that he believes you’re aware of. Nothing to be scared of,” Raoul said. “Besides, he expects to get all the money back when you show up for your court date.”
“Would you say that we have any alternative to getting in thelimo?” Sue asked. Her real named was Sharon Pecker, she’d grown up in Rib Lake, Wisconsin, and had an inborn suspicion of big-city limos, especially black ones.
“You have nothing to worry about. Honest,” Raoul said, though he wasn’t entirely sure of that. “We are looking to you for information, if you have it. If you don’t have it, we drop you off at a bus stop. If you do have it, we send you anywhere you want to go in the limo, with five hundred dollars to buy your lunch.”
“Probably want to go to Ocean Park,” Wesley said.
“That’s great,” Raoul said. “The man in the car lives over in that direction. He can run you right over there.”
Wesley and Sharon looked at each other, and then Wesley said, “What the hell. Let’s take the ride.”
As they walked up to the car, Raoul gave them his card. “The FBI is unlikely to press charges. If they do, I’ll demand discovery on every computer sting they’ve done in the last ten years, and the CIs they’ve used, to discover the extent to which they’ve covered for criminal activity. The federal attorney will give us some bullshit, but they won’t file.”
“That would be wonderful,” Sharon said.
Step was sitting in the backseat, wearing his beige chinos over cordovan shoes, with a yellow silk shirt, an outfit that you wouldn’t want to get blood on. The limo had a window between the front seat and the back and it was rolled up. Sharon got in the rear-facing seating, looking at Step, who smiled at her, and Wesley got in beside Step.
“Where we going?” Step asked. Tom Boyadjian, in looking for the train hackers, had found Bob and Sue. He had determined that they weren’t the hackers they were looking for, but had also learned that they probably knew about Ordinary People. He’dcalled Step with the information, and Step had called the well-dressed attorney.
Wesley gave Step an address and Step took a cell phone from his pocket and called the driver, who sat five feet away, behind the window. Step repeated the address and the limo pulled away from the curb.
“What exactly did you want?” Sharon asked.
Step seemed to think about the question, then said, “You two... let’s face it, you’re criminals.”
Sharon opened her mouth to object, but Step put a finger up.
“That’s okay. So am I. Like you, I do something that doesn’t hurt anyone, but it’s technically illegal. I understand you were ripping off casino ATMs, while the casinos were ripping off anyone stupid enough to walk through their doors. Am I right?”
“You’re right,” Wesley said. “What kind of criminal are you?”
“To put it simply, the United States bans the export of certain computer components to certain countries that really need the parts. I mean, it’s ridiculous. Computer components are basically fungible... You know what fungible means?”
Sharon said, “Yes. It means one thing can be replaced by another, all commonly available. Oil is fungible. Wheat is fungible. Most hardware is fungible.”
Step smiled: “Yes. Anyway, I acquire computer parts here in the U.S. and export them to... mmm... countries that want them. The way computer chips work, those countries will get all they want in two or three years, or five years, so why not now? Makes no sense. But, it’s a business opportunity.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Wesley asked. “We’re software, not hardware.”
“I have been troubled lately by software programmers. Wethought you may be associated with them, but my researchers now say you are not. That you were involved in other activities, the ATM attacks, were caught by the FBI, and were turned as confidential informants. My researchers say that as FBI informants, you may be aware, or have encountered at one time or another, a group of three, two women and a man. The women, I’m told, are thin, attractive, carry guns and are willing to use them. The man is very large—tall and fat, dark hair and black-rimmed glasses...”
Wesley sat forward: “Those motherfuckers! Those motherfuckers have something to do with the FBI. There weren’t two women, that we know of, there was only one. Named Charlie. The fat guy is named Paul. I don’t know what they have to do with the FBI, because they’re not FBI, but they’re something...”
Paul: that confirmed George Hewitt’s comment about a man named Paul. “Charlie and Paul. Charlie’s a man’s name...” Step said.
“Also a nickname for Charlotte,” Sharon said.
“Ah.”
They told the story of the abortive sting, about the apparent argument between the FBI agents and people higher up the law enforcement pole, the release of Charlie and Paul, and their own eventual arrest and three-day isolation. They told the story that Charlie and Paul told, the hospital ransomware attack, the Bitcoin problem, and the University of Florida.
“So they’re criminals, too?” Step asked. He’d been listening attentively, thumb and middle finger under his chin, index finger along his nose.
“Yeah, but they havesomethingthat the FBI wants,” Sharon said. “We just don’t know what that is. I’ll tell you, though, if you run into them, watch that chick. Charlie. We were sitting at a café tableand she pulled a gun and threatened to shoot me between the tits. That’s her words. She was serious. She’s a fuckin’ psycho.”
