The Anonymous Signal: INTEL 1, #3

Part I

Worm

Remember remember the fifth of November! Gunpowder, Treason and Plot! I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot! —English Folk Verse (c.1870)

BEFORE:

THE ANONYMOUS EVENT COMMISSION

DEPOSITION IN THE MATTER OF:

UNITED STATES ARMED FORCES SPECIAL TRIBUNAL, Plaintiff,

versus

JOHN SAVAS, Defendant

Case No. M120039E-007X

DEPOSITION OF:

Franklin Joeseph Miller

called for examination by Counsel for the Defendant, pursuant to Notice of Deposition, at the Independent Council Offices, located at

[REDACTED] Washington, D.C.,

when were present on behalf of the

respective parties: [REDACTED]

Counsel on Behalf of Defendant (CBD): Will you please identify yourself for the record?

MR. MILLER: Franklin J. Miller, Special Agent, Counterterrorism. Intel 1 division.

CBD: You have a service record?

MR. MILLER: Yes. Three tours in Afghanistan. Honorably discharged.

CBD: Honorably? I’d say that is an understatement. Medal of Honor, if I’m not mistaken? Second Battle of Fallujah, according to your records here.

MR. MILLER: That’s correct.

CBD: Would you care to elaborate for the panel?

MR. MILLER: I would prefer not to.

CBD: Thank you, Mr. Miller. You understand that your testimony here is on the record, and your words might later be used to charge and try you as an enemy combatant of the United States?

MR. MILLER: No, I don't understand that.

[REDACTED]: Have you not been informed of your rights and requirements under the new Tribunal Act?

MR. MILLER: Yes, sir. But none of this makes any sense to me.

[REDACTED]: You have been informed of the law?

MR. Miller: Yes. Jesus.

CBD: Mr. Miller, how long have you worked with the defendant?

MR. MILLER: Nearly a decade.

CBD: And in what capacity?

MR. MILLER: First I was a special agent in the Intel 1 division under the umbrella of Larry Kanter's counter-terrorism branch. After the attacks on our division, I served under him in the restructured Intel 1.

CBD: And it was serving in this role during which the events in question occurred?

MR. MILLER: Yes.

CBD: And how did you and the Intel 1 division become involved?

MR. MILLER: John likely knows the chronology better. But-

CBD: You mean the defendant, former agent Savas?

MR. MILLER: Former?

CBD: Agent Savas.

MR. MILLER: Yes. Special agent in Charge, John Savas.

CBD: Continue.

MR. MILLER: I mean for the rest of us it was a relatively normal day, if you can ever consider counterterrorism a normal job. We had our usual reports, chatter, kidnappings by more extremists, talks of retaliation for the French raid in Algeria. It was also the ceremony for John's medal, and that morning we were all in front of the Mayor and Attorney General.

[REDACTED]: And the Anonymous case? Please focus your responses to material relevant to this inquiry.

MR. MILLER: Right. It started with the bombing, obviously. As far as I know, NYPD was the first on the scene but they called us in fairly quickly.

[REDACTED]: You know this because?

MR. MILLER: John told us.

CBD: Can we just back up and get the events from you one step at a time. Tell us from what you remember what happened.

MR. MILLER: I wasn't there for a lot of it, but we were all briefed.

CBD: That's fine. Just your words, please.

MR. MILLER: All right. Like I said, it started just like any other day.

OCTOBER 17

1

Bird of Prey

M r. Craig, sir.

A man in a chauffeur’s uniform held a door open patiently. The CEO of Goldman Sachs stalked toward the car. Silver-haired, dressed in a tailored business suit with a golden watch that glinted in the sunlight, his thin-framed glasses gave his harsh features a predatory intelligence. The black leather handle of his briefcase contrasted sharply with his golden wedding ring. Two bodyguards left his side and walked to a second car parked immediately behind.

Jack Craig nodded to the chauffeur and stepped into the limo. He dropped his briefcase onto the leather seat, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed as his driver shut the door. The interior was spartan compared to the cars kept by many of his equals at the top echelons of corporate power. But Craig had never taken to the ostentatious bravado that infected so many of his peers. To his mind, there was no surer sign of dominance than the refusal to flaunt it.

The driver entered and started the engine. World Financial Center, Miles. The driver nodded and pulled the car out into midday Manhattan traffic. Craig engaged the auditory dampening system, sealing him off from the driver. "Yes, Heidi. I understand that there are midterms coming, but this bill cannot come up for a vote. It's got Warren's dirty paw prints all over it and it’s a step in the wrong direction. He paused, listening. No, it doesn't matter. You won't lose your position on the committee. Hell, given how much you lot have gerrymandered things I doubt I'll be alive the next time you lose the House. We've got you more than covered with the advertising, believe me. Kill this vote. You’ve got nothing to fear. He pulled the phone away from his head to mitigate the shouting on the other end of the line. For fuck's sake, Heidi! Least of all the press! Not even the Times has anyone off the payroll now."

Craig nodded several times, satisfied. He ended the call and sighed. No one in Congress has any balls except that damn bitch Warren! And they hadn't been able to find a price for her. He doubted there was one, but they still had many years to find out. Especially if they could couple it with some dirty laundry and rattle her cage a little. He swiped across the phone and hit an entry, placing a call.

Hi, sweetheart! For the first time that day, Jack Craig smiled. "No, I can't make your show today, I'm sorry. Daddy's got a very important meeting with the President. Tell that to your friends! He frowned as a whining pitch escaped from the speaker. I know, I know, honey. I'll bring you something special tonight, from that new toy store they opened, what's it called? The one with the giant bear? There was a sound on the other end. Right. That one. A surprise, okay?"

The vehicle pulled out onto FDR Drive and sped south beneath the Hospital for Special Surgery, the sun glinting off the East River on his left. Craig cracked the window open a wedge, gazing toward the looming mass of the Queensboro Bridge and the white sailboats bobbing along the currents.

Now, Daddy’s got to go. You give him a kiss. A pop sounded on the speaker. Thanks, honey. Talk to you later. He closed the connection.

Continuing to stare outside his window, Craig felt a weariness descend. Soon, he knew, they would reach their exit and the nasty courting ritual would begin at the hotel. A presidential speech on financial reform, dutiful agreements from the top managers, handshakes, TV moments, and reporters' questions. Too much money had changed hands for there to be any real concern. They owned the committees. The damn politicians had to trot them out every few years, give them a public tongue-lashing, and then it was back to business as usual.

A black spot in the sky in front of them caught his eye. What the hell? He disengaged the sound suppression.

Miles, can you see that thing in front of us? I thought it was a plane, but it's something else.

While he was accustomed to the low-flying aircraft along this route—helicopters heading to the Hamptons and tourist planes lumbering overhead—something was wrong. The craft, whatever it was, seemed way too low. Too small.

Look at it—it's off the river and over the damned FDR.

He could see his driver straining upward and nodding. Some kid’s remote control helicopter or something, Mr. Craig.

Craig shook his head. Maybe. Damn if it’s not going to hit us.

The object careened straight for them, slowing its approach until it paced the car. He could see it better now: four helicopter-like blades spun equidistant from each other separated like the points on a square. A mass of spidery arms underneath held what looked like a cylinder, the bottom shining like a large metallic disk. Craig felt a strange unease. It's like some giant insect from Mars.

Miles, take the next exit. There. The sign that says 53rd. Take that exit.

But sir, we'll get snarled in the local traffic.

Just do it!

Craig wasn't sure what was happening, but his instincts were never wrong. He had lived too long as a predator and master of the games of power. When soldiers around him died in Vietnam, he made it out alive. It was a sixth sense, background processing, something that always alerted him to danger and opportunity. Right now, his alarms were ringing frantically.

The limo darted across lanes toward the exit to a chorus of horns. The small flying thing matched their motion and continued to close the distance.

Miles grumbled as the wheels hit the exit ramp. This some new paparazzi thing?

Then, the impossible! The small craft accelerated and slammed directly onto the roof of the car.

Craig jumped. Shit! Pull us over, Miles. Now!

But there wasn't a place to stop the car. Still exiting the off-ramp, the driver accelerated and hurtled toward a curbside ahead.

Goddamn thing is stuck to the rooftop, yelled Craig, grabbing the handle of his door. He prepared to leap out of the vehicle.

A large explosion rocked the corner of 53rd and Sutton Place. Windows of surrounding buildings shattered, facade stone fractured and fell, and debris from a black limo blasted outward with a fireball that set nearby trees and garbage on fire. Smoke surged upward from the demolished vehicle, only a chassis and partial skeleton remaining. Alarms sounded from cars parked near to the blast radius, and voices screamed over the din. Bodies were strewn motionless around the inferno. Wounded screamed for help.

Above the growing chaos, unseen by anyone below, a frenetic buzzing purred. An apple-sized object hovered hundreds of feet above the fire, a propeller whirling above an octagonal hardware collection ending with a downward-pointing lens. The mechanical insect observed the scene with a cold stillness. As the first sounds of sirens began to spill toward the carnage, it climbed above the buildings and disappeared into the sky.

2

Storm Front

S o it is only fitting that today, five years after the events in New York and around the world that brought us to the brink of international conflict, we honor a man who was instrumental in bringing us back from that cliff .

Special agent John Savas squirmed in his metal fold-out chair and prayed that this horrific political pageantry would reach its inevitable and dreaded climax. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed similarly to that time five years back, a time when the home-grown terrorists of Mjolnir had aimed a nuclear warhead at the Muslim holy city of Mecca during the great Hajj pilgrimage. But no amount of self-delusion could hide the fact that it was considerably more salty now than it had been. While he still worked to keep himself in shape, at fifty-five, age was beginning to finally have the upper hand, and his increased desk time as the director of Intel 1 hadn’t helped.

But it was more than simply age. As for the nightmares—Savas was too mired in a dying male culture to do much about them. PTSD was what psychologists talked about on cable news, not what men had or admitted to. Only his wife of three years, agent Rebecca Cohen, truly knew the extent of the damage. And that because she shared the trauma as well.

Savas watched the new Attorney General of the United States bring the speech to a point of tension and transition. The former prosecutor looked in his direction and nodded.

And without further delay, here to receive the Award for Exceptional Heroism, please welcome a true American hero and pride of New York City, John Savas!

Savas surged to his feet, flashbulbs exploding around him, applause drowning his thoughts like a churning waterfall. He moved as confidently as he could toward the stage, remembering to paste a reserved smile on his face for the evening news. A row of officers from the NYPD and local FBI branches greeted him with handshakes and pats on the back. Nearing the podium, reporters’ cameras pummeling him like strobe lights, and he shook hands with the Attorney General with one hand while grasping the medallion case and plaque in the other.

As they paused for the photographers, Savas instinctively searched among the front row of FBI agents for a diminutive brunette. Her long hair would be secured formally behind her. For events like this she usually wore her blue pantsuit. He would see her radiant smile beaming toward him, his desire to impress her flooding him with energy.

But she wasn’t there. He knew she wouldn’t be there, but looked anyway. She was hundreds of miles away in a secret location only a handful of people knew, checking up on two charges that Savas had personally assumed responsibility for. Deep in a forest, high in the mountains, Rebecca Cohen was at this very moment in the company of the nation’s most wanted fugitives.

Savas shifted his focus back to the Attorney General. He smiled for the cameras.

Exhausted, Savas dropped into his office chair and stared forward blankly. The medal and certificate stared back at him from his desk. He didn’t want them. He didn’t join the FBI after his son’s death on 9/11 for honors, and he hadn’t risked everything, even Rebecca, to stop Mjolnir to get a damned medal. He could think of thousands of victims of terrorism who deserved much more than he did. Who would repay them and their families? He could think of one man, Husaam Jordan, who had stopped a nuclear holocaust by sacrificing his own life. But what good were medals to the dead?

He grasped the award materials and unlocked a key-coded drawer in his desk. He yanked it open and pulled out a thick file folder, dropped the medal into it, and closed the drawer. It clicked loudly as it locked. The label on the file, bold black ink on white, left an afterimage in his mind: The Ragnarök Conspiracy.

Savas loosened his tie and sighed deeply. Now for just five minutes of peace.

Captain Overlord, sir, transitional paperwork is now one hundred percent completed.

He startled at a bald woman framed by his office door, her arms grasping the metal frame above her head. Savas tried not to gawk at her toned body, hammered and stretched by several years of intense combat training. Gone were the waist-length orange hair and the Amish dresses. Piercings ran up her ears, in her lips and eyebrows. Today she wore fatigues and a green tank revealing rippling muscles on a thin frame—some punk version of Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3, but with orange eyebrows, green eyes, and a more spaced-out glare.

Another casualty. The meek girl he had known was gone, murdered just as surely as many in the ground. In her place stood something far more potent.

Morning, Angel. Here to ruin my day?

It's part of my mission statement, she said.

You know, agent Lightfoote, I’ve spent every favor I had left to let you parade around here like GI Jane. A little protocol every now and then would be nice.

Stopping a madman and saving the world buys some unique capital, Fearless Leader. Her face darkened. Steals other things though.

Savas absorbed her words silently. The losses could never be measured. Talented people, good people who could never be replaced.

John, it's not your fault they died. Not your fault that you're the best to run Intel 1. Trial by fire, she said, nodding to herself. They cut the fat. Axed all those 9/11 counter-terrorism toys or put them under you. Larry couldn't have done a better job.

Visions of a house bomb rushed through his mind.

I don't know about that. He was a genius.

"And things are different now. Larry didn't know shit about cybercrimes. You set up the Operations Center under Manuel, not Larry. After what happened, you knew where crime and national security were headed: digital."

Savas shook his head. Big picture only, Angel. I still can't figure out my email sometimes.

Boss Man is supposed to be big picture.

At least making you head of cybercrimes means someone can call you Captain Overlord or whatever for a change. How is your command and control center coming along?

Lightfoote pouted. "John, there’s no budget! We cannibalized the Operations Center, but it’s not nearly enough. It’s outdated. We need server farms to handle the loads of searches and to fend off digital attacks. DNS floods are daily. Everyone wants to bring down FBI or get in our systems."

Savas nodded. I know, Angel. But times are tight. Budgets are bleeding. You’re going to have to be creative. If the criminals can do it, so can you. He smiled.

So Mr. Big Picture is telling me to emulate cybercriminals? You know blowing things up is a lot easier than building them.

Angel, don’t twist— An alert tone rang on his phone. He scanned the message. It’s Rebecca.

"Yeah? How’s her special assignment?"

Savas frowned. "It’s very special. Now I need to take this. Lightfoote beamed at him. In private." She grinned more broadly and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Savas sighed and opened the connection. A woman’s face appeared on his smartphone, brown hair and eyes, a smile on her lips. God, it’s good to see her.

Agent Cohen, it’s been too long.

"Yes, I’ve been stuck with babysitting duty. In the mountains. Now, who was it that stuck me here?"

A heartless boss.

"No doubt. If he hadn’t, Agent Savas, I could be there now. Next to you. Much closer." Her eyes smoldered.

Yeah, definitely way too long. I hope this call means you’ll be coming home tonight?

Her smile was mischievous. Booked my flight. In by ten.

"Good. There’s a lot to catch up on. His face darkened. And how is Gabriel?"

Cohen looked to her side. Gone now. Back to the cabin. They’re adapting, but getting restless. They’ve made it a home. But the world has made it a prison.

There was a long pause as he considered her words. No one said this would be easy for either of them. It’s wrong, but the setup was too good. A fight we couldn’t win.

I think they need to continue to fight, even a guerrilla war.

It’s on the agenda. We’ve finally put things back together over here and I’m coordinating with Fred Simon at CIA. We won’t leave them hanging. There’s a lot to be done.

The landline on his desk buzzed. Now what?

Hang on, Rebecca. This is from NYPD, on my red line. He pressed the button to go to speaker. Hi, Will. Don’t hear from you often.

"John, we need you and a crime unit up to the East Side, Sutton Place. ASAP."

You sound rattled. Boys in blue don’t want this?

It’s a car bomb. A big one with some collateral damage.

Car bomb? Anyone killed?

Several bystanders and those in the car.

Savas furrowed his brows. Your crews are about as good as ours. Why me?

This one’s different.

Might be a challenge to ID those in the car if the fire was bad.

That’s just it, John. We know who was in that car. Phone GPS confirms it.

Savas glanced to his smartphone. Cohen’s face looked tense. He turned back to the speaker on his landline. Well, who was it?

Jack Craig, CEO of Goldman Sachs.

Ah, hell. Are you sure?

Unless someone else had his phone, it was him and the driver.

Dammit. A car bomb?

So it looks. That’s why we’re calling you in. It’s getting out already and it will stir all the hornets’ nests. And a car bomb, Goldman CEO? Whatever it is, it’s big. Mafia, some Unabomber type, or maybe one of these new terrorist groups. Too radioactive for us.

Understood. Moving on it now. Where are we headed?

Sutton Place south, fifty-three. Or just follow the GPS coordinates on all the photos flooding the internet. There’s no hiding this.

BEFORE:

THE ANONYMOUS EVENT COMMISSION

DEPOSITION IN THE MATTER OF:

UNITED STATES ARMED FORCES SPECIAL TRIBUNAL, Plaintiff,

versus

JOHN SAVAS, Defendant

Case No. M120039E-007X

CONTINUED DEPOSITION OF:

Franklin Joeseph Miller

MR. MILLER: We sent a crime unit. I was there, too. Jesus, what a mess. I hadn't seen anything like that up-close since Afghanistan. I think without the GPS data we'd have spent a while trying to figure out just who the hell was hit.

CBD: And the target was confirmed by location data and DNA analysis to be Jack Craig, CEO of Goldman Sachs?

MR. MILLER: That's right. There was no question.

CBD: And how did the defendant react to this event and information?

MR. MILLER: Well, sir, John Savas is a good as they come. Everyone was shocked. John, too, but he was professional. Got the division primed and assigned several agents to the case. They-

CBD: The agents assigned would be you and Agent Cohen?

MR. MILLER: Yes, that's right.

[REDACTED]: What about the other members of Intel 1?

MR. MILLER: They were on other duties.

[REDACTED]: Why didn't Savas treat the bombing with the full attention of the division?

MR. MILLER: Well, we didn't know then what it was all linked to. I mean, it was a car bombing in Manhattan. That's pretty fucking serious but still isolated. Still with more unknowns than knowns. There were a lot of serious things with unknowns going on in the world and we were charged with keeping tabs on a lot of it. I mean, it wasn't long before the whole finance thing started to go FUBAR and that ate our cybercrimes subdivision.

CBD: We'll get to that. Let's focus on how this began and what you remember. So, how did Intel 1 respond at this point?

MR. MILLER: Well, John—Agent Savas—personally got involved with the footwork.

[REDACTED]: Why?

MR. MILLER: He's like that. I mean he can't do it in every case, but he's very hands on. Goldman CEO? This had PR nightmare all over it. John went personally.

CBD: Went where?

MR. MILLER: To talk to the employees at Goldman about our investigation. To try and find out if they could shed any light on the situation.

CBD: He went alone?

MR. MILLER: No, he and Agent Cohen.

[REDACTED]: For the record, let it be noted that Agent Rebecca Cohen is the defendant's spouse. Mr. Miller, can you comment on FBI policy with respect to employees and nepotism laws? Romantic associations?

MR. MILLER: I don't much read the regs, sir.

[REDACTED]: Can you or can you not tell us if you know that it is against Bureau policy to have superiors and those under their authority in personal relationships?

MR. MILLER: No. That stuff never mattered to me. Besides, we always did everything a little different at Intel 1.

[REDACTED]: Yes, that is becoming more and more clear.

CBD: Let's return to the events immediately after the bombing. You say Savas and Cohen went to Goldman.

MR. MILLER: Yes. The morning after. We had already pulled a late night and put together some interesting information we had to run by them.

OCTOBER 18

3

Vampire Squid

Savas and Cohen stepped out of the Crown Victoria in front of 200 West Street in Lower Manhattan. A towering glass skyscraper rose into the sky before them. Known as the Goldman Sachs Tower, the new forty-four story structure gleamed in the morning sun as it looked down from the northernmost end of Battery Park toward the World Financial Center. Savas could almost feel the power radiating from the monolith .

He closed the door and stared upward. No logo. Not a letter or word on it. World's most influential financial institution, and it's basically anonymous.

Cohen stepped beside him. It is kind of eerie, that's for sure. But I'll take it over yesterday's carnage, thank you. Forensics was picking things up with tweezers. I've had enough bombings for one lifetime.

Hits too close to home. He turned to look behind them. Look at those playing fields. Still brand new. This whole area was rubble and soot.

Cohen looped her hand under his arm. It's hard to take, I know.

Thanos died a few blocks from here. A lot of people did. Sometimes I think they should have left it like that. Broken. Raw. Kids squealed as they kicked a soccer ball across the field. World moves on, and somehow we're all supposed to be okay with that.

John, here they come.

Representatives from the bank rushed out to greet them. Two men and a woman, they wore appropriately moderate smiles for an occasion that consisted of their CEO having been blown up the day before, ushering them politely inside. Savas paused momentarily as they entered the lobby.

That’s impressive.

It was spectacularly cavernous, the ceiling higher than an opera house, works of modern art draped thirty feet in the air above them. It reminded him of standing in some of the newer airport terminals, only that everything was fashioned at several notches above the quality required for mass transportation hubs.

The woman nodded. We’re very proud of our new building and contributions to the revitalized financial center, she began, the delivery so perfect it seemed long rehearsed. There are twenty-one million square feet and six trading floors, each larger than a football field. It’s a very environmentally friendly building with floor ventilation, cooled by a hundred storage tanks containing nearly two million pounds of ice. Views of the Hudson River and New York Harbor are available for our most senior members.

Like CEO Craig, said Savas.

The woman’s faced paled. Yes. Please, follow me.

The building spanned two city blocks, and to Savas it felt like the walk to the elevator took them across the length of it. No one followed them inside, and the three Goldman