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READ THE OPENING CHAPTERS
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
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?”
Lying 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.”
Chapter Three
FRIDAY, APRIL 17
6:15 AM EDT
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Nomad spun away from the workstation when he heard Keisha’s footsteps. The wheelchair’s motors hummed, and the tires whined at the sudden, sharp, turn. She blocked his retreat and his effort to shield her.
Keisha Mobatu kept Nomad fed, clean and, most important, out of the hospital. His live-in companion had the nursing skills he required, and a past that pushed legitimate employment out of reach.
“What’s wrong” she asked and looked over his shoulder at the monitor.
“My God. Is that,” she began. “Is that Francois?”
“Yes,” Nomad said, and the tears returned.
Keisha grabbed some tissue and blotted Nomad’s eyes and cheeks and wiped his nose. While Nomad had partial use of his arms, his range of motion was limited. She placed a hand on his shoulder. Nomad flinched, and she withdrew.
Nomad looked down, embarrassed. The touch was unexpected. The twitch uncontrolled. Even after two years, her friendship and warmth remained startling.
“I heard you two arguing again last night.”
“I tried to warn him,” Nomad said. “But he is, was, so damn stubborn. Brilliant, but stubborn.”
“I know the type,” Keisha said. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” he answered. “I can’t.”
“Then we better check your blood sugar.”
“My Dex thinks I’m fine.”
“So, your Dexcom ‘thinks’ now? Oh, great,” she said. “I’ve seen those things be off thirty, forty points, and if you crash, you won’t be helping anyone.”
Keisha hunted around in her bag for a test kit. “And if you die, what happens to me? Back on the streets? No thank you, that is not an option, so give me your damn finger.”
Nomad released his grip on the chair’s joystick and extended a finger. For all his body’s failings, he knew it well enough to sense that his blood sugar was fine, but this was a ritual Keisha performed to mask awkward moments. She pressed the softclix device against his finger. Nomad waited for the lance to prick his finger, but it never did, and he looked up at Keisha.
“What is it?” he asked, wondering what caught her attention. There was movement in the Frenchman’s apartment.
“Who’s that?” Keisha whispered.
“I was expecting the police,” he said. “But you don’t have to whisper. Whoever it is, can’t see or hear us.”
Nomad tucked back into the workstation. He studied the man’s movements and waited for a glimpse of his face. The Frenchman’s body obscured the view from the apartment’s TV, and they saw little more than a partial profile. The man’s actions were swift, methodical. Definitely not the police, Nomad thought. Then who?
The man brushed past Francois’s swaying body. Ignoring the Frenchman’s tortured expression and urine pooling on the floor. The man entered the bedroom and approached the laptop.
“Oh no,” Nomad said, and he captured a screenshot of the man’s face.
“You know this guy?”
“Not personally, but we’ve crossed paths,” Nomad said. “That’s Mikhail Zhukov. Former Russian Spetsnaz.”
“Spets-what?”
“Russian special forces. Think Navy SEAL, only savage, ruthless.”
“You worked with the Russian military?” Keisha asked.
“No. Zhukov’s military service is ancient history, and so is his prison time,” Nomad said. “He’s a mercenary now.”
They watched Zhukov search the desk and the room.
“What’s he looking for?” Keisha wondered.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s too late,” Nomad said. “There’s nothing left for him here. What I want to know is who’s holding Zhukov’s leash? Someone new has joined the hunt for the device and probably me.”
Zhukov appeared ready to leave, but stopped and studied the professor’s gallery of plaques, articles, and photos. Something on the wall, some moment in Francois’s past, caught Zhukov’s attention, and he leaned in for a closer look. He lifted an old photograph off the wall.
Nomad strained to see what Zhukov was handling and recognized the chess team photo.
With a flick of the wrist, Zhukov smashed the frame. Glass shattered and crashed to the floor. He removed the photo, examined the back, then folded and slipped it into his jacket’s vest pocket.
Zhukov returned to the bedroom. The video feed from the Frenchman’s laptop caught a flash of shadow and flesh, then disappeared.
What just happened?” Keisha asked.
“He took the laptop.”
Nomad weighed the implications like an opening chess move.
“The laptop will have trace evidence of my link to Francois,” he said. “And Zhukov has the technical resources to piece together my location, but that was always a risk. There’s still time.”
“You sound worried.”
“It’s probably nothing.”
“I know that voice,” Keisha said. “It’s something. Something bad.”
“Years ago, I did some contract work for Zhukov. He was in Syria at the time, and when it looked like he was orchestrating a chemical weapons attack, I passed his location to an analyst I knew at the CIA.”
“Jesus. What happened?”
“I don’t know. Not really,” he said. “A few rumors surfaced. My contact was captured and interrogated, later hospitalized. The rescue team incurred casualties. And Zhukov disappeared. The details would be in the CIA’s after-action report, but it was buttoned up tight and buried so deep even I couldn’t find it.”
“Does Zhukov know you set him up?”
“No. I was invisible then, like now,” Nomad said. “But there’s a chance he recognized her. Why else would he take the team photo?”
“Her? Who are we talking about?”
With a couple of flicks on his chair’s control system, Nomad opened a folder and displayed a photo.
“This is the photo Zhukov just took,” Nomad said. “It’s the MIT chess team the year we won the PanAm Team Championship.”
“You think somehow he recognized her?” Keisha asked, pointing at the young woman in the photo.
“That is Katherine Preacher, my contact at the CIA.”
Keisha studied the photo and said, “I recognize Francois. Younger, of course, but the same broad smile and that mustache.”
She leaned in and scanned the group standing alongside the professor.
“Christ, is that you?” she asked, noting the shortest boy in the photo. “How old were you? Twelve?”
“Fourteen,” Nomad said, and he peered into the eyes of his friend and mentor. Francois would still be alive if I hadn’t asked for his help, he thought, and swallowed hard.
“You went to MIT at Fourteen?”
“Yes,” he said, grateful for the distraction. “MIT has an early admissions program, and I was one of the youngest accepted.”
“She’s young, too. Not as young as you, but younger than the others.”
“We were the youngest on the team,” he said, “and the best.”
“You were just kids at the time,” Keisha said. “I doubt she looks anything like the skinny girl with the ponytail.”
“No, you’re right,” he said. “She’s gorgeous.”
When Keisha raised an eyebrow, he realized he’d slipped and tried to ignore it.
“You had a crush on her, and apparently still do,” Keisha said. “But there’s no way Zhukov recognized her from a teenage photo.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” Keisha said. “The photo means something, but she’s not it. Who’s the tall kid in the middle?”
“That’s Devin Moore.”
“No way,” she said, and pushed in for a closer look. “That’s THE Devin Moore? The Sexiest Man Alive Devin Moore?”
“The very one.”
“I had no idea you knew him.”
“That’s another—” he began.
“I know, I know. Another life,” she said. “Let’s get back to this life. Could he be in danger?”
“No. Moore’s untouchable,” Nomad said. “And besides, Moore has his own agenda.”
“Then it has to be you,” Keisha said. “Zhukov sees an old photo of Francois standing with a bunch of pimple-faced MIT nerds, and he thinks Nomad might be one of them.”
“Maybe, but the boy in that photo is dead. Anyone looking for him is ghost hunting.”
“That boy may be dead, but the man sitting here is still breathing,” she said. “And that reminds me.”
Keisha took his hand, pricked his finger, squeezed a drop of blood onto a glucose test strip, and waited for the result.
“Eighty-two. You’ll live, but let’s get you something to eat before you go any lower,” she said. She took a step toward the kitchen, but turned back.
“He’s coming, isn’t he?” Keisha asked. “The Russian. He’s coming for you.”
“Yes,” Nomad said. “And he’s not the only one looking.”
“How long do we have?”
Nomad hesitated. It was a race now. Zhukov had a network of contacts with global reach, yet somehow Francois’s killer beat Zhukov to the device. Nomad knew both adversaries were resourceful and determined, and neither would stop until they found him.
“A few days, a week at most,” Nomad said. “You should pack a bag.”
“Do you have time to finish what you started?” Keisha asked. “I mean without Francois?”
“I’ll try,” Nomad said. “But I honestly don’t know. If I can’t do it. If I need help. There is one person I’d trust with the truth.”
“You’re thinking about contacting her, aren’t you?” Keisha asked. “The girl in the picture.”
“Yes,” Nomad said. “If there’s no other choice.”
“Then you better think twice,” Keisha said. “This crusade or vendetta or whatever the hell you’re doing just cost a man’s life. If you bring her in, then Katherine Preacher could be next.”
