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CHAPTER 73
BAO WONG, JOE MOLINARI, and Bob Nicholson, the self-described negotiator for a global ransomware enterprise, sat in a semicircle of office chairs facing Craig Steinmetz’s desk. The section chief was dressed in sweatpants and a gray cardigan with a cowl neck and leather buttons, loafers, no socks. Joe knew that Craig, who’d been in bed when he’d called him, had thrown on after-work clothes and made it to his office PDQ.
All of the lights were on. Papers were stacked in neat piles on Steinmetz’s desk, which was bracketed by two standing flags; one the Stars and Stripes, and the other a plain blue banner with the insignia of the FBI at the center. Beyond the plate glass window, the evening sky was broken by streaks of headlights thirteen floors below. No beverages were served nor offered. Nicholson struggled out of his jacket and, with Joe’s help, hung it on the back of his chair. Did he know Apocalypto’s secrets or was Bob just full of crap? Craig would know.
After forty years with the Bureau, Steinmetz couldn’t have been more ready for this critical interrogation. He straightened a line of pens in front of him and spoke.
“Mr. Nicholson, you’re employed by a firm called Apocalypto?”
“Not exactly, sir. I work for a toy company in Amsterdam that markets toys internationally. But that’s their cover. On one floor of their building, about a hundred software geniuses run the real profit center. That’s Apocalypto.”
“Got it,” said Steinmetz. “And how did you come to work for this toy company in Amsterdam when you’re a US citizen?”
“They scoped me out. Found out my grades at Caltech. My skills in advanced software technology. My job history with HP and Intel. Then I was recruited by remote interviews with flattery and mounds of shiny objects and I fell for the pitch. This was about four years ago, sir. My US citizenship doesn’t come into it because I live, work, and pay my taxes here. Also, Chief, the job wasn’t fully explained to me. I thought it was experimental. I typed code into my laptop—like always. Then, it got real. Am I talking too much?”
“No,” Steinmetz said. “Please go on.”
Bob nodded and continued the story of his life as a criminal.
“Over a few years, I was given increased incentives to negotiate with targeted firms. Most of them were industrial, but not pivotal to anything. Lawn mower manufacturer. Aluminum cans. This was all a tryout but I didn’t know. The job seemed great. Creative. Challenging. I got rich. For me. Butthis year with the hospitals … Well. I’m disgusted with myself, sir.”
“Convince me.”
“Okay. I want to clarify, Chief. I don’t select the targets. I don’t create or deliver the malware. I’m just what they call the closer. I negotiate the ransom with the target, and after the payment is secured, it goes to the first of many banks who wire it to other banks. I am not part of that, sir, but eventually it gets back to a bank in the Netherlands. For a while I rationalized that once we were out of the victims’ hair, we left them more secure than when we broke in.”
Bao said, “Big of you, Bob. Did you assign a value to the people who died because of the malware?”
“No. No. I tinkered with the program, I talked to executives by internet, but when I asked about a human toll, I was iced. ‘Not your job. Hospitals are insured …’”
Steinmetz said, “All right. I get it, Bob. You’re a go-between, you’re saying, an upstanding citizen with computer skills who got duped by terrorists.”
Joe was watching Bob carefully. It seemed to him that Bob had never imagined a moment like this. He was scared. Leaving his laptop at Starbucks hadn’t prepared him to confess to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s top man in San Francisco. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
Steinmetz rooted in his center drawer, found a packet of tissues, and slid it across the desk.
Bob was stammering now. “Sir … I was willfully blind and I don’t forgive myself … But for context, this was very heady stuff for a fat kid from a factory town who got scholarshipsand grades and a way out of Nowheresville … I want to earn a clean reboot …”
Steinmetz said, “So you’re going to quit your job, whether or not you get protection from the FBI?”
“Yes, sir. But without protection, I’ll be killed. And Apocalypto will live.”
CHAPTER 74
CLAIRE AND I drove separately to Susie’s and parked about a half a block away. Just the sight of those windows blazing with light was enough to buck me up. I linked arms with Claire as we walked toward the entrance. I did all the talking, as Claire was unusually quiet.
“Something eating you, Butterfly? Talk to me.”
Claire’s sigh was long and deep.
“Claire?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about some results I’m waiting on. I was collecting scrapings from under Jamie Fricke’s fingernails yesterday and noticed that his right hand was a little swollen and the knuckles were slightly abraded. Like he’d punched someone. Probably just before he dropped dead.”
“Claire, this is huge. You’re thinking he slugged his killer?”
“Or he scraped the sidewalk. All I know right now is that he skinned his knuckles. Anyway, I swabbed each knuckle, segregated the swabs, covered his hand with gauze, and askedthe lab to rush it through rapid DNA. Maybe it’ll match to his killer.”
I asked the air, “How did we miss this?”