Storm had been having a debate with himself as to how much he should tell Cracker and how much he should leave out. He took a look at him, gauging the man. Maybe it was the blond hair or the cardigan, but Storm’s first impression was that he was a lightweight. Then Storm looked again and something told him Cracker was made of stern enough stuff. He could handle the truth. What’s more, he would insist on it.
“Mr. Cracker, my name is Derrick Storm. I’m working for the CIA on a case that may involve you. Is there somewhere we can talk about a sensitive matter?”
Cracker just stared at him some more. “But… how did you get up the driveway? There’s a gate.”
“Did you miss the part about the CIA?”
“No, no… Of course. I’m sorry. Come in. Come in.”
Cracker opened the door for Storm, who entered the house. The moment he did, his eyes began scanning the foyer, the hallway, every corner and crevice. It was part of Storm’s training to notice things that were out of place, a reflex that had become nearly as automatic as breathing. In this case, all it took was one glance to notice a few things that made him suspicious that Whitely Cracker’s house was not as private as Cracker thought. Once in the living room, Storm confirmed it: His hand swept the underside of the coffee table and quickly located a microchip not much larger than a pen tip.
Cracker was oblivious, still trying to play the role of gracious host: “Can I offer you anything to drink, Mr…. I’m sorry. I’m a little out of it. What did you say your name was?”
“Dunkel… Elder Steve Dunkel…. It is so wonderful of you to invite me into your home so I can tell you all about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’d like to talk about God’s plan for you. There are some simple steps you and your family can take to find powerful spiritual protection. Have you ever heard the name Joseph Smith?”
As he spoke, Storm had pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and was scribbling furiously. Whitely Cracker was in serious trouble. Click’s model had given it an 87 percent chance that Whitely was the next target. The Storm model had just upgraded it to 100. When he was done writing, he turned the note to Cracker, so he could read: “KICK ME OUT. THEN WALK OUTSIDE W/ ME.”
Cracker, who finally realized what was happening, played his part perfectly.
“I’m sorry, young man, but we already attend a church,” he said. “But why don’t you leave that magazine with me so I can read it at my leisure. I wish you all the best of luck on your mission. Have a nice night, now.”
“Thank you for your time, sir,” Storm said as he pushed through the screen door and back outside. Cracker lagged about ten feet behind. Storm kept walking until they were in the middle of the expansive front lawn, but still a distance from the trees that ringed the property.
“I’m sorry, I really didn’t get your name.”
“Derrick Storm.”
“Right, right. And you’re with the CIA. I don’t suppose there’s any way I can confirm that?”
“I could have a tactical team land in your yard and surround your house, if you like,” Storm said. “Would that do it?”
Cracker looked hard, to see if Storm was joking. He wasn’t. “Okay, so we’re going to proceed as if you’re CIA,” Cracker said.
“That’s probably the best course of action. Especially since your house is bugged.”
“Is that what you pulled out from under the table?”
“Yes. Your house is rotten with bugs. I didn’t see any cameras. But the place is all ears.”
Storm had never known Volkov to bother with electronic surveillance this elaborate — he usually just did his reconnaissance the old-fashioned way. What’s more, the bug Storm had pulled from the coffee table was not the cheap kind he had gotten familiar with in his private investigator days. It was top-of-the-line. But perhaps the setup of the house, with all those trees and all that land around it, had required it. Or perhaps Volkov was changing, growing more sophisticated.
Cracker was struggling to keep up. “So how did you… I mean, you just walk into my house and… What? Could you smell them or something?”
“I saw a few things that made me concerned the moment I walked in. I’ve bugged a few houses in my time. You have to know what to look for. Whoever did it was very good, but they weren’t perfect. For example, as I walked in the house, I saw a piece of wallpaper that had been recently peeled back and then reglued. But whoever did it was a little hasty about it and the glue didn’t entirely take. I guarantee you’d find a bug tucked in there. There are probably a dozen others on the first floor alone. Under furniture. In light fixtures. All over. They’re all small, which means they’re not very powerful, which means you have to use a lot of them. They’re likely transmitting to a unit that’s hidden somewhere in your house. If we went up into your attic, we’d probably find it buried in some insulation. That’s where I’d put it anyway. Depending on what they’re using, the transmitter could be as small as a fist and yet powerful enough to send the signal anywhere within a mile of here.”
“But how is that… Who would bug my house?”
“Quite possibly the same person who’s trying to kill you,” Storm said.
“What?!?” Cracker exploded.
“Mr. Cracker, are there children inside the house?”
“Yes, they’re upstairs. Their mother… my wife, Melissa… she’s putting them to bed, but…”
“Forgive the bluntness of this question, but I don’t have time to be polite: Your wife, can she handle herself? Or is she a trophy?”
“Oh, she’s whip smart,” Cracker said. “Much smarter than me.”
“Then you should bring her outside and tell her to get ready to leave. And, naturally, she should take the kids with her,” Storm said.
“Yes, of course, but… I’m sorry, could you go back to the part about someone wanting to kill me? I’m still sort of stuck on that.”
“Let me put this as plainly as I know how: We have a strong reason to believe your life is in grave danger. A Russian assassin named Gregor Volkov is on his way to your house right now to kill you. But before he kills you, he will torture you for your MonEx Four Thousand password, which he is providing to someone who wants to trigger a worldwide financial catastrophe.”
Storm expected to see some demonstrable reaction to this news, but Cracker’s face betrayed no emotion.
“I see,” he said. “And you expect me to believe this… why?”
“Think hard, Mr. Cracker. Have you noticed anything unusual in the last few days? Someone following you, perhaps? I’ve tangled with Volkov before. He’s the best of the best and leaves nothing to chance. He doesn’t normally use bugs, but they’re evidence of his presence. His normal procedure is to have advance teams in place to perform surveillance anywhere from a day to a week ahead of when he strikes. Maybe you noticed a car behind you on your way to work?”
“No, no, nothing like that. You said the man’s name was VolKoff?” Cracker said, over-pronouncing the name. “And he’s Russian?”
“That’s correct. Don’t bother trying to place him. You don’t know him. Volkov is working for someone else. We just haven’t figured out who yet.”
“Ah,” Cracker said. That was it. Just “Ah.”
Storm surmised the man must be in shock. A perfect stranger had waltzed into his life and told him he was about to be murdered. He just wasn’t processing it yet.
“This is serious, Mr. Cracker. Volkov is a brutal killer. There are five investment bankers dead already. We have reason to believe you’re going to be the sixth.”
“And why is that?”
“Are you familiar with the Click Theory?”
Cracker tilted his head, wore a brief look of concentration, then said, “No. What’s the Click Theory?”
“A quantitative economist named Rodney Click has re created the foreign exchange market in an elaborate computer model. He has used it to predict that six currency traders, properly placed in the right institutions across the globe, could trigger a precipitous plunge in the value of the U.S. dollar if they all bailed on the dollar at the same time.”