CBD: [REDACTED], there are still several questions—
[REDACTED]: That will be all, Mr. Sacker.
MR. SACKER: But wait a minute! What’s this all about? What hacking? What treason? You can’t just drag me in here and ask me questions without telling me anything!
[REDACTED]: The tribunal reminds you that the entire proceeding is classified under past and more recent national security laws: The Patriot Acts, the Terrorist Surveillance Order, the Obama Doctrines. You are to be reminded that we are at war and under martial law. You may not speak to anyone about any of this or even acknowledge that you have been here or that this tribunal exists. The recent NSA authorizations for tracking and recording citizens means that you will be monitored via your new nation identity card through all electronic devices, both public and private. Failure to abide by these instructions will be discovered and may be construed as action hostile to the United States of America. Do you understand?
MR. SACKER: Jesus.
[REDACTED]: Do you understand?
MR. SACKER: Yes.
CBD: You are free to go.
22
Miller blasted through the left-most toll lane with lights flashing as he and Savas raced down Interstate 95 on their way to Bridgeport, Connecticut. The NSA finally seemed to be playing nice with the other agencies and had come through in a big way. With their eyes nearly everywhere in the digital world, they had been able to trace the feed for the streaming video of the assassinations to a boardwalk section of the port town.
“Near Captain's Cove,” said Savas, mapping the location on his phone. “Seems to be some minor touristy location by a marina. Move a bit out from it and things deteriorate quickly. A lot of abandoned buildings.”
“Buildings with serious bandwidth, it seems,” said Miller. He cast a sharp look toward Savas. “Rebecca’s where again? We could use her today.”
Savas sighed. “Tell me about it. Look, I know I’ve been keeping this in a black box, Frank, but there are some very good reasons. Things will be clearer soon. Current events have complicated things, but she’s tending to something important.”
“Your call, John. But I can’t say there hasn’t been a lot of interest and speculation.”
“Answers are coming. Meanwhile, we focus on today.”
Miller stared a moment more at Savas, then turned his eyes back to the road. “Sure.”
Savas continued. “We’re going to have local and state police on scene, and some agents from the New Haven Division. But they’ve saved the crime scene for us, and I’ve got a forensics unit en route. This is our first real physical connection to Anonymous.”
“Well, let’s hope these digital ghosts leave real-world footprints.”
They stepped out of the car in front of a faded orange building. Sandwiched between several dilapidated and shuttered structures, it hardly seemed the location for the broadcast of the most devastating video in the history of the internet. They were met by representatives of the local FBI division and surrounded by police. Bystanders stood behind police tape, gawking at the uniformed presence, cell phones raised like torches, beaming images around the world.
“Assistant Special Agents in Charge Jimmy Onda and Maggie Linven,” said a tall woman wrapped in a coat and indicating a pencil thin man with thinning hair. Both of the New Haven agents appeared anxious and fearful.
Savas shook their hands. “John Savas and Frank Miller, Intel 1. I take it you’ve been inside?”
Their wide-eyed expressions gave Savas his answer.
“Yes, agent Savas. The bodies are still there. They haven’t been disturbed. I was told your New York crime units are coming.”
He nodded. “Yes. They should be here any minute. Mind if we have a look ourselves?”
“No. But it’s pretty grim.”
The four of them entered the building, a narrow hallway leading back to what might have been a storage room for a small business decades ago. Photographers continued to take pictures, and the strobing of the flashes in the dark space created a strange, discontinuous visual effect as he and Miller snapped on nitrile gloves.
Even walking in the space was hazardous. Clotted pools of blood had seeped from the center of the room outward, coating the floor in an expanse of red goo. The staging was as it had been in the video: two rows of ten chairs, corpses tied to them, stage lights affixed to stands around the massacred, and a dark cloth framing the nightmare in a semicircle of black.
“There seems to be some rigor mortis remaining in the bodies,” said agent Liven. “That’s consistent with the timing of the broadcast last night.”
“So it was live,” mumbled Miller, a scowl on his face. “Like to tie down the bastard that did this and see how he likes the treatment.”
The accompanying agents eyed Miller cautiously. Savas turned the conversation back to Anonymous.
“That speech on TV sounded like talking points from a manifesto. They truly hated the people here, saw them as criminals and murderers that deserved their punishment.”
“Sounds like you’re empathizing with them,” growled agent Onda.
“Not at all,” said Savas. “But we can’t sit here getting off on righteous indignation. We need to understand them, get in their heads. We need to anticipate them. And we can’t do that if we can’t think like they do. Basic criminal psychology 101.”
A glint of light caught his attention. Moving in a wide arc around the crime scene to avoid the blood, he approached the left side of the chairs and crouched beside a white object on the ground. One side of it was dyed red from blood that had run alongside the plastic.
“The Guy Fawkes mask,” said Savas.
The head of the New Haven division stared between Savas and the mask. “I wondered what that was all about in the video. Who’s Guy Fawkes?”
Savas shook his head. “Too much FBI training is still in the analog years.” He stood up and continued to move parallel to the chair rows, examining the layout. “Historically, he’s a figure from British religious wars in the sixteenth century. Led a failed Catholic rebellion against the English. Fast forward. Now, amazingly, he’s become a general symbol of resistance to oppressive systems. Started with a graphic novel. The hacker community in particular has adopted him as a symbol. Anonymous often uses iconography of him — the mask in particular — when putting a public face on their activities. It literally keeps them anonymous and gives them some kind of mythic power.”
The New Haven agent shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yeah, well, since when do sociopathic revolutionaries have to make sense?” asked Miller. “But the idiot left the mask here.”
“Exactly,” said Savas, a glint in his eye. “And look, behind the chairs,” he pointed with a blue finger. “Some masks from the shooters. They wore them for the entire video.” He smiled. "Maybe Anonymous is made up of geniuses, but their intelligence is limited to the digital realm. They’re rookies here.”
At that moment, several additional agents entered the room carrying equipment and evidence bags. One waved to Savas as he approached.
“Just in time,” said Savas. “Our NYC crime unit. And it looks like Anonymous has left some interesting Easter eggs for us to open.”
23
An unremarkable blue sedan pulled up to a tollbooth on the George Washington Bridge on the Jersey side. The booth officer watched as a man with blond hair and a youngish face shoved a fist out the window, offering a ten and a five from inside. The officer could see her face reflected in his mirrored glasses. She glanced inside at his companion as she took the bills, glimpsing a woman with short black hair and dark sunglasses. The man looked away as the gate swung upward, and the car dashed off, lost in the traffic swarming onto the bridge.