He heard the steel rod move. Liu had left it near the windshield. It had rolled forward, halfway down the hood, following the sloped design toward the front bumper. Patrick pushed harder, legs pumping and heart pounding. The worst-case scenario was that the rod would turn sideways and get caught in the slit between the hood and side panel. He couldn’t let that happen. He dug deep inside himself and pushed with all his leg strength. The rocking sensation built to a lurch, and Patrick heard the sweet ping of a steel rod hitting a concrete floor.

  He stopped pumping, exhausted. The car was motionless. Patrick trapped the rod beneath the sole of his shoe and dragged it toward him. It required some contortion-like finagling, but he worked the prized rod all the way up along his leg and into his hands. He was almost giddy with excitement, until he realized that the hard part was still ahead of him.

  Hard. But not impossible.

  It had taken twenty minutes for a twelve-year-old Patrick to pick a lock with his bicycle spoke. Following the instructional video, he’d broken it into two pieces, one bent into the shape of an Allen wrench to apply tension to the wide base of the keyhole, like the flat edge of the key; the other bent at a forty-five-degree angle to “rake” the pins, like the jagged edge of the key.

  This job would be no different, though it was his first attempt with his hands behind his back.

  First time for everything.

  Patrick snapped the rod in half and got to work.

  Chapter 60

  Christian Gamble spent the entire day on the Buck campus, exploring the depths of his own darkness.

  The fact that certain Buck projects were dark to the CEO was not something Gamble talked about openly. The investment agreement with BJB Funding actually prohibited him from saying so publicly. But a twenty-year-old contract with the CIA’s venture capital arm was not the sole, or even most important, reason to keep quiet about the limitations on his security clearance. It was beyond embarrassing. His own daughter had found it shocking.

  Willful blindness, Dad. It’s a corporate disease. Sometimes fatal.

  His phone conversation with Noah had been short and to the point. “I need to know what I don’t know,” Gamble had told him. Noah balked and said he’d check with his supervisor. Gamble tired of waiting for a response. He showed up at the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Judiciary Square to talk face-to-face, behind closed doors, just the two of them in Noah’s office.

  “I’m sorry,” said Noah. “I can’t share any preliminary conclusions of my cybersecurity audit with you or anyone else outside the department.”

  “I don’t want your ‘conclusions.’ I want to verify some facts with you. That’s your job, as auditor, correct? To base your decision on facts?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then stop squirming like the spineless wimp my daughter dumped and answer my questions.”

  “You don’t have to make this personal.”

  “My employee was kidnapped for ransom, and my daughter is risking her life, as we speak, to get him home. How is that not personal?”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with my audit.”

  “Can we just verify a few facts? Please?”

  The “dumping” remark was harsh, but Gamble was in no mood to apologize. To his credit, Noah seemed willing to put it aside.

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “Buck has a project called Naïveté Two. It grew out of Project Naïveté.”

  “I can’t talk to you about Naïveté Two. You don’t have clearance.”

  “But I do have clearance to numerous operations that feed in to Naïveté Two.”

  “How would you know what feeds in to Naïveté Two?”

  “Process of elimination.”

  “I don’t understand,” Noah said.

  “I know Jeremy Peel heads Naïveté Two. After twenty-five years, I know Jeremy’s vision. I know which company assets he would draw upon to actualize that vision. I made a list. I spent all day pushing the limits of my clearance in each of those silos until I hit a brick wall.”

  Noah nodded, seeming to get it. “And you want me to tell you if that brick wall is Naïveté Two.”

  “No. Don’t tell me anything. I’m simply going to read you my list of silos that I think feed in to Naïveté Two. If I’m wrong, there’s nothing more to do. If I’m right, I would imagine you would want to shoot off an immediate email to your supervisor advising that it is highly possible that the kidnapping of Patrick Battle has compromised the security of Naïveté Two.”

  The two men locked eyes. Gamble pulled up his list on his smartphone.

  “I’ll spare you the obvious,” said Gamble. “We all know that screen-related sentiment data is part of virtually everything Big Data does. Browsing history, social media connections, online purchases, likes, emojis, emoticons, LOLs and other sentiment-related acronyms, preferred slang, how often you type in all caps, how many fractions of a second you let your cursor linger over the image of a puppy as opposed to the image of a Kardashian.

  “My list puts a finer point on the project. It focuses on non-screen data that tells Big Data how you think and feel. Ready?”

  No answer from Noah, but he was clearly listening.

  “One: smart speakers. By this I mean all the data collected from everything that operates on voice command. Your phone, your car, your house, your microwave oven—everything.

  “Two: all those telephone conversations that are recorded with the caller’s consent ‘for training purposes,’ which Big Data buys up so our algorithms can measure what your voice or syntax reveals about your emotions, sentiments, and personality—essentially, ‘hear’ what you say and how you say it when you’re angry or trying to get a stranger to help you, so that you can be coded as ‘logical and responsible,’ ‘creative and playful,’ or ‘tense and aggressive.’

  “Three: personal health monitors, which can be linked to the GPS coordinates on your phone, so we know how fast your heart beats while you’re watching the next James Bond film.

  “Four: surveillance and security camera images, in case we also want to see the expression on your face when Mr. Bond removes his shirt, or when you run the red light on the drive home from the theater.

  “Five, digitally captured internet videoconferencing, which never dies and, unlike General MacArthur and other old soldiers, doesn’t just fade away. Six—”

  Gamble paused and looked up from his list. “You get the idea. I believe Naïveté Two combines every non-screen data silo at Buck’s disposal with traditional screen-sourced data to create a digital profile on every man, woman, and child in America. I’m talking about a massive collection of personal, psychological, and emotional dossiers that would make J. Edgar Hoover ejaculate in his grave.”

  He waited. Noah showed no reaction, verbal or nonverbal. Thirty seconds passed in silence. Finally, Noah turned in his swivel chair to face his computer monitor.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to send an email to my supervisor.”

  He placed his hands on the keyboard and began typing.

  Gamble rose and exited the office, Noah having “told” him nothing.

  Kate’s phone rang. It was her father. Calling to talk her out of danger, no doubt. She decided she should answer. Then changed her mind. Then changed it back.

  “Dad, I can’t talk now.”

  “It’s a scraping tool,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Code Six, or whatever you want to call Patrick’s ransom demand. It’s a scraping tool.”

  Kate was in the backseat of the car, and Enrique’s friend Diego was driving. It was a safe neighborhood where people walked to bars and restaurants at night, so Kate and Diego circled the neighborhood while Enrique blended in with the crowd on foot, casing the restaurant where Peel was to make the exchange. The kidnapper had said “no followers” and only “one bodyguard,” but it hadn’t taken much in the way of persuasion for Peel to see the benefit of having Enrique nearby in case something went wrong.

  “I don’t even know what that means—a ‘scraping tool.’”

  “It could be a browser extension. It could be a lot of things. The bottom line is that it’s a tool for outsiders to harvest data from platforms like TikTok, Facebook, Instagram, and all the other places where users give up way more than they should.”

  “And the platforms allow this?”

  “No! That’s the point. Facebook sends out cease and desist letters all the time. They even threatened the NYU Observatory for scraping data on political ads for academic research.”

  “So if scraping tools aren’t allowed, why is Buck’s so valuable?”

  “Because no one knows it’s there. It’s the stealth bomber of scraping tools. We can scrape anything from any platform, and no one will know it. Do you understand how powerful that is?”

  She did. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Jeremy has talked about this for years. Today I pushed my credentials as far as possible in every data silo. Each time, I eventually hit a brick wall. On my side of the wall is the data we collected with proper consent. On the dark side of the wall, I believe, is the data we scraped.”

  “Illegally,” said Kate.

  “Without consent. It’s a gray area. I wouldn’t say illegally.”

  “Immorally,” said Kate.

  “We can debate that with Sir Thomas More in the next life. But here’s the important thing.”

  The car stopped, and the passenger-side door suddenly opened, which sent Kate’s heart into her throat. Enrique jumped in the backseat.

  “Hold on, Dad,” she said, relieved to see it was her bodyguard and not a carjacking.

  “Peel is moving,” said Enrique. “Kidnapper changed the drop site.”

  “To where?”

  “Peel’s bodyguard texted and said he’ll send me a pin when they get there.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Nothing,” said Enrique. “I’m sure the kidnapper is just watching to see if anyone follows Peel to the new location.”

  “Like the police?”

  “No, like us,” said Diego, offering the insight of a local. “The kidnapper already knows we didn’t involve the police. You can’t call the police in Cali without the kidnapper getting tipped off.”

  Kate returned to her call. “Dad, I have to go.”

  “Wait. There’s more.”

  “Dad, we’re about to make the exchange!”

  “Kate, I need to know: Is there any chance you’re handing over the tool. The real tool?”

  “No.”

  “Because this tool is dangerous in the wrong hands.”

  “This tool is dangerous in the right hands. But no, Dad, you don’t have to worry. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  Kate hung up. The car started forward. “Where we headed?” asked Kate.

  “Club Siloé,” said Enrique.

  “Siloé? Diego, isn’t that the place you told us never to go?”

  From the driver’s seat, Diego made eye contact in the rearview mirror. “The club’s not technically in Barrio Siloé. But it’s close.”

  “How close?”

  “It’s perfectly safe once you get inside,” said Diego. “The fact that it’s literally on the edge of danger is what makes it the cool spot in Cali. So you don’t want to walk the area.”

  “We don’t have to go, if you don’t want,” Enrique told her.

  Kate hadn’t come all this way to hang out with tourists and expats at her hotel while the exchange went down without her. On the other hand, there was a reason her father’s kidnap and ransom insurance policy covered immediate family members.

  “Just don’t park the car,” she said. “Circle the block. That’s the plan.”

  “That’s a good plan,” said Diego, with a little more local insight.

  Chapter 61

  Peel’s driver stopped outside the entrance to Club Siloé. His bodyguard, Jaime, was beside him in the backseat.

  “I don’t like this,” said Peel.

  “We want a public place, so he doesn’t pull anything. But a five-star restaurant in Ciudad Jardín was a safer choice.”

  Peel had the kidnapper’s number from their phone call on the jet. He dialed, was somewhat surprised to get an answer, and stated his position firmly.

  “This location is not acceptable.”

  “I can see you. Go inside.”

  He’d assumed he was being watched, but until that moment, Peel hadn’t felt it. “I’m not going in.”

  “Do I have to call Mr. Walker at the CIA?”

  Technically, Walker wasn’t “at the CIA,” but that didn’t diminish the threat. “You wouldn’t do that,” said Peel.

  “I definitely will. And he’d be very upset to learn what bullshit it is that Buck Technologies only does business with Western allies. Unless you think he considers China a friend.”

  It could have been a bluff, as it wasn’t in the interest of the Chinese government to “out” someone like Peel, a secret source of data on foreigners. But Peel couldn’t take that risk. He had no choice but to fold.

  “Ten minutes. In and out,” said Peel.

  “Your table is under the name Cruz. Wait for me there.”

  Not very imaginative of him to use the Spanish version of Smith, but Peel didn’t quibble. The call ended, and with a quick nod to his team signaling “go,” the driver opened Peel’s door and his bodyguard whisked him inside.

  Peel was no stranger to clubs of this sort, where naked young women worked on drunk businessmen, and the old song about a fool and his money was perpetually at the top of the charts. But it was his first time with only one bodyguard. It was risky behavior on his part, but it fed his macabre sense of curiosity to test the limits of what beautiful young women would do for money. Even more fun was to wager on it. “I’ll bet you fifty thousand dollars the blonde will drink the redhead’s urine for five hundred dollars.” Not that he would ever have sex with one of these dancers. For that, men like Javier hooked him up with women like Olga.

  Javier, you should have stuck to business as usual.

  “Table for Cruz,” he told the hostess.

  “This way,” the young woman said.

  It turned out that the pole-dancing lounge was a small part of the action. Peel and his bodyguard followed the hostess through a set of chrome-clad double doors that led to the heart and soul of Club Siloé.

  A salsa band was playing onstage, and a parquet dance floor was packed with couples making it clear that Shakira wasn’t the only Colombian who could dance. Above the stage, stretching wall to wall, was an enormous rectangular meme of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper, with whiskey replacing wine, and popular salsa musicians and their groupies replacing Jesus and His apostles. It was beloved by patrons, no doubt, but to Peel, this was art on the order of dogs playing poker. The hostess led them to a booth away from the band, a somewhat quieter section of the club where it was possible to have a conversation without shouting. She laid two menus on the table, and Peel checked the list of drinks. Cervezas were on the left; tragos fuertes on the right. The words in bold across the top of the menu made him curious.

  “Viva la vida, mira que se va y no vuelve,” he read aloud in bad Spanish. “What does that mean, gorgeous?”

  The hostess smiled. “No can say en inglés. Your waitress comes soon.”

  She left, and Peel put his bodyguard’s Spanish to the test. “Do you know what it means?”

  “The literal translation loses it. Basically: ‘Live it up, ’cause, hey, life goes away and doesn’t come back.’”

  Peel laid the menu aside, and his gaze drifted toward the empty seats for their guests. “Good advice,” he said.

  Kate was on her second turn around the block. The plan was for Enrique to go inside the club and monitor the exchange while Kate and Diego circled Club Siloé. As the car stopped outside the club entrance, the voice of Peel’s bodyguard came through in real time over the car’s sound system, which was linked by Bluetooth to Diego’s cellphone.

  “Basically: ‘Live it up, ’cause, hey, life goes away and doesn’t come back.’”

  “That’s actually a decent translation,” said Diego.

  Enrique had the cellphone number for Peel’s bodyguard, and Diego had used it to hack the phone’s microphone so that they could eavesdrop on Peel’s conversation with the kidnapper. Technologically, it wasn’t difficult to do, especially for a former DEA agent. Diego had busted many a drug dealer who didn’t realize that his phone simply had to be powered on, not in use, for hackers to use the microphone as a listening device.

  “A lot of background noise,” said Kate.

  “It’s a nightclub. I can’t help that,” said Diego.

  “That’s why we still need eyes on the table,” said Enrique. “I’ll text you with updates.”

  “Good luck,” said Kate.

  Enrique got out, and the car pulled away. Diego hung a left at the traffic light, and they continued east, toward the luminous moon above the hilltop.

  “That’s Siloé,” he said, indicating.

  Glittering lights dotted the habitable portion of hillside, from street level to an elevation of about one thousand feet. At the very top, jagged granite edges bathed in the moonlight.

  “It’s actually beautiful at night.”

  “Sí, at night.”

  Kate noticed a strange glowing dot in the distance. It moved slowly up the hill, like a meteor light-years away from earth, seeming to divide Siloé in half.

  “What’s that moving dot?” asked Kate.

  “That’s the new gondola public transportation system,” he said, and then he hung a right. “The idea is that if people have transportation, they can get a job and build a better life. That’s the station right ahead.”

  The car slowed, and Kate looked out the window as they passed the station at street level. About two dozen commuters were in line.

  “They’re all women,” said Kate.

  “Yeah, mostly housekeepers. The ‘have nots’ who serve the ‘haves.’ They work a twelve-hour shift, seven days a week, in Ciudad Jardín and other nice parts of Cali. Then it’s back to Siloé. The gondola gives them some hope of getting home to take care of their families without getting robbed.”