Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection

Will looked at the screen, each sentence beginning ‘Received . . .’

‘Hmm. These guys were in a hurry.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Well, you could make up “received lines”. But that takes time – and whoever sent this didn’t have time. Or didn’t know how to do it. These received lines are all genuine. OK, this is the thing we need. Here.’ He was pointing to the bottom line, the point of origin. Received from info.netspot-biz.com

‘What’s that?’

‘Every computer in the world, so long as it’s connected to the internet, has a name. That one there is the computer that sent you the email. All right. That means there’s one more move I need to make.’

Will could see that Tom felt uncomfortable. This was not the way he liked to do things. Will remembered one of their earliest conversations, when Tom explained the difference between hackers and crackers, white hats and black hats. Will liked all the names; thought it might make a magazine piece.

His memory was sketchy. He remembered his surprise at discovering that hacker was a widely misused term. In the outside world, it was often applied to the teenage nerds who broke into other people’s computers – other people being Cape Canaveral or NATO – and wrought mayhem. Among techno-folk, hacker had a milder meaning: it referred to those who played on other people’s virtual lawns for fun, not malice. Those who were up to no good – spreading viruses, taking down the 911 emergency phone system – were known by aficionados as crackers. They were hackers for havoc.

The same distinction applied to white hats and black hats. The former would snoop around where they were not wanted – inside the system of one of America’s biggest banks for example – but their motives were benign. They might peek at customers’ account numbers, even uncovering their PIN codes, but they would not take their money (even though they could). Instead they would email the head of security at the bank with a few examples of their plundered wares. A typical white hat message, waiting in the inbox of the luckless official in charge, might read, ‘If I can see your data, then so can the bad guys. Fix it.’ If the recipient was really unlucky, the email would be cc’d to the CEO.

Black hats would do the same but with darker purpose. They would bust into a maximum security network not on the Everest principle – because it’s there – but in order to cause some damage. Sometimes it was theft, but more often the motive was cyber-vandalism: the thrill of taking down a big target. The headline-grabbing viruses of the past – I Love You and Michelangelo – were considered artistic masterpieces in the black hat fraternity.

Of course Tom’s hat was as white as they came. He loved the internet, he wanted it to work. He had barely hacked, let alone cracked. He believed it was essential that the world grow to trust the web, that people felt secure on it – and that meant restraint on the part of those, like him, who knew where to find the gaps in the fence. But this was an exceptional situation. Beth’s life was on the line.

Will began to pace. His legs felt weak, his stomach queasy. He had eaten nothing since first sight of that email, now some seven hours ago. He wandered over to Tom’s fridge: multiple Volvic and a box of sushi. Yesterday’s. Will took it out, smelled it and decided it was still just about edible. He wolfed it, then felt guilty for having any appetite at all when his wife was missing. As he swallowed, Beth came back to him. The very idea of food seemed to trigger an association with his wife. The evenings together making dinner; her unabashed appetite. Whatever he imagined, warmth, hunger or satiation, he could only think of her.

He paced some more. He flicked through the computer periodicals and obscure literary journals that Tom had in a stack by the couch.

‘Will, come here.’

Tom was staring at the screen. He had done a ‘whois . . .’ for netspot-biz.com and had got an answer.

‘You don’t seem happy,’ said Will.

‘Well, it’s good news and bad news. The good news is I now know exactly where the email was sent from. The bad news is, it could be anybody who sent it.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Our path ends in an internet café. People are in and out of those places all the time. How stupid can you get!’ Tom slammed his fist on the desk. He seemed furious. ‘I thought we were going to get a nice, neat home address. Dumb ass!’ Will realized Tom was addressing no one but himself.

‘Where is this internet café?’

‘Does it matter? New York is a pretty big fucking city, Will. Millions of people could have passed through there.’

‘Tom.’ Sternly now. ‘Can you find out where it is?’

Tom returned to the screen, while Will stared. Finally, he spoke.

‘There’s the address. Trouble is, I’m not sure I believe it.’

‘Where is it?’ said Will.

Tom looked him straight in the face for the first time since Will had shown him the kidnappers’ email. ‘It’s from Brooklyn. Crown Heights, Brooklyn.’

‘That’s fairly near here. Why don’t you believe it?’

‘Look at the map.’ Tom had done an instant MapQuest search, showing with a red star the exact location of the internet café. It was on Eastern Parkway. ‘Do you realize where that is?’

‘No. Come on, Tom. Stop fucking around. Tell me.’

‘This message was sent from Crown Heights. That’s only the biggest Hassidic community in America.’

The red star stared at them without blinking. It looked like the X on a treasure map, the kind that used to feature in Will’s boyhood dreams. What lay under it?

‘Despite the location, it’s possible that it’s not them who sent it.’

‘Tom, the email was in Hebrew, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Yeah, but that could be a cover. The real name was golem.net.’

‘Look it up.’

Tom keyed golem into Google and clicked on the first result. It brought up a page from a website of Jewish legends for children. It told the story of the Great Rabbi Loew of Prague, who used a spell from kabbala, ancient Jewish mysticism, to mould a man from clay: a vast, lumbering giant they called the Golem. Will’s eye raced to the end: the story climaxed in violence and destruction, with the Golem running amok. The Golem seemed to be a Hassidic precursor of Frankenstein’s monster.

‘All right,’ said Tom finally. ‘I admit it, it does seem to be them. But it makes no sense. Why on earth would these people take Beth?’

‘We don’t know it’s “these people”. It might be one psycho who just happens to be Hassidic.’ Will grabbed his coat.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going there.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘I’ll pretend I’m reporting. I’ll start asking questions. See who’s in charge.’

‘You’re out of your mind. Why don’t you just tell the police you’ve traced the email? Let them handle it.’

‘What, and guarantee these lunatics kill Beth? I’m going.’

‘You can’t just go charging in there, with your notebook and English accent. You might as well wear a fucking sign.’

‘I’ll think of something.’ Will did not say, though he thought it, that he was getting quite good at this kind of amateur detective work. His triumphs in Brownsville and Montana had left him pumped: in both cases he had found out a hidden truth. Now he would find his wife.

FIFTEEN (#ulink_a41cd3ca-712e-533e-a880-713afee0ce2b)

Friday, 4.10pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

His first reaction was confusion. He got off the subway at Sterling Street and walked straight into what looked to him like a black neighbourhood: Ebony, Vibe and Black Hair on sale at the newsstand, murals on every other wall, knots of young black men standing around in baggy combat clothes.

But once he crossed New York Avenue, he felt his pulse quicken with a reporter’s sense that he was getting nearer to the story. Signs appeared in Hebrew. Some of the words were written in English characters, though their meaning was no less opaque. Chazak V’Ematz! promised one, enigmatically. Another word appeared several times, on bumper stickers, on fly posters, even on notices collared to lampposts, like flyers seeking lost cats. Will soon learned to recognize the word, though he had no idea how to pronounce it: Moshiach.