Zapwired, p.1
Zapwired, page 1
ZAPWIRED Copyright © 2023 Hal Ross. All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, except for passages excerpted for the purposes of review, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information or to order additional copies, please contact:
TitleTown Publishing, LLC
P.O. Box 12093 Green Bay, WI 54307-12093
920.737.8051 | titletownpublishing.com
Publisher: Tracy C. Ertl
Editor: Cliff Carle
Designer: Erika L. Block
Production Manager: Lori A. Preuss
Names: Ross, Hal, author.
Title: Zapwired : a novel / Hal Ross.
Description: Green Bay, WI : TitleTown Publishing, LLC, [2023] |
Originally published as “The Deadliest Game” (TitleTown, 2013).
Identifiers: ISBN: 978-1-955047-13-5 | 978-1-955047-16-6 (eBook)
Subjects: LCSH: Video games--Fiction. | Terrorism--Fiction. | Mass murder--Fiction. | Kidnapping-- Fiction. | Fathers and daughters--Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers / Terrorism. | FICTION / Thrillers / Technological.
Classification: LCC: PR9199.3.R598 Z35 2023 | DDC: 813/.6--dc23
For Sylvia and Barry
PROLOGUE
Khalid Yassin sat behind the wheel of his Lincoln MKZ in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Triborough Bridge, relieved that his wait was almost at an end. A full year of living in New York among the infidels was hard to take. Plotting. Organizing. Ensuring that nothing was left to chance.
He was a tall man in his early forties, his dark brown hair combed neatly, sunglasses shading his eyes. Of mixed blood, he had refined features and a lighter skin color that enabled him to easily pass for an average American, adapting various aliases whenever necessary.
He reached his Long Island destination forty-five minutes later. A dirt road led past a vacant farmhouse to a large gated property. Several posted signs warned that the area was private and that trespassers would be prosecuted. Security cameras were locked in place. He pressed a remote switch on his sun visor and the gate slowly opened, then automatically closed behind him.
Yassin drove for nearly a quarter of a mile before reaching the entrance to what appeared to be an old country estate. Off in the distance sat a sprawling, three-story house. There was no view of a major road—just row upon row of pine trees, sufficiently mature to block the view. There was no barn or stable, only the house and a deserted guard station, with a tan Ford sedan parked next to it.
He pulled up alongside, shut off the motor and took a small package out of the glove compartment. It had arrived this morning via courier. Yassin was anxious to see if what he’d been told about its contents was true.
When he opened his car door and stepped out, he was greeted by Abdul Masri, his second in command. Abdul was close to his own age, though his thick black beard was speckled prematurely with gray. He wore a robe and kaffiyeh.
“Asalaam aleikum.”
“Waleikum asalam,” Yassin replied.
They embraced like brothers, kissing each other on both cheeks, then patting shoulders before moving apart.
“Is everything prepared?” Yassin asked.
Masri nodded. “Precisely as you instructed.”
Yassin was about to hand over the package when he winced. Damn shrapnel injury, suffered years ago while on a clandestine excursion into Israel. Too often he forgot that certain movements caused the pain in his upper arm to flare. He rubbed the sore by habit, but it didn’t help.
Masri took the package from him, opened it, and removed a metal cylinder, ¼ inch in diameter and 1 inch in length. “Please wait here,” he said.
*
Ten minutes later Masri returned. Yassin could hear cries for help coming from the house. Masri speed-dialed a number on his cell phone. The explosion that followed was controlled, yet fierce. There was a brief flash of light, but only in one room—in the left corner of the top floor.
Yassin was thrilled. This new hybrid of C-4 plastique, NC-5, was sufficiently pliable to be hidden in a tiny space, yet powerful enough to cause the damage he wanted.
He followed Masri to the house. Although the lighting was dim, Yassin could still see signs of decay: patches of rust around the kitchen sink, brown floral wallpaper peeling, doors hanging off their hinges and tilted at odd angles. The staircase they took was splintered, making the climb precarious.
A skylight in the ceiling helped brighten the top floor. The two men passed a bathroom, two bedrooms, then paused at a third.
Yassin opened the door and smiled at the sight of the remains of the victim: a middle-aged vagrant Masri had abducted off the street two days ago. All that was left of him were his feet, resting where he’d been tied to a now destroyed chair.
Yassin shivered with excitement. Once more he was reminded of his loss and his vow to exact revenge. In his mind’s eye he visualized thousands of victims, American infidels all. He could see them comfortably seated in their family rooms, gathered around the TV. Then, BAM! Their bodies ripped apart, the walls and ceiling stained with brain matter, bits of bone and flesh scattered everywhere; the smell of blood, distinct and metallic in nature, permeating the room.
What a sight to behold!
PART ONE
MAY
1
I was in my Manhattan office preparing to tackle a huge stack of paperwork when I heard scuffling outside my closed door. Before I could get to my feet, Nora, my secretary, came bursting in.
“I’m so sorry, Blair. There’s a gentleman here who insists on seeing you. I told him he needs to make an appointment, but—”
I sat in awe as the man pushed his way past her and plopped down into the chair facing my desk.
“Sir!” Nora gasped in frustration.
“It’s okay, Nora. I’ll handle it.”
I waited for her to leave before turning to the intruder. “You are?” I asked, looking at him warily.
“John Dalton.” His eyes were cold, dark orbs.
“What do you want?” I said, wishing I’d sounded more authoritative.
“Five minutes of your time,” Dalton intoned, his baritone voice projecting the same chill as his eyes.
“Sorry.” I indicated the stack of files on my desk. “I can’t even spare a minute.”
The man’s smile looked disingenuous. “Relax, relax. I was told you guys in the toy business were a fun-loving bunch.”
“Oh, we are,” I countered dryly. “It’s a barrel of laughs here in Toyland. Now, what’s so important that you had to bull your way in here?”
“Oh, c’mon, Anderson. Are you always this uptight?”
I wondered how he knew my name, but didn’t bother to ask. I just wanted him out of here, ASAP.
Again, I gestured at the files. “Either I get through this today, or I’ll be swamped all day tomorrow. Capische?”
“I can see you’re busy,” Dalton said, though it was clear that he couldn’t care less. “But your government needs you.” He removed a laminated card from his wallet and handed it to me, seemingly oblivious of his clichéd words.
There was a federal seal and a color photo of the agent, bearing enough of a likeness to point out his arrogance.
“BIS,” he said, as if that explained everything; then translated: “Bureau of International Security. We’re an elite division, not well known, and that’s the way we like to keep it.”
“So, what do you want?” I demanded.
Dalton appeared to be about five years older than me, which would peg him at forty-two. He was powerfully built—over 6 feet tall and around 180 pounds. His hair was thick and dark. He was wearing a heavy worsted wool suit and a topcoat. Not the most comfortable clothes for a warm spring day in New York.
The black attaché case he was digging into resembled a computer bag. Dalton removed a 5 x 7 color photograph and passed it to me.
I blinked in recognition, unable to hide my surprise.
“Jeremy Samson,” Dalton said, as if the man in the picture needed an introduction.
Jeremy and I were not only business associates, but friends. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what he was involved in that might affect me.
“You and Mr. Samson meet in Tel Aviv two or three times a year,” the agent continued. “He oversees the distribution of a number of your products—not only in Israel, but across the Middle East. One of the manufacturers Mr. Samson uses is connected to an unsavory faction. As a matter of fact, ever since 9/11…”
“Wait a minute!” I slapped my desk with the palm of my hand. The mere thought of my friend being connected to something “unsavory” was impossible to swallow.
“Cute kid,” Dalton said out of the blue, his eyes now focused on the framed photograph next to my computer, a 6 x 9 color snapshot of Sandra, my six-year-old pride and joy.
I took my daughter’s picture and placed it flat on my desk.
Dalton’s expression returned to dead serious. “As I started to say, Mr. Anderson, ever since September 11, we’ve become far more vigilant about American businesses being conducted in foreign countries. And you’re in a position to do your government quite a bit of good.”
I decided to humor him for the moment. “What exactly does Big Brother expect of me?”
“You’ll be going to Israel in two months’ time, correct?”
“So?”
“So, we need you to move up the date of your trip and do something for us.”
I stiffened. “How do you know where I’ll be traveling
“We’re the government, Mr. Anderson. We—”
“I know, I know,” I finished his sentence. “You know everything.”
“Precisely. So, hear me out. As a Canadian enjoying the benefits of living and working in the good old U.S.A., I’m sure you would be more than happy to cooperate.”
There was something in the agent’s voice I hadn’t noticed before, a slight accent of some sort, but I couldn’t identify it.
“A short while ago,” Dalton continued, “while conducting covert operations, we happened upon a document that caused us to doubt the squeaky-clean reputation of a company you’ve been dealing with. We believe SDC—Seligman Daniel Corporation—is involved in money laundering that aids a faction connected to terrorism. By associating with this company, Jeremy Samson is involved, even though it might be inadvertently. All we need you to do is to convince your friend to switch production from this manufacturer to another. A simple task, really. And of course, we’ll compensate you for your time.”
I shook my head. “Jeremy’s one of the most honest people I know. And he’s thorough. He would’ve checked the company out. If there was even a hint that something was improper, he’d have dropped them. Look, I appreciate your concerns, but I’m afraid you’re targeting the wrong guy.” I stood and held out my hand.
Dalton ignored it. Rising, he said, “There’s no mistake, Mr. Anderson. Jeremy Samson may not be aware of what’s going on, but we can’t overlook the facts. I guess I haven’t made myself clear: Your government isn’t asking—we’re telling you. You’re the only one who can influence Mr. Samson’s decision. So, we need your help. If you refuse, I can promise, that secret project you’re working on—Zapwired—will never see the light of day.”
2
What the…? I was stunned. Zapwired was still in the R+D stage. No one, outside of a select group of people, was even aware of its existence. Once the product was released, I was certain it would totally revolutionize the gaming world.
However, I wanted Dalton out of my office, so instead of questioning him further, I gestured toward the door.
To my surprise, he flashed a cocksure smile, turned, and left.
Dalton had not only put me off balance, he now had me worried that the most important release in my company’s history could be in jeopardy.
My mind churning, I looked out the window. The view from the 20th floor of Thirty-Seventh Street west of Eighth Avenue wasn’t glamorous. But I’d chosen the location for the affordable rent, rather than to impress anyone.
I left my office and headed down the corridor to our showroom. The toy samples inhabited more than a thousand square feet of space—from board games to radio-control cars to talking dolls—95% of them with electronic components.
I’d made it to New York, despite my less than affluent background. After high school, I’d worked weekends and nights to pay for college in Montreal. Then, degree in hand from McGill University, I’d begun a career in computer sales. I moved into toys after a chance meeting with a distributor in Toronto who needed someone to fill a senior position.
It turned out to be a perfect fit for both parties. The business grew quickly in size and profitability. One particular firm we represented featured a diverse product range. The owner was an aging New York entrepreneur anxious to bring in someone young and hungry enough to manage and eventually take over the company.
When his offer came, my boss at the time encouraged me to go for it. A week of discussions led to an opportunity I never thought I’d find. And here I was, ten years later, president and owner of AT&E, short for American Toys and Electronics.
But success did little to bolster my ego. I seldom deluded myself: What had gotten me here was my ability to stay on top of things, always paying attention to the smallest detail. What motivated me was my constant fear of returning to the poverty of my youth if my business should fail.
*
Everything I sold was proprietary. A quarter of our products were created internally, while the majority was licensed from some of the leading design houses in the industry. Royalty payments approached hundreds of thousands of dollars per year—and life was good.
But recently, my company—like many others in toys—found itself in a financial bind. Phthalates topped the list of plastic ingredients considered hazardous to a child’s health. As were magnets. And even the tiniest percentage of lead in paint. Enhanced testing procedures became necessary, but this resulted in an extra cost for the manufacturer.
Simultaneously, the working conditions of the labor force in China were now vastly improved, with far more costly compensation put in play. Over 3,000 toy factories had either been shut down or voluntarily gone out of business, enabling those that remained to demand huge increases for the goods they produced.
The toy industry worldwide had always submitted to the most intense scrutiny. And I was in favor of safety first. However, I was irritated by the fact that many major retailers revamped their own testing procedures, then demanded that toy manufacturers absorb this prohibitive expense.
They also applauded the changes in China, were vocal about workers getting a better shake, but refused to accept price increases on the goods they purchased.
This meant that the middlemen—distributors like me—had to take the financial hit. If it were a case of my own ineptitude, at least I could say I tried, but failed. However, it rankled to see my livelihood jeopardized by both manufacturers and retailers, who were only concerned about what was best for them. Realizing there was nothing I could do about it just added to my ongoing frustration with this aspect of the business.
*
I approached a locked cabinet in the near corner of the showroom, opened it with a key I kept on me at all times, and removed a Styrofoam-encased package.
Only one thing could save my company from slipping into irreversible debt. One product, actually. And I was convinced that this was it.
While many of my competitors boasted about America’s Silicon Valley, or how brilliant the Japanese or Germans were, often it was some high-tech company in Israel that was a creator or partner in developing whatever technology happened to be du jour. If I’d learned anything—thanks to my friendship with Jeremy Samson—it was to always take the Israelis’ talent and ingenuity seriously.
Because of them, I now believed I had a unique opportunity. Most who worked in my business harbored the desire to come up with the next big thing, the one toy that could take the world by storm. Much of our product was a crapshoot, unfortunately, with fickle consumers and an even more fickle group of retailers.
This craving for the “big score” ran true in my industry largely because our products were ever-changing. Ninety percent of toys had a short lifespan; kids soon lost interest and begged their parents to buy them the next new thing.
I removed the Styrofoam, contemplated what I was holding in my hands, and felt goose bumps run up and down my arms. Every instinct, every bit of my experience, told me I was looking at the next craze, the next Xbox or Nintendo, the one product that would never get old. In fact, I believed that consumers would still be talking about Zapwired for years to come.
To be accepted as a partner in this venture, I’d invested most of the profit my company had earned since its inception. And Hillel Electronics was not easily convinced that they needed me—until Jeremy Samson pointed out the diversity of the toy market around the world, and that going it alone without an expert would be foolhardy on their part.
The product was lightweight and compact, only slightly larger than other portable units already on the market. Better still, it had a triple fold-out screen that offered a viewing space almost twice the size of its competitors. It used the latest micro module technology, in 3D, without the need for special glasses. Its colors were brilliant, and its memory capacity far surpassed the gigabytes of anything released to date. It also came in a case compact enough to be transportable, yet versatile enough to be used on TV screens, connecting wirelessly, in seconds.
My plan was to have it retail for the incredibly low price of $99, which meant very little profit. But I was using the printer/ink cartridge philosophy, knowing that the consumer would have to keep coming back for the “ink,” which in this case were our mini modules, many of which took virtual reality to the next level. With a retail price of $30 apiece, each module was so unique I felt certain our potential audience would bite; and bite big.
