Fisher made the connection, threw the valve, then slipped out from beneath the car, crawling to the parked sedan behind the Volkswagen.
“He’s adjusting the heat,” reported Briggs. “He knows something’s up. In five, four, three, two . . . oh, there he goes. He’s out, Sam. Lying back on the seat.”
“Roger that. Need to move fast now.”
“Sam, Cousin Ivan is on the east side of the building, smoking a cigarette near the parking garage across the street,” reported Grim. “Cousin Drago is still on the roof.”
Rather than sitting in some not-so-discreet van, Grim and Charlie were operating from a crowded Internet café called Altro just one block down the street. They had a window table, a couple of laptops, and access to some of the most powerful software and best-tasting lattes on the planet, according to Charlie.
They were surrounded by undergrads wired into their own computers, yet Charlie and Grim still had privacy, their screens out of view, their voices out of earshot. They were fully patched into the surrounding security cameras as well as a video stream recorded by Briggs. Just before they’d arrived, Charlie had noted how several of the camera systems had been depressingly easy to bypass. He’d explained that inherent vulnerabilities existed in many of the top manufacturers’ stand-alone CCTV systems as well as a substantial number of rebranded versions. Remote access capability via the web was a convenient feature that allowed guards and other administrators to view a location from off-site. Likewise it made the systems vulnerable to hackers if they weren’t set up securely. If the remote access feature was enabled by default upon purchase—which many of them were—some customers didn’t realize they should take steps to secure those systems.
However, even the systems that were security enabled came with laughably unsecure user names like “user” and “admin,” along with passwords like “1234.” They also failed to lock out a user after a certain number of incorrect password guesses. This meant that even if a customer changed the password, hackers like Charlie could crack them through a brute-force attack. Finally, because many customers who employed the systems didn’t restrict access to computers from trusted networks, nor did they log who was accessing them, Charlie said that even the guards couldn’t tell if a remote attacker was in their system viewing video footage from outside the network.
Interestingly enough, Nadia’s building was the toughest to crack, and her father had probably had a hand in that. What Fisher found curious was why she’d opted for a penthouse in a five-story building instead of a private villa. The place was, after all, known as the “Monte Carlo of Switzerland,” situated in the south of the country on the shores of Lake Lugano, with the city’s waterfront forming a crescent around the bay between the Brè and the San Salvatore mountains. Fisher had read that Lugano was the largest Italian-speaking city outside of Italy, with an economy bolstered by business, finance, and tourism. It was one of the most popular tourist cities in Switzerland, as well as home to several universities and institutes, including Nadia’s. A lakeside villa would’ve afforded her direct access to the waterfront and the collection of cafés and bistros that were crowded day and night. Perhaps she’d wanted to be closer to her colleagues, pretend to live a somewhat normal life. Grim had mentioned that several of her classmates lived in the building, and the SVR team had, according to the surveillance camera video, gone to their apartments to question them.
Fisher slipped away from the sedan behind the Volkswagen and worked his way along the line of cars. The sun was rising, the street and pedestrian traffic beginning to increase as the locals headed off to work. He darted across the street to the back of a public parking garage facing Nadia’s complex. He vaulted over a four-foot-tall concrete wall, then hit the stairwell, heading up to the second level. He jogged across the garage, then reached another barrier wall. Keeping low, he eased up to the wall and glanced down. Cousin Ivan was directly below him, standing on the sidewalk and lighting up another cigarette.
Fisher set up his rappelling line, attaching its carabiner clip to the fitting of an electrical conduit spanning the ceiling. Given the fact that most pedestrians and drivers wouldn’t necessarily be looking up at the side of the garage, and the fact that Ivan was pretty far from the nearest door, Fisher had devised a plan to make the agent disappear with minimal risk. A large oak tree on the corner provided additional cover.
“Briggs, you with me?” he asked.
“I’m here. You’re clear.”
“Okay, here we go.”
Fisher eased himself headfirst over the wall, hooking one leg around his rappelling line that was paying out from the custom-designed mechanical descender box attached to his chest via a nylon harness. He slid down the side of the parking garage like an arachnid, using his weak hand to brake. The Australians called rappelling headfirst “Geneva” style, but Fisher had first experienced the technique while cross-training with the Israeli Hostage-Rescue Rappelling and Climbing Sections, also known as the “Terror Monkeys.” They were acknowledged experts in climbing and conducting assaults from above, and they’d urged him to try the inverted drop in order to peek in windows and limit exposure. His trial efforts had resulted in a few mild concussions, but as he perfected his skills, he became so adept at the technique that he could do it unconsciously, focusing entirely on his target.
Just as Fisher neared Cousin Ivan, the agent glanced up. Fisher’s descent was smooth and controlled, but it was well-nigh impossible to remain perfectly silent.
That didn’t matter, though. In that second when Ivan saw him, Fisher gripped the man in a windpipe-crushing choke hold. At the same time, he thumbed a remote jutting from his sleeve, and the line began spooling back up, lifting him and Ivan into the air. Fisher carried Ivan all the way to the second floor, over the barrier wall, then waited until the man went limp. He deposited Ivan’s body onto the floor and detached himself from the line. The entire process took the better part of six seconds. Fisher dragged the body over to some plastic barriers cordoning off an area in the process of being repaved. He shoved the body between two of the barriers, where he’d lie temporarily out of sight until the construction workers found him later in the morning.
“Sam, the loop’s up,” Charlie said. “You’re clear for the roof.”
“Thanks, Charlie. On my way.” The private security guard in the building’s garage, along with the man posted at the desk in the foyer, were watching a video loop and would never see Fisher’s approach to the building.
Fisher hit the stairwell and double-timed his way to the roof, eight stories above. He eased open the door to find a middle-aged businessman walking across the lot to his car, briefcase in hand.
“Hang on a second, Briggs, I’ve got a guy up here.”
“Standing by.”
The businessman got in his vehicle and drove off. The second he vanished down the ramp, Fisher sprinted to the opposite wall and gazed out across the street to the apartment’s rooftop, where Cousin Drago stood near a vine-covered wall within the private garden. The agent stared down at the street through a pair of binoculars. Beyond him were the flickering lights of the city and a rather breathtaking view of the lake beyond, walled in by those deep-brown mountains.
Fisher slid down his trifocals and studied the terrace. He had a direct line on the rooftop door and the nearby palm tree, as he’d planned. “Okay, Briggs, got the target marked for my line. You’re clear for the shot.”
“Gotcha, Sam. Stand by . . .”