I have been reading them for weeks and, as a result, I know everything there is to know about you—your address and phone numbers, your social security number, your tax returns, and all your financial information are at my fingertips. I can dump your stock portfolio and deposit the funds in any bank account, anywhere. I can publish your tax returns in your local newspaper. I can print and distribute all the deeply personal e-mails you have sent to women over the years, some of them well known to the public. In short, I can make your life a permanent hell.
But I am a reasonable person, and I will provide you with a means of avoiding these disclosures. All you have to do is to purchase one million dollars’ worth of Bitcoin on the Internet and transfer them to an account that I will provide details for later. Upon receipt, your files will be restored, your computer unlocked, and it will be as if you never had the pleasure of meeting me. You have until noon Friday next to accomplish this: if you should fail to meet that deadline, your life will lie in ruins.
There is a window at the bottom of your screen where you may send me an e-mail, should you wish.
Regards,
Dodger
Stone read it again, then pressed the Print Screen button and waited for the printer to spit out the copy. When it had done so, he typed, GO FUCK YOURSELF into the e-mail window. Then he took his book upstairs and settled in to read.
2
It was the best kind of dinner: old friends, a comfortable atmosphere with a cheerful fire burning in the grate, and a dinner that was nearly as good as Helene’s would have been. Afterward, the ladies excused themselves for a trip to the powder room. They might as well have been in London, Stone thought.
“What’s new?” Dino asked.
Stone took a folded sheet of paper from an inside pocket and handed it to him. “This is new,” he said.
Dino read it, twice. “Are your computers blocked?”
“Mine is. I didn’t try Joan’s.”
“Are you going to pay the million bucks?”
“Of course not!” Stone said, with as much restraint as he could muster.
“You’re pretty hot about this, then,” Dino said, leaning back in his chair and sipping his cognac.
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Me? I would have already turned this over to our tech guys and forgotten about it.”
“I don’t have a tech staff on call,” Stone said.
“Don’t you? There’s Bob Cantor; there’s that kid, Huey, that you worked with on the New York Times thing. And of course, there’s Lance Cabot, who has the tech world at his fingertips.”
“Oh, them. Well, I guess I could call one of them.”
“Call all of them,” Dino advised. “Otherwise, you’re going to find yourself with thousands of dollars’ worth of useless computers. Oh, and then there’s the scandal, if your attacker stumbles into your e-mails from Lance.”
Stone took a big gulp of his cognac and swirled it around in his mouth before swallowing. “It’s embarrassing,” he said.
“I think Lance is going to find it more than embarrassing,” Dino said. “He’s been sending us all those reports from the field, along with the analyses.”
Stone winced. “You’re right. I’m going to have to call him.”
“And then . . .” Dino said slowly, “there’s Holly. I expect you have quite a few e-mails from her in an encrypted file.”
Stone sucked his teeth and bathed them in brandy. “Thank God they’re encrypted,” he said.
“Your computer was encrypted, too,” Dino pointed out. “And yet . . .”
The women returned in time to keep Stone from exploding.
“What’s wrong?” Holly asked Stone.
“Wrong? Not a thing.”
“I’m not buying that.”
“And look at Dino,” Viv said. “He’s just scored some big point. So Stone’s ox has probably been gored.”
“We’re not talking,” Dino said smugly.
“Stone?” Holly said.
“Dino’s not talking.”
“Dino,” Viv said, “you’re going to tell me.”
“If I feel like it,” Dino replied airily.
“You may want to reconsider your position.”
“It’s Stone’s problem. He can tell you, if he wants.”
“It’s something I’d rather keep to myself,” Stone said firmly. “For the moment.”
* * *
—
Later, Holly crawled into bed with Stone and slung a leg over his. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me?”
“I’ll handle it myself,” Stone replied, giving her a long kiss.
“You’re trying to distract me from the subject?” she said.
Stone kissed her again and threw in a caress to a place she loved. “Is it working?”
It was working.
* * *
—
Stone arrived at his desk the following morning, approximately on time, and his secretary, Joan, knocked and came in. “We don’t have any computers,” she said. “Just black screens. Nothing works. Shall I call somebody?”
Stone thought about that: if he said no, he’d never hear the end of it. He handed her the sheet of paper.
She read it carefully. “There’s nothing pertaining to you, explicitly. He doesn’t use your name, address, or phone number. It’s a scam. He sent out a zillion of these, and it’s just a phishing expedition. Don’t bite.”
Stone said nothing.
“You bit,” she said firmly.
“I only told him to go fuck himself.”
“Hook, line, and sinker,” she said.
“Hardly that.”
“Now he knows you exist. Before, you were just a file name among millions he stole from some mailing list. And it never hurts not to be disrespectful. What’s in it for you to piss him off?”
“You’re exaggerating the problem,” Stone said. “From now on, I’ll just ignore him.”
His computer made a rude buzzing noise, and he and Joan both looked at the screen.
Now, it’s a million and a half.
Stone swung around and aimed for the keyboard. Joan took hold of his chair and held him back. “Don’t, you’ll just make it worse!”
“How could it be worse?” Stone asked.
“Well, he could be listening to our conversation.”
Stone opened his mouth to speak, and he clapped a hand over it.
“Shush,” she whispered into his ear.
Stone nodded and removed his hand.
Joan whispered in his ear, “Call Lance.”
To learn more and to buy Hush-Hush please visit prh.com/hush-hush.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stuart Woods is the author of more than eighty novels, including the #1 New York Times-bestselling Stone Barrington series. He is a native of Georgia and began his writing career in the advertising industry. Chiefs, his debut in 1981, won the Edgar Award. An avid sailor and pilot, Woods lives in Florida, Maine, and New Mexico.
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