But there was one particular link that really didn’t make sense to her and which she hadn’t told him about, simply because she was starting to think that she’d misinterpreted what she’d seen, or rather what she’d heard. In fact, she wondered if she’d seen something that wasn’t actually there, and the last thing she wanted to do was to raise it with the FBI only for it to turn out to be completely worthless. Or, worse, it could be a piece of disinformation, something deliberately planted to try to start an investigation designed to divert the Bureau’s attention away from the truth.
Trying to clarify that situation, she’d decided, was where she was going to have to concentrate her efforts for the next few weeks.
Her sixth sense had cut in, and she knew better than to ignore it.
Chapter 25
Heathrow Airport, London
Ben Morgan had been unsurprised to discover that as well as a British Airways ticket to Dulles Airport in Washington – predictably enough in economy class – he was also handed an A4 size manilla envelope emblazoned with a red cross on both sides, his name typed on the front and the flap sealed with wax. He guessed from his previous experience that inside would be a briefing document, most probably with a Secret classification if the envelope was any indicator. He had to produce his passport and sign a classified document register before the unsmiling man in the dark suit, presumably a courier sent out from either Millbank or Vauxhall Cross, would hand it over.
A few seconds later Natasha Black, standing right beside him at the desk, was given an apparently identical envelope in her name and was also required to sign for its receipt.
The anonymous courier nodded at them both, turned and walked away. Morgan and Natasha exchanged glances, both clearly thinking exactly the same thing, and looked at the British Airways official who had witnessed the proceedings.
‘I think,’ Morgan said, ‘that we would be more comfortable in premium economy or business class if that’s available, so can you please arrange an upgrade for us? We’re on official government business and we’ll also need access to a private lounge or office where we can read the documents that we’ve just signed for.’
The BA man – tall, slim, fair-haired, meticulously shaven and immaculately dressed – looked at their two economy class tickets still sitting on the desk in front of him.
‘A business class ticket includes lounge access,’ he replied.
‘That’ll do nicely,’ Natasha said, effortlessly taking control of the conversation. ‘We’ll leave you to sort out the tickets for us and we’ll go to the lounge now. We’ve got a lot of work to do.’
The man from BA didn’t look entirely happy at this turn of events, but he probably realised he’d to some extent been backed into a corner.
‘You need a business class ticket to get into the lounge.’
‘No problem,’ Natasha said breezily. ‘In that case we’ll wait here while you sort them out, but be as quick as you can about it.’
Slightly to Morgan’s surprise, about ten minutes later they found themselves seats in a corner of one of the restricted-access lounges. While Natasha used a nail file with a two-inch ceramic blade – an obviously highly dangerous and potentially lethal weapon that would no doubt be confiscated by airport security before they were allowed anywhere near the aircraft – to open up her envelope and extract the contents, Morgan organised coffee and a couple of plates of pastries and biscuits from the counters in the lounge.
‘These should plug a small gap until we get fed on the aircraft,’ he said. ‘Neatly done back there,’ he added. ‘I was convinced we were going to get the bum’s rush and end up sitting in economy with our knees around our ears all the way across the Atlantic.’
Natasha nodded. ‘Sometimes turning on the charm does the trick, but usually I find that the steamroller approach works rather better. Just make it perfectly clear that whatever you want to happen is going to happen, and don’t take no for an answer. I was half expecting him to refuse the upgrade, in which case I would have demanded an immediate audience with the highest-ranking BA official in the building. I can be very persuasive.’
Morgan pointed at the open envelope on the leather couch beside her. ‘So what have our lords and masters given us to keep us awake all the way to the United States?’
‘As you probably guessed, it’s a briefing document and it’s classified Secret, which I frankly think is a bit of a stretch. I reckon it’s Confidential at best and it looks like most of the stuff in it is already in the public domain. I’ve not read it properly yet, but I’m quite good at speed-reading so I’ve got a good idea about the data. I’ve scanned the contents list and some of the material that looked interesting. The short version is that the Yanks have seen the same sort of attempted intrusions on the websites of some of their utility companies, but there’s very little hard information in the briefing notes about how the attacks were carried out or how successful they were. It’ll obviously be your part of the ship to analyse what happened and what needs to be done about it.’
‘What authority have we been given to let us do that? We can’t just stick our noses into stuff like that in a foreign country.’
‘I think,’ Natasha said, ‘that you’ve probably been seconded to either the CIA or the FBI – and my guess is to the Fibbies – as a specialist adviser. That’s all on the first page of the document. My extensive knowledge of all matters GCHQ-ish is for some reason much in demand at Fort Meade in Maryland, where I am apparently expected to report for duty no later than tomorrow afternoon.’
‘You’ll be at the National Security Agency?’ Morgan asked, sounding surprised. ‘But I thought with GCHQ—’
‘You thought right,’ Natasha interrupted. ‘Cheltenham and the wizards at No Such Agency can communicate seamlessly over the NSANet encrypted network, so whatever they want me to do at Fort Meade I could have done just as well sitting in my slightly pokey office at GCHQ. On the other hand, I’ve got something of a weakness for hamburgers and Coke and steaks the size of a bath mat, and it’s nice to get out of the office for a while, so I’m certainly not going to complain.’
While she’d been talking, Morgan had opened his own sealed envelope. He pulled out a red Secret file folder and opened it up.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘My reporting address is 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, right in the middle of Washington and just along the road from the White House, which means I’ll be getting into bed with the FBI. I’m glad I packed a suit and tie.’
Natasha shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. I’ve already checked on the Internet and these days FBI agents are supposed to wear clothing that matches their environment or the crime they’re investigating rather than standing out as obvious G-men in their eponymous black suits, white shirts and dark ties, like the original Men in Black. So if you’re there to look at white-collar crime you would still need the suit, but for cybercrime and counterterrorism they tend to dress the same way as the people they’re after. So as you’re probably looking for computer nerds that means torn jeans and a T-shirt with a vulgar message printed on it and pizza stains down the front. Which is more or less what you wear at home, and I know that because I’ve seen you there.’
‘And you?’ Morgan asked.
‘I’ll wear whatever I like, the same as I always do. If somebody doesn’t like it, that’s their problem not mine. Now shut up, read your briefing notes and then get me another cup of coffee and some more of these rather yumsy shortbreads.’
Chapter 26
Fairview, Harford County, Maryland, United States of America
The five commonest cars on the roads of America are all Japanese – two of them made by Honda, another two by Toyota and the fifth one by Nissan – which had pleased Mahdi Sadir as he had no wish to contribute to the economy of the United States any more than he had to. In fact, quite the reverse. Because most Americans seem to drive everywhere, one of the first things he had done after he’d arrived in Washington for the first time a few years earl
ier was to buy a car: a cheap, reliable and anonymous high-mileage ten-year-old Honda Accord that was registered and insured in the name of a trusted local proxy to avoid creating a paper trail. Possession of the car meant that he could get where he needed to be without having to use public transport, at least for journeys outside the city.
That evening he carried out his usual counter-surveillance checks before he went anywhere near the vehicle, and it took him well over an hour before he was satisfied that neither he nor the car was being watched. Then he got in and drove away from DC, heading for a house on the other side of Bel Air.
Bel Air is a primarily residential settlement, shaped something like an inverted letter U and located north-east of Baltimore. It lies outside the main suburban complex around that city which forms a ragged semi-circle, the straight edge created by Chesapeake Bay to the east, and which merges almost seamlessly into the adjoining built-up areas around Gaithersburg, Bowie, Annapolis, Washington D.C., Arlington and Alexandria.
Unlike that sprawling complex, Bel Air feels more like a country town, mainly bordered by farms and open fields. It began its life as a new build back in 1780 when it was constructed by a Baltimore resident named Aquilla Scott on land known as ‘Scott’s Old Fields’. That wasn’t much of a name for a new town and in 1784 it was rebranded as Belle Aire. Over the years, new buildings were constructed and letters were dropped and by 1798 it had acquired its current name and pretty much its present shape.
To the north-west of Bel Air is a much smaller and almost circular settlement called Jarrettsville, and between the two lies a scattering of houses, mainly built on large lots carved from the surrounding farmland, typically on dead-end roads in areas bearing names like Fairview and Forest Hill. Many of these properties are both large – some of them are very large – and expensive, but a few are surprisingly small in relation to the size of the land they occupy.
When Mahdi Sadir had first arrived in America as the various disparate elements of his plan were beginning to come together, he had known more or less where he needed to find a property for the most important part of the final phase of the attack he would be launching against the American capital city. He wanted a detached house – the size and design didn’t really matter as long as it had at least two bedrooms – that was not overlooked by any neighbouring properties and was secluded but not completely surrounded by tall trees. That was vital. He had also wanted it to be some distance from the target city, but not so deep in the surrounding countryside that the property wouldn’t be able to connect to the fastest possible broadband service. That was something else that was non-negotiable.
The house he’d taken on a long-term rental contract wasn’t ideal, but it was certainly good enough. It occupied a corner plot, which meant the garden was a little bigger than most of the adjoining properties. Most of it was grassed, which meant maintenance would be easy, and it was essential that the property was cared for by the tenants to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Quite close to the rear of the house was an area that had perhaps once been a vegetable garden or something of that sort, a smallish level area surrounded on three sides by well-established shrubs and hedges. That was almost ideal for his purpose, because the interior of that space was invisible unless you were actually standing on the property itself. And even if somebody did trespass to take a look, the piece of equipment that Sadir had arranged to be assembled there would not in itself arouse suspicions unless the trespasser had certain specialised knowledge. To a casual observer, it would be immediately recognisable as the kind of object seen close to many properties, especially those located outside a town. But to an expert, there would be one subtle detail that would imply a radically different purpose than its most obvious and harmless apparent function.
Well before he’d reached America, Sadir had already begun recruiting personnel, utilising the substantial finances that Rashid had placed at his disposal, and the two people who had occupied the house for the last three years were in many ways the most important of the dozen or so jihadists that he had persuaded to join him. They were the people who would, at the climax of the operation, provide him with the ability to deliver a deathblow to the centre of Washington. But before they could do that, they had been faced with a technological challenge of astonishing complexity that had required the most accomplished and innovative hacking skills. In many ways, the single most difficult task that Sadir had faced was finding people who possessed that kind of ability, and it had taken him the better part of a year to identify and assemble the two-man team that was now operating from the property near Fairview.
The traditional image of a computer hacker, fostered by countless books and films, is of a young man, probably no older than twenty or twenty-five, unshaven and dressed in jeans or shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of some obscure heavy-metal band, sitting in a darkened room where the only illumination comes from three or four computer screens and keyboards, and surrounded by discarded pizza boxes and empty soft drink cans.
And this image is not necessarily that far from the truth. Hackers tend to be dedicated and committed. Show them a problem, or more likely a target site and a good reason to get inside it, and in most cases they will turn their entire attention to breaching whatever security precautions are in place in order to achieve this. The effort becomes all-consuming, and basic human needs like eating and drinking – along with washing, shaving, showering and the application of deodorant – come a significant distance behind the task at hand. And of course pizzas and soft drinks are not only cheap and readily available but can also be consumed with one hand while the other continues to operate a mouse or keyboard, making them absolutely ideal foodstuffs for a dedicated hacker. And the final bonus is that in most places they can even be delivered, meaning that all the hacker actually has to do to get fed and watered is place his order by phone or through the Internet and then walk across and open the door of his house or apartment in order to take delivery.
Hacking and pizzas really do go together like bread and butter or fish and chips.
And in his darkened room, surrounded by the detritus of fast-food living, the hacker can employ sophisticated tools and software in order to somehow get through whatever firewalls the target site has put in place, or to try to steal log-ins and passwords that would enable him to achieve the same goal. In short, in the popular imagination hacking is seen as an essentially intellectual pursuit, the unshaven but talented renegade male pitting his wits and computing ability against the security protocols and precautions erected by government or big business to keep him out.
And of course it might not just be a single hacker. Teams or collectives of hackers, like the notorious Anonymous, can pool their resources, their knowledge and their software in order to achieve whatever goals they have set themselves. Thanks to the Internet, these groups of hackers may well have no idea of the identities or locations of the people with whom they are collaborating. And that doesn’t matter to them, because they’re all cut from the same cloth, working together towards what they see as a common purpose or aim.
As the media reports on a regular basis, both individual hackers and loosely organised groups of them have an impressive track record breaching sites in order to steal information, typically a company’s customer database containing their log-ins and credit card details, either to commit financial fraud with the data or to sell the information on the Dark Web, or simply to make a political point by defacing a website. Today, cyberattacks of all sorts are a near-constant threat. One recent study claimed that in America alone there is an attempted hack somewhere in the country every thirty-nine seconds on average, though most of these rarely make the news.
But the people that Sadir had found were very different to this image.
Most hackers are amateurs. They have other jobs or ways of earning a living and their forays into the electronic netherworld of the Dark Web or attacks on government or corporate websites are essentially a hobby. All-consuming, in many cases, b
ut still usually a part-time occupation. And because hacking is a dark art and not the kind of course offered by colleges or universities – ‘computer science’ is about as close as they get – hackers tend to be largely self-taught, learning from other people and downloading and sharing various types of hacking software as their abilities and skill levels increase.
Sadir was neither a programmer nor a hacker, but he knew enough about the subject to avoid trying to recruit the kind of people dismissively known as ‘script kiddies’, the sort of wannabe hackers who would download software they did not understand and use that to mount extremely amateurish attacks. What he had needed were people who were professionally trained – ideally, government trained – and knew exactly what they were doing. He was looking for the sort of people who had put together the Stuxnet virus that had crippled the Iranian nuclear weapon programme by destroying the centrifuges used for the enrichment of uranium at the Natanz facility in central Iran.
With the increasing importance of cybersecurity to combat various forms of cybercrime, almost all governments have seen the necessity to employ both ‘white hat hackers’ to combat cyberattacks and also their own teams of ‘black hat hackers’ who would mount offensive cyber operations. All, of course, completely deniable and off the books. And there was one nation in particular that had refined the art and science of hacking to a high degree and that employed literal armies of highly trained hackers tasked with breaking into websites and intranets and stealing secrets from targeted countries.
Cyberstrike Page 17
