by Theo Cage
Roger stood and stretched. He’d gone far too long without sleep. He knew that finding old Facebook images wasn’t hard. There were services on the Internet that went out everyday and copied everything and stored the content away. Like a global archive. Erasing something from the Internet was a waste of time. That stuff lived forever, like toxic plastic in a landfill.
“I’ve got another,” offered Kyle again. “A woman in Monitoring gets an email that looks like it was sent by mistake by her husband and intended for three of his buddies. Pretty wild stuff going on. A shot of him with two women in the back seat of a limo. Apparently she didn’t say anything about it and she never called us on this, but we all heard about it and checked her email account. The next day her email account sends the husband an anonymous message with a manipulated photo based on a Face book picture of her at a family picnic. She’s half naked in the grass with a guy she works with. That must have created some dialogue on the home front. Then she starts missing work, which put stress on the others on her team. Who were sympathetic until they saw the photos taken at the picnic. Images are pretty powerful tools even if they’re fake.”
“So what do you guys think? Who’s doing this?” Roger asked.
Rupinder mumbled something. Roger asked him to repeat it.
“Sorry, I did not mean to eat my words. I wanted to say that it’s easier to hack people than hack computers.” Jacob and Kyle turned to him, curious. Rupinder seemed reluctant to continue. “Ninety percent of hacking is soching. Social engineering. There have been many books written on the subject.”
Jacob shrugged. “That’s no secret. But what does it have to do with the question?”
“Most viruses depend on foolish people. You might have an email sent to you that tricks you into giving away your password. It is so much easier to do that, than sitting there at your keyboard entering a million possibilities.” Rupinder looked around his group. He could see that he wasn’t getting his point across. “We are the CIA. We monitor all email coming into the agency. Every word. And I have looked. There has never been a social engineering message that has gotten through.”
Roger perked up. Rupinder was right. The breach that opened the door for Buzzworm would most likely have come from within. “Any of you know Scammel? Did he do this?”
Jacob looked to the others. “I think he could have been involved. Maybe in the graphical stuff. He wasn’t a programmer as far as we know. And you probably noticed nobody has seen any more of those Buzzworm videos since he killed himself.”
Roger hadn’t thought of that. It made sense. Maybe the threat was over. Or maybe someone was trying to throw everyone off the scent. Maybe Scammel cleaned out the system before committing suicide. It didn’t explain the other problems though, the phones and the communication mix-ups. He wasn’t a hardware guy. “Anything else you can think of?”
Kyle looked around to see if anyone in the closest work areas were listening to their conversation. All they could hear was the steady rhythm of clicking keyboards and the hum of the ever-present air conditioning. “You’re here because Buzzworm is spreading. Maybe the volume of weird videos has decreased. But the virus has infected the whole community.” He got the eye from Jacob, but continued.
“This is not confidential. I read it on a blog this morning run by an ex-DIA agent. There was a mix up in Israel. A Hezbollah agent was supposed to be turning himself over to us. But it was a trap and at least three CIA agents were killed. If Hezbollah had planned this, they would have taken credit immediately. No one has taken credit yet.”
Roger sat up. “And you think this was Buzzworm?”
Rupinder answered. “One of the agents gunned down worked here for years. He was an anti-terrorist analyst who was the target of a number of particularly ugly Buzzworm attacks. He told me about them. He figured Buzzworm had it out for him. He didn’t know why. Think about it. If you can control the US government’s communications from end to end, you can do just about anything.”
“It’s too much of a coincidence,” added Kyle. “This guy was repeatedly a victim of misinformation that kept screwing up his day. Just think what a dozen botched meetings would do for your career? Last month he got an urgent call from a teacher about his son missing from school that was totally bogus. He missed a day of work on a critical project. Personal stuff like that. Someone who knew him had it out for him.”
Rupinder rubbed his wrist. Roger wondered if the coder was beginning to feel the first signs of repetitive stress syndrome. Humans weren’t made to type twelve hours a day for years. “And now he’s dead because of a drop-off that was never supposed to happen,” he added. “How would you feel if you were being sent into the line of fire and you could never be sure where the command was coming from? Or if it was being sent by the enemy.”
Jacob was openly frustrated. “That’s not a virus. That’s terrorism plain and simple. Today’s espionage is all about information and communications, not guns and bombs. If you can control or scramble directives and communication, then there is no security at all. We are all screwed if this gets out of hand.”
Kyle looked around at his friends. “Sounds like J-Day to me.” No one responded. Roger knew that J-Day, or judgment day, was about a prophecy spread on the Internet about a time when the Internet would collapse and take civilization with it.
“You believe in that?” asked Strange.
“You’re a hacker. You know what can be done. Get a thousand hackers working together to take down banks and the stock market and national security on one day — and you’ve got the disaster of the century. Buzzworm might just be the parade marshal. The virus leading the charge.”
Roger had another meeting in a few minutes with Jobime. He saw it as a regular appointment to share their failure formally. He needed to move on. Past Internet Armageddon. “All of you live inside the biggest intelligence organization in the world. You must have a theory about who is behind this virus.”
The others looked at each other. Kyle cleared his throat. “There’s one theory floating around. That this is a turf war between the different intelligence agencies. An ongoing battle for superiority.”
Roger held his hands up. “Are you saying that the Department of Defense or Naval Intelligence is doing this on purpose? Going after a sister organization?”
Jacob stood up. “You make it sound like we belong to one big happy family. That’s not even close. I don’t think Kyle is right, but I have to get back to my sub-routine. We’re testing tonight and I need to be ready.”
“Who do you think is behind Buzzworm then?”
Jacob had turned to leave, but he stopped and placed one hand on Kyle’s shoulder. He looked serious. “Roger. No bad feelings, but I don’t think you’re the right guy for this job. Our problem isn’t a computer virus. Computer viruses don’t cut people open so they can bleed to death slowly. What we need is an expert on serial killers. Despite what the cops say, everyone in this building thinks Frank was murdered. And they’re scared shitless because they think Buzzworm is just warming up.” Jacob then turned and headed back to his cubicle. They all heard him add as he was half way down the hall…
“And he’s in this building somewhere. So watch your ass.”
CHAPTER 11
Med had arrived home late again, her apartment seeming more crowded and cluttered than usual. The air conditioning had obviously not been fixed, as her landlord had promised, because the suite smelled like a dark cave. She slid open the windows, thankful that the simple operation of opening a pane of glass was not yet relegated to some computer chip.
She felt the early summer breeze on her face and felt herself relax for the first time in days. She was taking tomorrow off. She told Jo she needed a short break before they dove into the final push to launch GIPETTO, to catch up on her sleep. And there was the prospect of dinner tonight with David, which would likely mean staying over at his penthouse suite by River Park. Perhaps breakfast in bed in the morning and a leisurely afternoon lying arou
nd the pool.
At David's, there would be no temptation to work. He hated computers and even avoided those automated appointment calculators, which meant, even if she was tempted, she had an excuse just to forget work.
The thought of David's luxurious apartment made hers feel even more claustrophobic. Her small living room consisted of a fake leather futon in one corner surrounded by dozens of file boxes filled with magazines and photo copied articles on software. Her laptop, the keyboard covered in dust, sat on one rickety coffee table. In the corner, a modern steel EDP desk overpowered by two server towers, two monitors, various speakers, a video camera, printer, scanner and boxes of software. Many still in their shrink-wrap.
She checked the fridge, which was empty except for a carton of milk stale-dated three days. She drank from it anyway. It was cold and slightly bitter.
She spent sixteen to eighteen hours a day at the shop lately, sometimes even sleeping on a cot in the remote sensing lab. On the rare weekends she had free she tried to rendezvous with David or spend time with her sister just to clear her head and feel like a human being again. With her sister, the added component was a woman she could open her heart to. David, on the other hand, unlike most of the men she had known in her life, had this unique knack for making her feel... like what? Like a woman, not a Federal government computer geek? Thinking this, it sounded trite. But all her life she had been one of the boys and this had opened doors for her and given her a sense of satisfaction about her job that a lot of her friends seemed to miss. But it was good for her soul to be able to wear something silky or daring, put her hair up or squeeze into high heels and know she was having a powerful effect on a man like David; a man who juggled corporations all over the globe, and the lives of the rich and powerful effortlessly.
Then why did he like her? That question as always was just off in the distance when they were together. She was bright of course. Some men liked bright women around them, and she liked to believe that David was part of that set, although he seemed to treat most other women differently. Serving people seemed invisible to him, but he explained that was his upbringing. He told her his father was a congressman for the Republicans — his mother a lobbyist in the International trade area. He grew up with servants at his beck and call. Maybe that explained his aversion to technology. To David, that stuff just seemed beneath him.
She turned then from the yellow illumination of the fridge light, and started to head into the bedroom to change, when she noticed her answering machine. The red call light was blinking. She punched the message light.
"Sorry, Mary. Bad news. Something important has come up and I won't be back in Washington until Thursday”. It was David. "I'm going to miss you, but there's nothing I can do. I'll call you. I'd say go to the apartment and enjoy yourself, but I’ve got a contractor right now working on renovations.” Why couldn't I fall for an ordinary guy who worked nine to five and didn't spend half his life on a jet? "I'll make it up to you, honest. I’ll try and get a few days off during the week - just you and me and the hot tub. Wouldn't that be great? Love you." Click.
What an empty sound that was. The close of a phone connection in the dark. The message light now out. No weeknight at David’s. No dinner at Val Dor. No breakfast in bed. And with her luck, still no air conditioning.
Med stared into the gloom of her apartment. What was the point of all the work? Her sister was married to a jerk, but at least she had a life — other humans in the room who cared for her once in a while. Then she made up her mind. She was going out for dinner, damn the circumstances. She would have a quick shower and change into something that said “working girl on the town” not “lonely computer nerd”.
Out on the street about twenty minutes later she headed north on foot. There was a small local bar a few blocks away on a side street that specialized in British food, a place where she could eat dinner without looking conspicuously alone. Which is what she was.
Couldn't David get one crummy weekend off? And no return number so she could beg with him? Make him offers he would have a hard time refusing? His business owned him body and soul to the point where he was like a soldier or a mercenary for the cause.
Then Med stopped in the street in mid stride, struck by her revelation. A soldier. That's what he reminded her of suddenly. What was it? His dedication to growth and profit? There was clearly that. A coldness for others not in his circle? She sensed that in his eyes whenever they were around other people. Something guarded about him, something she hadn't broken through. Would she ever? Someone once said that women thought of themselves as sculptors when it came to men. We’re always trying to re-shape them.
She continued down the street, a little slower this time. No, she wouldn't change David. He was too tightly screwed together and in control. In bed, he was like a little boy, and this gave her some comfort that he had a more human side. And when he needed her help on something computer related, he seemed to rely on her totally.
She loved helping him set up his laptop or update his software for him. It made her feel needed. And he had been grateful. Several months ago he had given her a unique present, something that had completely surprised her. A very expensive smart drive, no bigger than a key fob. And very elegant. She had mentioned to him that she often took work home, and he had remembered. He bought it in Tokyo. Five hundred gigs. Her geek friends would be very impressed.
Lost in thought, Med never noticed the man who had moved up close behind her. He was tall and broad in the shoulders, a baseball cap down over his eyes, his hands deep in the pockets of his windbreaker. When she hesitated on the sidewalk, he slid up behind her placing his meaty hand over her mouth, wrapping the other around her chest, crushing the air out of her lungs. Before she could react or yell, he began dragging her sideways into the alley between the English pub and a dry cleaner, further into the shadows, her feet no longer touching the ground.
Med’s training kicked in automatically. She knew she needed to make noise. Create a scene. Draw attention to her attacker. What she really wanted was to get at the gun she carried in her purse. But she couldn’t speak or move her arms or even draw a breath. She tried twisting in his arms, but he only squeezed her harder. She was completely immobilized by his weight and bulk. Through his jacket she could feel hardened muscle, but she could also sense his fear. She could smell it on him. Her attacker was no professional.
Med knew that she only had a few seconds to react. Without air, she would soon black out and be completely at her attacker’s mercy. She tried to understand what was happening, aware that even a few heartbeats could mean the difference between escape and what — a mugging? Rape? Or worse? She thought back to her basic training, the defensive moves they had worked on at Fort Bragg when she first joined the CIA. As her attacker dragged her deeper into the alley, she realized how long it had been since she last carried out her basic drills. Years.
Med remembered one maneuver that involved pressing her thumbs into an attacker’s eyes, but this man’s bear hug made that impossible. A strike to the throat was equally debilitating, but her arms were completely pinned. And now she was being pressed up against the brick wall as he squeezed her body even tighter. He was suffocating her. Pinpoints of light began to fill her field of vision. She recognized the first signs of anoxia, oxygen starvation. Her hands and arms had begun to tingle. Every second seemed to increase his power over her. She stopped struggling, aware that she was burning up what little oxygen she had in her lungs. As the blackness seemed to crash in on her, she suddenly felt his breath against her cheek, the smell of tobacco on him. She realized then that she was being literally hugged to death, and as the darkness grew, she felt herself slip further into unconsciousness.
To the man holding her in his sweaty arms, she must have seemed almost lifeless. She felt him start to relax a little. Lifting her right leg only slightly, cautiously, she focused all of her remaining energy on one final desperate action. Then she drove her spiked heel down hard onto the top of his r
ight boot, striking the top of the arch where the nerves were bundled. Two hundred and fifty pounds of force, the CIA manual said, when forcefully applied with a moderate pump heel.
Not quite Gucci, but effective.
The instant she connected, he grunted in surprise and reflexively threw his arms open. She was ready and jinked sideways, pushing away from him with everything she had left. To her shock, she immediately slammed face-first into the grimy brick wall of the pub and went down hard on the pavement. She landed on her right elbow, ripping the seam in her pants. What air she had gulped down in those few seconds of freedom was now knocked out of her again.
She looked up, choking for breath, trying to gain a footing. He loomed over her now, like a hulking animal in the dark, his big arms searching for her.
Med was able to scramble away somehow, crawling along the filthy edge where the laneway met the concrete foundation, remotely aware that she was ruining her clothes. For some reason, maybe instinctively, maybe out of sheer stubbornness, Med decided the best move was not the obvious one. The man clearly expected her to head for the entrance to the alleyway and dove in that direction.
She spun around and headed deeper into the shadows. He crashed into the ground, and this time he swore in frustration. The first words she heard from him. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but she could tell he was frustrated and enraged.
Now she was standing and her attacker was just picking himself up off the garbage-covered pavement. She reached into her purse and smoothly removed her Charter Arms .38 Special. It was a hammerless design with a two-inch barrel, and it slid out of the special pocket she had made, without a catch. Her attacker couldn’t hide a look of surprise. The gun seemed to appear as if by magic.
“You stand up, I pull the trigger. That’s the deal,” she said. The man stayed on one knee, his eyes flicking from side to side, looking for an escape route. But he was too close to Med to run.
