“That’s what you’ve been working on? I can’t present that. I’m going to walk into the meeting and tell them that we’re finding terrorists by looking at what books they read? If they read one of your sixty books then they’re a terrorist? You really want me to tell them that?”
“That’s not all that there is to—”
Alan interrupted, “Or, better yet, if someone went to some concert or talk that you listed on CL-45, then we should be watching them? Rajive, what are you talking about? This is what you’ve been working on?”
Disgust, amusement, whatever the emotion on Alan’s face, it wasn’t appreciation. Unfortunately, Alan wasn’t alone in this reaction. Rajive had been fighting resistance continuously throughout the development of the CLs. CL-1 through CL-119 were lists of TV shows, DVDs, symposiums, textbooks, universities, travel destinations, birthplaces, web sites and search queries, religious orientations, music, and so on that had also been matched with the good professors’ program. When seen individually, the reaction to any of these lists ranged from skepticism to pure disbelief, even among the staff who ran the programs to create the lists.
“I know it sounds crazy. But think about all of these together, Alan. Individually, each one of these lists isn’t important, but together, they’re phenomenal. Together, these lists provide a comprehensive profile of known terrorists and terrorist supporters. When we aggregate the results, the decision of how to prioritize a person is simple: If the same person matches too many lists, for example by traveling to some place on CL-11, and using the phrases on CL-13, and searching for web sites on CL-91, logically they should be prioritized higher in the TIDE list. The more a person matches, the higher their priority is raised. It’s about looking at the complete profile of the person. Not just one or two characteristics by themselves.”
At least the disgust from Alan’s face was dissipating. Alan asked, “And, where do you plan on getting all this information about these people? We don’t have anything close to complete profiles on the million people on our lists.”
“We’ve already started gathering the information. We’re handing out individual CLs to a number of our partners. We’re just asking them to return the names of anybody who matches them. For the airlines, who are always happy to work with us, we’ve given them the list of places on CL-11; they’re returning a list of people who fly to any of those places. A list of stores, CL-61, and a list of products, CL-62, were handed over to credit card companies; the name of anyone who shops at any of the stores in CL-61 or buys an item from CL-62 will be given to us. CL-89 was given to phone companies; they’re always more than happy to hand us phone records. TV shows on CL-19 were handed to cable and satellite providers. CL-83 was handed out to—”
“You have partners for all 119 CLs?”
“TIPS!” Rajive exclaimed proudly. “Let’s call the system TIPS—Terrorist Identity Profiling and Sorting.”
“Sure. Whatever,” Alan replied, irked to have his train of thought interrupted—even if it was to answer one of his own questions—though he did take a moment to write down the name. “So,” he asked again, “do you have contacts for all the CLs?”
“No, not all of them. Anything related to the Internet is tough. If we can’t gather it ourselves by our own online traffic surveillance, it’s been difficult to find partners to help. No Internet company, except for a handful of minor players hoping to gain some small favor from us, is willing to hand out any information.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“We’ve got a number of middle men working with us to make contact into the companies where we don’t have access. We’ve hired the usual contractors for the task.
“They’re already in play?”
“Of course.”
“Fine. Make sure you check them out carefully.”
“Such sage wisdom and insight… That’s why you’re the boss,” Rajive wanted to say. Instead, he replied, “Good idea. Thanks.”
Enter Sebastin.
When the National Counterterrorism Center, NCTC, came looking for discreet, patriotic contacts in Silicon Valley for a potentially lucrative payout—at least in terms of Washington, DC dollars—in exchange for some lightweight data, Sebastin’s name popped up. Cory Waxman, a mutual acquaintance who worked in a venture capital fund that incubated companies primarily created to be acquired and integrated into DC’s numerous intelligence agencies, had helped broker a small acquisition deal for iJenix to the Mahabishi Keiretsu. It was a deal of last resort. Nobody else, especially in DC, had wanted to acquire the company. Though the reasons weren’t clear to Cory, what was obvious enough was that Sebastin had fared far less well than the other founders. To throw a few dollars his way, Cory gave Sebastin’s name to Rajive. For Rajive, the fact that Sebastin was now associated with ACCL was workable. The non-profit’s reputation as the poster child for vocal, trendy, white-hot, liberal charities might even be an asset to acquire the data from Silicon Valley techies.
Originally, Sebastin had been slated for handling a different CL, CL-91, one that listed web sites and search terms to look for in people’s activities. However, someone more appropriate was found for that CL. Instead, Sebastin was eventually given the book list, CL-72. His goal was simple: Find all the people who purchased, looked for, read either online or in print, or ever were in any way interested in reading, the books on CL-72B.
The B designation was an indication that the list had been intentionally obfuscated. If anyone looked at CL-72, they would have seen a list that contained numerous book titles with very easily recognizable and unmistakable themes: terrorism, Middle East and Islamic studies, security, and extremist politics. To supplement the original books that were on CL-72, CL-72B was created. In CL-72B, numerous random books were mixed into the list to provide the viewer no immediately observable pattern of topics. It was Rajive who was tasked to select the books since he was in the room at the time it was decided that CL-72 needed to be augmented and since he, as he readily admitted, was no longer technical enough to help in the actual hard work being done.
To augment CL-72, Rajive simply scanned Amazon.com to find books with interesting covers that also matched the criteria given to him—not too popular, a wide variety of topics, and none related to the subject at hand. He added 900 books to the 60 originally on the list, just as requested. The obfuscation had worked well on Sebastin, too. Until Stephen had told Sebastin that there seemed to be two groups of books, Sebastin never noticed or thought to look that deeply. For Sebastin, the plan would have worked exactly as anticipated.
Enter Stephen.
Sebastin would have continued to be an ideal candidate for the task laid out had it not been for Stephen’s desire to impress him. In the planning stages at NCTC, when it was decided to use outside sources to determine the people who matched the CLs, the possibility of the lists being intercepted was, of course, considered. The hypothetical adversaries may have been just as self-servingly motivated as Sebastin, but certainly did not have the resources and support that Stephen had to uncover the full potential of the lists. The combination of motivation and resources led to unanticipated outcomes. The results that Stephen came up with far surpassed finding the buyers of books that CL-72B had been intended to discover. He found the people who not only bought the books, but visited the same web sites, talked about the same subjects, and had similar profiles in many more ways than simply their choice of reading material. In short, he managed to recreate numerous other CLs, and in doing so, figured out how to take into account the evidence locked within them.
All of the data was put into Stephen’s graph, and the connections between people, books, web sites, chats, and phone calls were naturally represented. Each connection revealed vital, if individually minute, pieces of evidence. The amount of data was massive and the computational requirements to do something meaningful with it even more gargantuan. But it was all completed in only one of Ubatoo’s datacenters in India, while the local audience there slept and
left the machines sitting idly waiting for someone to put them to good use. In these datacenters in India, resided the names of the people that NCTC would, beyond a doubt, find “interesting.” At the moment of discovery, all these people were happily living their lives in the middle of the day, oblivious to their habits, personalities, and desires being systematically scrutinized and seconds later being marked for further examination by a program an intern had deployed on a farm of computers an ocean away.
Enter Molly.
These “interesting” people, like Molly, were flagged for review by Stephen, who was connected to Atiq, who was connected to Sebastin, who had found a connection into Rajive’s plan.
And now, back to Rajive and Alan.
-WHEN IT RAINS-
August 11, 2009.
“I hate California,” Alan would mutter to himself four times today.
Today was not going to be a good day. It wasn’t often that Rajive and Alan made it to California, and when they did, the least they hoped for was good weather. That was not to be; a storm advisory was in effect. For Californians, it meant there was an unanticipated severe thunderstorm and that they should probably not venture outside. For those from any other part of the country who may be visiting California at the time, it meant there was an ever-present, and occasionally annoying, drizzle on a dreary day.
It was not just the weather that put Rajive and Alan in foul moods. It was two women who looked similar enough to be twins, with short muddy blond hair hanging limply to their chins, pasty white skin, the personalities of sloths overdosed on downers, and the imaginations of empty cardboard boxes. When Rajive and Alan had arrived at the local FBI office in the morning, the local team, led by these two women, were either not familiar with the concept of being prepared or were, more likely, being intentionally obtuse. The FBI perpetually put up obstacles; their modus operandi was to move slowly—always needing to build a case and work their way up the food chain. Neither Alan nor Rajive had the patience. Not only was this their project, but it was a matter of too much information being leaked to potentially too many unknown groups. Nobody even knew the extent of the information that Sebastin had, only that contact had already been made with people on his list, people who were already considered of high interest. The leak had already begun. Action was needed now, not after weeks of mindless observation.
To make the morning worse, their first visit of the day, to the ACCL office, proved utterly useless. Not only was Sebastin nowhere to be found, but none of the others knew his whereabouts or when he might return. The office secretary showed them, without hesitation, all the meetings and appointments he had scheduled for the past several months. There was absolutely nothing to indicate any activity related to Ubatoo. At least upon first blush, it verified what Rajive suspected—Sebastin had not brought anyone from ACCL into the mix.
There was no point in wasting any more time at ACCL. They issued stern, albeit cryptic, warnings to the confused employees and volunteers who had stopped whatever they were doing for the little under two hours that Rajive and Alan had spent there. “All of ACCL is under investigation right now. For your own safety, please do not try to leave the premises without answering a few questions. Hopefully, the matter will be resolved shortly. Until then, be patient. That’s all we can say at this point.” All the bewildered onlookers could ascertain was that there was something important happening—something involving Sebastin given that his office contained the most agents. Beyond that, nobody was sure what was transpiring. This was what Alan had wanted. The two women from the local office would take up the work at ACCL. Rajive and Alan had other work to attend to at Ubatoo. Alan hoped, for Rajive’s sake, that it wouldn’t be another dead end. So far, he had seen nothing to indicate any level of confidence in Rajive on this project. It had been a poorly run operation from the start; he would have to make note of this immediately when he returned to DC.
At Ubatoo, Rajive and Alan were escorted past the touristy displays, through the manicured lawns, and across grounds to Building 11. As they had requested, three agents were waiting for them at the entrance when they walked in. The receptionist escorted the party of five to Atiq’s executive administrative assistant, Becky. From there, Becky took over. She led Rajive and Alan directly into Atiq’s office. The other three agents stayed outside the door, and did their best, however unsuccessfully, to blend inconspicuously into the background. Now was not the time for them to call attention to themselves, despite the three agents’ official uniform rain jackets with large FBI letters emblazoned on the back.
Rajive and Alan found Atiq seated at his desk, typing hurriedly away on his computer. It irked Alan a great deal that Atiq didn’t instantaneously stop whatever it was he was doing to rise and greet them. Common courtesy dictated at least that much. Alan had, out of respect, taken a great deal of care not to cause a commotion and followed the usual visitor protocol in coming into Ubatoo and finding Atiq. Clearly this had not worked to his advantage, and he needed to reassert control.
As Becky was leaving the office, she offered to get coffee, tea, or something to drink. Atiq finally looked up and started to politely decline, but Alan spoke first. “Coffee now. In an hour, a little lunch. Cancel Dr. Asad’s appointments for the rest of the day. He’s not going anywhere.”
Becky worriedly glanced over at Atiq. Atiq hadn’t yet said a word.
“I’d like my coffee hot, no cream, lots of sugar,” Alan said, noticing that Becky had not yet moved. Becky was staring straight at him now. He motioned to the door with a movement of his eyes.
Becky started to leave the office. Then, Alan spoke to Rajive, “Rajive, would you like anything?”
“I’m okay,” Rajive replied somewhat too timidly for Alan’s taste. Rajive wasn’t inclined to take part in the showmanship—not yet. The name Atiq Asad was not a common one, and though for days he had thought he had seen the name before, until now he couldn’t remember where. Seeing the books on Atiq’s shelves helped put the pieces together. Course CSCI:457 at the University of North Dakota, Introduction to Large-Scale Commercial Data Gathering, a seminar class in which they reviewed academic papers about analyzing data from all forms of commerce—everything from shopping site design, to online and offline advertising, to data analysis and organization. They had spent two days reviewing one of Dr. Asad’s papers. These two worlds should not have collided.
Of course, Atiq could see none of this in Rajive. Atiq’s anger was visibly rising. He worked hard to calm himself. He would have to apologize a great deal to Becky later when these people left.
“Great. Thanks, Becky,” Alan said, turning his back to Becky. And with that, Becky left the room and started to close the door behind her.
“Becky, one more thing,” Alan yelled. He had waited until the door was almost fully closed to ensure he would have to yell loudly. “Make sure you get Stephen Thorpe ready to talk to me. I want him waiting outside this office the minute I’m ready for him.”
“Now wait a second—” started Atiq.
“Dr. Asad,” Rajive cut him off quickly but quietly. “It would be wise of you to let this go. This is not the battle to fight.”
Atiq stared back at Rajive without saying anything further. Alan, who was still waiting for Becky to fully close the door, hadn’t shifted his gaze to Atiq yet. He had heard everything Atiq and Rajive had said. That’s better.
“Do you have any idea why we’re here, Dr. Asad?” Alan asked.
“No. I certainly do not,” Atiq snapped.
“We suspect you’ve been supplying information—information about potential people of interest to us—to terrorist groups.”
Atiq stood motionless, unable to speak.
“It would be best for you, your family, and Ubatoo, if you cooperated with us so we can get to the bottom of this now.”
Atiq’s mind was reeling. His world shifted to slow motion. He saw Alan in front of him, watching him—then noticed the man’s gun, His anger disintegrated into fear. He looked
at Rajive, who rested his hands on his hips, pushing back his coat to also reveal a gun. Was this planned? Why were there guns in his office? What was happening?
An involuntary tremble surged through his body. He wondered if they had noticed. His palms were soaked and his legs would soon be unable to hold his weight. He wondered how much time had passed since someone had spoken.
He wanted to tell them so many things at once, but he wasn’t sure where to start. What were they talking about? Obviously they had mistaken him for someone else. Who would give them such information? But when he spoke, all he could stammer was “Who are you?” It was not spoken aggressively, but in a meek voice that Atiq himself did not recognize.
They each slid their hands across their chests, past their guns, and pulled out their badges. He slowly rose to examine them, but his trembles prevented him from focusing. Both Alan and Rajive had noticed the violent shakes, the sweat on his palms and the gasps for air as he had tried to speak. They noticed all of this, and more.
“Why don’t you sit down, Dr. Asad?” Rajive suggested firmly. “We’re going to be here for a while.”
Alan could barely suppress his smile.
-I AM A HEARTBEAT-
August 11, 2009.
Alan had plananed his shouts better than he had known. As he had yelled to Becky to find Stephen, he had no idea that Stephen was sitting in his cubicle, only twenty feet away from Atiq’s office. Stephen had overheard the yelling and the commotion. So had the rest of the interns, as well as about a dozen of the other full-time employees, including William and Aarti, who had stepped out of their offices to investigate.
Andrew was the first to speak to Stephen, “What’s going on? Is that really the FBI?”
“I have no idea why they’re here.” Stephen replied quietly. “I have no idea what’s going on.” He hadn’t seen who was yelling for him. He had been staring at his monitor with his back to Atiq’s office when the shouting began.
The Silicon Jungle Page 28
