Enemy Contact

by Mike Maden

  “You used to be in a relationship with him.”

  “Yeah, for a while. Talked me into walking away from my dream NSA job by offering me his bed. But then, after I got fenced in, he moved on to greener pastures.”

  “You mean younger ones,” Jack said.

  “You’d risk the security of the United States because your feelings got hurt?” Clark asked. Jack watched his face redden.

  “Why’d you stay around?” Foley asked.

  “The stock options, mostly. I mean, CloudServe really was my company. I did most of the important work. Elias was just a salesman. Like I told you with Fung, Elias kept us all on a tight leash by keeping our stock options in escrow for five years after we left in order to guarantee the NDAs and noncompetes we signed. So if we left under bad terms, we couldn’t earn a living and we’d lose everything we’d worked for.”

  “Your stock options must have been worth tens of millions.”

  “Try hundreds.”

  “But doing this would kill the company, and your stocks would crash.”

  “That’s why I needed the auction. I could destroy the company and get rich, all at the same time.”

  Foley asked, “Any other reasons?”

  “My brother.”

  “The Ranger? Killed in the line of duty?” Jack asked.

  “He was my hero, my life. And Ryan killed him.”

  “How did the President kill your brother?” Foley asked.

  Watson’s icy composure melted away.

  “What the hell was my brother doing fighting in Ukraine? Or Afghanistan, Iraq, Niger, the Philippines?”

  Her rage escalated. “Why does Jack Ryan think America needs to fight everybody else’s stupid wars? Wars that we cause to begin with? I’m sick of all the patriotic, flag-waving bullshit. It just gets good people killed. And for fucking what? Tell me why, goddamn it!”

  “Your brother was a soldier,” Clark said. “He swore an oath. He obeyed his orders. Maybe he didn’t even agree with them. Hell, most of us in uniform don’t agree with them, at least not all the time. But that’s the job. And your brother did his job. He sacrificed his life for his country—a country you’ve betrayed.”

  “Which means you betrayed his sacrifice,” Jack added.

  “I still can’t figure out why you decided to do the London meet yourself,” Foley said. “That was risky.”

  Watson slowed her breathing, fighting to regain her composure. “Trusting people is even riskier, isn’t it? It was safer to do everything myself.”

  “You didn’t kill Fung.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “But I’m guessing you had the job hired out. Probably the Dark Web, paid in Bitcoin so nothing could be traced back to you.”

  Watson smiled defiantly. “Good luck proving that.”

  “I won’t bother trying. You did us a favor by hauling out the trash.”

  Gavin glanced up from the desk where he sat, the bid letters all opened. “Looks like the Iranians put in the highest bid.”

  Foley frowned. “Not the Chinese?”

  “China was a close second, and Russia third.”

  “The sanctions must have really put a hurt on old Yermilov,” Clark said.

  “The Iranians obviously found other investors to sweeten the pot,” Jack said. “Or sold a shit-ton of weapons-grade uranium.”

  Foley turned to Watson. “You would have turned over our national security apparatus to the Iranian mullahs?”

  Watson fought back a grin. “I was planning on giving all four of the bidders the algorithmic key. They would have been as busy screwing each other over as you guys.”

  “And made a lot more money for you,” Jack said, “collecting all four bids.”

  Watson smiled defiantly. “You’re damn straight.”

  “Eventually, they would have figured it out and come hunting for you,” Foley said.

  “With the kind of money I would have made? Good luck finding me.” She took another sip of water.

  Foley checked her watch and said to Clark, “An hour before the Iranians arrive. We need to get moving.” She said to Watson, “We’re going to wire you back up, so don’t get cute.”

  As per Foley’s instructions, each of the three bidders were texted that they had won the bid, and each was scheduled to arrive at a different time and a different location around London that Foley had prearranged.

  To protect Watson from kidnapping by a bidder too cheap to pay up, Clark would drive Watson to each location, using SDRs to avoid any chance of a tail, while the rest of the team would screen in two other cars for further protection.

  Foley also couldn’t allow the three bidders to tail one another. She mobilized local CIA assets to ensure this didn’t happen. Her plan would only work if each of them thought they had won the bid exclusively.

  Foley handed Watson three thumb drives.

  “Each of these contain an algorithmic key that will give them limited access to a controlled area of the IC Cloud. When they log on, they’ll see they’ve purchased the real deal.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve put something else on those drives.”

  “When they connect to our cloud, our cloud will connect to them. We’re the ones who will gain unlimited access to their computer systems.”

  “Cyberjudo,” Gavin said, chuckling. “Pretty cool.”

  “They’ll figure out what you’ve done, eventually,” Watson said.

  “Not before we’ve raided their cookie jars.”

  “So after I’ve held up my end of the bargain and pulled off this intelligence coup for you, what do I get out of all of this?”

  “A traitor’s noose, I hope,” Clark said.

  “I doubt that will happen. Hanging women isn’t very politically correct these days,” Watson said, smirking.

  “There’s an alternative solution that’ll never make the papers,” Clark said. “Trust me on this.”

  “Or you can take my offer,” Foley said.

  “Which is?”

  “You’re not going to like it. But it beats an early grave.”

  Foley was right. Watson hated it.

  But she took it anyway.

  86

  THREE HUNDRED MILES DUE WEST OF THE AZORES

  Foley flew back to D.C. on the same Boeing C-40B jet she’d borrowed from the 89th Airlift Wing at Joint Base Andrews the day before.

  The C-40B was the military version of the 737-700 business jet and, like the President’s much larger Air Force One, deployed secure data and comms for the fifteen cyberwarfare experts she brought on the flight over to London. Between them and the hastily assembled working group at the NSA, they had managed to build, test, and deploy the three algorithmic keys with the worm needed to carry off Foley’s espionage coup: the penetration of the Chinese, Russian, and Iranian computer intelligence systems.

  The cyberwarfare experts—men and women, mostly in their twenties and thirties—specialized in offensive cyberoperations. Several were elite members of various armed forces Cyber Mission Teams, in joint service to U.S. Cyber Command.

  The only addition to the flight manifest was the new passenger, Amanda Watson, cuffed and secured by two of Foley’s security detail.

  Watson tried to convince Foley that in five years, the knowledge she possessed would be utterly useless to foreign governments.

  Foley countered that high treason was a death-penalty offense.

  Watson responded by describing in detail the secret portal she had carved into the IC Cloud that her auctioned algorithmic key would open. She even patched it right there on the airplane under the supervision of Foley’s top cyberwarriors, who confirmed the fix.

  Foley’s best and final offer was thirty years in a federal minimum-security facility with community-service privileges. She suggested it was still a better deal
than a visit by John Clark in the middle of the night.

  Watson agreed.

  “Director Foley? You’re not going to believe this,” Sergeant Molly Houk said, the blue glow of the computer screen reflected in her glasses. Her baby bump hardly showed in her maternity battle uniform.

  “What is it?”

  The petite twenty-three-year-old airman beamed. “We’re already inside the Iranian mainframe.”

  “They didn’t waste any time, did they?” Foley said. She called over to the steward near the galley.

  “You guys got any champagne aboard this bird?”

  TWO HUNDRED FIFTY MILES DUE WEST OF THE AZORES

  The Hendley Associates G550 was on nearly the same flight path and just under six minutes behind Foley’s aircraft.

  The Campus team debriefed the events of the last few days, compared notes, and discussed options for future action, but it was difficult to lay out any specifics without hard data.

  Hard data that suddenly became available when Gavin shouted, “CRIKEY!” from the back of the aircraft near the galley.

  Hunkered over The Czech’s laptop for the last three hours and connected to his own personally designed computer network via the onboard encrypted satellite comms, Gavin had unearthed a gold mine of data.

  “Hey, Jack! Come over here and look at this. I think I’ve finally found an answer to that question you had.”

  Jack scrambled back and dropped into the seat next to Gavin. He scrolled through pages of account numbers, deposits, and receipts. Jack clapped the IT director on his soft, round shoulder.

  “Gavin Biery, Resident Genius.”

  Gavin beamed with pride.

  The two of them spent the remaining flight time assembling a document that would rock Capitol Hill like a high-magnitude quake.

  87

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE

  Mr. President,” Senator Dixon said, flashing her best Chamber of Commerce luncheon smile.

  Dixon was a very attractive woman, President Ryan had noted on previous occasions, but her arrogance diminished it considerably for him.

  “Madame Senator, I appreciate you coming on such short notice.” President Ryan gestured toward one of the chairs. She took one of the long Chesterfield couches instead. He didn’t bother offering her anything to drink.

  “It must be urgent, Jack, so I came right over. I’m here to serve.”

  More like here to measure for curtains, Ryan thought. Don’t get too eager just yet.

  He took one of the chairs, a file folder in hand. The seat gave him a slightly elevated position. Not that he needed it.

  “Where’s your lapdog, Arnie? It won’t be the same without him here, slavering on the leather and nipping at my heels.”

  “We have a problem I’d like to discuss with you, and I wanted to do it in private.”

  Dixon pointed a finger at the ceiling. “We’re not being recorded, then, I take it?”

  “Never without asking permission, and I’m not asking for it. This stays strictly between us.”

  Dixon brightened. “I’m all ears.”

  Ryan opened the file folder and handed her the inch-thick report. “You’ll find an executive summary on the first page.”

  Dixon took the document in hand cautiously, her eyes locked on Ryan’s.

  “Why don’t you ballpark it for me? I know you’re good at summarizing.”

  Ryan fought back a smile. His son Jack had already ballparked it for him less than an hour ago as his plane was landing. He and Gavin had put together one heck of a document, with every i dotted and every t crossed. He was damn proud of both of them.

  “Bottom line? Your son, Christopher Gage—”

  “Stepson.”

  “—has been connected with an international criminal organization known as the Iron Syndicate. He’s also partnered with a Chinese national by the name of Hu Peng, the son of one of the directors of a state-owned bank and a high-ranking CCP official. The two of them have been running point for a drug-smuggling operation distributing chemical precursors along with processed heroin and methamphetamine all over Europe. They’ve hidden their activities behind a series of shell companies that take advantage of BRI trade treaties that Peng’s father helped negotiate.”

  Dixon flipped a few pages, scanning numbers.

  “That’s a fascinating story—sounds like a Clive Cussler novel. Even if it’s true, what does it have to do with me? I have no business or financial relationships with my stepson. If he’s guilty of anything like you’re describing, that’s his problem, not mine.”

  “By the way, where is Christopher? We’ve reached out to him but can’t seem to locate him.”

  “I have no idea. Like I said, his business affairs are his own and no concern of mine.”

  Ryan sat back, tenting his fingers in front of a satisfied smile.

  “You put on a brave face, Deborah. I think we both know what kind of political damage this will do to your presidential run, even if you are legally innocent, which, in fact, you might be. This report screams ‘Swamp’ on every page, and you and your family are neck-deep in it.”

  “My husband’s affairs are his own. I file a separate tax return from his and make it public every year, and have done so for the last twenty years. I have nothing to hide. My affairs are in order.”

  “Then you might want to turn to page thirty-seven of that report, where it begins to lay out the financial accounts of the Dixon-Gage Charitable Trust, something I know you’re very proud of.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? We’ve done important work for poor and disadvantaged people all around the world, not to mention our brave veterans here at home, too.”

  “And Christopher has been intimately involved with your charity, hasn’t he?”

  Dixon stiffened. “Yes, he has. For years. He’s told me on more than one occasion that the work he’s done there has changed his life.”

  “I’m sure it has.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Unfortunately, Christopher was using your trust to launder his dirty money, making millions of dollars of annual contributions through thousands of fictitious donors.”

  “I can’t be responsible for the origin of anonymous monies donated.”

  “No. But the story doesn’t stop there. Christopher then funneled that dirty money into ‘clean’ projects, especially ones in Africa, where there is very little government oversight, and where, coincidentally, the Peng family has significant resources invested. Christopher was buying charity goods and services at exorbitant prices from shell companies that he and Peng secretly owned. All of those water wells and tractors and schools you thought the trust was building all went instead into the pockets of your son and your husband and, it turns out, at least one high-ranking official in the Chinese Communist Party.

  “Even if you can prove at trial you didn’t know about any of this, you’re still going to be found guilty by association in the court of public opinion, and worse, it makes you look like an idiot or a dupe.”

  Dixon’s heart rate fell. The arrogance around her Botoxed eyes faded away.

  “Not exactly a winning platform for a presidential campaign,” Ryan said, just to twist the knife.

  “You’ll have a hard time bringing any of this to court. I doubt it was legally obtained.”

  Nice bluff, Senator. Glad I never played poker with you.

  “I’m willing to take the chance. Even if we lose in court—and my AG insists we won’t—it will still ruin your reputation and take years to litigate. And we haven’t even begun really digging yet. That report just scratches the surface.”

  “Well, speaking of reputations. I have evidence of my own suggesting that your son Jack, Gerry Hendley, and, by implication, you, are associated with an organization engaged in questionable activities. I
’ll use my information to help launch impeachment proceedings against you.”

  “The Chadwick stuff again? How’d that work out for her?”

  “Chadwick is an idiot. I’m not, and you know it.”

  Ryan shrugged. “Do your worst. I’m not going to be President forever, anyway.”

  “A congressional investigation might determine that you and your associates are guilty of crimes for which you can be prosecuted.”

  “In theory, yes, but I doubt it. But even if that were to happen, in theory, there could be a stack of presigned presidential pardons sitting in a safe somewhere, written up for just such a contingency.”

  Dixon’s shoulders slumped, defeated. She stood, her voice softening.

  “Well, then, there’s nothing more to be said. I agree to resign from my office if you drop all of this nonsense.”

  “On what grounds would you resign?”

  Dixon smiled cynically. “‘To spend more time with my family,’ of course. Isn’t that what they always say?”

  “Sit down, Deborah. We’re not through yet.”

  His commanding voice dropped her back onto the couch.

  “It’s high time we remind ourselves in this country that nobody is above the law, especially the people who write it. That’s why I’m instructing the attorney general to prosecute your family to the fullest extent of the law possible.”

  “Jack—”

  “Unless you agree to this.”

  Ryan stood, retrieved a bound document from his desk, and handed it to Dixon. He didn’t bother to sit down.

  “What’s this?” Dixon said, opening it.

  “I’m sick and tired of the corruption that plagues this town. It’s corroding the confidence of the American people in their government. Trust is the glue that holds a democracy together, and you people on the Hill are destroying that trust. Far too much legislation is passed that only benefits the few at the expense of the many.