MindField

by D S Kane

  She started the download and went to sleep. When her cellphone alarm buzzed just after six the next morning, she took a look at her notebook computer’s progress bar before she took her morning trip to the restroom. “80%.” She realized she would be hard at work soon and started a pot of coffee. By the time she returned from the bathroom, the progress bar registered “download completed.”

  She used the Windows search tool to scan the database by “target’s name” first, to complete the primary task Avram wanted. She assembled the details of the report. She now had each Bug-Lok target’s name, their device number, and the date they were infected. Then she attached a link to every transcript on her storage devices for that infected person until she had all the links in a huge single anthology file. She closed the file and sent it to Avram.

  Ann knew that using her mind to enter another person’s Bug-Lok took an enormous amount of her energy. But the last task Avram had assigned her would do just that. She sat in a meditation stance and pushed her mind into the Bug-Lok of the first CEO on the list she had scanned. She located the CEO’s Bug-Lok and removed it. Then she drank a half-bottle of orange juice. She looked within the refrigerator and then inside the pantry. There might be enough calories in everything to give her the energy she’d need to complete the task.

  She repeated the procedure again and again. When the last Bug-Lok embedded in the last CEO on the list had been destroyed, she felt tipsy.

  Her task was complete. But she found herself scanning the list of names. “Glen Sarkov” was there. She couldn’t stop her fingers from pressing the key that opened his file. It was mostly conversations about the startup. Most of the conversations were about current status and plans.

  Then she found several conversations with Samantha Trout, Mindfield’s chief financial officer. None was innocent. She could tell that Samantha and Glen had been having an affair. The relationship was longstanding. As she read through the long set of conversations, she realized that Glen had been serious about Samantha, but his ardor hadn’t been returned recently. In fact, the only reason he had pursued Ann was to make Samantha jealous.

  Ann felt tears in the corners of her eyes.

  She was about to close down her notebook and head out for classes when she saw another name that piqued her interest: “Daniel Strumler.”

  “Damn!” There were over a thousand files. She opened the first conversation. The date of the file was over six months old, long before the election:

  Nikolai Puchenko: I asked if your campaign might be able to use some help.

  Daniel Strumler: If I accept, you’ll own me.

  Nikolai Puchenko: If you don’t accept, let me remind you that we already have enough just in photos and videos to end your campaign. We also have signed contracts between your businesses and our oil companies. Not to mention—

  Daniel Strumler: Yeah, not to mention what we were just talking about. But, all of that is just gossip. If I agree to your “help,” then you really own me.

  Nikolai Puchenko: But if you do, your odds of winning rise from “slight” to nearly a “sure thing.” Remember, we only back winners.

  Daniel Strumler: (silence).

  Nikolai Puchenko: Well? Mr. Strumler, do you wish to become president?

  Daniel Strumler: You fuckin’ piece of shit. Of course I do. But what you’re asking me to do is treason!

  Nikolai Puchenko: It’s survival of the fittest in regards to all political dealings. Do you have what it takes to be your country’s leader?

  Daniel Strumler: What the fuck do you want from me now?

  Ann emitted a low whistle. Was Strumler a traitor? She decided to skip her classes. She would need all day to do the research. And none of this research would require her notebook computer. She drank an entire pot of coffee and had an enormous meal. This procedure would leach most of her remaining energy.

  Chapter 40

  Ann Sashakovich’s apartment,

  #211, 3950 Louis Road, Palo Alto, CA

  November 16, 4:36 p.m.

  Ann was sure that Daniel Strumler’s Bug-Lok was still operational and could have collected more recent conversations. She concentrated on Strumler’s Bug-Lok device. At first, nothing happened. Focusing on the Bug-Lok’s serial number, she tried using a zazen approach, which she had learned in number of meditation classes. Nothing at all happened. She guessed she was out of practice.

  But that’s just an excuse! A lame one at that. I must try harder.

  Once more she set herself to work. She tried to focus on the serial again, but this time she mouthed Strumler’s name as if it were something dear to her.

  Slowly, she could see the device as if it was in front of her. She read its serial number. A match!

  She read the most recent transcript, in which Strumler had just ordered a plate of steak, potatoes, and string beans. Then, the less recent ones. And yesterday she found her most recent mention of Russia, Russians, or Nikolai Puchenko:

  Daniel Strumler: Please let me speak to Nikolai Puchenko.

  Nikolai Puchenko: Da?

  Daniel Strumler: Mr. Puchenko, this is Daniel Strumler. I think someone in my own government is trying to get me impeached. I need your government’s help.

  Nikolai Puchenko: Ah, Mr. President-Elect, I was hoping to hear from you soon. But, what do you expect my government to do?

  Daniel Strumler: Help me. Can your government send out bots to spread fake news like you did just before the election?

  Nikolai Puchenko: Nyet. Our SVR and FSB services have recently considered doing just that. But since the DEFCON report about how easy our hacks of your voting machines came out, we have decided to stop completely until the next election. Do you have anything else? I’m busy right now.

  Daniel Strumler: Er, no. But, I’m your best investment in controlling the United States. Surely, there is something you can do?

  Nikolai Puchenko: Nyet. Goodbye. Call me when you have something interesting. And remember, we have a file of information on you that the press in the United States would make a—how you say—field day out of. Goodbye.

  She read through seventy-three other transcripts, all related to Strumler and Puchenko’s conversations. Now she knew for sure that Strumler was Russia’s candidate. She thought of sending Avram a message, but decided that sending a message to Jon would be more effective.

  She was sure Jon would forward her report to Sam Meyer. To be sure the message reached Meyer, she copied Michael Drapoff.

  * * *

  Daniel Strumler’s mind continued to swing between scenes of being arrested for treason and ones where he sat in the Oval Office with people bowing before him.

  He tried relaxing while he sat in his bathrobe, wondering how it would feel once he was president. Yes, I’ve never been more than a huckster until now. But now I can make them grovel before me! He thought about the real work he’d have to do. I’ll need professionals. Lackeys who know something about ruling a nation. But, who?

  He considered Robert Randall for just a moment. No, the man’s a professional spy. A nut job. And then he remembered that Randall was due any moment to deliver one of those useless, boring daily threat assessments. Aghhhh!

  He dressed in a suit. Then he sat in his big overstuffed chair and watched television news for reports about himself as he waited.

  One of the stupid assholes from the Secret Service knocked on his door. Strumler said, “What?”

  The door opened and the neatly dressed Secret Service officer popped his head through the door. “Sir, your CIA briefing is available. Shall I send him in?”

  Strumler watched the television screen. It was a story about how comedians would make a fortune with him in office. He felt his gut roiling. “No, can’t you see I’m busy? Let him wait.”

  When the short TV report ended, Strumler decided to call stories about him that ignored his vast series of accomplishments “not real news.” No, that wasn’t a good idea. He decided to think more about how to cope with stories that fail
ed to mention him as their hero.

  Then he remembered Randall was waiting. He picked up his cell and dialed his Secret Service butler. “Okay. Send him in.”

  Randall appeared and stood, obviously waiting for Strumler to invite him to sit. Strumler ignored the man long enough to see him struggling to restrain his own anger.

  * * *

  Robert Randall was glad he wasn’t allowed to see the president-elect while carrying his sidearm. He would have found it difficult to keep himself from drawing his weapon and pulling the trigger until the clip was empty.

  He had been given a new set of orders from William Smythe, his ass dire. Smythe told him, “Provoke Strumler by failing to mention anything he’s done that smacks of a hint of success. Prod him. Belittle him if the chance presents itself. But for God’s sake, don’t mention that the NSA is tracking him.”

  Randall smiled at Strumler. “Sir, may I ask, have you any political experience? Any at all? I know you have been a businessman, but did you ever have any contact with anyone in an elected position while in conduct of your job?”

  “Why, of course I have. My corporations needed permits and such to conduct business.”

  “Ah, well, maybe that will work. You see, we in government have to work with others in government to get the job done. Our meetings, the daily threat assessments, are designed as a short course.”

  “Yeah. Well, I intend to alter the way our government works, from top to bottom. The government is a failure. It’s too big and totally ineffective.”

  Randall forced a smile. “Well. Well, I guess you’ll find out, as so many before you, that your task will be harder trying to change the system than working from within the system.”

  Strumler’s face reddened. He took a deep breath and remained.

  Randall thought himself now ready to deliver his first aggressive comment.

  He leaned forward and said in a low whisper, “You know, we follow everyone and record nearly everything. Even you have secrets. We can help or hinder, depending on how our relationship goes. We—”

  Strumler’s jaw dropped. “Whatcha mean, ‘everyone’?”

  Randall remained silent.

  Strumler stiffened. “Follow me all you want. You won’t find anything.”

  “Oh, Mr. President-Elect, I didn’t mean that the CIA would follow you. No. Not you. But there are others in our government who conduct domestic oversight.” Randall felt like doing a happy dance. He nodded his head. He’d followed Smythe’s orders to the letter, and yet he’d still delivered the message he was ordered to keep secret.

  * * *

  As soon as Randall left Strumler’s room, the president-elect told his guards not to annoy him while he napped. Immediately, he plucked his cellphone from his pocket and tapped in a number.

  “Get me Puchenko.”

  Seconds later, he heard his handler. “Da?”

  “It’s Strumler. I may have been compromised.”

  PART IV

  I have been authorized by the Department of Justice to confirm that the FBI, as part of our counterintelligence mission, is investigating the Russian government’s efforts to interfere in the 2016 presidential election and that includes investigating the nature of any links between individuals associated with the Trump campaign and the Russian government and whether there was any coordination between the campaign and Russia’s efforts.

  —James Comey, former FBI director,

  testimony before Congress,

  April 2017

  Chapter 41

  Lubyanka conference room,

  Kremlin, Moscow, Russia

  November 16, 4:59 p.m.

  Nikolai Puchenko, director of the Russian SVR, sat at the long table with only one other person in the room. In the night outside, the Kremlin, coated in drifting snow, was bathed in electric floodlights. Murmurs filled the hallway outside the Lubyanka conference room. The president of Russia wore a frown as he listened to Puchenko’s report.

  “So then, you have concerns running forward?”

  Puchenko nodded. “Mr. President, I don’t know if Strumler has been compromised. But if he even believes this to be true, it would be prudent to cut ties with him.”

  “What a waste. After all the time and money we spent getting him into the White House.”

  There was silence in the room.

  “If he is impeached or indicted for treason, he might tell his interrogators about us. It might be better to simply assassinate him. The Republicans would blame the Democrats, the Democrats would blame the Republicans, and we could watch the fight from afar.”

  Puchenko sighed his regret. “We should have done what China did. Develop a nanodevice.”

  The discussion about assassinating Strumler went on without any conclusion. Then the president said, “Let me think about this. I’ll let you know what I want when I decide. I might just simply cast Strumler adrift, but right now I think he might become a serious irritant. Of course, if he does, there are more aggressive methods of dealing with him.”

  * * *

  After her morning class, Ann walked to the Stanford University library with about four thousand calories of sugary snacks placed conveniently in her backpack. She found an empty carrel. She concentrated on Strumler’s Bug-Lok and soon found her consciousness within the device. Once there, she examined the route to his handler and retrieved the records of what the handler heard and saw. She followed the route back to the handler through the internet. She saw a communication stream from Washington DC back to the Kremlin in Russia. The computer at the receiving end belonged to the SVR. The user ID of the person operating the computer was Nikolai Puchenko.

  While her consciousness resided inside Puchenko’s computer, she examined everything she found there. All the files, all the contact lists, even the MP3 files Puchenko listened to. She decided she hated his taste in music. She transferred copies of these new files to her own computer before leaving her Bug-Lok trance.

  But she couldn’t speak or read Russian, and Cassie had told her the old KGB leftovers still working Russia’s upper echelons used their own terminology. She sent copies of these new files to Cassie and Jon. Both spoke Russian:

  Guys, I’m sending you both a set of files. MP3s of Russian conversations, and text files in Cyrillic. I hope you aren’t busy.

  She waited and wondered what their reaction would be. It took two days. Cassie sent her a copy of translated documents with a brief message:

  Good work. Now get back to your studies. We’ll take care of the rest.

  Ann’s eyes skimmed the translation. At times her eyes bulged with the audacity of Strumler’s deeds.

  She thought, this will be a major shitstorm in the political world of Washington DC.

  She could see how it would play out: one way if she took no role in the events that she knew with certainty were about to happen, and another way if she got off her ass and changed the future she had clearly envisioned.

  Ann packed a suitcase, grabbed it and her notebook computer, and took a taxi to SFO.

  Chapter 42

  Lubyanka conference room,

  Kremlin, Moscow, Russia

  November 18, 9:59 a.m.

  Outside the Kremlin a hard autumn snowstorm fell from a sky that was an ominous deep shade of gray.

  Nikolai Puchenko had thought of all the trouble he’d have driving home later. But he listened to his direct superior, the minister general of SVR activities, and his eyebrows rose as he listened. He thought, did they get the Russian president’s permission? Does he even know? When the minister general finished speaking, Puchenko scanned the faces around the conference room table. “So, you planned Daniel Strumler’s termination? If they can trace it back to Russia, they’ll declare war on us.”

  The minister general simply nodded. “Puchenko, do as we just told you. Say nothing to Strumler. If the Americans find out, they would declare us national heroes.” The man chuckled.

  Puchenko nodded and rose. When he left the conference room
, the snow was falling even harder.

  * * *

  Samuel Meyer sat at his desk in Herzliya and read through the texts a second time. He’d never met Ann Sashakovich but he had met her mother Cassandra at Yigdal Ben-Levy’s funeral. He thought, she is even more talented than her mother.

  Meyer had been appointed to head the Mossad seven years ago, when Ben-Levy retired as the Mossad’s director and was made Israel’s UN ambassador. Meyer saw himself as a plodder, conservative and careful, compared to Ben-Levy’s passionate but reckless leadership.

  He thought, can I believe what I’m reading? How did she backtrace the data trail into the SVR mainframe servers? I’m not sure it’s possible. But, Jon Sommers is very reliable, and he’s the one who forwarded these reports to me.

  He reread the hack from Nikolai Puchenko’s computer. Killing Daniel Strumler was an audacious move. Ben-Levy had assassinated a sitting US president and never been detected. The assassination Ben-Levy commanded was attributed by the Americans to an anaphylactic allergy to insect bites.

  Meyer wasn’t sure whether to help save the president-elect or let the Russians terminate him.

  He sat in silence as a red fiery sunset came and went. I can tell the Secret Service. Will they believe me? He doubted it. Would they see the death of Strumler as an act of divine assistance? He wasn’t sure what the Americans believed, and after all, they had elected him.

  As the sky darkened, he decided that exposing the traitor will work better for Israel. If the Americans don’t believe the evidence I will send them, so be it.

  He decided to use the United Nations to send his message. First, he called Israel’s prime minister to see if he could secure the backing he needed. “It’s Meyer. Put Abba on the phone for me. I only need two minutes.”

  In just a few seconds he heard a gruff voice come on the line. “Cain?” Yes, in Hebrew.

  Meyer answered in Hebrew. The prime minister had once been an IDF sniper. Before winning his first political victory, he’d recorded over thirty kills of Israel’s enemies. The PM was known to be short tempered and rigorously right wing. “Samuel, what is the nature of your call. Is Israel in any new danger?”