404: A John Decker Thriller

by J. G. Sandom

  “Like the 9/11 hijackers,” said Decker.

  “Exactly. The identity of that suspect would be hidden until the suspicious behaviors were identified and a FISA judge said, ‘OK. You can de-encrypt the identity of this profile because he looks suspicious.’ Well, look at that. A Saudi prince!”

  “But I thought they scuttled TIA because of these privacy concerns,” Decker said. “And because the vast quantities of data were...well, unmanageable.”

  Lulu shook her head. “The program didn’t die. It was just shunted away from Congressional oversight and brought over to NSA.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know,” she said cryptically.

  “Well, I don’t buy it,” he countered. “I know something about neural network predictive modeling. That’s what I did my thesis on at Northwestern. It isn’t that easy to feed all that data into one skinny pipe and make sense of it. Not in real time. We’re just not that good at it yet, and—”

  “Yet being the operative word. TIA recruited some of the best minds in the business, from both the public and private sectors. Who knows what they’re doing,” said Lulu. “What they’ll be able to do...given time.”

  “Maybe in some far distant future,” said Decker. “But, today, I’ve got a half-dozen terminals on my desk, each one designed to access particular data streams. PRISM for telecom. XKeyscore and Pinwale for Internet data. All of that DNI and DNR under Boundless Informant. But they’re not integrated. It would make my job easier if they were, but they’re not—for security, privacy and technical reasons. Maintaining separate databases keeps us less vulnerable to cyber-attack. Plus, people are creeped out by these efforts, especially when the blessing of a secret FISA court is practically guaranteed. Statistically, you have a greater chance of being struck by lightning in your lifetime, about .03 percent, than for a surveillance request to be turned down by FISA, which is .023 percent. I worked it out. And I guess I don’t share your faith in what’s technologically feasible. We’re nowhere near figuring out how to manage such gargantuan data streams in real time. NSA alone captures almost two billion emails and phone calls each day.”

  “The man in the street may be leery of it,” said Lulu. “Even Congress may be against it—especially Vermont’s Senator Fuller—but that doesn’t mean TIA wasn’t attempted, or still isn’t being attempted. Somewhere. By someone. And the one part of Poindexter’s program that the NSA didn’t bring over was the privacy protection stuff. Go figure.”

  “I think you’ve seen one too many conspiracy movies. Homeland Security runs more than two dozen networks, each managed by very independent agencies, and each network features the intelligence data unique to its host. The CIA generates stuff from their carbon-based sources—”

  “Why can’t you simply say people? It’s like you have an aversion. You sound like Data on Star Trek. Or field agents, even? Can you say field agents?”

  “Field agents, then. Analysts too. NSA handles signal intercepts—cell phones, email, et cetera. Law enforcement feeds criminal records. State feeds VISA and passport applications. As I said, that’s why I have to do manual searches on a bunch of computers and—”

  “But what if—to avoid Congressional scrutiny from the likes of Senator Fuller—NSA chose a new path.”

  “What do you mean a new path? What kind of path?”

  “Like a Haliburton Blackwater solution. Private enterprise, John. Intelligence groups like Strarfor, recently busted for selling intel about Pakistani involvement in hiding bin Laden, stuff they could only have known if they had access to intelligence garnished from the Seal Team 6 raid. Or folks like ex-CIA spook Dewey Clarridge, and DoD’s Mike Furlong, both running private spy agencies in Afghanistan. Or International Media Ventures, a so-called strategic communication firm run by several former Special Ops officers. Or American International Security Corporation, a Boston-based group run by ex-Green Beret Mike Tay—”

  “I get the idea.”

  “Anyway, the point is they’re all using non-IC, non-military talent. Folks like Matt Zimmerman. That’s what I think Riptide’s about.”

  “Prepare to turn left,” said the car’s GPS system and Decker jumped in his seat. Though based on a real woman’s voice, the tone sounded metallic, Borg-like.

  Decker glanced at the GPS console. “That’s Pierce Road,” he said, concentrating. “Braun’s cabin is two miles due west.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Friday, December 13

  It had started to snow by the time they arrived at the cutoff leading to Rutger Braun’s cabin. Whirling white flakes filled the air, making it difficult to see very far. At this elevation, the forest floor was already covered with snow. Decker could just make out Braun’s cabin. It was about a hundred yards or so from the main road and he told Lulu to pull over.

  They sat there for a moment, staring at the cabin. It was a simple pre-fab affair, made from some kit, no doubt, with a bay window in front and a natural stone chimney. On the other side of the cabin, perhaps another three hundred yards from the structure, Decker could just barely make out the sheen of some mountain pond through the aspen and laurel.

  “No smoke,” Lulu said. “Looks deserted.”

  “Maybe,” said Decker. “Go ahead and pull in. Let’s take a closer look.”

  Lulu slipped the Ford into gear and made her way slowly down the snow-covered driveway, flanked on both sides by rhododendron and spruce. As they pulled in and parked by the front door, Decker noticed another car, partially covered in a blue plastic tarpaulin, on the other side of the cabin. A large pile of wood was stacked up beside it, next to a splitting stump.

  They got out of Lulu’s Ford and trudged through the snow to the front of the cabin. Lulu knocked on the door. No one answered. She peered through the window. Somewhere a crow cawed.

  “I told you,” she said. “It’s deserted.” She reached into her jacket and pulled out the same set of burglar tools she’d used to break into Zimmerman’s house, but Decker stayed her hand.

  “Just a minute,” he told her. He made his way around the side of the cabin. The snow had piled up into a three-foot high drift and he had a hard time pushing through it. As he turned the corner to the rear of the cabin, he noticed a fresh set of footprints. They began directly underneath a small window by the chimney. Decker followed them with his eyes as they wound their way through the trees toward the mountain pond.

  “Jesus Christ,” Lulu said.

  Decker turned. Lulu was looking through the window into the rear of the cabin. When Decker peered in, he noticed a device attached to the front door of the cabin. Some sort of charge, he surmised. Set to go off when someone opened the door.

  “Not very neighborly,” Lulu said.

  They both turned and looked at the trail of footprints leading down toward the pond. That’s when a shot rang out and the side of the cabin exploded.

  Decker threw himself onto Lulu, driving her to the snow.

  Another shot echoed through the trees. “Stay here,” he said as he rolled to his knees. Decker pulled out the Python. A moment later, he was zigzagging through the snow toward the pond.

  The brush was much heavier here and he had a hard time scrambling through the bushes and trees. He had gone about fifty yards or so when he noticed a muzzle flash.

  Decker threw himself to the ground just as a bullet passed over his head, thudding into a blue spruce nearby.

  Whoever he was, Decker thought, he wasn’t much of a shot.

  Decker continued to crawl on his belly through the snow. When he had covered another ten yards, he stood up behind an oak tree and peered down at the pond.

  A man was lying on the snow by the edge of the water. He was holding some sort of hunting rifle.

  Decker edged his way down the embankment, using a cluster of rhododendron bushes for cover. Now, the snow was his friend. It had started to fall more heavily and the thick flakes helped conceal him as he inched closer and closer.

  The man near
the pond was still facing the cabin. He hadn’t noticed Decker flanking him. Decker moved in this fashion for another twenty yards or so, until he was positioned about thirty feet from the man with the gun.

  “Don’t move,” Decker said, appearing out of the trees, the Python trained on the stranger.

  The man whirled about. He lifted his rifle and fired.

  Decker dove to the snow and the shot passed harmlessly over his head. Then, before the man had a chance to reload, Decker rushed him.

  Despite the snow, Decker covered the distance between them in seconds. As the man tried to reload and fire again, Decker ripped the gun from his hands. He struck him with the tip of his elbow, catching the man on the jaw, and the stranger fell back to the snow.

  “Don’t kill me,” he cried. “Please.” He lifted his hands, trying to cover his face. “Please!”

  “You’re the one trying to shoot me,” Decker said. He stood above the man now, the Python aimed at his face.

  “Please,” the man cried. He rolled to his knees, reaching out to grab Decker. “Don’t kill me. I beg you.” He was a slight man, narrow-shouldered, with round wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his already large eyes.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” said Decker. “Calm down. Are you Rutger Braun?”

  The fact that Decker knew his name seemed to send Braun over the edge. He began crawling away through the snow. “Oh, God,” he cried. “Oh, God, no. Please don’t kill me.”

  Decker followed him. “Where are you going? Come back here,” he said. He put the Python back in his holster. Braun’s gun was still at the edge of the pond where Decker had tossed it. “I said stop.”

  But Braun kept crawling away on his hands and knees through the snow. He was babbling now, incoherent. He was weeping like a child.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Decker said. He walked up behind him, pulled the Python out of his holster, and brought it down with a thud on the back of his head.

  Braun fell to the snow and was still.

  CHAPTER 37

  Friday, December 13

  By the time Braun came to, Decker and Lulu had already broken into his cabin through the rear window and disarmed the explosive device attached to the door. Lulu had found some supplies in the cabinet and was about to make some tea when she realized the ancient cast-iron stove was neither gas nor electric; it was a wood-burning stove. In fact, the cabin featured no modern conveniences, except for a hand-pump for water, and they speculated if Braun had picked this location on purpose, knowing that he was free from the terrors they had both experienced at her apartment in Cambridge and Zimmerman’s place on Mount Stratton. Despite the fact that Braun had tried to kill them, without a boiler, without electricity or gas, without a phone or wireless router, they both felt more at ease in this primitive setting than they had in days.

  Decker had lashed Braun to a chair in the middle of the room and when he finally came to, for the first several seconds, he didn’t seem to know where he was. Then, as his head cleared, he began to whimper again. He pulled at his bonds.

  “Stop that,” said Decker, and he did.

  Braun looked over at Decker, then at Lulu. “Who are you?” he said.

  “My name is John Decker. I’m with the FBI. Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re safe with us, Mr. Braun.”

  “Safe?” He started to laugh. It was a tight hollow sound, without substance. “I’m not safe. No one is safe. You. Her. Me. We’re all going to die.” He looked down at the floor for a moment, and then added, “How did you find me?”

  “That isn’t important,” said Lulu. “What is important is that you tell us everything you know about your former boss, Matthew Zimmerman. How he died and who killed him.”

  At the mention of Zimmerman’s name, Braun began to whimper again. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I...I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do,” Decker said. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. We’re here to protect you.”

  “Then why am I tied to this chair?”

  “Because you wouldn’t listen to me. First, you tried to kill us. Then, you tried running away.”

  “I was just trying to protect myself. I didn’t know who you were. I still don’t. If you’re with the police or FBI or whatever, where’s your badge?”

  Decker reached into his pocket to remove his ID when he remembered that he no longer had it. He had planted his wallet on the assassin in Georgetown. In fact, he had nothing on him, no evidence whatsoever to prove that he was whom he claimed to be. Decker smiled. “I guess you’re just going to have to trust us,” he said. “As I told you before, I’m Special Agent Decker, and this here is Xin Liu.”

  “Lulu,” she said, cutting in. “How about some tea, Rutger? If I can get your stove going, I think we could all use a cup.” She smiled at him and he visibly softened.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “The truth,” Decker said. “What happened to Zimmerman?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Yes, we know that.”

  “He died in a car accident. On 100 between Winhall and Londonderry.”

  At this, Lulu turned form the stove and approached him. She stared down at his face. Braun’s blue eyes looked impossibly huge behind his thick glasses. Sweat danced on his brow and bald head despite the near-freezing temperature.

  “We both know that isn’t true, don’t we, Rutger?”

  Braun issued a sigh. His head dropped to his chest. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of him. He looked spent.

  “Who killed him?” asked Lulu.

  “I...I can’t say.”

  “You can’t, or you won’t?”

  “I...” Braun began to cry once again. “I don’t know anything. Please.”

  “It’s okay, Rutger,” said Decker. “We believe you.”

  Lulu looked at Decker incredulously.

  “You do?” Braun replied. He seemed suddenly buoyed.

  “Yes, we do,” Decker said. He walked over to Braun and began to tug at his bonds. “And as a show of good faith, Rutger, so that you truly know we believe you, I’m going to untie you. All I ask is that you don’t try and run out of here, like before. Can you promise me that?”

  Braun nodded.

  “Good.” Decker untied his hands.

  Braun rubbed his wrists where he had been bound. He smiled up at Lulu. “Want me to make you some tea?”

  It was as if Braun had morphed into an entirely different person. Gone now were the tears and the fear in his eyes. He got up and began to stuff the stove with paper and kindling.

  Decker stepped in to assist him. “So, Rutger, let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

  “Okay,” Braun replied.

  “What do you know about Riptide?”

  “I don’t do that anymore.”

  “I know,” Decker said. “For good reason, I’m sure.”

  “For good reason,” said Braun. He looked up and smiled, and in that moment it became abundantly clear that there was something terribly wrong with Rutger Braun, as if his mind had suddenly and irrevocably snapped.

  How hard did I hit him? thought Decker. Then, he said, “Yes, for good reason. But what did you do? Before, I mean. You and Matt. What exactly is Riptide?”

  “It’s a black ops division of Allied Data Systems. The NSA was intrigued with the work Matt and I were doing on profiling, and they recruited us. But, once Matt found out what they were really up to, we quit the project.”

  “Why?” Decker asked. “What were they really up to?”

  Braun slipped a final piece of wood into the stove. He picked up a box of matches from a nearby shelf. “Global Net traffic will quadruple over the next few years. By 2015, we’ll reach 966 Exabytes per year, and—”

  “What’s an Exabyte?”

  “A Kilobyte of data is 103, or one thousand bytes,” said Lulu. “A Gigabyte is 109 bytes. An Exabyte is 1018.”

  “Right,” said Braun, suddenly impressed. “You’re a coder!“

>   Lulu nodded.

  “Cool.”

  “That’s a big number,” said Decker. “Hard to get your head around.”

  “Think of it this way,” said Lulu. “According to Eric Schmidt, Google’s former CEO, the total of human knowledge created from the dawn of Man to the year 2003 equaled five Exabytes. Five!”

  “And in a couple of years,” said Decker, “we’ll reach almost a thousand Exabytes per year?”

  “Exactly,” said Braun. “In 2011, around two billion of the world’s 6.9 billion people were connected to the Net. By 2015, it will be closer to three billion. Almost half of the world’s current population.”

  “The Bluffdale Data Center,” said Lulu. “That’s why NSA’s building such a large storage facility. Is that where you worked?”

  Braun struck a match, leaned over and reached his hand into the stove, lighting the paper and kindling within. “No,” he replied. “Data is one thing. You need a place to store it. Especially if you’re not just sucking in the public Web, all the digital pocket lint we’re now monitoring, but deepnet too—password-protected stuff from both U.S. and foreign government communications, peer-to-peer file-sharing, reports, databases. More importantly, you need to be able to interpret it. How do you manage twenty Terabytes of intercepts per minute? That’s the rub, since most of what we capture is encrypted. And then from that, how do you predict who’s likely to mount a terrorist attack? Matt and I were working on that part of it, using the system to do scenario planning. Not in Utah, though. In Oak Ridge, Tennessee.” He pulled a kettle down from a shelf and began to fill it with the hand pump at the sink.

  “Building 5300,” said Lulu.

  Braun spun about. “You know it?”