The Adversary (A Chris Bruen Novel Book 1)

by Reece Hirsch

  “Do you know what this place is?” Silver asked.

  “Yes, I’ve heard about it, but I wonder why you brought me here.”

  Silver smiled slightly. “I know that Scott has already spoken with you about the assignment. We bring people here that we want to impress, major investors, visiting dignitaries, important media. Frankly, I always feel a little bit like a Bond villain when I’m in here.”

  “I’d say you’re more like Q,” Chris said.

  “I like that.” Silver smiled. “The point is that I want you to appreciate just how important you are to our team.”

  Silver refocused. “We’ve created something here at BlueCloud. Something that has changed the world in a lot of little ways—and maybe in a few big ones, too. If a flaw in our Aspira system leads to a major cyberattack, then all of that could be over in an instant. Then it won’t matter how great our products are. And it’s part of the BlueCloud mystique that our products are so well-designed that they’re virtually bulletproof to viruses.”

  Chris nodded. He understood Silver perfectly. Most of Chris’s clients came to him in situations in which they feared losing the trust of their customers.

  “We won’t be the only ones out there looking for the Lurker crew,” he said, ready to move on to logistics. “There will be FBI, Homeland Security, Secret Service, FAA, and maybe other agencies in the hunt.”

  “Then you’ll just have to get there first,” Silver said, his frustration showing for a moment. “We’re not going to let the feds make us a whipping boy. You’re going to make this go away. This company was built on being faster and smarter than its competition. And we expect that from everyone here, including our lawyers. In your case, I don’t think I’m expecting too much. I know a little bit about your story, you know. The arrest as a teenager.”

  Now it was Chris who was smoldering. “Those records were sealed.”

  Silver scoffed.

  “If you think I understand hackers because I once was one, then you’re operating on a false premise,” Chris said. “That was a very long time ago.”

  “Say what you will, but I think I have a pretty good eye for talent. That thing you did when you were young convinced me that you had the right temperament for this assignment. Along with the way you handled things in Amsterdam.”

  “You should know that it’s possible that sending me out there could make your situation worse. If the FBI or Homeland Security thinks that I’m in their way, they could arrest me and charge BlueCloud with obstructing a national security investigation.”

  “I know. Scott and I have already weighed the pros and cons and decided that you’re our best bet. We’ve got your back.” Silver locked on Chris with his best charismatic gaze. “I’ve got your back.”

  Chris hoped that was true, but he suspected that Silver viewed him like one of BlueCloud’s smartphones—indispensable for a while, but with a very finite shelf life.

  CHAPTER 6

  Later that afternoon, Chris was called to the lobby of the law firm’s offices to meet two FBI agents. When Chris arrived, they were standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows admiring the panoramic view of the Ferry Building clock tower and the Bay. On clear days like this one, the lobby was so brilliantly lit by the sun that it felt like you were outside.

  The apparent leader of the pair stepped forward, wearing a serious expression that seemed intended to set a tone for the meeting. Chris had been expecting a dark suit and lantern jaw, but the agent was wearing a sport coat and khakis and looked more like an untenured college professor. Apparently, this was the FBI’s geek squad. “Chris Bruen? I’m Michael Hazlitt, FBI.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Chris said, shaking his hand. “You didn’t waste any time getting over here.”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  “When you were at DOJ, I worked on a couple of cases where we were collaborating with your office. I was a junior member of the team then, so there’s no reason why you would remember me. I wasn’t allowed to do much talking.” Hazlitt pointed a thumb at his colleague. “Much like this guy here.”

  Hazlitt’s partner, who looked to be only a few years younger, leaned forward and shook his hand. “Sam Falacci, silent partner.” Falacci looked like a slightly down-market version of Hazlitt. If Hazlitt was Brooks Brothers, Falacci was Men’s Wearhouse.

  Chris smiled politely and led them into a small conference room off the lobby and closed the door.

  “You had a great reputation back in the day,” Hazlitt said. “Wish we still had you on our side.”

  “I thought we were on the same side.”

  “You represent your clients, which is not the same thing as the government’s interest.”

  “My clients want to stop cybercriminals just like you do.”

  “Maybe, but we prefer to put them in jail when we can. For the FBI and your old buddies at DOJ, those settlement agreements that you use are … very unsatisfying.”

  “Maybe this will improve your impression of me.” Chris handed over the flash drive containing the Lurker virus and the message board postings, along with a copy of the email containing the faked death certificate. He’d already briefed them by phone about the contents of the flash drive and the possible January 14 attack.

  “You think this is for real?” Falacci asked.

  “I don’t know, but if I were you I’d treat it as if it were,” Chris said. “Based on the complexity of the coding, that worm was designed by someone who knew what they were doing.”

  “We appreciate the cooperation,” Hazlitt said. “I’m glad that you recognize that this isn’t just about your client’s operating system.”

  “That’s why we called.”

  “But just in case you have any doubts about how seriously the government is taking this, I want you to know that Louis Vogel at NSA is involved.”

  “Vogel,” Chris said, as if he was straining his memory. “He’s pretty highly placed at NSA, isn’t he?” Chris knew perfectly well who Louis Vogel was, at least to the extent that anyone who didn’t have a top-level National Security Agency security clearance should know.

  “Highly placed. Yeah, you could say that,” Hazlitt said. “So highly placed he doesn’t even have a title.”

  “So this is a joint investigation?”

  “Sort of. We’re doing the investigating, NSA, Homeland Security, and FAA are getting reports. I’m telling you this because I want to make sure you understand that full and complete cooperation is very much in the best interests of you and your client.”

  “National security matter. I get it.”

  “So, just for the record, I’m going to ask you again,” Hazlitt said, slowing it down for emphasis, as he might for a suspect. “Is there anything else that you haven’t told us?”

  “You know what I know,” Chris said and, at that point, it was true.

  “We may be back in touch with you with some follow-up questions, so please stay available, particularly during the next week,” Hazlitt said. “If the black hats send you any more emails or make contact in any way, we want to know about it immediately.”

  As they turned to leave, Chris said, “I’d appreciate it if you could give us back a copy of the flash drive with the coding for the worm. If there’s a vulnerability in Aspira, BlueCloud wants to identify it so they can develop a security patch. No one knows their source code like they do, so it’s in your interest to let them work with the virus.”

  “I’ll ask my bosses and get back to you,” Hazlitt responded. “I’m sure that your client will be provided with anything that they need to know.”

  Of course, Chris had made a copy of the flash drive, but he had to ask the question, anyway. Hazlitt’s answer confirmed what he already knew—that the FBI and the other agencies would never collaborate with a private investigation. It made Chris feel more justified in proceeding with his own investigation for BlueCloud.

  “What do you know so far about the
virus that took down the Albuquerque air traffic control system?”

  “That investigation is confidential.”

  “My client would, of course, like to know if the virus exploited its Aspira system.”

  “You’ll know what we want you to know when we want you to know it.” Chris took that as an implicit confirmation that the Albuquerque virus had targeted one of BlueCloud’s products.

  Hazlitt paused in the doorway of the conference room. “Oh, and I hope you’re not planning to try to locate these characters Ripley and Enigma. If they’re going to activate the virus on January 14, then we don’t need any third parties mucking things up. If you get in our way, you’re jeopardizing national security and that’s exactly how it will be treated.”

  “Understood. Good luck, guys,” Chris said as they headed for the elevators. For a moment, he missed the days when he could give orders to agents like Hazlitt and Falacci.

  That night, after Ed had gone home, Chris entered the empty computer forensic lab and attempted to trace the threatening emails that he had received that morning. He was certain that the FBI would be doing the same thing.

  Chris analyzed the email and traced the IP address that it had originated from. Chris’s faked death certificate had been sent from an IP address registered in Barcelona, Spain. It was surprising that whoever had sent the emails had not bothered to cover their tracks better. Nevertheless, after a bit more digging, the IP address quickly led to a dead end.

  Chris gazed out at the nighttime skyline of downtown San Francisco. As people returned home, the windows of the gleaming apartment towers lighted up and the office towers darkened. Beyond the towers was the Bay, a deeper black than the night sky.

  Somewhere out there was a person, or a group of people, who were under the impression that they could steal his personal information and threaten him. They clearly knew plenty about him. For the moment, though, he knew next to nothing about them, except for the aliases Enigma and Ripley. Chris resolved to correct that imbalance.

  CHAPTER 7

  January 8

  A computer virus is like a cancer—and Chris knew more than he cared to about both subjects. Without intervention, whether a security patch or chemotherapy, both grew without restraint. Both represented a kind of perverted life-force that propagated until growth became just another form of destruction.

  Computer viruses and cancers were about a failure to follow norms. Why does a cell go haywire and begin dividing to form a cancer? Why does a component of a computer’s operating system stop performing its designated function, creating an opening for a virus?

  Chris sometimes wondered when he had stopped following norms himself. Maybe he and his wife, Tana, should have had kids. Maybe he should have gotten remarried after she died from breast cancer six years ago. Maybe he shouldn’t have thrown himself into his work to suppress his grief during the years after her death. Maybe he should never have started an affair with Sarah Hotchner, a twenty-five-year-old paralegal at the firm who was fifteen years younger. Chris felt that after Tana’s death he had begun to slowly, inexorably go haywire. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have been surprised at all when he had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer. He’d been malfunctioning in so many ways for so long it seemed inevitable that the dysfunction would start manifesting itself at the cellular level.

  His appointment with the oncologist was at 10:00 a.m. at California Pacific Medical Center, and Sarah had insisted on coming with him. He had not been angling for her to accompany him, at least not consciously. He didn’t think they had that sort of relationship.

  In fact, he didn’t know what kind of relationship he had with Sarah. He wasn’t her direct supervisor—at least there was that. She had been hired six months ago, and along with a battalion of junior associates and paralegals, they had worked together briefly on a due diligence project for a corporate merger, the entire team shut up in windowless rooms reviewing documents. Anyone who thought that drone warfare was confined to places like Afghanistan and Pakistan had never witnessed the corporate due diligence process.

  Prior to the transaction’s closing, they had pulled some late nights together at the office. One night, they’d left around 10:00 p.m. in separate elevators and both happened to show up several blocks away at the bar of the Four Seasons, both looking to unwind after a stressful day. When he saw her sitting across the room deciding whether or not to acknowledge him, what was he supposed to do, not have a drink with her? They’d shared one Maker’s Mark, then another, then they’d walked back to his loft. They’d been together now for five months.

  He knew it sounded tawdry, but he wasn’t about to question it. Being with Sarah made him feel alive and, for a man in the middle of an experimental cancer treatment regimen, that was not to be discounted.

  Dr. Alex Simon’s office was in a medical complex next to the hospital. As Chris and Sarah sat in the waiting room, a pharmaceutical company sales rep in high heels and a shrink-wrapped dress emerged from the office. Chemotherapy and other cancer drugs were big-ticket items, and the pharma companies pulled out all the stops when it came to “detailing” the prescribing doctors. Detailing was the practice of learning about a physician’s prescribing habits in order to better influence them, and it was performed by an army of gorgeous, impeccably dressed, well-educated young women who were employed as pharma sales reps. Dr. Simon had probably been detailed as often, and with as much loving care, as a vintage Lamborghini. Sarah said it all with the arch of an eyebrow directed at Chris as the sales rep clicked off down the hallway in her heels.

  When the receptionist called his name, Sarah gave his hand a hard squeeze. “Would you like me to come in there with you?” she asked.

  “No, it’s fine.” Chris stood up slowly and looked down at her. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

  “I know,” she said.

  Dr. Simon seemed like a person whose natural good cheer had been steadily eroded by twenty years or so as an oncologist. He didn’t smile much, probably because smiles were in poor taste when you’re talking about cancer (and he was always talking about cancer), but an amused inflection still crept into his voice. Chris supposed that natural selection must bring such upbeat types to the specialty—anyone else would have put a gun in their mouth years ago.

  One odd by-product of his cancer diagnosis was that it made him feel closer to Tana than at any time since her death. He felt that he had been through all of this before, but from another perspective, that of the sympathetic partner, a role that Sarah seemed to be playing now. Chris felt like an understudy who had been thrust into the lead role, but he hadn’t yet mastered the lines or the blocking. And, unfortunately for him, the play was a tragedy. Now he really understood just how brave Tana had been, and how scared.

  When Chris entered the exam room, Dr. Simon was smiling. And it wasn’t a putting-a-brave-face-on-it smile, or a pitying, sympathetic quarter smile. It was a genuine smile.

  “What?” Chris said.

  “I have some good news for you,” Dr. Simon said. “The medications seem to have worked.”

  Chris found it hard to get the words out, because he found himself smiling back at Dr. Simon. “Define ‘worked.’”

  “They’ve induced remission. The latest biopsy shows no signs of cancer.”

  “How is that possible?” In his first office visit when he had been diagnosed, Dr. Simon had told him that he had perhaps a 30 percent chance of surviving. In contrast, the cocktail of experimental thyroid cancer drugs that he was taking had a 10 percent chance of succeeding.

  “I’m not one to question success,” Dr. Simon said. “Congratulations. I’m very happy for you. I don’t get to deliver news like this that often.”

  Chris felt short of breath. With his hands on his hips, he looked down at the square, white linoleum tiles on the floor of the exam room, then up at the fluorescent light, a little like a gasping runner who had just crossed the finish line.

  “What are the odds that the cancer w
ill return?”

  “We’re in uncharted territory now. There’s not enough data to predict, but I think you should feel very good about this. We’ll keep testing, but these results are very, very positive. I’d say you can go back to living your life.”

  Chris had an overpowering urge to see Sarah and to be outside in the sunshine. That was it—he and Sarah should go for a walk. Beyond that, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with all of the new days and years he had just been given, but he was going to give that some thought when his mind stopped happily reeling. He wanted to whoop and jump around like a gleeful idiot, but instead he simply pumped Dr. Simon’s hand and thanked him. Blood pounded and roared in his ears. It felt like being swept up in a cheering stadium crowd.

  As Chris reached for the door to the waiting room and Sarah, the roaring in his ears subsided.

  Sarah had a copy of Newsweek on her lap and appeared to be just staring at it. When he approached, she looked up as if she had just awakened.

  “How did it go?”

  “It went well,” Chris said, smiling. “Really, really well.” He proceeded to tell her everything that Dr. Simon had said. About a quarter of the way through his explanation, Sarah started erupting with little, barking laughs at almost everything he said. About halfway through, she started crying.

  Chris gave Sarah a moment to compose herself and, while she did, he studied her face, which had become one of his favorite things to do. She was small, no more than five foot five, with a fair, northern complexion and ears that were too big poking through her shoulder-length brown hair. Sarah grew up in a working-class neighborhood of Boston and, while she didn’t have the accent, she had a natural aversion to pretension, which manifested itself in a clear, cool gaze that always seemed to see you for exactly what you were. Chris felt that just standing in her presence and looking into those green eyes had to be more beneficial than any radiation therapy. What was she doing with him? It was a question that he often asked himself, but he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer.