by Reece Hirsch
On the other side of the room, Blanksy turned his back on them for a moment to rummage through the nylon gym bag. While Blanksy was digging through the contents of the bag, Chris reached into his jacket pocket, removed his cell phone, and clicked two buttons. The first button speed-dialed Chris’s home answering machine. The second button activated the phone’s speaker. Chris quickly slid the phone back into his jacket pocket.
When Blanksy turned around, he had four plastic zip ties in his hand, which he used to bind their hands and feet. Then Blanksy took a seat on the bed across from them, the gun resting across his knees and the flashlight propped beside him so that it pointed at them.
Fear and adrenaline clouded Chris’s thoughts, as powerful and toxic as chemo. But he wouldn’t show that. He couldn’t show that.
“I think I know what the virus is,” Chris said, figuring that the longer he talked, the longer they stayed alive. He hadn’t had a chance to check to see if the phone had connected to the answering machine, so he had no idea if their conversation was recording. With the power outage, the nearest cell tower could be down. Or maybe the speaker wouldn’t pick up their voices through his jacket. But most of all, Chris hoped that the phone didn’t give him away with a squawk of feedback or dial tone.
“So this is where you try to keep me talking and I tell you all about my plans, is that it?”
“I’ve followed you to Europe and back,” Chris said. “I think I’m entitled to at least a little explanation.”
“Entitled? No. But I am curious to see how much you’ve managed to figure out,” Blanksy said. He probably assumed that anything that Chris knew had been shared with the FBI. Blanksy wanted to know how close the FBI was to catching him, or at least understanding what he was up to. “All right, I’ll play. Tell me what you know,” he said.
Chris spoke slowly. “The virus—we’re calling it Lurker—exploits a vulnerability in the Aspira operating system.”
“Obvious,” Blanksy said. “Am I wasting my time here?”
Chris wasn’t going to tell Blanksy everything he knew, but he needed to keep him talking. “The coding of the virus reflects more than one team of programmers. Some of it looks like the work of an individual, like you or one of your crew. But other segments are very sophisticated and labor-intensive, the sort of thing that probably could only have been produced by a large team of coders working under rigorous protocols—a government-sponsored team.”
Blanksy gave a slight nod, encouraging him to continue.
“The virus was programmed to erase itself seventy-two hours after activation, apparently to ensure that it didn’t cause too much collateral damage. This was intended to take down a specific target, but it wasn’t meant to cause unlimited destruction. It was a controlled burn.”
“And what do you gather from that?”
“That the virus was developed by not just any government, but by a nation that views itself as a good actor on the world stage, one that would have trouble justifying unleashing a destructive virus on a global scale.”
“And which government might that be?”
“I’m thinking the US, perhaps Israel. And since you dragged us to the grave of an Iranian dissident, I have to think that Lurker is an adaptation of the Stuxnet virus.”
“Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner,” Blanksy said. “Our virus is a variation on Stuxnet. Stuxnet was designed to stick to the systems used by Iran’s nuclear program and delete after three weeks—but that part didn’t work quite as designed. The virus malfunctioned and started spreading through the Internet, and I happened to acquire a copy. From there, it just took a little clever coding to repurpose the virus, give it a new payload. Now the NSA can see how they like being the target of cyberwarfare. They should have known better.”
“How so?”
“You fire a missile at someone and the bomb is destroyed on impact. But you use a virus to wage cyberwarfare, like the US did against Iran, and the weapon, and its code, is out there in the world for the taking. And we took it. It wasn’t that hard to anticipate that this would be the next move.”
“You know, some of us used to have a drinking game,” Zoey said. “Every time you used the term cyberwarfare in one of your posts, we took a shot.”
Blanksy gave a tight, humorless smile. “I would think you would get this.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because hacktivism is a pathetic joke,” Blanksy said.
“I happen to like jokes,” Zoey said.
“Making some satirical jab at Centinela Bank may impress your little band of geek friends, but it’s a pointless exercise. It changes nothing. What’s happened tonight changes everything.”
“Maybe so,” Zoey said, “but with my work, no one gets killed, either.”
Blanksy shrugged. “In a day or two, we’ll see how many people actually died tonight. Even in a worst case, it’ll be nothing compared to Hiroshima or Nagasaki—and the US government had no real qualms about that. It was the only way to convey that particular message—it’s the same with the message that we’re delivering tonight.”
“Guys like you always think they have a message but, and I hate to break it to you, the only message you’re sending is that you’re a coward and a murderer.”
“You’re lucky to be here at all, Zoey.”
“How do you figure?”
“We really should have burned you after you had outlived your usefulness with those phishing schemes. You’ve been on borrowed time for quite a while now.”
Then, in an aside to Chris, he added, “You do know she’s worked with us, don’t you?”
“She told me all about it,” Chris said.
“A relationship based on trust,” Blanksy said. “I must say I’m oddly touched.”
“You killed Ed de Lamadrid, didn’t you?” Chris leaned forward in his chair.
“Well, I didn’t do it personally, if that’s what you mean,” Blanksy said. “But I didn’t expect you to have a computer forensic lab working with you while you were on the run. I needed to make sure that you stayed a step or two behind. You were friends?”
“Yeah, we were friends,” Chris said. “And I’m going to make sure that you pay for what you’ve done.”
“That’s bold talk for someone in your position,” Blanksy said. “Look at you, maintaining your game face even when it’s clear that it’s all over.”
“So what do you get out of this attack?” Zoey asked. “It has to be about money. Despite all the talk, it was always that way with you.”
Blanksy paused, deciding whether or not to share. “Sure, I’m going to make money from this. But there’s also a larger principle at work. Highly targeted, destructive viruses are now in the hands of a few of the more technologically sophisticated nations. The Stuxnet and Flame viruses are proof of that. We’re going to level that playing field. My crew has simply adapted one of those viruses and repurposed it. The result is something new in the world—a weapon of mass destruction that can be launched anonymously. Tonight’s attack is the unveiling of a new product, and it’s going to be like the iPad of terrorism—every radical fringe group is going to wake up tomorrow and want one.”
“If they pay your price,” Chris said.
“Like the iPad, prices will come down over time, but for now you’re going to have to pay a premium to be the first kid on your block. The bidding opens next week. I’ve already met with one of the interested parties earlier this evening. When they saw what the virus could do, they wanted to make a payment of earnest money to go to the front of the line.” Blanksy nodded at the gym bag at his feet.
“So how much money is in the bag?”
“Five hundred thousand. Just a down payment. The final bid is going to be much higher. And then there are the add-on services.”
“You need to find the vulnerabilities for them,” Zoey said.
“Exactly,” Blanksy said. “As sophisticated as the virus is, you can’t just flip a switch and launch an attack. You need to set
the table, find the vulnerabilities in the target systems that it will exploit, make tweaks in the programming to ensure maximum impact.”
“Black hat IT consulting,” Chris said. “I suppose you’d consider it naïve to worry about the innocent people who could be harmed?”
“I sort of take the opposite view,” Blanksy said.
Chris smiled grimly. “What a surprise.”
“I think these new weapons are … democratic. Force is still pretty much the only way to make your voice heard in this world. The biggest, richest nations, like the US and China, have the greatest force and are able to impose their will upon everyone else. How does a smaller nation or political cause have that big a voice? One way is by developing a nuclear weapons capability, but that’s labor-intensive, expensive, and difficult to accomplish in secret. These superviruses present a much lower barrier to entry.”
“And that barrier to entry is you,” Chris said.
“For now, yes,” Blanksy said. “You pay my price and you get that strike capability. I have no illusions that I will have this market cornered forever, but I do now, and I think I should be able to do very well for myself.”
“Terrorism is not a first amendment issue,” Chris said. “The people who will want to buy this from you are going to be irresponsible killers, not idealists.”
“Who am I to make those moral distinctions?” Blanksy said.
“Exactly,” Zoey said.
“I think we’d better wrap this up now,” Blanksy said, raising his gun and pointing it at Chris. “Do they know that I’m behind the attack?” he asked.
“Who’s they?” Chris responded.
Blanksy fired a shot into the chair cushion that Chris was sitting on. “I think I’ve been very patient so far. But please.”
“They have the name Blanksy,” Chris said. “And they have the name that you gave me before—Jay Hartigan. But that’s not really you, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Then who are you?”
“I think what you really mean is ‘Why you?’”
Chris nodded.
“I guess I should tell you now,” Blanksy said. “This is all going to be over soon and if I’m the only one who knows, it won’t be very satisfying for either of us, now will it?”
CHAPTER 48
Michael Hazlitt and Sam Falacci entered Times Square on foot after their taxi was stranded in a massive traffic jam on Park Avenue. Hazlitt observed that the city sounded different that night. The white noise of cars hissing by in the streets was noticeable in its absence. Sirens wailed urgently from all corners of the city in response to fires and assorted mayhem. This is what blacked-out London must have been like during the Blitz after the bombs had fallen.
Hazlitt’s phone buzzed and a text message appeared: “We’re outside the W right now watching for Blanksy. Can you get here?”
Hazlitt typed out a response. “We’ll be there in ten minutes. DON’T DO ANYTHING.” There was no reply text, and Hazlitt wondered whether the message had been received. During a major power outage like this one, cell towers usually have enough backup battery power to last for a few hours. But it was also possible that the Lurker virus had directly attacked cell towers, taking them completely out of service.
“You still think they’re responsible for the attack?” Falacci asked.
“Not my call,” Hazlitt replied.
“Let’s just hope that we aren’t left with the pointy end of the stick when the dust settles,” Falacci said.
Hazlitt chose not to comment on the mixed metaphors. “How do you figure that?”
“Well, it was our job to catch Enigma—or Blanksy—or whatever the hell you want to call him,” Falacci said. “The heads of the Bureau, DOD, and DHS will all be looking for a scapegoat. You know that someone’s going to take the fall for this, and I’ll bet there are bosses at the Bureau who are already liking us for that role.”
“Not if we catch him tonight.”
A helicopter passed so low overhead that he felt the breeze from its rotors. Probably headed to the Tudor City fire.
Hazlitt had been convinced for some time that Bruen had nothing to do with the cyberattack, but he couldn’t prove it, and he certainly wasn’t about to stake his career on a hunch. The physical evidence linking Bruen to the attack remained overwhelming. Bruen’s assistance in the hunt for Blanksy didn’t fit the narrative, but that might be dismissed as evidence of a conflicted mind rather than an innocent man.
Dodging among stalled cars, they searched for Bruen and Doucet in Times Square, but they were not to be found. Either they had moved on or, more likely, they were inside. Hazlitt hoped they weren’t trying to capture Blanksy on their own, which was a sure way to get themselves killed and send Blanksy running.
Moving single file with guns drawn, Hazlitt in the lead, they approached the entrance to the restaurant, sticking close to the wall. He glanced quickly inside. Falacci raised his eyebrows in query.
“Too dark to see anything,” Hazlitt said.
“Are we going in?”
Hazlitt tested the door to the restaurant, which was unlocked. “Yeah.”
Hazlitt stepped into the entryway and surveyed the room, but the place was empty.
Falacci joined him in front of the reservation desk and took a handful of mints from a tray. “What now?”
“There are hundreds of rooms and more than fifty stories. It would take forever to search this place. Maybe the guest register will tell us something.”
Most of the hotel staff were gone but a single desk clerk remained, escorting a family out of the hotel to one of the designated shelters with a backup generator. The clerk, a rail-thin kid with artfully disheveled hair, made some noises about protecting privacy but showed the agents a hard-copy printout of the guest list after they flashed their badges. Hazlitt and Falacci split the list in half and scanned the guest logs.
After about five minutes of poring over the records, Hazlitt said, “I think I’ve got it. Look who’s registered to Room 216—A. Turing, like the British mathematician and cryptographer Alan Turing. As in Bletchley Park. As in the Enigma machine.”
“That seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?” Falacci said. “He must think we’re idiots.”
“Maybe, or maybe he’s expecting us.”
At that moment, they heard a single gunshot from somewhere in the building.
“Hard to tell, but that didn’t sound too far away,” Hazlitt said.
Hazlitt led the way to the stairwell and they climbed the first flight. It was pitch-black on the stairs and he wished that they’d brought a flashlight.
There was a brief hiss and a flicker, followed by the pungent smell of sulfur. Hazlitt turned around to see Falacci lighting a couple of matches from a matchbook bearing the restaurant’s name and a stylized blue fish logo.
Falacci reached in his pocket and produced a handful of matchbooks. “Here, help yourself,” he said. “I just wish I had the cigarettes to go with them.”
They pushed through the security door and emerged on the second floor. By the light of a few more matches, they saw that the long corridor was empty. Falacci’s matchbook burned down until he threw it to the floor with a soft curse. When they were returned to darkness, Hazlitt saw a glimmer ahead in the hallway from under the door of a room. There was definitely a light on inside.
Hazlitt tapped his partner on the shoulder and motioned for silence, indicating the light. Falacci nodded. They advanced quietly down the carpeted hallway until they were at the door of the room that was casting the pale glow.
Room 216.
EPISODE 8
CHAPTER 49
“So this is personal, isn’t it?” Chris asked, squinting into the flashlight beam. He and Zoey were sitting in Room 217 in a pair of blue velour chairs. Blanksy stood in the middle of the room a few feet away with the automatic pistol trained on them.
“Of course it is,” Blanksy said. “If it wasn’t personal, I would have just killed
you a long time ago.”
“So are you going to tell him, or is this part of the torture?” Zoey asked.
Chris knew he would have to make a lunge for the gun at some point. But the opportunity wasn’t presenting itself and, if he timed it wrong, they would be dead before he could get to his feet.
Blanksy paused and rubbed his neatly groomed beard. He’d clearly waited a long time to have this conversation, but he didn’t seem satisfied with how it was going. Revenge is a dish that never tastes quite as good you thought when you ordered it, no matter how it’s served. Undeterred, Blanksy forged ahead.
“More than twenty years have passed, and I know I look different now, but I somehow thought you would know me on sight.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Twenty years. Chris must have known Blanksy when he was still just a kid.
On some level, Chris knew instantly what was coming next, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, formulate the thought. He felt like a swimmer who had a premonition of the shark rising beneath his dog-paddling feet.
“Maybe this will help,” Blanksy said, opening up his wallet and removing a tattered square of lined notebook paper. Blanksy unfolded the document, which was coming apart at each fold, and handed it to Chris. Chris accepted the thing, which was as fragile as a paper doll.
When Chris recognized the careful, childish cursive writing of his sixteen-year-old self, still tracking the curlicues and whorls of school handwriting exercises, he knew without a doubt who was standing before him. He had existed for so long in Chris’s memory that he had almost forgotten that he was an actual person.
“Dylan,” Chris said.
Chris looked at Blanksy/Dylan with new eyes, struggling to reconcile the slightly bug-eyed, hyperactive fourteen-year-old that he had played Risk and Tetris with, and the twisted middle-aged man that stood before him.
“You remember that letter, don’t you?”
“Sure I do—Dylan.”
Chris had written the letter to Dylan after he had already moved to Sacramento, pouring out his guilt over the fact that Josh Woodrell was in a juvenile detention facility and they were both free to carry on with their lives. When he was an emotional sixteen-year-old, Chris had still been capable of sharing all his darkest, most personal thoughts with another person. Chris’s parents, and his lawyer, would never have allowed him to write such an incriminating letter, but they didn’t know it existed. When Dylan didn’t respond, Chris wondered if the letter had even reached its destination.
