Back outside it was already dark. In the distance he heard thunder. Omar approached. “The Americans. They are trying to hit the last camp at which we stayed.”
“Did they succeed?”
“We will know tomorrow. We leave at dawn. How was your meeting?”
Fajer, now once again Yousef, clutched the names and e-mail addresses he’d been given in his hand. He needed to find a safe place for them. “Good, Allah be praised. I am truly ready now for jihad.”
Away from the fire, Fajer raised his eyes to the stars overhead. How long would it take to establish the caliphate? A decade? Five decades?
Fajer did not know but believed that he had this day taken an enormous first step to achieve it. The time of the West was coming to an end, and with it a Muslim rebirth such as had not been seen since the days of the Prophet.
The very thought brought tears to his eyes.
36
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
US-CERT SECURITY OPERATIONS
MONDAY, AUGUST 28
10:11 A.M.
Daryl’s team-leader meeting was well under way. Her coffee was cold and her bear claw lay all but untouched in its napkin. Almost nothing she’d heard from the start sat right with her.
“You’re telling me the scope of this thing is growing daily?” she said to Michelle.
“Hourly, boss.” Michelle Gritter’s team was working on determining the extent of the virus. “And the more we learn about Superphreak, the more variants we locate, the more we understand how much we underestimated it. It’s been out there for months.”
“Tom,” Daryl said, turning to look at the man whose team was charged with developing a solution, “what have you come up with? No more depressing news,” she said, holding up a warning hand. “I need some answers.”
“The closest thing to good news I’ve got is that nearly all the Superphreak variants are tied to September eleventh as the trigger,” Tom said, sounding anxious. “The ones that aren’t, at least so far, are event triggered, but not until after September eleventh.”
“So we’re relatively secure for two more weeks?”
Tom hesitated. “Except for computers with the wrong date in the internal clock like you had at that law firm, the New York hospitals, and the Ford plant. I read that the Skunk River Nuclear plant emergency shutdown was caused by a computer glitch. A blogger who says he’s an employee there claims it was caused by a date-related virus.”
Tom glanced at his notes, then cleared his throat before continuing, “There’s some indication that the virus itself is causing these date changes. A couple of the samples we’ve obtained trip over their own cloaking mechanisms and alter the system’s clock.
“And, of course, we’re not secure from those viruses triggered by non-date-related events. Our concern is that we’re missing something. We’re depending on the date and the cyber handle of Superphreak to identify these viruses. We have no way of knowing if these are just a part of an overall effort. We’re assuming they identify everything this group is doing, but we don’t know that. We could very well be concentrating on something that turns out to be the tip of an enormous iceberg.”
Daryl’s mind raced. “Oscar, does CSCIA think this is a cyber-attack being launched by a group?”
Oscar Lee, responsible for coordinating CISU/DHS’s effort with the various cyber-security vendors, was usually great at his job, but like the other team leaders, this time he was coming up short. “Boss, I can’t really say they’re on board with this thing. It’s like I told you, Superphreak’s not showing up in their honeypots. They think we’re overreacting. Besides, they’re dealing with fresh waves of variants of old viruses. It’s overwhelming them. They’ve got a nasty virus that’s blocking automatic update systems in computers, and they’re giving it priority.”
Daryl realized she’d heard this before but it hadn’t really registered. “You’re saying this virus is avoiding honeypots?”
“It looks that way.”
Daryl gritted her teeth. “Okay. I’ll call the director again and see if I can’t get DHS more active. At our last meeting, Oscar, I had you put people on chat rooms. Anything there?”
“Some, not enough. I was planning to e-mail you a status report after lunch.”
“I’ll look for it.”
Tom cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Daryl said impatiently.
“Boss, I think I have an explanation for Oscar’s problem with the vendors’ honeypots.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve taken several of the Superphreak viruses apart. Pretty crude in some places, really slick in others. Anyway, they’re set up to avoid the IPs of the security vendors, including IPs of many of their stealth honeypots.”
The table sat in stunned silence for a long moment.
Daryl leaned forward. “You’re telling me this virus actively avoids the honeypots?”
“It sure does. Like I said, slick.”
A sound like a moan came from around the table. It was going to be hell getting anyone really interested in this. Daryl closed her eyes for a long moment. This is so very, very bad, she thought.
37
PARIS, FRANCE
5ÈME ARRONDISSEMENT
GRAPHISME COURAGEUX
TUESDAY, AUGUST 29
4:48 P.M.
European headquarters for the Franco-Arabe Chimique Compagnie occupied the upper floors of an enormous glass tower in La Défense, a contemporary business district on the outskirts of Paris composed of a cluster of towers more than thirty stories high. Considered ultramodern architectural gems by many and eyesores by others, they could be seen from central Paris on clear days. Sculptures and fountains abounded in the plazas, and entryways were decorated in colorful mosaics. There, in a corner office with a southern exposure, Labib al Dawar spent most of each workday.
But increasingly he left early and drove to the discreet offices of Graphisme Courageux across town. With just eight employees, it was located in a converted residence that legend said had been built for the mistress of King Louis XVI’s finance minister. Labib believed he could not have found a better location for this particular office, situated three short blocks from the busy rue Mouffetard. His young employees mixed freely with the many students of the Latin Quarter, and by design nothing about the company drew attention. Six of the employees actually performed graphics work. Only Labib and Michel Dufour, from their single office facing the alley and separated from the front staff by a locked door, were engaged in the work of Allah.
Grandson of a pied-noir and an Algerian woman, Dufour had thrown himself into the jihad with total commitment. His assignment had been to recruit and coordinate the various worldwide hacker networks they were employing. It was important that the viruses they distributed not be traced to this office, or to Paris for that matter. Dufour pulled together the three components for each virus package they unleashed. These he first placed into Labib’s computer, for the Arab had given himself the honor of actually assembling each virus before passing them back to Dufour for distribution. Never before in his life had Labib found such satisfaction in his work.
When he was not in contact with his hundred-odd hackers, Dufour was transferring payments and monitoring various Web sites and chat rooms for signs the cyber jihad had been detected. It was he who’d spotted the posting by Dragon Lady searching for Superphreak.
“Bonjour,” Dufour said, as Labib entered the office from the rear. So separated were the two functions of the office that Labib was certain the other employees had never seen him. As an increased security measure, his strict rule was that he and Dufour speak only French. Besides, the man’s Arabic was so heavily accented Labib could hardly understand him.
“How many today?” Labib asked, as he sat at his workstation.
“You have two new noirs.” They never used hacker language in the office, even though Labib was certain they could not be overheard. Noir, or “black,” meant a rootkit. Rouge, or “red,” was t
he trigger, while blanc, “white,” stood for the portion that wreaked the destruction. A boîtier, or “package,” referred to the entire device, as Labib had come to consider the malware he had had Dufour unleash.
“Excellent.” The Russian did superior work. Not like a lot of the crap the others often tried to pawn off on them.
“And there are fifteen new rouges that look okay. You should see the ones I refused.”
When his brother Fajer had expressed displeasure with the Russian, Labib had been both defensive and guilty. He knew that Dufour had made it clear to the man that they only wanted clean code, and he’d not delivered it. But Labib had been careless as well and not checked the product as carefully as he should have, Dufour only stumbling across Superphreak in a code the previous week. Until then he’d thought the code was free of such clues.
At the time it had seemed a crushing reversal, but Dufour had persuaded him it likely meant nothing. “It will probably not be detected, and if it is, how will it get to anyone? Certainly not in time to stop le déluge,” as he called the looming attack.
Labib had agreed, and as they’d employed an ever growing number of crackers from whom they acquired bits of malware, other security problems had come up, which lessened the impact of this first one. Still, he’d instructed that the Russian not provide any code other than his noirs. In fact, Labib regretted that they had ever released any virus without the cloaking rootkits, but he’d not known they existed until Vladimir had asked if they were interested.
The problem only emphasized their dependence and vulnerability. For their long-term goals they must find a way to do all of this alone. Only then would they be truly secure.
For the next three hours Labib cobbled together a dozen boîtiers using the two new noirs while mixing in the fresh triggers and destruction codes they’d received. He’d long since given up making certain every virus they released did what it was intended to do. Dufour had persuaded him that certain wreckage would come from the sheer numbers of the viruses.
Labib also cursed the amount of time this had all taken. He and his brother had intended to unleash the cyber-attack in conjunction with a physical attack by Al Qaeda. On three separate occasions Fajer had sought to make contact with bin Laden, but to no avail. When he’d finally succeeded in meeting with him in his own personal hajj, he’d come away with the names and means of contact for a wide range of operatives. But as they’d sought to coordinate with those in the highest levels of Al Qaeda’s operations, one by one the men had been killed by the Americans. Finally, with great reluctance, Fajer had instructed Labib to go ahead.
“If we wait any longer, the Americans will have taken over both Iran and Syria. We cannot delay. Allah is with us,” he’d said with passion.
And so Labib had placed into motion his carefully laid plans. As he and Dufour had begun to implement them, he’d been forced to reconsider his objectives. But he remained satisfied that he could wreak havoc on America in his own way. He would cost them billions, destroy systems it would take years to reconstruct, shake faith in the nation, cause disarray in its military, and force a reexamination of its activism in the Middle East. The cyber-attack would be no less devastating to Europe.
Labib attached a blanc to a rootkit with satisfaction. He was certain that within weeks the United States would be withdrawing from Afghanistan and would abandon its plans for Iran and Syria.
“Try this one,” Dufour said, handing Labib a disk. “The hacker claims it will destroy Nasdaq’s records.” Then he reached back to his desk. “And here’s the information your brother wanted.”
“What information?”
“On someone with the handle Dragon Lady.”
38
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
MIDTOWN
HEMINGWAY HOTEL
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 30
6:57 P.M.
Sue Tabor gave a deep, throaty laugh as she sat up and reached for his groin.
“Not again,” Joshua Greene moaned. “I’m only flesh and blood.”
“Hush,” Sue said. “I’ve got some ancient Chinese sex techniques I want to show you.”
Greene laughed. “You’re about as Chinese as I am English.”
“Hey! You don’t know. Maybe Mom passed along a few things I’ve been holding back.”
“Right. Let go of that. I mean it. I want to talk.”
“That’s not what you wanted a few minutes ago.”
“I need to recharge. For God’s sake, Sue, I’m not some young stud. Let it alone. Tell me what’s going on with my records.”
“Spoilsport.” Sue sat back onto the pillows, her breasts rising like tiny mounds. “If we’re going to talk, look up here and not at my tits.” She reached onto the nightstand and lit a cigarette.
“Right.” Greene pulled the sheet up to cover his growing stomach. He was always self-conscious in the nude, but especially so with Sue, whose body he considered to be perfect.
“It’s been three weeks. We’ve lost a third of our accounts. I’m getting resignations. We’ll be closing our doors at this rate. Can you give me any hope?”
She looked at him, then solemnly announced, “I’m pretty sure I can get you up again.”
Greene laughed. “Not that, though I’d be grateful. But we’re screwed if you or this Aiken guy don’t come up with something very soon.”
“Yeah. I know.” She sat back and turned serious. “I’ve tried three boots so far and all were failures. We were struck by viruses with very sophisticated cloaking devices, making them very difficult to remove. The good news is we still have the backups.”
“It may be too late,” Greene said, “given the speed with which the firm is falling apart.”
“Josh, I’m really sorry.” Sue leaned closer and placed her hand on his chest. “I can’t help but blame myself. You’ve been great not to make my life miserable over this.”
Greene shrugged. “Aiken says it wasn’t your fault. No security system could have stopped the virus. I’ve not been able to sell that to the partners, but I believe it.” He seemed to hesitate.
“There’s something else?” Sue asked. She’d always been impressed with Greene’s ability to be involved with her while keeping the business aspect of their relationship clear. In her experience that was quite rare.
“It’s not important. Really.” Greene smiled weakly, clearly wanting to avoid saying more.
“What’s not important?”
Greene sighed. “I’ve been ordered to fire you.”
Sue looked into his eyes for a moment. “I see. You thought you’d get your blow job first, then tell me? You bastard!” Flipping over, she stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, then flung the sheet off her.
“No, no, it’s not like that. Well, maybe a little, I guess. It’s just … the partners insist I do something. I told them it won’t improve a thing to get rid of you, but they don’t see it that way.”
“So I’m out of a job?” she said, standing beside the bed with her hands braced on her hips.
“I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“Oh, I get it. First I fix the problem, then you can me! Is that the plan?” She sat on the edge of the bed.
“Yeah, I’d say that’s about it.” He reached for a breast. She bumped his hand away with her arm. “What difference does it make? I don’t have to do it now, and anyway, it doesn’t look like any of us are going to have a job before long.”
Sue breathed out. “I guess not.” She’d seen this coming, now that she thought about it. What else could the firm do? With the failed third attempt to reboot, she’d understood her job was on a short leash.
“And I’ll let you resign, give you a good reference. You can trust me.”
Sue lay back across the bed. “You know what I think?”
“No.”
“No more hotel rooms. I like it better in the office.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“Then how about the garage? On the hood of you
r BMW?”
“No, no, no. I told you, I’ve rented this room for the entire month.”
“Yeah,” she said in mock seriousness, “who’s the boss here?”
“You are.”
“Then get down, boy. My turn. And get your car washed for next time.”
39
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
DMITROSVSKY ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 30
7:02 P.M.
Ivana Koskov removed the shchi from the table, then set in place the kuyrdak her mother had brought by her office late that afternoon. She emptied the bottle of water into Vladimir’s glass, then opened a fresh one before joining him, their heads nearly touching as they ate the rabbit stew. The food brought back pleasant childhood memories, and she wondered again if she shouldn’t make more of an effort to learn to cook her mother’s dishes.
As he ate, Vladimir smoked a cigarette, taking puffs between bites. A smoker herself, Ivana thought nothing of it. On the wall near his computers was a poster of Rick James with the bulbous Afro and bulging biceps. In the background their stereo had started a random selection of James’s songs, including his hit “Super Freak.”
Ivana had long ago grown tired of Rick James, and especially of “Super Freak.” For Vladimir it was either feast or famine. He’d go months without his music, then in a frenzy it would be all she’d hear for days. He usually used his headset so it wasn’t so bad. Still, she wished his taste would move on.
When they were finished, she cleared the table, wiped it clean, then set out two saucers and cups for coffee. “Vodka?” she asked. Vladimir merely nodded, then wheeled his chair backward and spun it into the bathroom to empty the bladder sack that was tied to the side of his leg.
“I think we’ll have that new apartment in a few months,” Ivana said. “I talked to the manager today and he all but promised.”
Vladimir grunted. She heard the water run as he washed his hands. Thank God he was a clean man. Living in clutter was bad enough; if it had been dirty as well …
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