by Larry Bond
“Not a chance. That has to be a government’s money,” Rossini said flatly. “Whichever it is, I’d say your theory is looking better and better. This campaign is being orchestrated from overseas.”
Kettler stared at both of them. “Let me get this straight. You guys think these terrorists are working for some foreign government?”
They nodded slowly.
“Wow.” Kettler shook his head. “Far freaking out. This’ll sure rock some boats on the Net.” He pawed through the diskettes on his desk and came up with a stack of four. “See these? That’s almost four megs of traffic on the terror wave alone. Practically everybody with a modem and two brain cells to knock together has his or her own theory about what’s going on.”
The computer expert slipped his diskettes back into place and shrugged. “Between this terrorism shit and the code controversy, I’ve been on the Net almost constantly.”
“Code controversy?” Thorn asked.
Rossini nodded. “Some government agencies wanted to restrict commercially available E-mail encryption programs to ones the government could break …”
“Hell, no, Maestro. Not that old gripe. That’s yesterday’s news,” Kettler interrupted. “This is a privacy issue deal. It broke out a couple of months ago when some guy started bitching about unbreakable, coded E-mail he’d spotted on CompuNet, one of the worldwide computer bulletin boards. Said he’d been intercepting a ton of scrambled posts from somewhere in England to a bunch of users scattered across the country—all using an encryption program he’d never seen before. Boy, did that set off fireworks!”
The computer expert smiled at the memory. “Geez, you should have read all the screaming about the sanctity of private electronic mail, and the First Amendment, and all the usual shit …”
“Hold it,” Thorn broke in, his mind racing in high gear. Two or three months ago? The timing could be coincidence, but he’d been wondering how the terrorists coordinated their attacks. Were they using computer hookups to communicate? He looked down at the younger man. “Are you saying someone has spotted coded messages coming from a foreign source to people here in the U.S.?”
“Yeah,” Kettler answered with a nonchalant shrug, “and as far as I’m concerned, they can put them in left-handed Swahili. I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m just getting a kick seeing how loud all the Net prudes squawk about it.”
Thorn took a step closer and spoke slowly, intensely. “You’re missing the point. We’ve got terrorist attacks going on right and left, and now you’re telling me someone’s been intercepting coded messages?”
Kettler nodded, a little taken aback, but starting to understand. “Yeah. But that’s not necessarily unusual. A lot of E-mail these days is PEM, privacy-enhanced E-mail. It’s just that these messages are using a real high level encryption program nobody’s ever heard of.” He shook his head. “Like I said, a bunch of us have been arguing the issue on some of the Net forums. It’s not general knowledge. Cripes, if CompuNet or any of the other public bulletin boards knew that someone was routinely breaking into their private message files, they’d have a conniption fit.”
Thorn cut him off sharply. “I don’t give a goddamn about the legalities, Mr. Kettler.” He leaned forward, towering over the openmouthed computer expert. “Do you know the person who’s been making those interceptions?”
“Only by his handle. He calls himself ‘Freebooter,’” Kettler replied hesitantly. “He’s a real top-gun hacker. He’s a little strange.”
Thorn didn’t say anything, though his mind reeled slightly at the thought that the computer expert could find anyone else odd.
Rossini joined in. “Can we contact this guy, Derek?”
“I can dial him up, I guess. I know where he usually hangs out in cyberspace.” Kettler absentmindedly scratched his beard. “Freebooter won’t talk to you directly, though, Maestro. You work for the Man.” He didn’t even mention Thorn.
“Whatever. Just do it.” Rossini almost pushed Kettler into his chair. “Do you think he’ll be there?”
Kettler nodded, typing fast again. “Freebooter’s always there. He practically lives on the Net.”
The strange lines of machine code vanished as he shunted back to the CPU he had dedicated solely to monitoring the computer bulletin boards.
A speaker suddenly spat out a dial tone, followed by the sound of a number being punched in at high speed. The screen flickered and then blinked into another image. This one showed a rippling black flag emblazoned with a white skull and crossbones. Bold text letters spelled out: WELCOME TO THE PIRATES’ COVE.
Kettler looked apologetic. “It’s a hacker’s BBS. I like to keep my ear to the ground here … you know, just kind of see what’s new.” He bent over the keyboard again, fingers flashing through long-practiced combinations as he logged on and called up a list of those currently on-line. He leaned closer, scrolling through the names and then nodded sharply. “There he is!”
Thorn focused on the list and saw it. A line read: FREEBOOTER, IN THE TAVERN.
The computer expert punched a few more keys and leaned back. “Okay, he’s chatting with someone else right now, but I just paged him.”
“Good,” Thorn said simply. “Now, you know what we want?”
Kettler nodded rapidly. “Yeah. A data dump of every encrypted message he’s collected, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay,” Kettler said. “Listen, lemme work on him for a while. This could be kinda tricky. Freebooter’s a touchy bastard. If we screw this up or he gets spooked, he’ll drop off the Net, change his handle, and then we’ll never find him.”
Thorn frowned. Despite Kettler’s demonstrated computer expertise, he was reluctant to trust something so important to someone so flaky. Still, he had to admit the bearded whiz kid knew a hell of a lot more about the strange subculture they were fishing in than he did. He nodded. “All right, Mr. Kettler. We’ll do it your way. You reel him in.”
Kettler hesitated. “There’s just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“This guy won’t do shit for free, Colonel Thorn. He lives on secret knowledge. It turns him on. Makes him feel good. Know what I mean?”
Thorn nodded. He’d seen others in the intelligence game with the same compulsion.
“So we’ve got to offer him something,” Kettler continued. “Trade stuff he’d be interested in for those message files.”
Thorn nodded again. He thought fast. “Does Freebooter usually blab his secrets? Or try to sell them?”
“No.” Kettler shook his head. “At least, I don’t think so. I think he only started posting stuff about the codes because he got so frustrated that he couldn’t crack them. He even dropped out of the Net debate once he realized no one there had the kind of decryption software he needed.”
“Fine. Then you offer him what we just learned about the Midwest Telephone virus. The Bulgarian connection. The fact that we now suspect the terrorist campaign is under foreign control. The whole bit. You emphasize that it’s knowledge that only a very few people in the U.S. government possess. And you promise a first look at whatever our code-breakers come up with if they can crack those messages. Think that’ll make him bite?”
Thorn carefully avoided looking at Rossini as he spoke. What he was proposing was a massive breach of security. But damn it, they needed those message files. Trying to track them down on their own would take too much time.
Kettler nodded slowly, thinking it through. “Yeah. That might do it. Freebooter knows I’ve got some Pentagon connections.”
He sat upright as text began appearing on his display. “Here we go. He’s answering my page.” His hands came down again over the keyboard.
Thorn felt Rossini’s touch on his arm and stepped back. Nothing more would be served by crowding Kettler now. Strange as it might seem, he would have to rely on the oddball computer expert who was busy wheeling and dealing over the ether to acquire illegally obtained information from an electronic Peeping T
om. It was an uncomfortable, if unavoidable, position.
The time dragged by, punctuated only by a steady clicking as Kettler typed in offers and responded to counteroffers.
Thorn paced impatiently, matched almost step for step by Rossini. His mind whirled with the information that might be contained in those encrypted messages. Proof that a foreign government was behind this wave of terror. The hiding places and plans of the separate terrorist cells. A target.
That was what he wanted. What the whole country needed. Something or someone to focus their anger on, to strike back at—to destroy. Knowing their enemy would change everything. Maybe.
“Got it!”
Thorn’s head snapped up at Kettler’s triumphant cry. He crossed to the computer expert’s side in two long strides. “Where?”
“There.” Kettler pointed to the blinking red light on one of his machines indicating a hard drive in operation. “I’m downloading Freebooter’s files now. Shouldn’t take more than another minute.”
This time Thorn stood impatiently by, waiting for Kettler to pull up a directory of the files he’d just received. There were more than a hundred of them, some dating back to early October when the mysterious Freebooter had first stumbled across them. Others were more recent.
“Pull that one up,” he ordered, pointing almost at random.
“Right.” Kettler complied swiftly, his own curiosity now clearly engaged.
All three men stared at the message that popped onto the display.
From: [email protected] SAT NOV 22 00:15:35 GMT
Received: from sub-ingul.xby by relay7(comnet.com) with SMPT
(2.34.281.278/M8) id AA 314935146; NOV 22 00:15:35 GMT
Text follows:
The main body of the message was an indecipherable hash of numbers, letters, and characters.
“Go to another,” Thorn commanded. He barely noticed Rossini pulling in chairs so that they could all sit grouped around the monitor as Kettler began dancing through the encrypted messages—first at random and then in chronological order.
Even a cursory check of the time/date stamp each message contained began to reveal a distinct pattern. Communications from a single, unidentified, foreign source, “Magi,” were being sent to at least ten separate users in the United States. And those users communicated only with Magi—never with each other. More damning still, there appeared to be a rough correlation between the messages from Magi, the deadliest terrorist attacks, and the messages back to Magi.
Thorn felt his pulse starting to accelerate. To his trained eye, the sequence was a familiar one: operations orders and postaction damage assessment reports. He felt the strange elation of seeing a long-sought enemy moving into his sights. He was willing to stake his career on the belief that he and Rossini had found the communications network the terrorists were using to conduct their campaign.
CHAPTER 20
TRACKING
DECEMBER 2
Andrews Air Force Base, near Washington D.C.
With its navigation lights blinking steadily, an Air Force C-20 Gulfstream slid down out of the night sky onto a floodlit runway. Slowing, the aircraft rolled past the control tower and darkened hangar buildings and stopped near a group of vehicles at the far end of the field.
Without ceremony, Major General Sam Farrell emerged from the transport plane, followed by several members of his staff.
Colonel Peter Thorn stepped forward to meet him at the foot of the stairs and saluted.
The head of the JSOC snapped a return salute and shook hands with him. “How’s it going, Pete?”
“Better, sir.”
Farrell nodded. “You have those encrypted messages ready to go?”
“Yes, sir.” Thorn handed him a computer diskette. “They’re all on that.”
The general handed the disk off to a young captain. “On your way, John. Download ’em to Fort Meade on a secure line. You know the number.”
“Sir.” The captain headed toward one of the waiting cars.
Farrell turned back to Thorn. “After I got your fax, I got on the horn with the NSA’s deputy director of operations. His people are eager to see if they can crack these mystery messages of yours.”
Thorn nodded his understanding. The National Security Agency was responsible for cryptanalysis and code-breaking. Access to its trained experts and supercomputers was essential. From what Kettler had said, only the NSA had a chance at turning the gobbledygook on that diskette into readable text. If it contained anything worth reading, that is.
“This could still be just a blind alley, sir,” he warned quietly.
Farrell shook his head. “I doubt it.” The taller man put a hand on Thorn’s shoulder. “You’re one of my best officers, Pete. I trust your instincts and judgment. That’s why I’m here instead of still down at Pope. If you’re right, this damned situation could start breaking open fast. And I want to be in a position where I can talk some sense into the Chiefs if the balloon goes up.”
Paced by Thorn and his staff, the general strode toward the vehicles waiting to take him to the Pentagon. “You ready to take this discovery of yours to the FBI task force?”
“Yes, sir. I have an appointment with Mike Flynn early tomorrow.”
“Good.” Farrell lowered his voice. “Be persuasive, Pete. The Bureau’s bound to be pissed-off if they think we’re muscling in on their turf. Make it clear that we know this investigation is still in their bailiwick.”
“Understood, sir,” Thorn said, hoping he could pull that off. Diplomacy had never been his strong suit. “I’ll do my level best.”
Tehran
(D MINUS 13)
General Amir Taleh listened with satisfaction to the brief assembled by his staff. Despite a natural caution that had served him so well for so long, he had to admit to himself that his intricately designed plan was working perfectly—holding precisely to its preset schedule. The short video montage his officers had assembled from American news broadcasts summed up the situation in a few dramatic pictures.
Shots of burning buildings, troops moving in armored vehicles down city streets, and rows of bodies in makeshift morgues were telling evidence of his special operatives’ efficiency. In effect, the pictures of soldiers moving through civilian neighborhoods told the whole story. America’s police were no longer able to keep order without help from their National Guard. Soon, he thought coldly, even they would not be enough.
His gaze turned from the television screen to the small staff grouped in front of his desk. These men were his closest intimates—the only men in Iran he trusted with full knowledge of his plans.
“Are you satisfied that we are ready to begin Phase IV of SCIMITAR?” Taleh asked quietly.
His question was largely a formality. The tight movement schedules needed to bring his forces into place at the proper moment required an intricate juggling of Iran’s transportation resources—its trucks, trains, and ships. Unnecessary delay at this point might throw the whole operation out of kilter. Nonetheless, nothing could begin without Taleh’s express authorization. He had taken great pains to ensure that all the strands of military power ran through his hands and his hands alone.
His senior operations officer, an elderly, precise man, nodded. “We are ready. Our meteorological reports also indicate a patch of bad weather coming in, which we may be able to use to our advantage.”
“Excellent,” Taleh replied. Their troop movements had all been timed to avoid American reconnaissance satellites as much as possible, but cloud cover would simplify matters. Truly, God was showing his favor to the Faithful.
His eyes sought out Farhad Kazemi in the back row and moved on. He knew that the young captain was increasingly worried about his personal security, but he was sure the internal opposition to his policies would fade once the full magnitude of his plan became clear to all. Victory always had a thousand fathers.
He made his decision.
“We are very close, brothers,” Taleh said firmly. “In a ve
ry short time the West will understand just how badly they have misjudged us.”
DECEMBER 3
Washington, D.C.
Gray, gloomy light seeped in through the windows in Special Agent Mike Flynn’s office. It was just after dawn.
The FBI agent stood silently, watching Thorn spread printouts of the still-encrypted messages across a long conference table filling one corner of the room. Without offering any comments of his own, he listened intently as the soldier described the suspicious pattern he discerned in the E-mail transmitted between London and users in the United States. Short messages from this mysterious “Magi” to a given user were usually followed within a day or two by a new terrorist outrage. And in every case, the same user sent a much longer post to Magi within twenty-four to thirty-six hours after each attack. To Thorn, the messages all slotted neatly into an identifiable chain of orders and after-action reports.
“I believe what we’re looking at are communications between a higher headquarters and a group of operational terrorist cells. I think that’s how they’ve been coordinating this campaign right under our noses. Basically, these bastards have been using our own high-technology and computer networks to run rings around us,” Thorn finished quietly.
Flynn stayed silent for several moments more. Finally, he looked up. “Let me get this straight, Colonel. The NSA still can’t make heads or tails out of this stuff?”
“No, sir,” Thorn admitted. “But they’ve only had the material for about eight hours. I understand their experts believe the program used to encrypt these messages is extraordinarily sophisticated—far beyond anything available commercially. Like the Midwest Telephone virus, it appears to be purpose-built. That’s another reason I believe these intercepted communications are significant.”
“Maybe.” Flynn sounded dubious. “But for the moment, Colonel, your theory of a grand terrorist conspiracy hatched overseas basically rests on an operational pattern you claim to see in messages none of us can read.”
