Cyber Warfare

by J. S. Chapman

  “Outside HID headquarters.”

  Silence filled the connection before he said, “Have you heard the news? We’re looking for a person of interest in regards to a vicious attack.”

  “The woman in the Metro? I heard about it on the news. Is this person a material witness?”

  “He’s our prime suspect.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He was caught on videotape.”

  “Then the videotape must have captured the other man.”

  “His accomplice?”

  “You’re a laugh a minute, Sergeant.”

  “Why not come in if it wasn’t you? If you have nothing to hide?”

  “Finders keepers, losers weepers.” He laughed before tossing the phone out the window and putting the car into gear. By the time backup arrived and located the burner phone, he’d be long gone. It was a stupid joke. He could have outsmarted himself instead of the detective. But hell, sometimes stupid jokes are worth the effort, and he needed a little levity to brighten up his days.

  Twenty minutes later he pulled in front of the same high-rise apartment building as before. Traffic had increased. It was the peak of a Saturday evening. An hour passed. Several more minutes. At half past seven, a blue foreign make with fancy wheel rims pulled out of the garage. He recognized the sedan as belonging to Liz.

  He tailed her downtown to a hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue. She emerged from the car like Venus rising from her shell, outfitted in a slinky dress of sparkling turquoise, her hair done up in swirls and extensions. She handed her car keys to the valet. A man was waiting for her out front, her flavor of the month, a buff guy dressed in black-tie, his cuffs pressed, hair coiffed, and manner refined. He held out an elbow. Liz took it and allowed him to escort her inside.

  Jack parked around the corner and abandoned the junker after wiping it down for fingerprints. He entered the hotel through a side entrance and followed the red-carpeted passageways past in-house boutiques and hotel offices. The winding corridors led him around to the main entrance. A doorman eyed him with curiosity before snapping a salute and saying, “Sir.” Jack returned the salute, turned on a smart heel, and began the steep climb between brass railings up to the mezzanine level. Society types milled about, some chatting and others climbing another flight of stairs. He followed the crowd past the elevators and towards the ballrooms.

  Outside the Americana ballroom, Liz had already checked in with the hospitality desk. She was clipping a name badge onto a spangled purse, which dangled by a thin strap from her shoulder. She briefly spoke to her escort and pinned his name badge onto the lapel of his tuxedo. Not a single intimate gesture passed between them. They might as well have been strangers. They probably were. She placed her hand into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to escort her inside the gold-gilt ballroom. She spoke briefly to an acquaintance, someone Jack did not recognize, and tossed her head up gaily. She knew how to mix in with society types, but to Jack, she would always be Lizzy, the Southern girl who wore boots and bomber jackets with down-home grit. Deliberately she turned her head and noted Jack with a sidelong glance. Nothing ever escaped her notice.

  A man tapped him on the shoulder. Jack knew him well. They had worked together in Berlin when Jack oversaw network security and Sam Soderberg was Deputy Chief of Mission. After being recalled to Washington and named Under Secretary for Political Affairs, Sam had the occasion of meeting with Janey Matheson, deputy director of the Research Bureau at HID. They knew each other from Harvard when he was a visiting professor and she, an undergrad. They got to talking. Sam casually mentioned the FBI Computer Fraud Division having noticed baffling security breaches. Since the breaches affected several agencies HID worked with, did she think they could take on the task of tracking down the infiltrations? Sam knew of the perfect man, who just so happened to be working at the FBI but could be enticed into making a move. Janey ran it up the flagpole. Six degrees of separation had been reduced to two, and Jack was hired.

  They moved toward the windows and huddled out of listening range of others. Sam was a huge man with a wide girth, a six-foot frame, and a shock of snow-white hair. Very distinguished. And very career. He had been with government in one capacity or another for over forty years, sometimes moving sideways and other times up, but always surviving from one administration to the next, and deftly avoiding politics. He knew his way around as well as anyone. Probably better. He waved at someone he knew before glancing back at Jack. “You weren’t looking for me, were you?”

  “Here to see someone else.” Still wearing the battle dress military shirt, tactical operator hat, and sunglasses, he must have stood out like the homeless bum he was. “Think anyone will make me?”

  “Probably salute first.”

  Jack had to laugh. “Already have.”

  “Thank you for your service.”

  “Not yet, but there’s still time to lay me to rest.”

  The man gave him a studied look, his ruddy face showing concern. “I’m relieved to see you’re still breathing. More than relieved.”

  “Not so fast,” Jack said glibly. “On the way in, a priest wanted to give me the Last Rites. I told him the body’s still warm.”

  “You haven’t lost your sense of humor.” He nodded in the direction of the ballroom. “It’s a fundraiser for Senator Reed, even if it’s not couched that way. A thousand dollars a plate for a youth center in the Bronx. He’ll give a pittance to the center and deposit the rest in his war chest. Got a minute? There’s a bar downstairs.”

  He led the way around a winding staircase to the lobby entrance and walked down another level. They took a booth in back, away from the raucous crowd at the bar. “What can I get you?” He signaled a cocktail waitress and gave her the order. “Heard you got out on a technicality. I would’ve called, but you know how it is.”

  Jack knew. It wouldn’t look good for a senior government official to call an ex-government employee under suspicion.

  “Also heard you skipped bail. It’s being kept quiet. For obvious reasons. How’ve you been holding up? You look like hell, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “You should see the other guy. Not a mark on him.”

  The big man slowly lifted his head before bringing it back down to chin level, his piercing blue eyes more direct than usual, his smile cagey. “Tell me more.”

  “Athletic. Nimble. Certifiable. Wore a disguise. He knew me, but I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. Except for his crazy smile.”

  “One of ours?”

  “I’d only be guessing.”

  “How did he get a bead on you? Thought you were smarter than that.”

  “So did I.”

  “This incident? Did it have anything to do with the victim at the train station?”

  Jack nodded. “Everything.”

  “Know her?”

  “He picked her out of the crowd. Just her lucky day, I guess.”

  “They’re going to pin it on you. Heard there’s a videotape. They’re not making it public. When it comes out, it’ll implicate you.”

  “It would take creative editing to make it stick, but I’m sure they’ll manage.”

  Their drinks arrived. They made a silent ceremony of clinking beer mug against martini glass.

  Sam said, “You must know the sword of Damocles is hanging over your head.”

  “Other than for murder, you mean?”

  “Goes at least to the Attorney General’s office. They’re skittish. They don’t like surprises. Or loose ends.”

  “And the FBI?”

  “Their hands are tied. They have no choice but to investigate.”

  “They want to shut me up.” When Sam said nothing, Jack quipped, “Sort of gives me a warm fuzzy feeling all over, to be so important.”

  “Face it. You’re a dangerous man.”

  “If only it were true.”

  “It is, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.” A mischievous sparkle came to Sam’s eyes. “Spinnaker has been
the worst-kept secret in Washington.”

  “Exactly why you brought me in. Except you didn’t tell me everything.”

  “It was …” He hesitated. “A necessity. We wanted unbiased eyes.”

  Sam never mentioned it, but Jack knew his being pulled in to find the breaches went higher than the State Department. Somebody was worried. Somebody who wanted to expose HID and shut it down. Somebody who had the authority. Only one person with power enough to make it happen came to mind. “Where does that leave me?”

  “You mean us, don’t you?”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but your ass isn’t in the sling.”

  The usually cheery face of Sam Soderberg became chiseled with hard plains and sharp angles. “Oh, isn’t it?” He tossed off his drink, hugged the glass with his large hands, and stared down into the empty dregs. “There were those of us who knew Spinnaker went deeper than the official spin. We just didn’t know how deep. It was necessary to learn the full extent. The agencies were eager to have the leaks plugged. We wanted something else.”

  “By we, you mean the State Department.”

  “Others.” There was something ominous in the way he said it, also revealing.

  Jack acknowledged his candor even if it didn’t change a thing. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “You didn’t. You went beyond all expectations. And then some. The intercept,” he reminded Jack.

  He didn’t need reminding. As damning as the Spinnaker program was, the intercept was probably the real reason he had been targeted. In March, he was following a trail of memos and emails — backtracking them to their sources and out to related communications — when he intercepted a live transmission. Eyes Only for the CIA Director. Copied to the Secretary of State and several White House officials. Transmitted from a bureaucrat inside the FSB—the Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti—Russia’s CIA counterpart. Ignoring the usual protocols for sharing classified intelligence … either an oversight on the sender’s part or pure ignorance … the communiqué referred to Spinnaker, suggestive of an alliance between sworn enemies. Only one conclusion could be drawn — bringing to heel the populaces of the two most powerful nations in the world, thereby undermining the sovereignty of both, and further threatening the rest of the civilized planet with a one-world power grab.

  Sam shut his eyes. After several moments ticked by, he opened them and said, “Sorry I got you into this mess.”

  “Wasn’t your fault. I’m a big boy. I walked into it with my eyes wide shut, smartass that I am.” Jack watched the bubbles in his mug rise benignly to the top. The man who invented beer must have known he had ripped off the mask of God in those tiny bubbles. The more bubbles men drank, the more godlike they became … until they woke up with a hangover. “Something you should be aware of. I owe you that much.”

  “Oh?” Sam said the word benignly, but alarm cast a pall over his eyes.

  “While I was hacking them, they were hacking me.”

  “Ah, that’s why.” Sam said. “Two ends against the middle. With you at dead center.”

  “Don’t forget Milly.”

  “Never,” Sam said, his eyes unflinching. A group at the bar guffawed. Sam motioned upstairs. “I hate these things. I’ll make an appearance, stay thirty minutes, and slip out.”

  The rest of their conversation was neutral. Jack asked after his wife, his family. Sam thanked him for asking. They talked about the heat, the rains, the politics as usual, anything but the subject burning on their minds.

  Sam got around to asking the question burning on his, even if the answer was obvious. “Who do you think set you up?”

  Jack shrugged before saying, “Then you don’t think I’m a serial killer?”

  “I’m just sorry it turned out this way. If I’d known―”

  “Couldn’t have.”

  “Should have.” He changed the subject, even if it was really the same subject. He motioned his eyes upstairs. “Why’re you here?”

  “Following up on a hunch.”

  He nodded solemnly and checked the time. “I’ll leave you to it, then. God, I hate these things,” he said again. He paid the tab with a few bills and lumbered to his feet. “If you’re heading where I’m heading, you don’t know me.”

  Jack squinted up at him. He was a colossal fellow and should have been intimidating, but he was nice man, a loyal friend, and a bureaucrat stuck in the middle. “Who exactly are you again?”

  Sam winked and left, a slight hitch to his gait, as if he were favoring a bum hip or a bad knee or both. The man was a medical time bomb. Jack knew him to be on massive doses of steroids. How he made it through a day depended solely on fortitude along with plenty of stubbornness.

  Jack waited fifteen minutes and made his move. After working his way down to the kitchens, he pinched a waiter’s uniform: tuxedo-cut jacket, dress shirt with frayed cuffs, threadbare trousers, crooked bowtie, and stained white gloves. He swept up a tray of champagne flutes before entering a ballroom filled with well-heeled donors, influential policymakers, respected journalists, star-studded celebrities, and political hucksters. Then he smiled for the people.

  19

  Washington, D. C.

  Saturday, July 26

  LIZ AND HER escort, a man whose unlikely name was Dominic Petrovic, or Dom as he urged everyone to call him, guided her with a hand grasped lightly about her waist while hobnobbing with power brokers, lobbyists, and society types, introducing her as he went.

  She smiled up at him. He showed her an even set of white teeth. Like his teeth, his smile was as artificial as his name. After being introduced to each other by a mutual friend, they formed a partnership of convenience. Since he worked with a lobbying firm and she worked for government, it was a perfect arrangement. Having an escort to take her to functions such as these was important for an ambitious woman such as she. And having a beautiful woman on his arm made Dom’s presence more than acceptable. There was a time when she wondered if he liked men more than women. He was attracted to both.

  Her confidence crumbled when she saw a man of her acquaintance elbowing his way through the crowd. When he came abreast of her, he greeted her with a pleasant, “Ms. Langdon.”

  “Mr. Brandon.” The formality of their meeting belied the palpable tension between them, arrogance on his part and woodenness on hers.

  She could hardly believe what happened last night had been real. There was something ethereal about the episode, as if she could reach out but touch nothing of substance. After he left, she dressed and took a cab home, no point in going back to the office for her car. In the isolation of the back seat, she was shaking and sobbing, drained and crushed, embarrassed and feverish, tormented and feeling very much alone. More than once, the cabdriver glanced at her through the rearview mirror but said nothing.

  She considered reporting the rape, but who would believe her. She had eagerly rendezvoused with Brandon. Shared an enjoyable dinner with him. Willingly accompanied him to the hotel, smiling and laughing along the way. Witnesses would have reported nothing untoward, quite the reverse. Security videos would have shown them conversing pleasantly with his supportive hand resting at the small of her back and his other hand showing her the way. Everything between them would have appeared sociable and not the least coercive. When it came down to her credibility against his, the Firm would have supported him and fired her. Embarrassment, innuendo, and scandal would have followed. Her bright career would sunset and her professional prospects dry up.

  The decision she made was absent equivocation. She would never tell anybody about the incident. She didn’t want to look like a victim. Worse than a victim. A fool. A mile away from her apartment, and still dabbing at her eyes, she leaned forward and instructed the cabbie to turn around and take her back to Annapolis. She would pick up her car after all, no sense in leaving it in the company garage overnight. People might notice. And talk. Besides, she still had something to do upstairs, something Brandon wanted her to do for him.

 
And now, with a primitive fear born of powerlessness, she held her breath and mechanically looked at her date. “May I introduce my friend Dominic Petrovic? Dom … this is Neville Brandon.”

  “A pleasure, sir.” Dom reached out a hand.

  Brandon didn’t take it. Instead he placed a possessive arm around her waist, efficiently displacing her escort’s hold. “You don’t mind, do you? I’ll only keep her a few minutes. Then you can have her back.” He winked, and without waiting for an answer, smoothly but forcefully led her out of the room.

  She came along quietly. She didn’t want to make a scene. God forbid she should make a scene. “Where are we going?”

  “Always the impatient one, aren’t you? Impatience is the greatest sin there is. If you want to excel in this town, and I assume that you do, we’ll have to work on that together, you and I.”

  “You’re assuming too much.”

  “Am I? We’ll see about that.” He led her away from inquiring eyes and prying ears, his behavior cocky, his smile constant, and his ownership emphatic. “We had a lovely time last night. You were a meal I hope to enjoy again.”

  “Last night will be the only night.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” He said the words like a threat, more than a threat, a promise, his voice oily. “We’ll have many more nights like last night. Just the two of us. Or perhaps three. Or four. Who’s to say?”

  “You must be mad if you think―”

  “Madmen are out of touch with reality. Whereas I, sweetheart … I can call you sweetheart, can’t I? … after last night? … am always in control. Of where I have been and what I have done. And I always carry insurance. You’ll see what I mean.” He was so sure of himself. So cocky. So callous.

  He guided her outside and steered her towards the avenue, where traffic was thick, couples were strolling, and conversations melded like honey in a thick soup. “Your interview last night … as we may politely call it … went off so well that I decided to put it to good use. I have another assignment for you. You did do what I asked you to do?”