Act of Revenge

by Dale Brown

  “The boat was rented,” said Chelsea, bringing up the receipt.

  “I’m not going to ask how you have all of this data,” said Johansen. “Why kill him? Frankly, that argues that this wasn’t Ghadab—he’s going to need help.”

  “Not if he’s coming to the U.S.,” suggested Chelsea. “This guy is of no more use.”

  “You usually don’t burn your bridges,” said Johansen. “Not even Daesh.”

  “The parable of the scorpion and the tortoise,” said Massina. “It’s what he does.”

  While in Johansen’s mind the connection was tentative, it was far too important to be dismissed. If Ghadab was in the U.S., an attack was imminent. And if he was involved, it was going to be huge. So instead of flying down to New York as planned, he rented a car and drove over to Hanscom Air Force Base in Bedford, where he could use a secure line to talk to Langley. His creds impressed the security detail at the gate, but inside was another matter, and it took nearly a half hour for him to get clearance to use the system.

  He fretted in the meantime. The analysts had always predicted that there would be an upswing in terror attacks as ISIS lost ground. No longer able to contribute in the Levant, as Daesh called it, the sociopaths they attracted would kill in their homelands. The potential targets were limitless.

  But Ghadab was a special case. He went big, and if he had concluded that the cause was lost, he’d want to go out in style. He’d want to make 9/11 look like a random IED attack compared to his finale.

  Johansen quickly briefed the desk on what he had found. Still hoping to make his flight to New York, he was about to hang up when the Director himself came on the line. Colby had happened to be standing nearby when the call came in.

  “I heard,” he told Johansen. “How sure of this are you?”

  “Reasonably. It’s only circumstantial, as I explained.”

  “This is Massina’s work?”

  “His people.”

  “We’re at arm’s length?”

  “I don’t think that’s an issue,” said Johansen sharply. All this cover-my-ass shit was wearing on him.

  “Get back right away,” said Colby.

  “I was going to New York. I have a commercial flight and I was going to meet Moorehead.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Hanscom. It’s an air base outside—”

  “I’ll arrange for a flight. Stand by.”

  90

  North of Boston—five hours later

  They were working on power plants. They wanted to create another Chernobyl.

  Or so Socrates thought.

  It was a roundabout conclusion that began with an analysis of the data from the Syrian bunker—a chat-room handle that turned up as a user name on a Russian database. That was a weak link, admittedly, but the search trail was highly suggestive, and using time stamps, the program made a host of other connections.

  Intuitive leaps, if a person were making them. Algorithmic inferences if you were talking about a computer.

  “Algorithmic inference” had a bit of a negative connotation to Chelsea, since it implied that the machine’s thinking was fatally limited by the construction of its programming. And while she had to be always aware of that possibility, in the brief time since developing the program’s present incarnation, she believed Socrates was no more limited by its circuitry than humans were.

  But that was all theory. Finding what Ghadab and his minions were up to was reality. Hard reality.

  The team Ghadab had assembled in the bunker had accessed a great deal of information about the Soviet (now Ukrainian) Chernobyl power plant and its meltdown in 1986. They had examined schematics of the plant, along with a detailed timeline and even precise calculations of what would have been happening inside the nuclear pile from two months before. They had apparently taken great interest in the response of the people running the plant, as well as the evacuation of the town that followed.

  The specific information regarding the accident wouldn’t be of much use: the plant was essentially a one-off technology-wise, dissimilar to plants outside of the old Soviet Union, especially those in the U.S. The circumstances that led to the meltdown were also somewhat unique, with cascading failures and overrides that would be difficult to duplicate.

  But the idea that Ghadab was interested in had universal application for most nuclear plants. And Socrates had traced further research—though here the computer’s confidence level on its links dipped below 70 percent—to other types of plants. Ghadab’s team appeared to have been doing research on Fukushima in Japan, among others. Another one-off, perhaps, given the circumstances, but highly suggestive.

  Meanwhile, internet-based attacks had been made on nuclear power plants in Italy, France, and Germany. Such attacks were almost routine now, and in any event the ones Socrates recovered had all been turned back. But neither Socrates nor the respective authorities had pinned them on the usual suspects—China and Russia most prominently. The timing suggested they were “due diligence” attacks by Ghadab’s people—probes designed to see if they could easily gather data.

  In that case, they’d failed: the sort of detailed schematics of the buildings and security precautions Chelsea thought she would see in preparation for an attack had not been downloaded.

  There were other things in the files that Socrates momentarily found interesting—Bitcoin accounts, chat-room records, and even house listings for Argentina. The AI program, however, concentrated most of its effort on the nukes.

  Was this an inherent bias in the program? A nuclear meltdown was a very severe threat, and therefore deserving of the most resources? Or was the evidence there strongest?

  Chelsea couldn’t decide. And she worried that while Socrates had studied past terror events, it hadn’t correctly concluded that these were all “black swan” events—rare and seemingly random. In short, she was concerned that the computer was making the same mistakes a human might. And there would be no way to tell until they caught Ghadab.

  Energized by her meeting with Johansen, Chelsea threw herself into her work, examining Socrates’s logic, working on new extensions that might help it streamline its thought process. She was so deep into her work that she missed several buzzes of her phone announcing incoming texts. It was only when she took a bathroom break to hit the john that she realized Johnny had sent her several over the past hour:

  So, we doin’ dinner?

  59 Minutes ago

  Dinner?

  28 Minutes ago

  You around?

  13 Minutes ago

  She texted him back:

  Oh, God, I forgot. ☹ I am hungry but kinda late

  He responded almost immediately.

  I am at Halligan’s watching Sox—be there or be square.

  (Texts didn’t come through the regular network here; Massina had modified the phones of Annex employees to take calls through the cell tower nearest Smart Metal.)

  She got there a half hour later, dropped off by the driverless car. Johnny had finished eating long ago and was sitting in a booth watching the Red Sox demolish the Nationals.

  “I saw you this afternoon,” he told her after she’d ordered a burger. “Where were you going in such a hurry?”

  “Just back to work.”

  “Where?”

  “Work.”

  “I know Massina set up something new off campus,” said Johnny. “Why all the mystery?”

  “You of all people should know I can’t talk about things with anybody.”

  “Not even me?”

  “Not even you.”

  The burger came. She regretted ordering it; she wasn’t nearly hungry enough to finish it. She wasn’t really hungry at all. She picked at the fries.

  “I want to tell you,” she said. “I really do. But . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s awkward.”

  “What you’re doing?”

  “No. No. This.”

  “Yeah, those fries look a little burn
ed.”

  “I mean, the situation,” said Chelsea. “You can be such a wiseass at times. Inappropriate times.”

  Johnny grimaced.

  Maybe I’m being too harsh, she thought.

  “Want some fries?” she asked.

  “No.”

  He just said they looked burned. Duh.

  “What did you do today?” she asked.

  “Usual. Trained some new guys. Worked out.”

  “No more personal security for Lou?”

  “He doesn’t think that’s necessary anymore.”

  “What’s Beefy think?”

  Johnny shrugged. “Massina signs the checks. Or maybe he does—how does that work with direct deposit?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That wasn’t a real question,” said Johnny. “I was joking.”

  “I knew that,” she said, though in fact she hadn’t.

  How did that work? It went through the clearinghouse system, with tokens attached permanently to the account numbers . . .

  Why wasn’t Socrates following the money trail?

  It was discounting it for some reason.

  Nice pun.

  There must be something there. The Canadian who’d been killed—at some point he must have gotten money from Daesh, maybe years ago.

  The algorithms were using an arbitrary time limit: the original program had a cutoff because its processing power and memory were limited. So the search would, by necessity, only go back so far.

  The parameter was set by the initial assessment, which in this case probably went to the original attack, and whatever Socrates decided was a reasonable planning period. Or it could go back to Syria—yes, that would seem reasonable, since that was the original request.

  But it was too limiting. It was the way a human thought, not the way Socrates should.

  I can change that.

  “I have to go,” she told Johnny, pushing away from the table.

  “Your burger.”

  “I’m not really hungry. Bring it home.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to work.”

  91

  Langley—later that night

  Johansen had anticipated Colby’s question even before boarding the flight back, but he still hadn’t come up with an answer.

  “If Ghadab is in the U.S.,” asked the Director as they sat in the basement secure room, “why hasn’t he contacted Persia?”

  “Maybe he has” was the best Johansen could offer. “Maybe Persia just hasn’t contacted us.”

  “He told us last time,” said Marcus Winston. Winston was the former head of the terror desk, brought in for consultation. Johansen surmised that he’d had a hand in recruiting or running Persia, though no one had said that.

  Persia was a deep-planted double agent who had worked for the CIA for years, having managed to infiltrate the terror network around al-Qaeda. As he wasn’t Johansen’s asset—until this assignment, most of Johansen’s work involved Russia and Eastern Europe directly—Johansen knew almost nothing about him. With the exception of Winston, it didn’t appear any of the others knew all that much about him either.

  “He told us about the contact relatively late,” said Blitz, the DDO. “Too late to do any good. I don’t think we can even be sure that he’s on our side.”

  “Playing devil’s advocate for a moment,” said Colby, “if Ghadab was planning an attack here, why would he come? He generally works through his people.”

  “We killed most of his people,” suggested Johansen. “He wants revenge.”

  “I agree with that,” said Blitz. “So he targets D.C. Us.”

  “Possibly,” agreed Johansen.

  “Persia,” said Blitz, looking at Winston. “He’s our best bet. We have to contact him.”

  “I can arrange it,” said Winston.

  “No.” Colby turned to Johansen. “Find someone to tell him to come in.”

  “He’s not my guy.”

  “I realize that. I want someone neutral, that he doesn’t know. I want to see what he does. It’s the only way to test him.”

  “Or spook him,” said Winston. “It’ll be much better if he’s dealing with someone he knows.”

  “No. I don’t trust him. And we have to test him somehow. Yuri, do it quickly.”

  An hour and a seven-shot latte later, Johansen had read the entire file on Persia.

  Most of that time had been spent dealing with the security protocols using the secure “library.” It wasn’t a very big file.

  He lived in New Hampshire—not all that far from where the Canadian terrorist had been found. He had gone to Afghanistan as a young man. He had been contacted and turned by a third party, who answered to Winston.

  Two days before the attack on Boston, he had sent a message to Winston, warning that something was imminent. There were no other details; apparently the warning had not been specific.

  Impression—the Director felt Winston had screwed up somehow. But he wasn’t sharing.

  In any event, that wasn’t his concern. He needed to find someone to get a message to him.

  Who do I trust who owes me a favor?

  92

  Burlington, Vermont—a few hours later

  Ghadab grabbed a college ID off a table in the campus café before going to the library, scratching the photo image just in case anyone bothered to ask. He memorized the name—Mitchel Cutter—and his graduating class, repeating the information to himself as he walked across to the library. He needn’t have bothered: there was no security or even a clerk at the door.

  The internet computers were all taken. He sat down nearby, joining an informal queue.

  He glanced around, effecting a bored look while watching the students and gathering information on how the process worked. It was simple, really: scan your ID, get an hour on the machine.

  There was a girl at the far kiosk with long black hair. She reminded him of Shadaa.

  He imagined Shadaa in a T-shirt and jeans, with sneakers half-off her feet. He imagined Shadaa pounding the keyboard as the girl did, then stopping to push the strands of her hair back.

  It was almost a reincarnation.

  The girl rose, her session over. Ghadab forgot his task. He rose, following her down and then out the door, along the walkway that led to the street.

  Work to do, he reminded himself. But he kept following as she walked down the street.

  She’s not Shadaa.

  Ghadab kept thinking she would turn up the walk of one of the houses lining the street. When she did, he told himself, he would keep walking, turn back.

  But she didn’t turn on the first block or the second or even the third. When she came to the fourth corner, she crossed against the light—there was no traffic, and she didn’t even have to pause. Ghadab continued on the opposite side, watching out of the corner of his eye as she went down the block, turning onto a side street.

  I’ve come this far. Why not?

  He waited a moment, then crossed. He remembered the feel of Shadaa’s hips.

  God sent her as an angel, to give me a glimpse of what waits.

  Small stores, cafés, and bars clustered on the next block. Picking up his pace, Ghadab saw her go up the steps to a bar that called itself Angels Hideout.

  Surely that was a sign, he thought. Ordinarily he would never go into a bar, but surely that was a sign.

  His hand trembled as he put it on the rail going up the steps. He was more nervous than he’d been at the airport.

  The noise hit him like a physical thing, pounding at his head. He’d been in places like this before, in Europe, in Argentina, yet this felt completely new, unknown. The interior was divided in half, with tables on the right and a long bar on the left. It was a college hangout; undoubtedly many of the patrons were underage, though clearly no one cared.

  The place smelled sweet. Ghadab walked to the far end of the bar before turning and scanning the crowd. She’d sat at a booth alone close to the front of the room
. He’d taken a step in her direction, debating how he might introduce himself, when a young man about her age came up from the back and sat across from her.

  Ghadab stepped back to the bar, watching. The girl put her hand on the man’s hand; he didn’t remove it.

  “Whatcha gettin’?” the bartender asked.

  It took Ghadab a moment to realize the question was meant for him.

  “Seltzer,” he said.

  “Somethin’ in it?”

  “No.”

  “Lime?”

  Ghadab shook his head. The man stepped away. Ghadab looked back at the table but his view was blocked by a waitress.

  “Two bucks,” said the bartender, sliding a tumbler toward him.

  Ghadab reached into his pocket and fished out a five-dollar bill.

  So this is what we must have looked like, he thought, watching across the room as the couple talked. The girl seemed reserved, formal—as Shadaa was. She sat with her back straight against the bench. He liked that; she had virtue.

  The boy—they were all alike, Westerners. He was trying to get her into bed, clearly: Look how he pets her hand.

  Ghadab couldn’t blame him. But she wasn’t having it.

  She laughed, and the laugh stung Ghadab.

  His thoughts turned dark. He would kill her in the worst way possible.

  Ghadab missed something. In the moment he’d blinked, the girl had gotten out of her seat and begun to walk away. She was upset. The boy didn’t follow.

  She walked like Shadaa.

  Ghadab left the drink and money on the bar and started outside, dodging a group of men as they entered. One of the men didn’t like something about the way he looked or moved and put his hand out as if to stop him; Ghadab tightened his eyes into a glare. He had a folding knife in his pocket, but it wasn’t necessary: the young man moved out of the way with a sneer. Ghadab brushed past.

  You’ll be dead soon anyway.

  The girl turned to the right when she reached the sidewalk. Ghadab started to follow, his pace gradually increasing.