“Thank you, no.”
Boynton raced off, checking his watch, and Philips sat on the sofa. Her eyes swept the walls, taking in the dozens of massive paintings. They seemed like a cross between royal portraits and roadside billboards, depicting eighteenth-century battles from the Continent, landscapes, and portraits of nineteenth-century railroad barons leaning on walking sticks. Their gold-leaf frames were so ornate they looked like collections of medieval weaponry, dipped in gold paint and glued together.
Philips glanced around at the knots of people talking softly and in earnest. Military officers nodded and pointed at satellite photographs—all in the open. What was this place? It was the NSA without internal security and with a decorating budget gone out of control.
Philips leaned back and recalled the details she’d just read of Operation Exorcist. The complete, simultaneous extermination of the Daemon from critical data centers throughout the world. A Daemon-blocker patch, capable of interdicting the self-destruct signal on infected networks. An ambitious plan, but notably not one that destroyed the Daemon—one that simply blocked the Daemon from destroying selected targets.
The question was how she’d be able to use their resources to carry out her own plan: to destroy the Daemon.
Philips was dozing an hour later when a booming voice nearby suddenly shook her awake. A tall, loose-jowled Texan in his sixties wearing a bespoke suit was slapping a nearby Chinese statesman on the back and speaking with a powerful Southern drawl. “How ya’ll settlin’ in? They treatin’ ya a’right, Genr’l Zhang?” He smiled broadly and broke into Mandarin. “Ni hao ma? Wo feichang gaoxing you jihui gen nin hezuo.” He smiled and shook the man’s hand.
The Armani-suited “general” nodded back grimly and exchanged a firm handshake just a shade removed from an arm-wrestling match.
“Mr. Johnston, health to your family.”
Philips caught Johnston’s eye. “Excuse me, Genr’l.” He strode toward Philips, turning his powerful voice on her. “Dr. Philips. Why don’t you come on in here for a chat?” He grabbed a uniformed servant by the arm, but kept his eyes on Philips. “You want something? Coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing for me. Excuse me, have we been introduced?”
“Damn me, we haven’t.” He extended his hand and nearly crushed hers with it. “Aldous Morris Johnston; I’m fortunate to be senior legal counsel for several companies backing Operation Exorcist.” He turned to the servant. “Get us a pot of coffee and some finger sandwiches in here.”
“Sir, no offense intended, but time is wasting. The news I saw coming in was quite dire. When can I meet with the Weyburn Labs team?”
“Doctor, that’s what we’re here to talk about.” A nearby door opened, and several suited men could be seen rushing about inside. A security man in a navy blazer and gray slacks held the door. An earphone wire ran down into his collar.
Johnston was leading Philips along. “Now that you’re part of the team, we want to get your input on the overall direction of the effort.”
They moved into a sitting room warmly furnished with more human-scale sofas and chairs and wall-to-wall carpet. The security man closed the door and stood, hands clasped in front of him. Paperwork was everywhere on the coffee tables, and several suited men were tapping furiously on laptop keyboards. A bank of towering windows filled the far wall and bathed the room in diffuse light. The frames were arched into gothic points but the glass was smoked—keeping out much of the daytime heat. Beyond the windows lay vast grasslands dotted with horses.
“It’s something, isn’t it? Our group owns it all as far as the eye can see.”
Philips nodded at the view. “Including the sky, apparently.”
He didn’t seem to notice. “It’s a rare joy on horseback—especially at dawn.”
Johnston patted a large upholstered chair. Philips bristled at this potential display of social rank and sexism combined—but realized she was being childish and sat where invited. Johnston sat on the arm of a nearby sofa. Someone shoved a bone china cup and saucer into her hand, and a servant in a dinner jacket and white gloves poured steaming coffee from a silver pot.
Johnston gestured toward three other men sitting nearby—lots of symmetrically graying temples and impeccable tailoring on display. “Dr. Philips, this is Greg Lawson, Adam Elsberg, Martin Sylpannic.”
They nodded in turn as people came and went from various doors in the background.
“Are you gentlemen with Weyburn Labs?”
Johnston laughed. “No, no, Doctor. They’re with one of our Houston-based firms. They’re here to represent the interests of key partners.”
Philips placed the coffee cup on a nearby table. “Gentlemen, why am I sitting here? I need to speak with the Weyburn Labs team. Events are unfolding in the streets right now. Action needs to be taken.”
“Understood, understood.” Johnston nodded, while the other men looked questioningly toward him. “But first we want to hear your thoughts, Doctor. Did you have a chance to read the briefing paper on the way in from the airfield?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“I think there are weaknesses. First, this Daemon-blocker mentioned in the report—I don’t see how you can insinuate it into all infected networks. Especially in the timeframe indicated. Not to mention the risk of storming all these data centers simultaneously around the globe.”
One of the trio of Johnston’s aides was furiously tapping at a keyboard as she spoke.
Philips stopped for a moment. “Look, I’ve had more than a few difficulties working with private industry against the Daemon in the past. I need to know who is—”
Johnston nodded genially. “Yes, I know there was some unpleasantness—that some of our representatives might have taken wrongful actions.”
“Wrongful actions? My DOD liaison shot key group members, and destroyed our task force headquarters with demolition charges—killing everyone and destroying all our work. That’s more than a little unpleasant.”
“I understand, Doctor. But this is a war. And in war mistakes are made. It’s whether we learn from those mistakes that spells the difference between victory and defeat. We’ve tightened up the chain of command. You weren’t aware of it at the time, but the Daemon Task Force was just a pilot project. A proof of concept. And thanks to you, a successful one. Operation Exorcist is the result—a multibillion-dollar effort. It will take all of government and private industry resources to defeat the Daemon. We truly need your help.”
Philips still eyed Johnston. She figured acquiescing too quickly would seem suspect. “What about The Major?”
“He’s no longer on the project.”
“But neither is he in Leavenworth.”
“The Major needs to be kept on a short leash, but we need all hands right now, Doctor.”
“He murdered special agent Roy Merritt.”
“Understood, but nothing about this situation is personal. This is national security, and Deputy Director Fulbright assures me that you’re familiar with making leadership decisions. We think you have a bright future in the private sector, Dr. Philips. We see leadership potential in you.”
She paused as long as she thought necessary to make it appear that she was wrestling with her conscience. In actuality she was wrestling against the desire to spit into his face. “Who’s calling the shots?”
“Joint public-private advisory committee. Sounds bad, I know. But doesn’t matter—they’re back in Washington and we’re all out here. I want to hear your thoughts.”
“Who came up with the Daemon-blocker?”
“Weyburn Labs folks. Some Chinese fella.”
“The code sample in the report—it bears a disturbing similarity to some of the API calls I discovered in the IP beacon. Those API calls are not safe.”
Elsberg responded. “You needn’t worry, Doctor—”
“Don’t tell me what to worry about.”
Johnston motioned for her to calm down.
&
nbsp; Elsberg continued. “They didn’t use the Daemon’s API. We all know it’s a trap, Doctor. Weyburn reverse-engineered the Destroy function. They found that it’s susceptible to what I believe is called a . . . a buffer overrun, and they developed a countermeasure. A ‘vaccine, ’ if you will, against the Daemon’s data-destruct command.”
“And this works?”
“It’s still in testing, but the tests were very encouraging.”
“How do you know your test case is realistic?”
“We didn’t use a test case.”
“You mean you tested on real companies?”
Johnston nodded. “Owner’s prerogative, Doctor. Sever a gangrenous limb to save the patient.”
Lawson put his two cents in. “We were hoping to have you perform a review of the Weyburn Labs code, Dr. Philips. To ensure that only code in line with the spec is present.”
“You mean you don’t trust them?”
“This is mission-critical, Doctor. There can’t be any slipups. The more trusted, expert eyes that see it, the better. We were hoping you’d be willing to help.”
“Why wasn’t I briefed and then asked to come on board—instead of being packed off on a plane with almost no warning?”
He grimaced. “I know you must feel poorly used, but again, it’s national security and couldn’t be helped.”
“And my lab facilities?”
“We’ve got everything you need. You’ve got a blank check, Doctor. Any expert in the world—you need ’em, we’ll find ’em. Any resource, we’ll get it for you. Just ask.”
“I’ll have access to all the data this time? For real?”
“You’ll have full access to our research, and vice versa. We won’t micromanage you. We’ve got some sharp people, though, Doctor: Litka Stupovich, Inra Singh . . .” Looking to Lawson. “What’s that other gal’s name?”
“Xu Li?”
“Right, Dr. Li—a Taiwanese, I believe.”
Philips nodded appreciatively. Top private industry crypto folks—some previously with the Soviet government—but world-class experts nonetheless. Philips considered the chance to work with a truly international team. It was an unheard-of opportunity for someone who rarely got to leave Fort Meade. An NSA-lifer with umbra-level clearance. She almost wished it weren’t an evil plot.
“I’m surprised at the degree of government and private industry cooperation. It’s certainly a sign of how seriously this issue is being taken.”
Johnston laughed a booming laugh. “My gawd, Doctor, this Sobol fella’s got us over a barrel. That’s for sure. We’ve got a saying in South Texas: ‘Common enemies make for uncommon friends.’ ”
Philips sat back in the chair, thinking. “I’d like to discuss this with Deputy Director Fulbright.”
Johnston grimaced. “Well, Deputy Director Fulbright doesn’t report to me, Doctor, but we’ll request a conference call if it’ll put your mind at ease.”
“I’d like to make the call.”
Johnston appraised her for a moment then nodded. “I understand. You’re careful. I respect that more than you know—especially now. I’ll arrange with Fulbright’s office for them to expect your call, Doctor. And we’ll get you access to a secure line. Won’t be until tomorrow, I expect. I hope this won’t prevent you from commencing review of Weyburn’s code. Time is, as you say, of the essence.”
Philips considered this then nodded. “I see no problem with that.”
Johnston smiled and extended his hand. “Excellent, Dr. Philips. We’re glad to have your assistance. We’ll get you settled in your new quarters. I think you’ll like them very much, and I’ll have some Weyburn folks come by and collect you. Whatever you need, you just ask. Hell, don’t hold back. Give it to us straight. If we don’t already make it, we’ll buy it.”
Johnston and his colleagues stood, signaling the end of the meeting. Philips stood also, and Johnston once again grabbed her hand in a crushing handshake.
“Doctor, welcome aboard. We look forward to much success together.”
She nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
With that, they turned to meet their next appointment as they shunted Philips out a side door.
Chapter 29: // Scorched Earth
The Major stepped off the rear loading ramp of a C-130 transport plane and onto the tarmac of a deactivated U.S. Army airfield near the town of Rolla in northern Missouri. It was hot and humid. Three uniformed KMSI soldiers stood ready to greet him with sharp salutes—the center one stepping forward, extending his thick paw.
The Major knew him well—a towering, powerfully built South African, handpicked for this operation. They’d fought in more insurgency campaigns and covert wars in more countries than The Major cared to remember.
“Major. Everything is in order, sir.”
“Colonel Andriessen.” The Major shook his hand. To the uninitiated it no doubt seemed odd to hear a colonel giving deference to a major—but The Major’s nom de guerre was just that. He had long ago outstripped his last formal rank.
“Your undergarments are showing, sir.” He pointed.
The Major glanced back into the cargo hold at the closest of ten identical pallets covered in green canvas tarps. A corner clasp had broken during landing, revealing the bricks of twenty-dollar bills beneath, wrapped in cellophane. One hundred and eighty million dollars a pallet—one point eight billion dollars in all.
The Major nodded. “Get some forklifts out here.” He started them walking briskly toward a white Toyota Land Cruiser waiting nearby.
“Shall we cover it first, Major?”
“Don’t bother. It won’t be valuable for much longer.” He turned to the Colonel. “So get the payments out to the strike teams soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
A driver in KMSI BDUs was standing next to the Land Cruiser. He opened the rear door and saluted. “Welcome to Missouri, sir.”
The Major ignored him and got in, the Colonel right behind him.
As they drove across the airfield The Major could see three C-130 cargo aircraft parked near hangars, either loading or unloading equipment with forklifts. It was hard to tell the way logistics teams were milling about and pointing instead of actually doing something. Soldiers. Private or government issue, they were always bitching about something.
There were also scattered squads of heavily armed men in civilian clothes standing around near civilian vehicles. He’d much rather they stayed under cover, but it was tough to keep these guys in hangars on a hot summer day like this. It was probably over a hundred inside those metal buildings. With a seat-of-the-pants operation like this, best to let the mercs cool off.
Before long the Land Cruiser pulled up to a tired-looking brick administration building done in art deco style. Some of the windows were boarded up, but there were several generator trailers nearby with thick black cables running out the edges of the front door—which was propped open. Two guards with Masada rifles stood in the entryway in full body armor—the KMSI logo on their breast pockets.
They saluted The Major as he walked into a musty-smelling hallway, the Colonel leading the way.
“Ag, you caught me just coming back from an inspection on those Slovak bastards. They got shot up pretty good. We’re missing a few.”
The Colonel brought them down the vandalized but recently patched hallway, gesturing to the far end. “We’re back here. Not much to look at.”
They passed several sets of uniformed guards, and each office they passed was filled with command staff and lots and lots of laptops, radios, and satellite phones. Officers were busy orchestrating the movements of strike teams and making sure all necessary materiel was arriving as and when needed.
“Did they ever find that Loki fella who kept messin’ with your schedule?”
The Major shook his head. “He’s still MIA, but it’s too late for him to stop this—even if he has any power left.”
In a few moments they reached the end of the corridor and entered what was most lik
ely the old base commander’s office, replete with a secretarial anteroom. There, a uniformed male assistant was pecking away at a laptop, while two high-strung-looking men in immaculate casual business attire stood up from folding chairs the moment the hulking South African colonel stepped through the door.
The first of these men had on an expensive-looking, large-faced chronometer and an impressive tan to go with it. He extended his hand to Andriessen. “Colonel Andriessen, I’m Nathan Sanborn, chief executive officer and chairman of Halperin Organix.” He offered his embossed business card and pointed to the other man, who carried a small black attaché case. “This is Sanjay Venkatachalapthy, our senior counsel.”
The Colonel laughed. “Ag, you’re bloody joking, right? This kefir’s got more name than a German viscount.” He looked to his assistant. “Corporal, are we letting anyone into my office now? How did these men find me?”
“Colonel, these gentlemen are well-connected in Washington.”
Sanborn interjected himself. “Look, I’ve been speaking with General Horvath and Admiral Collins—I think there’s a grave misunderstanding, gentlemen. I’ve been trying to get someone on the phone or to reply in e-mail for a week now, and I don’t appreciate having my calls dodged.” He gestured to the office. “Can we speak in private, please?”
The Colonel looked to The Major. The Major didn’t budge or respond.
The Colonel turned back to Sanborn. “We’ve got urgent business to attend to, Mr. Sanborn. Everyone here is cleared top secret. Everyone but you.”
Sanborn looked like he considered getting angry, but decided against it. With one more glance around he threw up his hands. “All right then. I’ve been given to understand that the blatant patent infringement being perpetrated against my firm is being used as a pretext for what can only be described as a paramilitary police action.”
“It’s not your concern, Mr. Sanborn.”
“No. That’s where you’re wrong—and by the way, I’m not entirely comprehending why you’re South African. Why is a South African in charge of what’s going on here? This is Missouri, not Capetown, Colonel Andriessen.”
Freedom™ Page 26
