Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  Gamble squinted at where my hand rested on his shoulder and blinked a few times. Blew out a breath. “Well . . . I may have overreacted. Well, no, I didn’t overreact, but I apologize for grabbing you. I suppose these are . . . special circumstances.” He muttered as an afterthought, “And I guess no one would believe me in any case.”

  Not for the first time, I saw in Gamble the human qualities that led me to trust him.

  “Thank you, Agent Gamble. And I promise—we will find Soto. Be ready when we do.”

  ***

  On the drive home, I slipped in and out of the warehouse to check on the nanomites’ progress. Was it too much to hope that they would find Soto right away?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  My thoughts returned to Gamble’s office and how the FBI’s files were secured behind a firewall the mites couldn’t penetrate. Why were the mites unable to hack the FBI from outside that firewall? I found it hard to believe that anything could stymie them.

  “Nano. Why couldn’t you access the FBI’s files from the safe house?”

  Gemma Keyes, the FBI network is hardwired. Air-gapped. It is not connected to the Internet.

  What?

  Lights flashed before my eyes, and a vital piece of puzzle plunked into place. The revelation sent Soto and Mateo Martinez straight to the back burner, and I swallowed with excitement.

  “Nano! Could Cushing be communicating about Dr. Bickel via a similar setup? Through a military network not connected to the Internet?”

  That is a valid hypothesis, Gemma Keyes.

  I drove the rest of the way to my slot in the parking garage on autopilot. Walked home the same way. I was preoccupied.

  The nanomites had searched every network connected to the Internet for Dr. Bickel’s location and had found nothing. Given their adroit hacking abilities, I hadn’t known what to think about this “failure.” At the same time, I recognized Cushing’s compulsive need for control, for keeping close tabs on her own interests. I was confident that she communicated with Dr. Bickel’s custodians somehow.

  Since she had him under her control, wouldn’t she attempt to make Dr. Bickel give up his research? Wouldn’t she provide him with a laboratory and attempt to coerce him into working? And wouldn’t she check his progress on a regular basis? Would he pretend to work but provide her with bogus results as he’d done before?

  Dr. Bickel was stubborn as well as clever. So was Cushing. If she saw through his pretenses, would she go so far as to torture him to force his cooperation? Knowing him as I did, I doubted he would cooperate with Cushing under any circumstances—incentive or punishment, carrot or stick. Nevertheless, the idea of torture worried me. But regardless of the pressure Cushing did or didn’t apply to my friend, I couldn’t imagine her not staying apprised of Dr. Bickel’s progress.

  She couldn’t forgo status updates any more than a tiger could turn vegan, I reasoned. She is too much of a control freak—so she must have a means of communicating with Dr. Bickel’s guards. How is she doing it?

  When I was employed at Sandia, I had held a Q clearance because I worked in a classified environment. Classified discussions were held in a special room. As were classified phone calls.

  Sandia is a Department of Energy facility. They lease space on Kirtland Air Force Base from the military. Cushing is Air Force. Department of Defense. How does the military communicate secret information?

  I entered the warehouse. “Nano. Find information on Department of Defense communications systems.”

  The mites returned a wealth of info. I allowed the data to wash over me until I had grasped the salient details. Several facts stood out: DOD used three systems to control three types of data: unclassified/unsecured, Secret, and Top Secret/SCI.

  The NIPRNet (Non-Classified Internet Protocol Router Network) was for military unclassified/unsecured information. Of course, NIPRNET employed strict user authorization; still, the network was connected to the Internet. Via the Internet, the mites had already defeated NIPRNet firewalls and security protocols and mined NIPRNet data. They had found nothing on Dr. Bickel.

  The SIPRNet (Secret Internet Protocol Router Network) was a second-tier network for classified information used by DOD and the State Department. However, while the SIPRNet’s security structure was much more robust and user authorization more restrictive than that for the NIPRNet, I doubted Cushing would use this network to communicate about Dr. Bickel either.

  Why? Because the SIPRNet had too many users (around 4.2 million) and because the U.S. allowed a number of trusted allies (including Australia, Canada, the U.K, and New Zealand) to access this network. Even with security protocols in place to keep user accounts and data compartmented, I could not envision Cushing and her handlers permitting information about the nanomites to coexist in a system that another country—even an ally—shared. Knowledge of the nanomites was too important to risk leaking it to another nation.

  One option remained: the Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communication System or JWICS. JWICS was the U.S.’s Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmentalized Information intranet used by DOD, State Department, Homeland, Justice, and various other U.S. intelligence agencies, including the FBI.

  The thing about JWICS? JWICS computers were not connected to the Internet. This made them, purportedly, unhackable from ordinary computers outside the network. Additionally, only individuals with TS access plus need-to-know could log on to JWICS—and only from within a SCIF—a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—a room or structure authorized, built, and approved per DOD standards. In other words, totally and completely “off the Web,” surrounded by robust physical and electronic security measures.

  If Cushing were using JWICS to communicate with whomever was holding Dr. Bickel, that would explain why the mites had not found him—they could not connect to the JWICS network except from a JWICS terminal—from one SCIF to another.

  I scowled as I processed this information. Not for a nanosecond did I doubt that Cushing received regular reports on Dr. Bickel. If she exchanged emails regarding Dr. Bickel, she would do so via JWICS within a SCIF.

  Something about that idea bothered me, though. Would Cushing risk the exchange of emails on the nanomites? My gut told me that she would consider any email system too risky. She wouldn’t leave a paper trail—virtual or otherwise. She was too smart for that.

  That left one communication avenue open: the secure phone line inside the SCIF. A secure phone call happened in real time and was not recorded. No paper trail, no pesky emails to incriminate her later.

  A phone call was the next best thing to a face-to-face meeting. A secure phone conversation within a SCIF? Hack-proof.

  Almost.

  The mites could get me into any SCIF, I was certain of that—but it had to be when Cushing used the phone. If we were present while she talked, we could listen in—and the mites could ascertain the origination point of the call on the other end.

  Bingo.

  I “just” needed the schedule of her next call. No big deal, right? The mites were monitoring Cushing’s calendar and her phone logs. However, they had detected nothing to suggest that she placed or received calls in a SCIF.

  I entered the warehouse. “Nano. Let me see Cushing’s calendar.” Zander had insisted that the mites weren’t “people-savvy.” Maybe they had missed something?

  I pulled her schedule to me and studied it, day by day. Her only appointment of note today was in her office at 3 p.m. with the initials “GK.”

  My initials? Had to be a coincidence.

  I went over her schedule a second time. Still, nothing struck me.

  “Nano, let’s see it week by week.”

  With the last five weeks before my eyes, I looked for a pattern. I scanned through her Mondays. Tuesdays. Wednesdays. Thursdays. Fridays. No repeated appointments.

  I started over and read every item. Monday: 8 a.m. staff meeting. 9:15 budget report. Noon conference call to the Pentagon.

  “That call bears a closer look.
Nano. Remind me later.”

  Wednesday, 12:15 p.m. Artichoke Café. 2:30 p.m. Sandia Café.

  I paused. Why two restaurants on the same day? Lunch, yes, but what is this at 2:30?

  I’d eaten at the Artichoke. Very nice. ‘General worthy,’ even. But—

  “Nano. Where is this Sandia Café?”

  Gemma Keyes. We find no listing of a Sandia Café in Albuquerque.

  “No listing . . .” There was no such place? I muttered again, “Sandia Café?”

  My breath hitched. “Nano! Highlight all occurrences of Sandia Café on Cushing’s calendar.”

  Seven highlights appeared before me. Seven regularly scheduled appointments.

  I pulled the schedule closer. “Sandia Café. Initials S.C. Are the initials code? Code for a secure call?”

  My eyes leapt forward on Cushing’s calendar and found what I was searching for.

  “Her next call is Wednesday. Make a note of that, Nano! We are going to be present for that call.”

  ***

  “Ah. A pleasure to see you again, Miss Keyes.” Cushing’s smile was as sticky-sweet and gooey as the insides of a toasted marshmallow.

  Genie Keyes glared at Cushing. “Cut the bull, General. You strong-armed my firm into assigning me to you as some sort of consultant. Why? What is it you want from me?”

  “Oh, dear. I am sorry that you view my request for your assistance in a negative light. I merely mentioned to your firm’s partners that we needed your services most desperately. They were more than happy to lend you to me.

  Genie’s eyes narrowed to slits. She knew in detail what Cushing had done. When Cushing had requested her help directly and Genie had refused to acquiesce to Cushing’s summons, the senior partners had called Genie to a meeting. A private meeting.

  Genie had never before witnessed the partners shaken—but they were rattled that day . . .

  ***

  “Look, Genie,” the most senior partner had begun, “this General Cushing has more clout in D.C. than we can ignore. If we agree to let her, er, borrow you for a few weeks, we stand to gain the legal work on several substantial government contracts. If we refuse? She has, er, indirectly threatened us.”

  “Threatened you how?”

  “It wasn’t outright, Genie, but she made her intent clear. If we chose not to cooperate with her, she ‘suggested’ that the IRS might take a serious interest in our firm—and if the IRS were to launch an audit or investigation of us, Cushing hinted that the audit could become public knowledge. She even commiserated over how damaging it would be should someone spread rumors to our clients of our supposed dealings with organized crime!

  “It would make no difference whether we were eventually cleared by the IRS or not, no difference that we have never entered into entanglements with OC. The cost of dealing with such an investigation and the negative publicity and rumors would sink us.”

  Genie had stared daggers at the elder partner until he grimaced and slid a packet across the table to her.

  “This, my dear, is a most generous offer. Automatic junior partnership on January 1, your buy-in paid for by us. Please note the salary and options.”

  Genie hadn’t touched the packet. At first.

  “And if I decline?”

  The senior partner’s jaw went rigid. “Our priority is this firm. Regrettably, if you were to decline our offer, we would ensure that you lose your license and never work in law again. I believe Cushing would assist us in that endeavor.”

  ***

  Genie had taken the offer—what choice had she?—but she had seethed inside.

  She was still seething.

  Genie snapped out of her reverie. “Look. What is it you want me to do? The sooner I get it done, the sooner I’m back to my life.”

  Cushing swiveled her chair to the side and leaned back. “Ah, Miss Keyes! We wish only one thing, and that is to locate your sister.” She sent a sideways look in Genie’s direction. “We have established the fact that you and your twin don’t share a great deal of sisterly affection.”

  Genie smothered a snarky laugh. “Growing up, Gemma was a mealymouthed brat. A coward. Easily manipulated. Let’s just say we didn’t share similar interests as children and we share fewer as adults.”

  “Then you will have no, ah, qualms in helping us locate her?”

  Genie felt no scruples; however, she was curious. “Why do you want her?”

  “Two weeks ago, I told you it was a National Security issue. That has not changed. Our interests in Gemma are classified.”

  “What will you do with her?”

  Cushing shrugged. “That’s not for me to say, is it? Whatever crimes she has committed, she will pay the penalties.”

  “Again, I’m not sure we’re talking about the same person.”

  Cushing faced Genie and placed her folded hands on the table between them. “Ah, but we are, Miss Keyes, and your sister is a much different person than you believe her to be. She is clever, resourceful, and dangerous.”

  Genie snorted. “Dangerous? Gemma? That’s like saying gumdrops are dangerous. Or baby bunnies. She’s soft-hearted. And stupid.”

  Cushing was done playing nice. “I don’t share your opinion of your sister, Miss Keyes, nor does your estimation of her matter to me. I have but one objective: her capture. She has evaded us twice. You will help us locate her and take her into custody.”

  Genie shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s get this over with. What do you expect me to do?”

  Cushing smiled, and Genie noticed how the woman’s tiny white—and oddly sharp—teeth gleamed when she did. Genie was repulsed but did not allow her revulsion to show.

  This woman reminds me of a shark, Genie thought. Fish are friends, not food. Yeah, right.

  Cushing’s smile widened. “It is quite fortuitous that you and your sister are so alike in appearance, if not in personality. I would like you to visit someone, Genie, in the guise of your sister. A man by the name of Ross Gamble. He’s FBI, but don’t let that concern you. I’d like you to introduce yourself to him and make nice. You see, I think he knows something about Gemma, something he isn’t letting on to me.”

  Why else would he have swept for and removed the listening devices I had planted in his apartment, car, and phone?

  Cushing continued. “Upon your meeting with him, I hope he will give himself away.”

  “Give himself away how?”

  “Oh, you see, if he’s met or spoken to your sister before, he will allude to it somehow, don’t you agree? Through familiarity or body language? Referring to previous conversations? I want to know if Special Agent Gamble has already met our Gemma, Miss Keyes. If he has, and if he has lied to me? Well, then I will apply certain . . . inducements that will properly motivate him to reach out to her.”

  Genie was under no illusions as to the nature and types of “inducements” Cushing might bring to bear—even on a federal agent. “That’s it? Do I just jump out in front of him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. We’ll arrange for you to encounter him in the location of our choosing. That way, if he acknowledges that he’s spoken to you before, we can, er, pick him up right away.”

  You want me to ambush this man and shock him into admitting—either consciously or unconsciously—that he knows Gemma. Then you will take him into custody. Got it.

  Genie shrugged. “Sounds simple enough.”

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 19

  Gus-Gus worked me hard for five hours. When I returned home in the middle of the night, I spent another hour noodling out my venture onto the base and into Cushing’s secure call. Even when I found myself tiring, the details kept me awake. Getting on the base would not be difficult or dangerous—after all, I’d done it before without detection.

  No, it was the next step that could prove hazardous.

  The mites had produced an annotated map of the base and identified all the SCIFS. I studied their proximity to Cushing’s office. Two such facilities seemed likely candida
tes; one of the two had to be where Cushing made her secure calls.

  I was certain the mites could get me into the SCIF. Getting into the SCIF ahead of Cushing was the sticking point. Once she was inside, she would lock the door. After that, even the nanomites wouldn’t be able to get me inside without Cushing noticing. No, I had to arrive before she did.

  Tired.

  I nodded off on the sofa once or twice before I hauled myself downstairs to bed. I stripped off my clothes and fell onto my cot.

  I should have slept deeply—I’d used my body well that day and night—but I couldn’t get to a place of restful slumber. At least not without dreaming.

  The dreams . . . disturbed me.

  Dreams? No, a single dream, the same old nightmare with the same old theme: Cushing.

  Cushing coming for me. Cushing behind me. Cushing laughing, her mouth revealing her pointy teeth. Cushing’s men grabbing at me.

  When the dream got too bad, I would wake up, shivering and shaking. I would reassure myself that the panic-inducing episodes were figments of my hyperactive imagination. Then my heavy eyelids would close and I would sleep—but soon after, some variation of the nightmare would return.

  I was caught in yet another episode when I spied a shadowed figure hiding behind Cushing. Who was it? Why was I worried?

  The individual stepped out of Cushing’s shadow.

  It was Genie.

  I jerked and sat up, clawing the cobwebs from my eyes. Why? Why was I dreaming about my sister? Surely, she’d returned to Virginia, back to her legal career, almost a month ago.

  Genie.

  The sense of encroaching danger was so strong, that I threw on my clothes, climbed upstairs, and began to pace the living room. As I paced, I wiped sweaty palms on my jeans.

  What if? What if she hadn’t gone back to Roanoke? To her law firm? Then what?

  Well, I could put my mind at ease on that count. I could check and make sure she had.

  I closed my eyes, entered the warehouse, and called to the nanomites. Nano. We must find my sister. Where is she right now? Has she been in contact with Cushing? She may be a threat to us, Nano.