“As my friends at the FBI would say, Wallace, the investigation is ongoing. But, not being them, I will actually tell you what’s going on. I have four points in today’s intel summary. First, on the internet cable beachhead attacks Sunday, it now appears that a Russian organized-crime figure was involved. He was last seen on video monitors on the George Washington Bridge going into New Jersey on Tuesday. His car was later found at Newark Liberty Airport. NSA discovered that this fellow Yellin had a very large amount of money deposited recently into an account he controls in the Ukraine. Now he’s gone to ground.
“Second, on the Pacific communications satellites, we assume they were hacked by phony signals. They would have to have originated from somewhere in the western U.S.; we don’t know where. The attack was smart, sending the satellites out of orbit and toward Uranus, Neptune, Alpha Centuri, your choice.
Number three, on the suicide bomber, it came back as a positive match with a known Iraqi terrorist. Can’t explain that,” Rubenstein said, ticking through the bottom lines of in depth reports in his briefing book.
Defense Secretary Chesterfield looked exasperated. “I have to testify before Senate Armed Services tomorrow in closed session. I wish I understood all this cyber stuff better. I thought it was just for nerds. Who knew how important it was? Don’t you guys know anything more about what happened?”
“We may know more, but it’s speculation. China may not just be trying to get us to back off from helping Taiwan. They may be after our technological lead over them. My officers also identified a pattern of fires and accidents at major computer facilities and bio labs over the last few months,” Rubenstein responded. “If you add these all up, strip out some attacks or accidents at bio facilities, it looks like a Chinese attempt to take apart our cyber networks and to prevent us from implementing some of the fixes the President approved after the Cyber Crash of 2009. Those fixes might prevent Chinese industrial espionage on us, among other things. FBI is investigating a gas-leak explosion at one major computer lab that may have been a result of hacking into the gas line’s computer controls, someone hacking in from China. CIA is sending someone in to see if we can trace who in China.”
“Russian mobsters, computers that we all know can be spoofed. All of that does not yet sound like you could go to the UN and prove the Beijing government had attacked us,” Neyers observed.
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t either, Brenda,” Secretary Chesterfield shot back.
“They’re being careful,” Rubenstein interjected.
“Careful of what, Sol?” Reynolds asked.
Rubenstein closed his briefing book, signaling that what he was about to say was his own personal analysis and not what his staff had given him. “Careful not to kill. Only about ten people or so have been killed in all of this thus far, and two of them were suicide bombers, which by the way is not a traditional Chinese practice, suicide bombing. They probably hired the Russian organized-crime gangs and the Iraqi suicide bombers to operate in this country, but I can’t prove that to the UN or even to us yet. In any event, there has been little killing. Maybe they do just want to signal and not really piss us off. Careful also to cover their tracks to keep deniability.”
The National Security Advisor looked around the table to see if anyone had anything more to add. Then he said his piece: “The President wants to give a prime-time speech on Monday, six days from now, to try to explain what has been happening and what we’re going to do about it,” Reynolds said, looking straight at Rubenstein. “I hope we have something for him to say by then about who is doing this and how we know.” The National Security Advisor then looked at the Secretary of Defense. “And Bill, you will have options for him.” The SecDef nodded. “Good,” Reynolds continued, “then we will meet Sunday to go over what we will all say to him at Monday morning’s National Security Council session. Anything else?”
Brenda Neyers pushed back from the table. “Having nothing else go wrong this week would be good.”
The four leaders of America’s national security apparatus looked quietly at one another and the remnants of their meal. Wallace Reynolds looked up from his half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza. “Or they could just go on destroying our technological edge bit by bit while we try to prove who they are and try to stop them. If they keep going, all we would have left going for us would be our amber waves of grain. That would really piss me off. To say nothing of my boss, upstairs, who will not let that happen.”
2115 EST
The Metropolitan Club,
Washington, D.C.
“Sorry to be late. They kept you waiting in the lobby? You really ought to be a member yourself, you know,” Sol Rubenstein prodded his protégé, as the two men sat down in a secluded corner of the second-floor drawing room. “Founded one hundred fifty years ago next year.”
“Are you kidding? Initiation fees, monthly dues. I don’t make that kind of money anymore, Sol, I’m in the government. You joined when the club was almost new,” Rusty MacIntryre protested. “Besides, its stuffy and aristocratic, and I’m working class and democratic.”
“Well, it is just a block from my downtown office in the White House complex, and the meals aren’t too bad here now. New chef.” Rubenstein settled into a commodious armchair. “And at the White House, all is not well. They were worried about the reelection anyway after Senator George flooded the mall with a million plus people last October protesting stem-cell research, evolution, and genetic engineering. Now, with the internet attacks Sunday and then the terrorist bombing in Arlington…Senator George is going to be able to play the security card. Scare people into voting for him the way Bush did in 2004.”
“Maybe there will be a nice, big crisis to unite the country behind the President. I keep expecting clear signs that China intends to move against Taiwan after the Independence Party got elected,” Rusty said, passing their drink order on a little card to the waiter.
“That was four months ago. So far, no retaliation. Maybe they think their economy would suffer too much from a showdown with Taiwan and us,” Rubenstein suggested.
“You’re the China expert, Sol, but I doubt it.”
“No, you’re probably right. They like to get all the pieces in place first. And we are one of the pieces. If they are going to do something militarily, scare Taiwan or even invade it, they will want us out of the picture first.” Rubenstein stopped as the waiter returned with his Armagnac and Rusty’s Balvenie. “And that’s not likely to happen. The President wants options from the Pentagon and is planning a speech Monday night.”
Rusty sniffed and inhaled the single-malt. “Atritting our comms in the Pacific by sending the commercial satellites off to Uranus fits the pattern of China trying to get us to back off, as does preoccupying us with terrorism against our technological base here at home. Its a form of deniable escalation dominance. It says we know how to get at things that you really value and we can do more unless you stay out of our way.”
Sol Rubenstein, Director of National Intelligence, swirled the brandy. “Armagnac is two centuries older than Cognac. Did you know that? China is two thousand years older than us as a national security bureaucracy. Did I ever tell you about my investigation into their industrial espionage here?”
“There is still a lot you haven’t told me.” Rusty smiled and readied himself to hear another story that he knew could not be found in writing anywhere. It was priceless having Sol as a mentor.
“About seven years ago, I headed up an Intelligence Community team: NSA, FBI, DOD, Homeland—to quietly look into allegations from industry that China was engaged in massive economic espionage, stealing formulas, proprietary information, from U.S. companies. Of course, they were. But how they were doing it was what was most disturbing.” Rubenstein stopped and sighed as he recalled the case. “They had placed Chinese nationals in many of the companies. Smart guys who had graduate degrees from MIT, Stanford. They had also created U.S. companies that supplied parts for sensitive projects and learned all
about the projects. Not so unusual. But then there were companies that they had penetrated where there were no Chinese nationals or front companies in the supply chain.”
“I never heard about this effort,” Rusty admitted. “So how had they gotten into the other companies’ sanctum sanctorum?”
“Well, you weren’t supposed to know about it. Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—we keep secrets. The Chinese had gotten into the other companies through the products that they were using in their computer networks. Things like computer firewalls, intrusion-detection systems, all sorts of gizmos I don’t understand. But I understood this much: They all had parts made in China, sometimes the whole things were even assembled in China. And these gizmos had back doors, Trojan horses, put in their computer code and in the hardware. The U.S. manufacturers never even knew. In one case, they got into software being written in the U.S. by hacking into the U.S. company’s research lab in Shanghai and then tunneling through the company’s own network back into the U.S. headquarters.” Rubenstein gave MacIntyre a bemused look.
Rusty MacIntyre took another sip of the Balvenie and waited for the conclusion to his bedtime story.
“I figured out that it was their station chief here in Washington that was running most of the program, so I had him tailed, harassed by the FBI. The Chinese got the point and recalled him. FBI and DOD went around to the Defense contractors and cleaned things up as best they could. Checked on the supply-chain companies, the Chinese nationals with access to the plants, and the like.
“But we never uncovered the full extent of the back doors. There are probably a lot of back doors still out there in the big telcoms’ switches and internet routers. They were also in the big electrical components and video-surveillance systems. The decision was made that we couldn’t find them all, replace everything. Couldn’t prevent them from reinstalling the Trojans. Big economic cost. Maybe some panic. So there may be a little of it still out there. There may be a lot.” Rubenstein’s eyes were looking at the carved molding along the edge of the high ceiling.
“If I understood what you just said, Sol, Beijing could pull the plug on us anytime they want to?” Rusty asked, sitting up in his chair.
“Possibly.”
“Then why, if they are so deep into our networks, why don’t they just let them keep running and then continue to steal our intellectual property and copy it? Why blow it up instead? I don’t get it,” Rusty asked.
Rubenstein’s eyes met Rusty’s. “Maybe because some things are hard to copy and maybe they think we’re getting too far out ahead of them again technologically. They can do knockoff jeans with a J, not knockoff genes with a G. Or because they are planning to finally solve their Taiwan problem and they want us down for the count while they do. Or because they are not a unitary actor any more than we are. Or because I am wrong. Never exclude that possibility, Mister Director of Analysis.”
Rusty laughed. “I never do, but it’s such a low probability.” He polished off the Balvenie. “If I were the President, thinking about my options with China, I would want to have heard your bedtime story.”
Sol Rubenstein signaled for the waiter to bring another round. “That’s why I was late.”
2115 EST
The Regatta Club
The Charles Hotel
Cambridge, Massachusetts
At seventy-four, Tyner’s fingers glided across the ivory like the fast, cool waters of a rushing brook. The crowd in the packed club seemed to be extensions of his piano, nodding and moving in time with his music. In the dim red light, Jimmy showed Susan to a table stuffed in a corner. Tyner finished a bar and passed off to the drummer, as the crowd applauded. The percussionist began a riff. Susan leaned across the small table and whispered, “Thanks for doing this—we did need a break.”
“Well, I never really got to tell you that I was sorry that Rusty stuck you with me, the one-year-tour guy with no federal experience, unless you count the Marines,” Jimmy Foley replied. “But I can’t say I’m unhappy; I’m learning a lot already. But tell me one thing: Why do you do it? You could be making a bundle in investment banking, like my wife is, or law, or consulting.”
“That’s easy. I like to sleep late,” she admitted. “If I were just working for money, I’d sleep in all the time. This stuff gets me out of bed real early, because it matters. It matters more than just about me and my bank account.”
Jimmy did his little-boy-smile thing. “Yeah, I can see that. Me? I’m just in it for the pension. Get my twenty in, move to Florida, get a young bride, and fish, play golf.”
“You already have a bride!”
“Yeah, she’s my first wife, but she won’t be young by then,” Jimmy said, and chortled.
Susan mouthed a word back at him: “Asshole.” Then his infectious smile caused her to laugh. “Listen, I’m actually glad to have you on this case. I usually do analysis of things overseas, and this is shaping up to be more domestic, at least partially. And I’m really not too good at raiding Russian mob dens.”
“That’s easy. Just let the SWAT guys go first; they love it. They were all linebackers in high school.” Jimmy looked around for the waiter. “But tell me where you see this case going. The way the news guys are talking on TV, if we prove this is China, there could be war. I’ve been to war, and I’m not sure we need another, especially when they got us outnumbered four to one.”
“I didn’t look closely at your file,” Susan admitted. “Iraq?”
“Twice, although I found a way of shortening my second tour by being in a Humvee that hadn’t been fitted with armor yet. Not that I’m at all bitter about civilians sending us off on some wild-goose chase without proper equipment, but don’t get me started,” Foley replied, letting down the always happy guy facade.
“Sounds like we agree about Iraq,” Susan said. “My little brother, who is about five inches taller than me, went there, too. Army doctor. He gets so mad talking about the things he saw in that hospital. You two must be about the same age, thirty-three?”
“I will be in July,” Jimmy admitted. “So you get why I’m not so happy with this assignment of proving China did it, if the result is more guys having to go off to war. I was listening to the news before I came down. Senators and representatives all demanding we do something.”
Susan put her business face on again. “We prove what the evidence tells us, not what the TV and the Pentagon and Congress all assume. We can’t go to war on an assumption, like we did with the WMD. You know, Rusty damn near single-handedly stopped us from going to war with Islamyah. Now they’re one of our biggest allies, cochair with us of the new International Alternative Energy Agency. Even if we prove the Chinese attacked us, there doesn’t have to be war. You can bet back in D.C. Sol and Rusty are plotting how to defuse things.”
“Could be a tall order,” Jimmy Foley replied, “like getting a drink in this place.”
Another round of applause spread across the room as Tyner played his standard, “Just in Time.” Two Balvenies suddenly appeared on the table. As Tyner concluded the set, the room filled with applause and cheers. “Well, that’s an appropriate song title,” Soxster said, pulling a third chair up to the table.
Startled, Jimmy looked across at his new friend. “What the hell? How did you get here?”
The lights in the jazz club came back up. “You call yourself a detective. I’m wearing a waiter’s outfit and carrying two Balvenies and you ask me how I got in? It’s sold out, man, but they never stop someone who is serving drinks. Old trick. Anyway, I think we may be closing in on this thing Just in Time, like the song…” Soxster was talking fast.
Susan was shaking from laughter, more at Jimmy’s reaction and the incongruous circumstances than at Soxster. Finally, she got out, “What’s up, Sox?”
“What’s up Jimmy’s socks is an ankle holster, Walther P99C. Think I didn’t notice, Jim? Anyway…,” the hacker sped ahead, “I’ve been trying to make contact again with any of the guys who got hired off the Net l
ast year, like you asked me, and I found one of them, TTeeLer. He’s got a new handle, but I knew it was him in the secure chat room by an exploit he suggested and the way he explained it to this guy. So I asked him to join me in a private chat and he used TTeeLer’s PGP key, which I already had—”
Foley, who was still recovering from the mood change, interrupted. “So what, man? Get to the bottom line.”
Soxster screwed his face up at Foley. “Dude. Chill. TTeeLer got out because he thinks they’re going to do something, kill a lot of people in March. He’s hiding out, says they’re trying to track him down because he left without permission.”
“Who are ‘they’ Soxster?” Susan asked slowly.
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Okay, where are they?” Jimmy pressed.
“He wouldn’t tell me anything else. Got offline fast once he knew I had figured out he was TTeeLer,” Soxster said, taking Jimmy’s drink.
“Great. Somebody who hired a lot of hackers last year is going to do something sometime this month that will kill a lot of people somewhere. That’s actionable intelligence,” Jimmy grumbled.
“Wait a minute.” Susan waved her hands downward, trying to get the two men to slow down. “Isn’t this the guy you said got hired to keep an eye on the two-niner project in the desert?”
“Yeah, that was TTeeLer,” Soxster replied, and then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. “Yeah. Good memory, Susan, wow! Those PEPs must really work.” Then he polished off Foley’s Scotch. “I put these drinks on your room tab, Jimmy, okay?”
Before he could respond, Susan jumped in, “That does it, Jimmy. While I go to Silicon Valley in the morning, you go to the desert and try to find where this hacker was and what he was up to. They’re going to kill a lot of people,” Susan repeated, “whoever they are.”
“In March,” Jimmy added, looking into his now-empty glass. “And this is already March.”
Breakpoint Page 9
