by John Statton
“That’s fair enough.”
***
Oh. My. God, thought Mariana. Keep doing it…just like that. Sander had kissed his way down from her mouth to cover her full breast with light caresses from his lips, sucking gently on the stiffening nipples, then lower to lick playfully around her belly button that showed the faintest quiver of anticipation as he darted his tongue into its indentation.
Shifting lower still, he gently nuzzled the tops of her thighs, and then timed his light licks up and down her lips with her breathing; a little ahead, a little behind. Mariana sighed with pleasure and contentment as she felt her orgasm build and crest with a sharp intake of breath and a long low cry.
Afterward, she snuggled against him, her long dark hair across his chest, his arm draped over her shoulder. Their desultory conversation that of old, close lovers. He’d just returned from what Mariana mockingly referred to as a treasure hunt.
Sander had been a geocaching enthusiast for as long as she’d known him. It was an outdoor passion that was a real-world hunt. Players navigated to a set of GPS coordinates and tried to find the container hidden there. He was dedicated, and played as often as time permitted.
She recalled him leaving before dawn that morning, seeking out the wilds of Marin County, and venturing on a hike that took him to the top of Mt. Tamalpais before finding the cache. He no doubt entered his name in its logbook, and when he got home this afternoon recorded it on his favorite geocache website. Another success in a pursuit combining navigating the outdoors and unraveling mysteries.
Mariana hugged him warmly and murmured a scrap of poetry from an almost forgotten humanities class, “Here he lies where he longed to be, Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.”
“Hmm, I like being home with you,” came his whispered response. “Hard to find it today. I knew I was in the right place, a very rocky area. Had to turn over a lot of stones before success, sometimes you just have to brute force a problem. No other real clues but the GPS coordinates, and those can be up to nine feet off since the Pentagon requires civilian degradation of their precious military system. Hell, it's our military, why can't they share?”
“Well, I've got something to share.”
“I thought we just shared something.”
“How about something else? I may have just scored a cool job that would make a lot of financial pressure disappear.”
“Wow. That's great. Tell the tale, what's the scoop? You programmers are always going to get the big bucks.”
“While you poor nonprofit lawyer types live in bad apartments, and will never be able to afford women like me.”
“Whoever said I wanted to pay back my student loans? But I'm using my degree to fight the good fight for computers, freedom, and social responsibility.”
“Shut up. Do you want to hear the story or what? Did I tell you I had a meeting with Professor Wainwright the other day?”
“Yeah, so what? He's your advisor. I thought you met with him every week.”
“This one was a bit different. And I need you to swear you won't talk about what I'm going to tell you to anyone, not even Paul.”
“This is sounding ominous. Are we talking about the same professor running the program where we met? Our favorite absent-minded computer geek?”
“Yes, the very same. Do I have your promise? I'm not kidding.”
They disentangled and sat up. Facing each other over a small valley of sheets and blankets, Sander gave his solemn vow with an exaggerated hand motion, “I swear never to tell what you are about to reveal to me, here, now, no matter if they take away my coffee. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Come on,” Mariana said. “It’s not a joke.”
“OK,” Sander responded, the levity gone from his voice, “I promise I'll keep this secret.”
“Good,” Mariana replied, “because I need to talk to someone about it. Our professor is a bit more than a simple geek; he was in the NSA for twenty years before retiring to teach at Berkeley.”
“Wow,” Sander exclaimed, “that's surprising. I see the Fort as the Big Bad in a lot of ways.”
“Yeah, I know. He talked about how things were a lot more black and white when we were locked in the Cold War struggle with the USSR. But that’s not the most exciting part. He's an NSA recruiter now. On the lookout for talent.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“Well, he hooked me up with a new cyber-security company working on NSA black projects. I met its CEO today, and the job sounds fantastic. The part I'm wrestling with is the whole secrecy element. Conversations like this, with anyone, especially you, just won't be able to happen. It’s kind of like stepping behind a curtain. A lot of my life I won't be able to share.”
“If you were seeing anyone else, I'd be concerned. But hey, it’s me. I’ll understand.”
“Very endearing…you idiot. I think we need to think this through, it may be the last time I can ever talk about it with you, and I've already said way too much. On the positive side, it’s impressive work, and I'd be contributing to national security. Keeping this country safe has a real appeal tugging at my heart. You know it’s important to me.”
Sander recalled when she got the horrible news about her parents. He had provided strength to her in the dark months following; it was one of the foundations of their relationship. “Out of curiosity, where is this gig?”
“That's the best part, across the Bay in San Francisco. Maybe not the best part, you’re right, it’s going to pay very well. Want me to buy drinks and dinner in celebration of potential job-hunting success?”
“Would you? I’m starving!”
***
Later that evening, at the faux-pub, aging splendor of the Durant Hotel's Huntley Room, they were joined by Paul, who, wearing a bright red and yellow, hula girl-pattern Hawaiian shirt, settled himself into the booth. Mariana and Sander were sitting close to each other with empty glasses before them.
“Look at that,” he exclaimed, catching the ear of the waitress at the next table, “you are ahead of me!”
The waitress smiled at his comment and sauntered over.
“Oh man, Manhattans! Mariana, ever since you introduced our trio to this fine old tradition, I love those things!” Turning to the waitress, he belted out, “One for all and an extra for me, looks like we’re drinking in celebration of something and avoiding beer.”
“Brilliant, Sherlock. How about indoor voices?” said Sander. “It’s my delight to inform you our lovely Mariana is going to be springing for dinner tonight.”
“Then menus all around as well,” said Paul in a stage whisper loud enough for the back row. The waitress smiled at Paul's enthusiasm and left to take care of the order.
Turning to his two friends, Paul leaned back against the padded upholstery. “Now, what in the name of my big beautiful au-to-mobile is going on?”
Mariana burst out with a bourbon-fueled smile. “You are talking to one of the key employees of NetSecure, which, I just found out today, is destined to be the world's preeminent computer security company.”
“Well, yahoo, darling. That's wonderful! A start-up you say?”
“Not exactly, and you've never heard of the founder, but I met him today and was impressed. Professor Wainwright introduced us.”
“The guy who brought us together knows what he's talking about; look how great it worked out.”
The three friends were introduced as part of an Ethical Hacking interdisciplinary program the professor had chaired several years back. Paul and Sander had already been roommates. A lasting friendship among the three had blossomed from the shared program.
Sander and Mariana went from dating to moving in together, and it seemed natural Paul took the spare bedroom. Since then, there had been a lot of late night beer and bull sessions where the three discussed what the future would be like, especially when they were running things.
Soon the next round of cocktails appeared, and they got do
wn to the important business of looking over the menus. Tonight was going to be a celebration; the future could hold its secrets until tomorrow.
#
Chapter 6
The Set Up
January 2005
In Mariana’s first couple of years with NetSecure, she showed herself to be a prodigy at the keyboard and an excellent team leader. Definitely the top of Mansfield's recruits, which was very rarified air.
She was first among the twenty senior partners who led the company’s black teams. Each partner had varying numbers of operators, depending on their current assignments. The operators were part of a talent pool, and all were skilled hackers. Many had years of experience in working with the three-letter acronym agencies: CIA, DIA, NSA, and FBI. The partners and their operators were the only ones who knew NetSecure’s real mission; the other two thousand staffers were a global computer security company.
Her team had been contributing heavily to NetSecure’s cyber-weapon arsenal. They pioneered breaking into every phone on the market, intercepting an individual's voice and data communications, and scouring the phone's drive for pictures and text. Collectively the group had enough zero-day exploits, trapdoors, phishing techniques, and encryption-breaking code to be able to follow any digital trail.
Their latest project developed technology to split submarine cable fiber-optic lines and capture the data moving across the glass. It was complicated to install, requiring dedicated secure equipment, but it worked like a charm for siphoning off enormous amounts of data entering or leaving a country, and shunting it to the NSA's servers for later threat and commercial analysis.
She’d just overseen its installation in several countries, with friendly telecommunications companies, and was finally back in San Francisco. It had been a long couple of months, and she was bone tired. I’m not too sure about the glamor factor in this job, she mused. I've got a great health plan, but never seem to be able to get a decent vacation.
Snapping back to the meeting she was in and the conversation with Mansfield, she heard, “I'm going to need my best on this, are you with me?” She watched him rise from behind his desk, come around and sit in the other visitor’s chair, looking across at her.
Frankly, the expansive view from the windows behind him captured more of her attention. White sails stippled the Bay against dark green water, and it looked like the Chamber of Commerce had ordered another gorgeous September day, but she forced herself to focus.
“What are you asking?”
He chuckled, “I'd appreciate it if you would install your splitter at a few strategic choke points within the US.”
“I told you years ago, I'm just not that kind of federal-statute-breaking girl,” she playfully answered, never sure if he was being serious or not.
“No, I did not think you were, and wouldn’t ask you to betray your principles. Instead, I’ve something a lot more sensitive to discuss.”
“Great, thanks for the time off between assignments,” she said sarcastically.
“You just would have wasted it on a warm, tropical beach with Sander, and I'd hate for the two of you to get skin cancer. But take a long weekend if you like.”
“All heart, boss. That's what I tell people all the time, you’re just all heart. All right what have you got?”
He reached across to his desk and spun around his monitor, so they could both see the screen. With a couple of clicks, he started a PowerPoint presentation.
“What have you heard about the infiltration of deep cover illegal agents into Western countries by the Soviets during the Cold War?”
“Nothing much. Sounds like things both sides were probably doing, good for recruiting and running agents, useful as saboteurs in wartime.”
“Well, not all of the Russian’s illegals went home at the end of the war. Several had children while they were here; who were the second generation recruited into the family business. These people embedded into the fabric of Western society. When it came time for regime change in Moscow, the new government claimed their loyalty.”
On the monitor, it traced the life of a couple with a child. She watched them age, and the boy turn into a distinguished, charismatic man in his early forties. The pictures were all set in the UK; a boy's cricket match, a family posing in front of Westminster, a young man's graduation from Oxford, an election campaign sign for Nottingham City Council.
Mariana’s eyes grew interested as she recognized the deputy leader of the UK’s Labour Party, David Shepard. She turned to Mansfield in an unspoken question.
He said, “That's our problem; we’ve possibly the most explosive information in the world in our hands. Shepard's likely to be the next prime minister in a little over two years at the next general election. The current Labour leader is stepping down, and there is no reason to think the Conservatives are going to be able to return to power.”
“Jesus, if Russia controls the leadership of the UK, we’re all in deep yogurt. Why not just leak this and let the press solve the problem?”
“It's a method and sources concern. It’s not news we can release in any way, shape or form, just too dangerous to those who gathered it.”
“Is just eliminating Shepard out too?”
“Too high profile. Likewise, we've been handcuffed to not take measures against him; no child porn inserted into his computer, no false financial scandal. It's going to take something very subtle to deal with this one.”
“Obviously, you’ve got tasked, and it’s in our world, what do you have in mind?”
“Yes, well this goes way beyond your garden-variety hack. Today we’re talking about the subversion of governments.”
“What?”
“You heard me; we've got a major challenge in making sure the Conservatives win the next UK general election, to ensure Shepard doesn’t come to power.”
“Are you kidding me? I'm not sure I signed on to thwart the will of a free people.”
“Shepard’s secret subverts that will. They will never know he owes his loyalties to another. What if you knew a secret you could not tell, but not disclosing it could cause other's deaths or lead to war? That's our situation. Wouldn't you try and find another way to prevent a monstrous evil? Even if you had to use tainted means?”
“How sure are you of all of this?”
“It's rock solid. Experienced people went to some considerable risk to vet it. The problem has landed on our desk to solve. We need to find a digital way to subvert the British general election.”
It caused her to pause. Mariana was all right with hacking to support national security, but she was not thrilled to go on the offense against an allied government. Her involvement with NetSecure had sharpened her awareness of how open to subversion the world's digital systems were. Developing such a tool, even for noble purposes, moved her down a very slippery moral slope. From her perspective, all technology was dual use, allowing for good and evil purposes.
Mansfield sensed her unease. He returned to his chair behind the desk and looked at her. “This is the plan we've been asked to implement. I've got to know, is it going to be a problem for you?”
She instantly understood the question was as much about her career as this assignment. She was deep enough into the dark world to know she did not want to return to a vanilla existence. She took the moral high ground Mansfield had offered to justify her decision and backed down gracefully. “No. Shepard needs to be taken down, let me get my team on it.”
“One more thing, this is important, I'm loaning you one of the Mossad's best coders to assist, Boris Kunstler. We need to build a closer relationship with them, and I want you to take him in and make him part of the family. He's got full clearance, but I expect him to share as much as we do.”
“All right, anything else, Master?”
“No, just get it done, Mariana. We need your deft hand on this. I don't want to be too melodramatic, but an entire nation's free future depends on your success.”
Or maybe my failure, she thoug
ht as she left his office.
***
“Hey, are you going to pick up Boris at the airport?” Mariana asked as she threw a ball of paper at Scott Chu. He sat at a desk across the spacious room. Her team had dubbed their space the Hall of Justice. The rest were due to assemble within the hour.
Scott was in his late twenties, with a bit of a hipster look, and had been with her almost from the beginning. Upon being told to assemble her first team, she sought him out and begged him to join. His talents had upgraded from Windows to an unparalleled knowledge of the UNIX operating system and its variations.
NetSecure held an informal annual competition among its cyber-warriors to find who had the most successful, challenging or spectacular hacks. Scott was a sizeable part of why Mariana’s team had won it last year, and the smart money favored them to do so again this year. She and the rest of her group were the top guns in a very competitive field.
He batted the paper ball away with one of the empty cans of Red Bull littering his desk. “Man, I'm hitting better than anyone in the Giants lineup! I got the pick-up timed; I'll get a text when his passport scans. He won't get his luggage until I'm waiting for him outside. Who is this mysterious stranger anyway?”
“Help. We’re going to need it on this next one. It's going to stretch us, and Mansfield thought a little out-of-town assistance could come in handy. We want to make a positive impression, let’s go easy, OK?”
She just got a goofy grin in return.
Mariana did not even blink at Scott using Immigration’s computer systems as his personal pager; US government systems were open fields to the team. But she was concerned about his ability to delay the luggage. Scott, at times, got a little playful.
She turned her coldest stare on him and with index finger emphasis said, “Never. Ever. Fuck with my luggage. Understand?”
His grin remained.
