The Russian Crisis

by G. R. Daniels

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jackson had enough of JPI for the day. It was getting late in the afternoon and he had accomplished little at the office. He visited with Payne for a few minutes. Poking his head into Fred Nbodo’s office, he asked about Fred’s family and smiled at the answer. He waved at Carmen Flores as he passed by her office to find her door open. She looked at him without a wave but with a crooked grin at the pile of work on her desk.

  He made three telephone calls before leaving the building. Two hours later, Jackson Phillips pulled his Audi up to the gatehouse of a small gated community in King City, on the northern outskirts of the Greater Toronto Area or GTA. It was a region of ice cream shops, hobby farms and large rural lots with mansions. Homes in gated communities were in the five million range each and two of the houses in one community belonged to Barry Tenant and Jean Villeneuve.

  Barry and Jean were JPI’s lead security software developers. Each had several advanced degrees in computer engineering and design. Each was an expert programmer as well as developer of some of the world’s most advanced software. Much of their work was in surveillance software. Their workplaces were deep in the offices and labs of the Machine Learning Defence & Targeting division of JPI. Jackson had asked each of them to go home long before their usual quitting times so he could meet them in private.

  He parked his SUV in the driveway of Jean’s substantial house. A few seconds later, Mariah drove up in her new Hyundai Kona, a small SUV. Jackson waited for the young PR woman to get out of her car, grab a backpack from the rear of the vehicle and join him on the doorstep. He pressed the buzzer. Three cameras focused on the front door area swivelled to capture three different views of Jean’s visitors.

  A voice emerged from a hidden speaker as Jackson heard thunks of individual locks being opened. “Push and enter.” Jackson pushed and the door swung open.

  Jean and Barry were already in the living room, a beautifully-decorated room that, like Jackson’s cottage, ended in large windows, these overlooking a well-tended garden and lawn. Jackson knew the house and property were equipped with a battery of high-tech security systems.

  Mariah was wowed by the home, so much larger and better furnished than her 1,000 square foot condo in the heart of Toronto. “This is outworldly,” she enthused.

  Jean and Barry rose from leather and chrome chairs and held out their hands to Jackson and Mariah. “Welcome, folks,” said Jean with a broad smile. Her face was animated and each time Jackson saw the woman, he was struck by her visual energy and the sheer loveliness of her face. Jean was a technology genius pushing 50, single and childless. Jackson wondered, for the hundredth time, what this woman had given up for his company and her profession.

  Barry, on the other hand, looked every minute of his 60 years and every bit a nerd. He peered out from behind rimless glasses and from under wisps of white hair on his head. He hadn’t shaved in several days. He wore a blue, white and red plaid shirt and jean shorts and his bony legs ended in white sweat socks pushed into unlaced Nike running shoes. His handshake was weak and perfunctory. Jackson reflected that looks could indeed be deceiving. Barry was every bit as smart as Jean and that made him a hell of lot sharper, technology-wise, than Jackson and the rest of his executive team put together.

  The group organized themselves with Jean and Barry in their chairs and Jackson and Mariah side-by-side on a dark red sectional sofa, facing the software gurus.

  “Hello, Mariah,” Barry opened the conversation, with a questioning look at Mariah that was then refocused on Jackson.

  “She’s cleared six ways from Sunday,” Jackson assured Barry. Jean nodded but Barry kept his skeptical look for a moment.

  “Okay,” he muttered slowly. He didn’t mix much with the non-techies at JPI.

  “How do you know everything has been comprised?” Jackson was all business.

  Jean took over and spelled out their discovery. She explained that she and Barry had run a major ‘risk assessment’ within MLD&T, a thorough audit of the systems designed and programmed by the division. The assessment involved pressure testing that Jean termed “extreme” of every entry point to each of their marketed systems as well as JPI’s own operating system. The assessment was meant to test and block every conceivable attack on any of the software.

  “We use machine code, of course, but all that is based on the original source code.” She was talking directly to Mariah. One thing we checked, however, was the security of our archives and, particularly, our proprietary source code.

  Barry cut in. “It was a complex job in itself. The source code includes a pile of things. We have our Web User Interface. You know, the HTML, style sheets all that. There’s Backend Code. Our Database with all the data. Even third-party libraries, for god’s sake. So, our third parties would be compromised too.” He paused for breath.

  “Hold it,” said Jean, making the ‘Time Out’ signal with her hands. “Too much detail. It would take days to explain it all. Jackson, you are familiar with the basics,” she said with a grin that implied that even the former CEO couldn’t ‘get’ the technologies Barry and she could discuss. “Sorry, Mariah, but you’re a newcomer…”. Mariah threw up her hands and made a funny face, accepting the critique in good spirits.

  “So,” Jean continued. “The assessment took weeks. I forget how many.”

  “Four weeks, three days and 5 hours, without the minutes,” Barry interjected with an expressionless look on his grizzled face. Jean glanced at her work partner with a tolerant look.

  She told Jackson and Mariah how the separate systems that made up the product of the division had fared in the assessment and talked a little of the steps they took to block attacks that were identified in the risk-finding process.

  “There was a big one. Not in the marketable stuff but in our own system. I won’t get into it except to say it involved something like a ‘vault.’

  Mariah looked at Jean quizzically. “A vault? You mean like a password vault?” Mariah referred to an application that could be opened with a single master password. But the vault generated and stored distinct passwords for each site, application and system within it. The master password was so strong, it couldn’t be discerned without a Kray computer working for a century to crack it, Jean boasted.

  “Our vault was far ahead of anything you could buy on the market but the idea is the same.”

  “And…” Jackson prompted her. “What happened to your great and wonderful vault.”

  Barry scowled; his first change of expression since Jean began her soliloquy. “Let me, Jean,” he held out a hand facing his colleague. “We’re not talking hacking,” he said defensively. “We had to give up the new master password we had created after the assessment.”

  “What the hell?” Jackson turned on Barry. “What does that mean, Barry. You know the importance of…”. Barry turned the hand toward Jackson and Phillips stopped dead.

  “Of course, we know, Jackson. We had to give it up. We had no choice. He said he would fire us…” Barry shrugged. “We can get jobs in a minute anywhere we want,” he said quite factually. “But we have a lot invested in JPI.” He looked shocked for a moment. “Not money,” he hurried to correct himself. “The software. The stuff we built…”

  Jackson smiled warmly and reached out to touch Barry’s bare knee. “I know what you mean, Barry. I felt the same way. Still do.”

  “But you left and he arrived.”

  “Who, Barry?” asked Mariah.

  “You know who,” said Jean

  “Max?”

  “Yep, Double X,” Barry said in a resigned tone. He used the nickname for Maxim Blax that had become common among JPI employees. “We had to give him the master password. Took it out of the real safe - not the ‘Vault’ - in the secure room we have at JPI.”

  Jackson leaned forward. “How do you know our stuff was stolen?”

  Jean resumed. “It wasn’t hard. “We found the master password had been used to get into the system. We don’t sus
pect Max used it but his carelessness may have let someone steal it. We think someone then entered our source code caches, possibly through a maintenance computer directly to servers. The thief copied all source code from one division. We can track these downloads from the servers.”

  “Oh, god,” said Mariah breathlessly. “Our proprietary source code is one of our closest held secrets.

  “Yes,” said Barry and Jean in unison. “And, said Jean, “because everything comes from the source, an enemy could redevelop all our solutions. It would just take time.”

  “Or countermeasures to all our solutions,” Barry added. “Our defensive solutions become porous. Again, it just takes time. Maybe up to a year. But we planned to keep the current version of our software going well past that.”

  Jackson felt a rush of sympathy for the tech geniuses. Then, he hardened. “Christ, Jean. You mean the password Blax took did this? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, no,” Barry cut in. “We can’t say Blax used the password. There’s no proof.”

  Jackson turned in shock to the man. “Blax took your password. Who else would have access?”

  “That’s just it,” said Jean, tired but patient. “There is no proof Blax used the password at all. We have no idea who did. But whoever it was had to have used that password.”

  Barry jumped in. “Again, it is extremely complicated and I won’t get into it. But, access to the servers is the only way we can figure it was done. And if we say it’s the only way, then it was the only way.”

  “Couldn’t Blax have done that?” Mariah looked at Barry.

  He countered with a strange look but finally answered. “Yes… and no.” Mariah frowned. “Yes, he could have gotten into the area - he was one of very few, including us, who could get past security after six checks. No, there is no proof he did that either. It is all a total mystery.”

  “Who else could get in?” Mariah pushed.

  Barry was annoyed but a nod from Jackson worked on him. “Jean and me. Of course, Blax, Brownley, Fred Nbodo and Carmen Flores. That’s all the execs. Technicians get in, of course, but only in pairs and with a security person present all the time. Everyone keeps precise records and we can’t see them doing this with it being an impossible conspiracy.”

  The conversation went on for half an hour but went in a circle. The bottom line was that someone used the master password in an unknown way to steal material from JPI. The theft was certain and the material stolen was known down to the last line of code. The thief remained a mystery as did any means of uncovering him, her or them.

  The group broke up finally, in frustration, and Jackson and Mariah departed in their vehicles as Jean and Barry remained, with little hope, to go over the mess one more time.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Phillips had worked for decades for CSIS, the Canadian intelligence service, as well as in the military. He knew a tail when he saw one. He had picked it up when he drove out of the JPI garage earlier in the day. He saw it again, leaving the King City gated village. It was a black, old model Ford Mustang.

  ‘Idiots,’ said Jackson to himself. He wondered what kind of fools would drive such a conspicuous car on a surveillance job. He had already gone through the possible identities of his followers.

  He dismissed Brownley; JPI’s security man had struck him as a man of integrity devoted to the company. Besides there was nothing to be gained in Brownley keeping track of him. He had only to ask Jackson what he was doing and where he was going. Hell, Brownley could have driven along with Jackson.

  The tail could only be the software thief or, more likely, someone working for the thief. Or, as a third thought, the tail could be someone working for the buyer of the purloined code.

  Who would have the wherewithal to pay for that software haul? And who would be able to use it? Jackson went through the possible buyers. The lists boiled down to competitors or to a military of a foreign country. The latter made more sense. A foreign state would be quite happy with the ability to copy or defeat the software of JPI clients.

  Jackson reasoned that even if JPI reported the theft to its clients, the software was being used in a number of forms by many armed forces. They wouldn’t be able to use the software once alerted that control could be wrested from them on the battlefields around the world. The military units wouldn’t be able to hold maneuvers or drills employing the software from JPI. The company would be ruined, not just the division but the whole enterprise.

  But, if JPI didn’t confirm and report the software theft, it would be doing a huge disservice to its clients and the fallout would be the same or worse when clients were matched exactly in their digital defensive and offensive security abilities. What if all defenses were countered? Jackson could envision scores of deaths of troops and destruction of military equipment and even bases if JPI products were compromised.

  The only chance JPI had of fixing this mess was to find the stolen software before it could be used by enemies. It was a very small chance but it was all Phillips and his new team could hope for.

  Jackson checked the Mustang again. It was several cars behind in the heavy traffic on Airport Road, his route back to the city. Jackson spotted the coffee shop on the opposite side of the road, across from the massive property of the Lester B. Pearson International Airport. He came to a traffic light and made the U turn taking him to the eatery. He parked in the small lot.

  There was a string of people on a small berm at the edge of the lot and lining the roadway. The people were plane-spotters, armed with cameras and binoculars. They would watch and record the landings of plane after plane which flew over the shop and lot as they headed for Pearson’s runways a few hundred yards away.

  Phillips went to the rear of his SUV and opened the rear cargo compartment door with a wave of his foot under the bumper. He reached into a plastic box of tools he kept in the storage area. After a bit of rummaging, he came up with a two-inch wide, iron prybar about the length of his forearm. He also took out a can of wheel cleaning foam.

  He tucked the can into the pocket of his jacket. He shoved the prybar into the sleeve of his shirt under his jacket. He took hold of the curved end of the bar. It fitted well into his hand which kept the bar in place along the bottom of his arm. While he was retrieving the things, the black Mustang had driven into the lot and parked as far away from his Audi as possible.

  Jackson closed his car’s rear door with a button at its bottom rim and walked purposefully toward the Mustang. There were two men in the front seats of the Mustang and no one in the rear seats.

  Jackson used his left hand to tap on the driver’s window. The driver, a swarthy man with a two-day beard, looked surprised as he saw Jackson standing outside. Jackson tapped again and the window slid down.

  “Yeah. Whaddya want,” the driver asked in a guttural voice.

  “Having fun following me, pal?”

  The man in the passenger seat leaned toward Jackson, across the driver’s right shoulder. “We’re not following you, pal.” He emphasized the last word. “Just grabbing a coffee…”

  “Screw you,” the driver muttered and started to roll up the window. Jackson grabbed the top of the window as it rose and pulled it outward with his hand. The window broke with a loud cracking noise.

  “Goddamned you,” the driver yelled and opened the door of the car. Jackson stayed put and the driver began pushing against the door to move Jackson back. Jackson took two steps back and the driver catapulted onto the surface of the lot as the door opened full width. The man ended up on hands and knees on the paved surface.

  The passenger, meanwhile, opened his door and stepped from the Mustang. He moved to the front of the car. “Okay, old man. You asked for it.”

  Jackson pulled the can of spray out of his pocket, hand on the trigger. He pressed and a stream of thick foam hit the driver’s face.

  “Acid,” Jackson barked. The man began pawing at the foam and screamed “Get it off.”

  Jackson kicked out with one
foot and caught the driver, as he was rising, with a shoe to his left temple. The man collapsed, his nose crunching into the ground.

  The passenger was a taller man than the driver. He had white skin the colour of a fish belly and had a shaved bald head. He wore a work shirt and jeans. Jackson looked him over but didn’t see a weapon. He waited, standing over the driver with a nonchalant stance.

  The passenger suddenly rushed toward Jackson. “I’ll bust you open, Phillips,” the attacker yelled.

  Jackson waited until the passenger was a yard away. As the man swung his clenched fist, Jackson raised his right arm and the fist connected with it.

  “Ahhhh.” Jackson’s assailant screamed in pain as his fist slammed into the iron bar hidden in Jackson’s shirt sleeve.

  Jackson dropped his arm, allowing the bar to slide down his arm until the bottom end landed in his hand. He took a firm hold of the bar and swung it into the elbow of the attacker. The man had been holding one hand with the other and gasping in pain. Now he used his injured hand to try to grasp his elbow. He screamed again.

  Jackson swung his arm again, this time toward the ground. The solid bar hit the side of the driver’s knee as the man tried again to rise from the pavement. The driver collapsed again and lay prone on the filthy surface of the lot, his face still covered in grey foam.

  Jackson addressed the passenger who was now leaning against the side of the Mustang groaning in agony. “Who are you working for?”

  The man grunted unintelligibly. “What was that?” Jackson’s voice was calm and almost friendly.

  “… yourself,” Jackson heard the man say.

  “Same to you, pal. Tell your boss that if he gets you to try this again, I won’t be so charitable.” Jackson shoved the prybar into his sleeve again to hide it from passers-by. He looked at the passenger in scorn. “Amateur.”