by Bradley West
“Now you’re just being thick. Stuxnet is a brand. It’s the Tiffany of cyberespionage. I called it ‘Stuxnet 3.0’ in the briefing to the President to assure him it would be equally impactful. Back home at NSA it’s just Acapulco. No one but us cares whether it's Stuxnet or Duxnet,” said Weill.
“Well, you’d better pick up the pace. Billy Perkins will tear off your balls if you tell him something he already knows after you told him something he didn’t know, but should have.”
“Then let’s get to it. One year ago, the Project Acapulco team finished an intricate software program with several twists never before seen. The worm monitors all comms in China’s backup coastal command and control networks. Mostly radars, both offensive and defensive, but it also taps into their acoustical sub-tracking array. Everything passing through the network gets copied and fed to NSA dark servers. It’s not real-time, but otherwise it’s the keys to the castle. I have all the details in the appendices that the Admiral’s propeller-heads can look at later.”
“Yeah, but the problem was that we injected the Acapulco worm into their backup C2 network, not the main one. We couldn’t break into the big fella. So long as the main system was online, we were outta luck.”
“Precisely. In early 2013, the FBI discovered Mark Watermen copying everything and anything classified Top Secret and above that he could get his hands on. Presumably the Admiral wasn’t in on the decision to salt Watermen’s trove with fabricated files of our own design.
“There were three problems. First, Watermen had to believe that he was stealing authentic docs. We had to spread them far and wide in the hope that the little traitor would find them on his own. Second, we had to ensure he ended up in China’s custody so that they would take his data. This angle cost us two million dollars to buy off one of the journalists in Watermen’s cabal. Third, the false docs had to be subtle. China’s Ministry of State Security is as clever as we are, and twice as suspicious. If they thought they were being fed misinformation, we would have given away a lot of legit NSA secrets, let a traitor escape and made ourselves out to be villains in the global press for nothing in return.
“There’s real artistry behind the presentations and papers we worked up. Late last night, I pulled a handful samples we can show to Perkins. In combination, the Chinese could reasonably conclude that we had compromised their primary defense C2 network. If so, the logical next step would be to switch to the backup.”
Weill grinned. “And then we’d have them.”
“Earlier this year the information started trickling in, meaning a switchover had taken place. NSA is now processing far more information than ever. I’m told we’ve discovered a couple of nuggets already. Our friends at the Pentagon are jumping for joy.”
“Yeah, but since the Agency didn’t know the source of the new Intel, after two months of stalling, the Director of Central Intelligence went ballistic and we are on the carpet Monday morning,” Weill said with a hint of dread.
“Provided the Admiral doesn’t walk out when he realizes we’ve given the Information Operations Center at the Agency the mushroom treatment since early 2012, we’ll ask him to devote IOC resources to create smoke around Acapulco. We need China’s counterintelligence distracted if our worm will remain undetected for long.”
“And we ask Perkins to put Watermen up for a medal for making it all possible.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Twenty minutes to present, and ten for Q&A,” Weill said.
“I wish we had Bob Nolan helping us out here. He’s a good big picture man—”
Weill laughed. “Remember Nolan’s briefing of that tight-ass Head of the Mossad and DCI Hayden? He was supposed to take fifteen minutes—”
“And he went on for over an hour,” Gregory finished. “The DCI was so pissed off, he was going to have Nolan parking cars at the Langley Multiplex. Then the Mossad’s top man called Hayden and said, ‘Thanks to your man’s excellent briefing, we’re in.’”
“And Nolan got a medal, a promotion and ended up in cushy Singapore. Oh, man, what a crazy world. Why doesn’t good stuff like that ever happen to the NSA?”
Gregory shook his head in disbelief. “Bob Nolan, the luckiest son of a bitch I ever met.”
CHAPTER SIX
BACK AND BLACK
SUNDAY, MARCH 9, RANGOON AND EINME, BURMA
The lukewarm shower sputtered. No matter: It still felt great to wash away the dirt and blood. Water couldn’t wash away the family photos in Teller’s pocket, however. At Double Llama Trading, the ex-Ranger had flipped between bluster and swift brutality. Perhaps Teller’s lethal days were over. And maybe Hell had frozen over. Out of the shower, Nolan brushed his wet hair and looked in the mirror. A salt-and-pepper mane, bushy gray mustache and a face that looked a few years younger than the number on his odometer. He still had well-defined muscles, but also love handles. Hard mountain biking rides had battled copious red wine consumption to a draw.
Nolan planned to find Sally for clean clothes, but decided instead to lie down for five minutes to clear his head. Forty minutes later, Ryder shook him awake. “Get dressed, big guy. You’ve got a refresher course out back in five.”
He stumbled downstairs where sidearms were waiting. After a few tries Nolan was back in touch with the basics. He hoped the first seventeen rounds would be enough. Yet Ryder was insistent: “Take this spare mag. I’m bringing five with me, so you can manage the extra one.”
The Glock nestled into a belt holster that jutted off Nolan’s hip. “I feel like the new deputy just before Indio’s gang rides into town.”
Ryder shared his affinity for Clint Eastwood Westerns and said, “When you go into the saloon, be sure to strike a match on the hunchback’s stubble.” Nolan smiled in the dark.
The crew geared up, dark coveralls over black body armor being the first order of business. Cloth panels secured with Velcro hid the bright yellow letters D-E-A. Someone had set up a table laden with radio handsets, night-vision goggles, sidearms, SCARs and boxes of 7.62mm and 9mm cartridges. A second table held jumpsuits, Kevlar vests, hats, gloves and face paint. It looked like Ryder’s work, trying to turn a DEA op into the SEAL Team-6 raid on bin Laden’s Abbottabad compound.
Seconds apart, the Toyota pickup and a white SUV rolled to a stop out back. Gonzalez emerged on the trot with several rolled tubes. Hecker was off to the side on his cell phone. He disengaged and looked up. “Travis, Bob, upstairs.”
Back in the conference room, it was clear Hecker had been busy. “Millie’s files don’t have incriminating information other than those aerial photos of Airstrip One. There’s a thin printout on Golden Elephant that doesn’t even mention Toffer/Teller. The pieces on the late Opium King Khun Sa, Shan State and China’s encroachment are irrelevant. Millie’s amateur analyses of the photos don’t do additional damage. Nothing there to justify Teller going berserk.”
Looking up, Hecker said, “You might have been paranoid thinking the clinic was staked out when you drove past.”
Nolan's voice adopted the slightest edge. “Millie used a marker to circle the new building she spotted on the last fuzzy photo in my packet. From what I saw, it’s a well-hidden structure. She wrote the GPS coordinates on the back. If there is—or was—something valuable in that building, Teller will be coming after anyone who can identify either him or the airstrip.”
Hecker and Ryder exchanged looks: Nolan was seeing monsters under the bed.
As Hecker spread out the 1:50,000 maps, Nolan saw roads and rivers snaking across the Irrawaddy Delta, and nothing but grass and swamp where the runway should be.
“How old are these?”
“About six years,” Gonzalez replied. “I pasted a dot here where the GPS coordinates show your building.”
Hecker leaned over, and with a red felt marker inked in the runway, holding up the last of Millie’s aerial shots as a guide. He used the marker as a swagger stick. “Pay attention, people. We’ll drive past Airstrip One to the nor
th and come around from the west, well away from where Bob was. We’ll park around here and hike in after we put security in place. Travis, I want you on the highest ground with that Mark 20 SCAR sniper rifle. I’ll run comms and spot for you.
“If there’s no one on-site, we’ll dig under the fence and look at that building. If there’s anyone around, our first priority will be to observe. Second, we want to collect evidence. Probably infrared photos, but maybe something we can carry off as well. Third, we need to get out without being spotted.
“To that end, our old friend Police Major Zaw now commands the Irrawaddy State police force and he’s based in Einme. He’s coming and will have six to eight men with him. We’ll join up when we arrive at the rally point. They’ll escort us to the airstrip and set up roadblocks on either end of the access road.
“If it makes you feel better, they’ll have a bipod-mounted GPMG and a thousand rounds of ammo. And no, Travis, you can’t bring that with you up the hill.”
Everyone laughed as Ryder shook his head. “I should have married you when I had the chance.” Hecker smiled, all teeth and lips, his stare telling Ryder not to doom this operation with SEAL heroics.
Nolan located the two likely spots the Hyundai might be found, both where the southern road crossed creeks. Gonzalez worked out the approximate coordinates of the first one and punched them into another handheld GPS.
“Take this second map. It’s smaller scale but still shows your road. Let me mark the airstrip and the creeks, too.” Nolan thanked Gonzalez.
By the time the four men came back downstairs, the three vehicles were ready to go. Zeya looked like a ninja as he showed off his black balaclava with the rest of his getup. Ryder gave him a high fist bump as they passed.
Nolan didn’t recognize the driver of the Toyota. Dara appeared to be a kid of about twenty-two, with the high cheekbones of a non-Burmese tribesman. Nolan gave him the roadmap and showed him the landmarks. In return, Nolan got back his Amex card and an inflated receipt from the hotel.
“I’ll join you at the rendezvous outside Einme. Sam wants to speak with me on the way.”
Dara nodded and started the Toyota. A split jute sack now covered the passenger seat, and substantial amounts of blood had been smeared over the vinyl door interior during efforts to remove it. How on earth would Nolan explain this to the farmer? He hoped the last hundred-dollar bill would do the trick.
Ryder ensured the surplus weapons and gear were divided between the two SUVs, dumping in a few last-minute additions. “Flash bangs and smoke grenades,” he said with the sound of a grin carrying through the dark.
Hecker gave the sign to mount up. Nolan sat in the back seat, joined by Ryder. Gonzalez and Zeya rode in the second SUV, driven by someone new to Nolan. They ghosted out of the gate with only parking lights on. If they drove like hell maybe they could be in Einme in a couple of hours.
“Do you need me to talk through anything?” Nolan asked.
“Not really. You should get some sleep. But I’m curious. Toffer/Teller has your phone. Aren’t there bank accounts or other personal info you’re worried about him gaining access to?”
“Not a problem. That phone’s locked up tight. Teller won’t be able to read it, unless he gives it to the NSA for a week.”
“Well, Mark Watermen has some spare time on his hands.” Ryder’s joke drew smiles. Watermen was an NSA IT and security expert turned whistleblower, leaker and fugitive. He was exiled in a Moscow apartment, having been given a one-year asylum by Vladimir Putin. Many Americans considered Watermen a hero for disclosing the extent of the NSA’s spying on US citizens. The majority thought him a traitor.
The DEA men ran through their checklist. It turned out they'd left their infrared lenses at Dubern Park, rendering their camera gear useless at night. Hecker overrode the request to go get the optics. The caravan got rolling, parking lights barely illuminating the vehicles until they were well away.
Ryder partially unrolled their best map and examined the various roads abutting Airstrip One. Hecker said, “Save that for later. Zaw’s people know the area well. What I need you to do now is fingerprint Bob.”
Nolan was half asleep. “Huh? Fingerprint me? For what?”
“I need you to dust the door handle where Toffer/Teller opened it, and the hood, too, around Kyaw’s bloodstain. See if you can lift prints. We’ll need Kyaw’s and your fingerprints for screening purposes. If we can get a positive ID on Teller, that would help.”
“Help? Help where? There’s no extradition treaty between the US and Burma, or Thailand and Burma. And he already admitted to me that he’s Robin Teller. So why do you need his prints?”
“There’s what you know and what you can prove. If Matthews is shielding Toffer/Teller, the first question I’ll be asked is where is the proof of identity? Being able to show that Toffer is Teller will make Langley and the Pentagon pay attention. Rangoon is a long way from the home office. You wouldn’t believe the shit that goes on out here.”
“Yeah, and we’re in the middle of some of it right now,” Ryder said.
“Great. Just what I need: almost fifty-five and added to the DEA’s global drug fingerprint database.” With a sigh, Nolan accepted the briefcase-sized kit.
“The instructions are inside. It’s pretty easy as long as the wind isn’t blowing,” Hecker offered. “Do the best you can. At worst, don’t touch anything, drive back to the rally point and we’ll handle it. However, a dust storm or rain on the way wouldn’t be good.”
Nolan woke up when the vehicles stopped. It wasn’t even four o’clock. They had flown down the main road. His mouth tasted like roadkill, and his neck had a couple of new cricks to accompany the aches in his feet, knees and legs. His torn clothes still stank. He added the Getting Old Ain’t for Wimps bumper sticker to his mental shopping list.
Hecker and Ryder bounded out to exchange hugs and handshakes with Zaw. He was quite a sight: aviator Ray-Bans, yellow polo shirt, gold watch and khaki pants accentuating his muscular 5’8” frame. The police major could have been Ryder’s Burmese twin, only fifteen years older. Zaw’s men weren’t dressed in uniform and the cars were private. Hecker was cashing in favors.
Nolan followed Gonzalez’s lead by sliding coveralls over his existing clothes and finding a dark ball cap to round off the ensemble. He passed on the body armor, gloves and SCAR. Just having a 9mm automatic hanging off his belt made him feel like a sham. What’s an old geek doing packing a Glock? Hell, he was still on vacation. The entire scene was surreal. He should have been carrying a paintball gun at a preretirement boys’ weekend on Phuket.
Hecker, Ryder and the major concluded their discussion over the hood of the Range Rover with lots of gesticulations. Nolan reconfirmed that the rendezvous point was this spot at six o’clock. Any trouble, get on channel nine of the walkie-talkies Gonzalez had handed out.
“Don’t forget this,” Ryder said as he handed across a GPS unit. “Gonzalez entered the shed coordinates, the first possible Hyundai location and the rally point here at this vacant lot. Are you sure you’ll be OK? I can give you Zeya.”
Nolan said, “You need every swinging dick in the field.”
“Thanks. We do at that."
“How about an escort from a couple of Zaw’s men?”
“While you slept, Hecker and I talked it over. If Teller or his people spot either the pickup or the embassy car with a police escort, there will be a ruckus. We think you’re safer flying solo. Besides, there’s less to explain to Zaw this way. We want to keep you out of the spotlight given that Teller has already threatened your family. If you get into trouble, call and we’ll come pronto.”
He exhaled. Ryder was right. More to the point, Zaw was helping out as a favor to Hecker. Police Major Zaw didn’t know Bob from Adam. If the shit hit the fan, that deniability would be a good thing. “Makes sense,” he said.
Nolan shuffled over to the Toyota, nodded at Dara and eased onto the burlap shrouded seat, letting out a sneeze as he di
d. The car smelled like a slaughterhouse. How the hell would he explain this? That last hundred-dollar bill wouldn’t suffice, though he had a wallet full of kyat as well. He told Dara to head for the spot he’d marked on Gonzalez’s map. They were already through Einme, the roads even blacker than on the first dash back to Rangoon.
The first creek was dry and lacked a house over the bridge. They kept driving and crossed the second bridge. A handful of flashlight beams revealed people standing around. The cinderblock home was burned to the ground and still smoking. There was a smoldering shell out back: the Hyundai. So much for needing a fingerprint kit.
He’d seen enough bodies in Ramadi to recognize the pugilistic poses people assumed when they’d been burned alive. Three corpses lay captured in the Toyota’s mismatched headlights. Someone threw another bucket of water on the ashes of the house, steam rising. It was a scene from Hell. People started walking toward them, perhaps recognizing the pickup as the flashlight beams sought out the driver and passenger.
“Go, Dara! Get out of here!” For the second time that night wheels spun on damp gravel as they headed back the way they’d come. Nolan ducked down to try to avoid being pegged as a white man. Bad enough that they were driving the dead farmer’s rig. Who was that third body? Had that couple had a child or a relative with them when Teller’s gunmen had arrived? How had they found this place so soon?
Of course! Outside the infirmary, Teller’s men had made the license plates on the Toyota, and had come to the registered address to find out more. Why hadn’t he thought of that before they’d switched vehicles? He’d just killed that poor family with his stupidity.
“Pull over! Cut the lights.” Nolan staggered out and knelt on the road shoulder, where he vomited. Back in the car, he rinsed, spat, and wiped his eyes as they resumed their flight. He recalled the last time he’d puked. It was outside Prentice Dupree’s apartment in Johor Bahru, southern Malaysia. Nolan’s meaningful job responsibilities had vanished eighteen months ago, shortly after the night in question. The CIA’s version was that he snapped when Malaysia-based programmer Prentice Dupree turned up dead. Responsible for ensuring that the death scene indicated a suicide, Nolan purportedly rearranged the evidence to point instead toward a CIA-led murder. Ironically, the Malaysia coroner returned a verdict of suicide. The wolves had had it out for him ever since.
