01-01-00

by R. J. Pineiro

  “Oui, monsieur, and he will deliver again. This time his results will benefit us directly.” Like La Fourche, Henri Jourdain was equally motivated to use his last days in power to set up his future. Jourdain, as well as several other close friends of the minister, would all be politically banished following La Fourche’s downfall.

  The minister locked eyes with the DGSE chief. “He can not fail us, or we lose everything.”

  “He will deliver, monsieur, regardless of the cost. And then we will have the power to name our own price. Many countries will pay dearly for the code. We will be set for life.”

  Exhaling heavily, the fourth most powerful man in France returned his attention to the windows, to the presidential palace, to the lush gardens leading to the Champs-Élysées, to a country that would soon betray him, outcast him, disgrace him. As Henri Jourdain left the office, a passing cloud momentarily blocked the noon sun. The elder official watched it in silence.

  Chapter Six

  000110

  December 13, 1999

  Susan Garnett sipped coffee while waiting for the guards to escort Hans Bloodaxe to one of the visitor’s rooms at the Haynesville Correctional Institute in northern Virginia, just an hour’s drive from Washington, D.C.

  Windowless walls of peeling off-white paint washed by the grayish glow of fluorescents surrounded the FBI analyst as she contemplated the single metal door. A metal table bolted to the concrete floor stood in the center of the room. A steel hook had been secured to the table with thick bolts. Susan eyed it, momentarily wondering its purpose, while sitting on one of four metal chairs nervously crossing and uncrossing her legs. The murderer of her family would soon walk through that door and Susan feared that she would not be able to contain her deep-rooted hatred for that man.

  She set the cup of coffee on the table and shook her head in amazement. Exactly what are you doing here, Sue? What do you expect to accomplish?

  Leads, clues, suggestions, anything! Troy Reid had shouted before sending her off to Haynesville. Just be sure to come back with something to keep this investigation alive! The White House is on our asses demanding answers!

  She took a deep breath and checked her watch. Almost five o’clock. The virus would strike in another three hours and she had no idea what to do different from the day before to learn something new. Her software traps were already deployed and—

  The door creaked open. Susan sat upright, hands on her lap, shoulders aching with tension, hazel eyes zeroing in on the handcuffed figure dressed in a gray jumpsuit flanked by two corpulent security guards, their bulging biceps stretching the short sleeves of their khaki uniforms.

  The figure in gray raised his head, brown eyes flashing instant recognition. Bloodaxe abruptly stopped, but his lanky frame could not match the forward momentum of the guards, who lifted him off the ground with ease and sat him in a chair across from Susan.

  She took a deep breath, hiding a mix of anger and apprehension at meeting with this man. The smell of cheap cologne assaulted her nostrils.

  “You—what in the hell is going on?” Bloodaxe, who had grown a beard in the months since the trial, turned his gaunt face to the guard on his left. “Hey, man! What in the fuck’s going on? I thought it was my lawyer coming to see me! I don’t want to see her!”

  The guard he was addressing, a large African-American, slapped Bloodaxe in the back of the head, not very hard, but firmly enough to get the inmate’s undivided attention. “Quiet, moron. Warden’s orders. Now, be nice to the lady, or I’ll whack you again.”

  “Lady? You’re calling her a lady? She’s the reason I’m stuck in this—”

  Whack!

  “All right, all right! Just stop that, would ya?” Bloodaxe said, rubbing the back of his head as he stared suspiciously at Susan Garnett. The African-American guard planted himself right behind the inmate. The second guard left the room.

  The FBI analyst remained calm and expressionless while watching the show. Bloodaxe’s nervous reaction to her presence injected Susan with confidence.

  She addressed the guard. “Could you give us some privacy, please?”

  Bloodaxe’s eyes narrowed.

  “Are you sure, ma’am?”

  She nodded.

  “All right, but I’ll be right outside if you need me.” He walked next to the hacker. “Okay, moron. Assume the position. Hands on the table.”

  Bloodaxe sighed and complied, spreading his legs while resting open palms on the table. Susan now understood the purpose of the large metal ring on the table. The guard released one of Bloodaxe’s hands, ran the cuff through the hook, and cuffed him again. With the table bolted to the floor, Bloodaxe could not reach Susan Garnett sitting across from him.

  The guard stepped out, leaving the master hacker and the FBI analyst staring at each other.

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Susan forced her personal feelings aside, struggling to remain professional in front of this man. “I need a favor.”

  He laughed and then became serious. “You’ve got to be kidding me, lady.”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  The hacker shook his head while smiling. “You people are amazing. You put me in here, remember?” He raised his hands as much as his restraining hardware allowed him. “You bastards made deals with every other damned hacker out there, but chose to stick me in here and throw away the key. Give me one good reason why I should help you.”

  “Because you killed my family?”

  His narrow face beneath the beard tensed. He regarded Susan for a moment before saying, “I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I stated that many times during the trial. I merely released a virus to screw up traffic lights, but in a way that they would not cause accidents. I wanted to punish those city manager bastards for what they did to me. I despise those corporate types. Hire you one day, use you, and then fire you when they no longer need your services. And then they turn around and do it again to someone else. I had to teach them a lesson.”

  Her temples beginning to throb, Susan remembered quite well the angle Bloodaxe’s lawyers had taken during the trial, trying to make him look like the victim of corporate greed—a pathetic attempt at justifying his actions. The jury had still found him guilty on multiple counts of manslaughter. The judge, with a little encouragement from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, had sent him to prison for life without parole. In the end, the master hacker had gotten just what he deserved.

  Breathing deeply, trying to remain calm, refusing to let herself get dragged down into this useless argument, she said, “I didn’t come here to discuss your views on that incident.”

  “Oh?” Bloodaxe raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m here to talk about a different incident.”

  “Really?” He leaned back, a smug grin surfacing on his face. “Don’t tell me. Like a virus you can’t figure out on your own?”

  “There’s been a global event,” she added, ignoring the remark. “It started two days ago.”

  “So I’ve heard. Everyday program. Same bat time, same bat channel. What else is new?”

  “So you know about it,” she stated.

  “Just because you bastards don’t allow me to use a computer doesn’t mean I haven’t been keeping up with the business.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Not so fast. First you tell me what you know.”

  “Not much beyond what’s in the papers.”

  Bloodaxe smiled. “Don’t insult me.”

  Susan contemplated her next sentence. If he was indeed the owner of the virus, he was apparently trying to learn how much the FBI had figured out so far. If he wasn’t the owner, then his questions were justified. Either way, it was obvious to him that the FBI had to know much more than what was printed in the papers. She offered, “We were able to trap a copy of the virus.”

  “I figured that much already.” He leaned forward. “And?”

  “We found a twenty-four-hour counte
r, which explains the daily events.”

  “And?”

  She told him about the freeze routines counting down to January first.

  “And?”

  “And that’s it.”

  “What about the signature file?”

  “Changes with every mutation.”

  “Have you figured out the sequence?”

  She shook her head. “The number of combinations are astronomical. Our systems can’t break it. It appears truly random.”

  The easy-knowing grin had vanished. Bloodaxe’s face became rigid, his eyes staring in the distance, like those of a doctor listening to a patient’s symptoms before issuing a diagnosis. He was either truly interested or was pretending to be interested in order to get information.

  “Did you find a random number generator?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know it is random?”

  She pressed her lips for a moment. “It’s either random or very nested.”

  “Nested,” he said.

  “If it’s nested, then we’re talking several nesting levels, which is just as bad as being random, unless we happen to come across the nesting key. Otherwise, it would take centuries for today’s systems to check all possible permutations for the master sequence.”

  The hacker grinned. “Multiple nests. A sequence within a sequence within a sequence. And you’re right. It could be multiple levels deep. Given what you’ve said so far, I’d say it’s a minimum of seven to eight deep. It gives the appearance of a random sequence but it’s really not. The problem’s that, like you said, with today’s machines it will be impossible to counter it without the key. How did you catch it?”

  She told him about how the virus would self-destruct after each daily event, forcing her to release software traps to grab a passive version.

  He frowned. “Of course. I should have known. What else were you able to disassemble?”

  “Not much more, I’m afraid. After the last freeze routine, which will occur on December thirty-first, the code will execute one final routine. I’m speculating that this sequence will trigger a destructive global event at a time when the world’s networks would be at their most vulnerable point: January first, 2000.”

  “A virus strike on zero one, zero one, zero zero. That’s beyond genius,” he said, marveling at the thought. “Now that’s one mean, and smart, son of a gun you’ve got there, lady—assuming, of course, that the virus actually does something more than just blowing smoke.”

  “I have to assume that it’s something much worse than simply someone trying to show off skills.”

  “Of course you do. You Feds always think the worst of people.” He lifted his cuffed wrists.

  “So, are you going to help us?”

  Bloodaxe placed both forearms on the table, flanking the metal hook limiting his movements. “Why should I?”

  Susan also leaned forward. “I’ve already told you why.”

  “You don’t understand. What’s in it for me if I help?”

  “The knowledge that you will be paying back society for all the pain and suffering that you’ve caused.”

  The hacker made fists of his hands. “I’m already doing that!” he protested, an edge developing in his voice. “At least that’s what the judge told me when he delivered that sentence, plus the cruel twist that must have originated from the FBI … from you.”

  Susan was running out of options. She had promised Troy Reid that she’d offer computer privileges to the hacker in return for information leading to the antidote of the elusive virus, as well as capture of its originator. But she had not promised him that she wouldn’t try another angle first, like appealing to the hacker’s sense of decency. “Maybe you will sleep better at night knowing that your skills actually helped society, probably even spared it from chaos if this virus turns out to be as damaging as I’m assuming it’ll be.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that. I sleep like a baby already, and you have only one last chance to tell me why I should help you.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice a few decibels. “And think hard. Otherwise I’m calling for that head-slapping gorilla outside to take me back to my cell.”

  She closed her eyes, knowing that granting him computer privileges was the same as commuting his sentence. Susan considered her options. If Bloodaxe was not the source of the virus, but he did help, and his assistance prevented this global virus from causing pandemonium at the end of the millennium, then it would seem fair—as much as she personally hated the idea—that Bloodaxe be granted supervised computer privileges. On the other hand, if the little bastard had created the virus as a way to get himself some leverage, then Susan would make certain that she used the information Bloodaxe gave her to not only kill this virus of his, but also find a way to turn that around and prove that he had been the originator.

  “We’re prepared to offer computer privileges in return for your assistance.”

  The master hacker leaned back on his chair, his haggard face beneath the unkempt beard relaxing, his eyes blinking excitement. “Now you’re talking.”

  “This will be a supervised privilege, of course.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Don’t want you guys to think that I’m going to abuse it by creating a retaliatory virus, right?”

  “Let’s just say that you’re going to have to earn our trust.”

  He considered that for a moment. “Fair enough.”

  “Now it’s your turn,” she said, crossing her arms and tilting her head. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “You took the obvious first step and you caught a passive version of the virus that essentially confirmed the information which you already had. The countdown. The freeze routine. But you didn’t really learn anything that will help you kill this thing.”

  Susan slowly shook her head. “I hope you’re going somewhere with this.”

  “The problem is that you’re not a hacker. In order to catch hackers you have to think like one. Over the years you’ve obviously recruited enough of us to help you nail others, building up a machine whose product is not really a result of your technical brilliance but the brilliance of others.”

  Susan frowned. “If I didn’t know any better I would say that you’ve just insulted my technical skills.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. You’re quite smart. In fact, smart enough not just to teach at a university, but to learn enough from your previous FBI cases to figure a way to trap me. But again, professors and FBI analysts are not hackers. You don’t know how to bend the rules. That’s why you need us. But you seemed to be bothered by me stating the truth.”

  “The truth?” she said, inhaling deeply. “Exactly what do you think you know about the truth?”

  Bloodaxe leaned forward again, locking eyes with Susan. “You came here today, Susan—as personally difficult as that may have been—because none of the hackers on your staff were able to provide you with options beyond this vanilla-flavored cocoon. You have probably been struggling with this unavoidable visit just as you have been struggling with your feelings since that judge pronounced that sentence, sending me here, in the process quenching your desire for retribution. But the problem is that me being here is not going to bring them back. They’re dead, and whether or not I had something, albeit involuntarily, to do with their deaths is irrelevant. So you find yourself suddenly without meaning, without a reason to go on. You joined the FBI to catch me. Now you have and you don’t know what to do next, where to go, what to do to fill that emptiness that eats you alive every night. How is that for the truth, Susan Garnett?”

  If Susan had her Walther PPK in her hands, she had no doubt she would have pulled the trigger, blowing this monster out of her life forever. Flashes of her last seconds before the accident filled her mind. Rebecca singing … Tom reading … the impact … the sky and the exit ramp swapping places. Then nothing, just emptiness, loneliness, desolation—feelings she had replaced with the unyielding resolve to catch this basta
rd.

  Taking another deep breath, controlling her emotions, she kept her gaze leveled with Bloodaxe’s inquisitive stare. “You see a lot, Hans Bloodaxe. But can you see enough to help us kill this virus?”

  His face suddenly becoming somber, the master hacker nodded. “Yes, I can.”

  Chapter Seven

  000111

  1

  December 13, 1999

  Washington, D.C.

  Inside a cold warehouse several blocks north of Dupont Circle, Antonio Strokk sat on the stained concrete floor with his back resting against one of many wooden crates occupying the majority of the floor space of a hardware distribution center.

  Strokk was not alone this late evening. Scattered around the unloading area were three of his subordinates, plus his sister, Celina, all wearing black nylon jumpsuits, skintight gloves, and black sneakers. Terrorist-style hoods lay by their sides.

  They had arrived at Dulles International aboard three separate flights from London throughout the day, converging at this location, a safe house for DGSE operatives. Just as his instructions back in London had indicated, three of the crates housed the equipment his team would need to carry out the current contract.

  Strokk reached for an Uzi submachine gun and held it in his right hand in an upright position, pointing the muzzle at the warehouse’s corrugated metal ceiling. As his right hand depressed the grip safety, Strokk used his left hand to pull the cocking handle of the unloaded weapon all the way back, keeping his index finger off the trigger, testing the resistance of the cocking lever spring, trained ears listening to the latching mechanism.

  The weapon felt right, balanced, powerful. Pressing the trigger released the cocking handle, which remained in its original, uncocked position because there was no round in the firing chamber. Had there been one, the pressure of a detonating 9mm Parabellum round would have pushed the slide back, ejecting the spent cartridge and loading a new one from the magazine, leaving the Uzi ready to fire again.

  Strokk performed a basic field strip. He used very fine oil soaked in a soft cloth to clean the different sections meticulously. His eyes looked for imperfections or hairline fractures in the weapon. He checked for barrel bulging, problems with the extractor, the return spring, and the general integrity of the breechblock. Satisfied, he reassembled the submachine gun, inserted a forty-round magazine, rested it on his lap, and screwed on a bulky silencer.