“Why not?”
“Because I haven’t been told.”
THEY RODE IN silence the rest of the way, a five-car motorcade, headlights full on, roof lights flashing, curving along a base road and then stopping behind a nondescript five-story office building. Herring got out first, all business. Two military vehicles had blocked off the drive on the other side, she saw. Armed Air Force guards stood beside the entrance.
Inside, Blaine followed Herring into the elevator. He pressed 5.
“Women’s apparel, please,” Blaine said.
Herring watched the numbers change. He didn’t blink.
In a hallway on the fifth floor, two Air Force guards stood on either side of an unmarked door with a cipher lock. Blaine didn’t have to be told to leave her cell phones in the tray on the table outside. The White House chief of staff typed in a code on the cipher lock pad, then pressed a release and the door clicked open. Blaine held the knob, waiting. But Herring was not coming in with her.
“No eavesdropping,” she said, as the door began to close. It shut with a surprisingly loud thud.
The narrow rectangular room was lit by a single lamp on a mahogany table. A sparse, functional space. Metal walls, four padded leather chairs. SCIFs came in all sizes and configurations, and were used for many purposes. This one was for conversations among a small group of people.
In this case, three.
Blaine looked at the two men sitting catty-cornered at the end of the table who now stood to greet her.
“Hello,” she said, a little startled.
The larger of the two men nodded for her to sit.
“Secretary Blaine.”
The man at the end of the table was Clark Easton, the Secretary of Defense. The other was Harold DeVries, Director of National Intelligence, whom she had spoken with fifty-three minutes earlier.
Easton was something of a political force of nature in Washington, a veteran of five administrations. A former major general who had served as special presidential adviser, as CIA assistant director, assistant Secretary of State, national security adviser and now as top man at the Pentagon. In his mid-sixties, he was large and thick-chested, with hard blue eyes and a lopsided grin, a giant bald head rimmed with white hair. Easton was surprisingly soft-spoken, but enormously influential in the administration—too much so, some thought.
DeVries was in some ways his opposite. Thin and rangy, he had a sly, knowing smile that seemed to hint at things others couldn’t imagine. He spoke six or seven languages and understood the complexities and nuances of world affairs better than anyone Blaine knew. He was also the first African American to head up the United States’ intelligence community. The Director of National Intelligence, known as the DNI, was in effect the CEO of all seventeen American intelligence branches. It was a position, like hers, that hadn’t existed fifteen years ago.
Blaine felt a kinship with DeVries, a man who seemed at times frustrated, as she was, by the layers of bureaucracy and the duplication of efforts within the intelligence community.
The men’s dress was casual—DeVries wore a dark blazer and an open royal blue shirt, Easton a short-sleeved white shirt—but their manner wasn’t.
Easton seemed to be studying her, which caused Blaine to look away. That was when she noticed the folder on the table in front of him, marked TOP SECRET. Beside it was a small, single sheet of notepaper, the top third covered with tiny, neatly scrawled writing.
“Welcome.”
Blaine nodded hello.
Easton made a face, something akin to a grimace, which was, in fact, how he greeted people. The Secretary of Defense inhaled dramatically. “Secretary Blaine. We need to bring you up to speed on a national security threat. I will provide a summary review and then outline the protocol and the directives that have been established by the president. He’ll be meeting with you later this evening.”
“All right.”
“Because of the extraordinary nature of this threat, it has to be dealt with in a very deliberate and prescribed manner.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Naturally, this is information that cannot be shared on any level.”
Blaine nodded once, feeling suddenly ill at ease, weighed down by the gravitas in his tone.
“It is essential that those who are directly affected—and that now includes you”—he raised his eyebrows slightly, held her gaze—“understand the significance of these directives. There are some very specific parameters, in other words, that we must stay within.”
“Go ahead.” Can’t we do this in English? she thought.
“The message you received this afternoon on your mobile SME-PED is part of an ongoing pattern, which began ten days ago. We are still in the process of evaluating exactly what it means. We are unable to say with certainty at this time who is responsible or what the motive is behind these threats.”
“The breach, you mean,” Blaine said.
Easton raised one eyebrow. The lamplight glinted for a moment in his left eye, catching the deep blue pigment.
“The breach is part of a pattern,” Blaine said.
“Well, yes. But more importantly, the message.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s why you’re here.” Watching her, Easton took a prolonged breath. He was known for using silence as an assertive tactic, to underline a point. “Do you have any idea why you might have been singled out as the recipient of this email, Secretary Blaine?”
Blaine looked to DeVries. “Well, let’s see. I suppose being the Secretary of Homeland Security may have had something to do with it.”
“This was made to look as if it came from your son, Easton said.”
“Yes.”
“I assume your son does not have your classified address?”
“You assume correctly.”
“What does this mean? ‘ES’?”
“Eastern Shore. We’re planning to go to the Eastern Shore together this weekend. He was reminding me.”
He continued looking at her as if she hadn’t spoken, and Blaine felt a current of apprehension course through her, thinking about Kevin again, the fact that the perpetrator knew his abbreviations.
She told him the rest of it, the meanings of the other abbreviations, and she answered his questions about when and how often she used her mobile device, feeling as if she were being interrogated by a schoolteacher who suspected her of cheating on a homework assignment.
“Are you familiar with the name Janus, Secretary Blaine?”
“Vaguely, yes.”
“Are you aware of the significance of the three dates listed in the message?”
“I am now. I looked them up on the way here. Three natural disasters. In Bangladesh, Uruguay and Fiji. Tsunami, hurricane, and earthquakes.”
“Correct.”
“Of course, anyone could have Googled those dates the same way I did.”
Easton stared at her blankly, as if he’d forgotten who she was.
Blaine said, “I’m assuming the concern here is that our internal classified communications network was compromised, right? Not the message itself, which I’m assuming is a prank.” She looked at Easton, then DeVries, neither of whom revealed anything. “Right?”
“That would be a reasonable assumption,” Easton said. Sliding his palms against each other. “Based on what you know.”
“Okay.”
Blaine felt something shift in the room.
“Based on the available evidence, however, I’m afraid we’re not able to treat it that way.”
DeVries seemed to sense her restlessness. “We’re going to explain all this, Cate,” he said. “That’s why we’re here.”
Easton cleared his throat. “As I said, the message you received is part of a pattern.”
“Ongoing, you said.”
“Correct. Similar messages were sent to my classified email account. To Director DeVries’. And to the president’s.”
FOUR
CLARK EASTON OPENED THE folder in front of
him. His thick arms, with their dense curlicues of gray and white hair, cast shadows on the walls of the rectangular room.
There were several sheets of paper in the folder, she saw. He lifted the top one, turned it around and slid it across the mahogany table to Blaine.
“The president has authorized me to share these with you.”
“All right.”
Blaine felt a little numb all of a sudden, straightening the sheet of paper in front of her. It was a printout of an email dated September 29. Last Thursday. Three days ago. A message sent to the secure inbox of the man sitting opposite her—Harold DeVries, the Director of National Intelligence.
The sender was identified as RET: Robert Ellis Thompkins, the director of the CIA.
The subject line: CATCHING UP. The two men were, almost by the nature of their job descriptions, frequently at odds with one another.
But clearly, this wasn’t a note from the head of central intelligence.
Blaine read the message:
Dear Mr. Director,
On 9/25 & 9/28, two so-called natural disasters occurred, the first in Bangladesh, the second in Uruguay. You undoubtedly read about them. Neither of them, in fact, was natural. The next ones will take place in the South Pacific Ocean tomorrow.
You have the ability to stop this pattern. If you choose not to do so, a similar event will soon devastate the United States.
Details will follow, but only if this communiqué is kept within the circle of you and the recipients of my previous messages. If this message is reported by the media, or shared with anyone else in the administration, including the FBI, the United States will suffer severe consequences.
—Janus 94S75Y38W86.
Blaine looked up.
Her eyes went from DeVries to Easton. Then back to DeVries.
The South Pacific Ocean. The next ones. On Friday, two days ago, more than a dozen earthquakes had rocked the South Pacific Ocean between Fiji and New Zealand, a region known as the Pacific Rim of Fire. The chain of earthquakes and subsequent tsunamis had killed at least two hundred people in Fiji, Tonga, and Samoa, while causing dozens of injuries and massive structural damage in New Zealand.
Easton watched her with his unblinking blue eyes as she handed the paper back.
“You said ‘messages.’ ”
“Yes. Two others.”
He slid a copy of the next printout across the table.
Blaine looked down, better understanding Gabriel Herring’s reaction now.
This message had been sent to the President of the United States. An email address known by fewer than fifteen people.
The sender was Vice President Bill Stanton.
The subject line: NEED TO TALK.
This one was dated September 26. Last Monday.
But it wasn’t from the Vice President.
Dear Mr. President,
Yesterday, a deadly “natural disaster” caused massive destruction in the Bay of Bengal, in Eastern Asia. As you will soon begin to understand, the disaster was not, in fact, natural.
This was the first in a series of such events. The second will occur in two days in South America.
You have the ability to stop this pattern. If you choose not to do so, or if you decide to share the contents of this message with the media, or with any agency or individual within your government, including the FBI, an event will occur very soon that will irreversibly damage the United States. Details will follow, but only if this communication is kept within the circle of those who have received my previous messages.
—Janus 3L38P93G676
Blaine read through the note again, and handed it back. “The next one was Uruguay,” she said.
“Correct,” said Easton.
“Last Wednesday’s hurricane.”
“That is correct.”
A rare South Atlantic Ocean hurricane, the first ever reported on the shores of Uruguay. A wobbly offshore storm system that had suddenly become organized, gathering speed and strength, slamming the coastline east of Montevideo. Dozens of homes and apartment buildings were destroyed by the 90 mph winds and flooding, at least 120 people killed.
Easton pushed the third message toward her, exchanging it for the second.
This one had been sent to him on his secure mobile device, she saw, dated September 23. Two days before the Bay of Bengal tsunami.
The sender was [email protected]. Deborah Easton. The subject line: BETTER COME HOME EARLY.
But the message was not from Easton’s wife.
Blaine read the text:
Mr. Secretary,
In two days, an event will occur in Eastern Asia. It will be reported in the media as a “natural disaster,” although its cause will not be natural.
A pattern of these “natural” disasters will continue for about twelve days. You have the ability to stop this pattern. But if this warning is reported in the media or is shared at any time with other countries, or with any agencies or individuals within the federal government, you will forfeit that privilege and the United States will itself be struck by a crippling event. At this point, you’re instructed to simply wait for further details.
—Janus 73X54K8439P
“Last Sunday. The deadly tsunami in the Bay of Bengal.”
“Correct.”
More than three thousand people confirmed dead.
Blaine read through it again, twice, searching for unusual phrases or word choices that might contain hidden meanings. Then she handed the paper back to Easton. The air in the room felt too warm all of a sudden. So these were the breaches that the media had reported on earlier in the day—without knowing any of the actual details. Just knowing the White House was on high alert about something.
If it had happened four times, the infiltrations showed a vulnerability that the President apparently couldn’t get his head around. Somehow, someone had managed to repeatedly break in to the government’s most secure communications network. A closed private network separate from the Internet. But something about that didn’t feel right to her. Shouldn’t this have gone to cyber command nine days ago—and, if so, shouldn’t she have been briefed?
Blaine waited, aware that she was the last one in this club. The incredulity she felt was a stage the others had probably already passed through, and, she suspected, all of her questions had already been asked.
“As you indicated, there are two issues here,” Easton said. He closed the folder on the memos and clasped his hands on top of it. “The first is the breach of our classified communications network. The second issue is this series of messages and the implications for national security. Obviously, both issues are of deep concern to us.”
Easton drew a breath. His huge head was tilted slightly to the right, his blue eyes steady on her.
“The natural inclination is to be more concerned by the first issue and to react with disbelief to the latter,” Easton said. “And, initially, that’s what we did. Clearly, we’re dealing with a very sophisticated hacker, who has been able to bypass our safeguards and protections. We’ve altered encryption codes, isolated all possible points of infiltration, changed passwords, replaced the actual devices. But he seems to be able to anticipate each move and come right back to us.”
Easton narrowed his eyes and leaned back, a signal for DeVries to pick up where he left off.
“Cate, at first we treated this as essentially a high-level IT issue,” the intelligence director said. Blaine glanced again at Easton. Has he kept this information from me deliberately? “But as you can see, the threats themselves have supplanted that. Until we have more definitive information, the President would like us to keep this inside a closed circle, as the perpetrators have requested.”
Blaine averted her eyes, recognizing the larger issue. If the threat was real, it represented something the government was woefully unprepared for. It was, in fact, what she had warned about in her sometimes-maligned Foreign Affairs magazine article, “Anticipating Unforeseen Threats.” A threat the country could not see c
oming, that it had no effective defenses to fend off. One of the most disturbing features of the new technological landscape, she had written, was that it was becoming possible to attack another country without engaging the military at all. New technologies could make militaries virtually obsolete. They could undermine nations that hadn’t kept pace, automatically stripping them of their advantages and abilities to retaliate.
Checkmate.
But that assumed this threat was real.
Which Blaine did not believe.
“Thoughts?”
She considered how to respond. “Still processing.”
“You’ve been a champion of this sort of research, haven’t you?” Easton said. “Weather modification. Geo-engineering.”
“Um. No,” she said, forcing a smile. “Not a champion.” He was pushing her buttons, Blaine knew, as he sometimes did. Easton employed an old-fashioned, unassuming brand of guile. One of his most effective tools was the deliberate but seemingly innocent distortion of other people’s points of view, forcing them to correct him and in the process explain themselves. “I’ve endorsed the idea of exploring new technologies, yes.”
There was no change in Easton’s expression. “And imagining potential new forms of warfare?”
She shrugged.
“Including weather modification. And exploring geo-physical technologies.”
“Not to any great extent, no.”
He frowned at his sheet of notes, which were scrawled in tiny print. “You’ve written that we’re, quote, ‘lagging behind China in weather and climate research.’ And you have urged that the military consider re-establishing a research program for quote ‘climatology studies.’ ”
Blaine felt her heartbeat accelerating. “Urged” was the wrong word. She’d simply pointed out what was being done in other countries.
The Leviathan Effect Page 3
