by Jack Bowie
“I guess that’s good enough,” Williams said as he handed back the card.
“I’ve heard of CERT but I’ve never met anyone that worked there,” Levi said. “It must be real exciting to be a cyber-cop.”
Braxton winced. “Just mostly routine stuff,” he replied flatly. He wanted to get on with this. “The name is Saracen,” he said, turning back to Williams. He spelled it out.
“I’ll look it up.” Williams went back to his terminal and punched some keys. “I don’t have any record of a user with that name. Are you sure you’ve got it right?”
“That’s the name I have. How about as a user account? Saracen at rdvax.”
Williams tried again. “Found it. The account is still active.” More typing. “Name is . . . Mohammed Ramal.” His jaw dropped and he became strangely silent.
“Oh!” Levi exclaimed.
The two SysOps exchanged a glance but Braxton couldn’t understand why. “Is something wrong?” He asked.
Williams turned slowly toward him. “You’re not from around here are you?”
“No, I just came down from Boston. Why?”
“Mohammed Ramal was killed on Sunday,” Williams answered softly. “He blew himself up.”
Braxton froze in surprise. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Things like this didn’t occur in real life. At least not his life. He finally recovered enough to mumble, “What happened?” It was all he could think to ask.
“Nobody has many details,” Williams continued with a shrug. “I heard that the cops think he was a terrorist that got clumsy playing with a bomb in his apartment. At least that’s the rumor that’s going around. I hadn’t thought to deactivate his account.”
“This isn’t related to your looking for him is it?” Levi asked.
“No, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” Braxton replied quickly. He didn’t need to be part of a conspiracy theory spread all over the Internet. Flanagan would fire him for sure. “You wouldn’t know any of his friends by any chance would you?”
“Sorry, I didn’t really know him at all. Stan?”
“I didn’t either. You might try his Department. Computer Science headquarters is up on the fourth floor.”
Braxton put on his best calming smile. “Thanks anyway. We’ll just call this closed. I appreciate your help.” He stood up and headed for the door.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Braxton,” Williams called to Braxton’s back. “If there’s anything else we can do . . .”
After escaping the SysOps, Braxton stopped next to the stairway and leaned back against the tile wall.
Now what the hell do I do? He couldn’t just call Flanagan and say, “Gee, I’m sorry but your contact’s dead.” He wouldn’t hear from her again.
Ramal had died on Sunday. The same day he had sent the email. Why would a terrorist building a bomb bother to contact CERT? It didn’t make any sense.
Maybe Williams did have the right idea. If Braxton could find out what the student was working on, he might get an idea of what happened. And at least he’d have something to give CERT.
He headed up the stairs.
Chapter 9
George Washington University, Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 11:00 a.m.
THE ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES of GW’s Department of Computer Science occupied the south wing of the fourth floor. The Department Directory showed the chairman was a Professor Howard Wilkinson. Braxton went through a set of double doors and turned to a secretary on the right. The plate on her desk read “Naomi Abusan”.
“Excuse me, Ms. Abusan. I’m Adam Braxton from the CERT Coordination Center. I’d like to speak to Professor Wilkinson about a network security issue.”
Abusan looked up and considered the unfamiliar gentleman standing before her. Unfazed by Braxton’s blunt approach, she turned to him and replied with a look of disdain and indifference. “Professor Wilkinson is not in at the moment. If you wish, I can try to schedule an appointment with the associate chair, Professor Cabot.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m from out of town and it is very important that I speak to someone as soon as possible.” He didn’t have time for this bureaucratic run-around. “It’s in regard to Mohammed Ramal.”
The name of the student had its anticipated effect. Abusan blinked slightly and reached for the phone. “I see. Let me check if Professor Cabot is available.” After she punched in a number he heard a ringing in one of the offices down the hall. “Where did you say you were from?”
“The CERT Coordination Center in Pittsburgh.”
Abusan repeated the name into the phone. After another whispered conversation, she replaced the handset. “Professor Cabot can see you for a few minutes. He’s in the second office on your left.”
As Braxton approached the office, a man appeared in the doorway. He looked about fifty, average in height and weight, but his wavy white hair was expertly styled and his double-breasted suit could have just come off a rack at Brooks Brothers. Braxton was sure he would have appeared just as cool if the fire department had rushed in.
“Good morning,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m Bob Cabot. Please come in. What can we do for you?” The smile on his face was about as natural as a papier-mâché mask. This was definitely someone you didn’t warm up to.
“Adam Braxton from the CERT Coordination Center, Professor Cabot. We’re investigating an alert sent to us from Mohammed Ramal.”
Cabot motioned Braxton inside and to a seat in front of his ornate oak desk. The administrator’s office was as impeccable as its occupant, down to the muted indirect lighting and scattered pieces of modern sculpture. The interior was a stark contrast to the bland, aseptic decor of the rest of the building. It was quite unlike any other that Braxton remembered in academia.
“Yes, Mr. Ramal.” Cabot clasped his hands and laid them carefully on the desk. “A very unfortunate affair. You must understand, Mr. Braxton, that the University has had quite a bit of unwarranted attention as a result of the accident. We owe it to the rest of our students to exercise some amount of care regarding information on Mr. Ramal. I hope you don’t mind if I ask for some identification?”
Braxton again produced his identification card and handed it across the desk. Cabot scribbled something on a pad and returned the ID. His smile was immediately replaced by an expression Braxton could only describe as frigid indifference.
“Thank you. Now, what is CERT’s interest in Mr. Ramal?”
Braxton outlined the history of the email. He left out his discussion with Williams and Levi. Cabot looked like the kind that was not above recriminations. “I would like to understand if Ramal was working on any research projects? Anything that would help to explain his investigation of an Internet anomaly.” He knew he was stretching the facts a bit, but was sure it was necessary to get any help at all from the reluctant administrator.
Cabot paused for a moment then lifted a file from the corner of his desk. He flipped a few pages then appeared to read from a report. “Mr. Ramal was a third year graduate student in the Department. His advisor was Professor Eric Mendoza who heads our research on inter-network traffic analysis. As I’m sure you are aware, we are a national leader in cyber-security and network profiling.”
Cabot paused and Braxton nodded politely, which was apparently the academic’s desired signal to continue. “He was a passable student, certainly not brilliant, but had not been any trouble. He had just started his dissertation research, so I would be surprised if he had any substantive results.”
“What was his project’s focus?”
“As I said Mr. Braxton, he had just started his research. I doubt he had developed any particular intentions as yet.”
“And he had just started on his program?”
“Mr. Ramal had some remedial coursework that was required by the department. He was a transfer student.”
“Where did he come from?”
“I believe he graduated from the University of Maryland.”
Cabot closed the folder and placed his hands together on the desk. “I don’t have that information here. Only the note on remedial requirements. This is feeling a bit like an interrogation, Mr. Braxton. Is there anything else?”
This conversation was going nowhere. All Cabot cared about was protecting his University.
Braxton decided to try a different tack. “Did he have connections to any student groups?”
Cabot’s expression became even more severe. “Mr. Braxton. As I’m sure you are aware, we cannot keep track of all of the extracurricular activities of our students. We were certainly not aware of any connection to extremist groups, however. Why is this of interest to CERT?”
“Just curiosity Professor.” Braxton flashed a smile. Maybe his next question could rattle the administrator. “Who was supporting Ramal’s research?”
Cabot paused, then replied without referring to the folder or taking his eyes off the visitor. “Professor Mendoza’s research is primarily supported by Takagawa Communications. They have been very supportive of our work in telecommunications and inter-networking. I would hope that CERT will not find it necessary to bother them with this issue.”
Braxton knew he had hit a nerve. He was vaguely familiar with Takagawa. They were a new Japanese entry into the global Internet market. Originally a portal and e-commerce company focused in Japan, they had started expanding internationally and were even building expertise in networking software and related equipment. Like Amazon, Google and Microsoft, their objective was to control as much of the flow of Internet information as possible. And like most Japanese companies, they did not like adverse publicity. An attribute that he could now use to his advantage.
“I hope that will not be necessary, Professor. But we do need some additional information on Mr. Ramal. I could simply review Mr. Ramal’s notes for any background on his message. I trust there wouldn’t be any problem contacting Professor Mendoza?”
Cabot hesitated, then the papier-mâché smile reappeared. “We will be happy to cooperate with CERT in every way. However, I’m afraid that Professor Mendoza will not be of much help. All of Mr. Ramal’s files and papers were confiscated by the police. We have no access to them at the moment.”
Braxton’s heart skipped a beat as he again felt the assignment slipping away. “I see. And who is in charge of the police investigation?”
Cabot frowned, then returned to the file and pulled out a card. “A Detective Samuel Fowler. Second District. That is all the information I have.” Cabot stood, making it clear the discussion was over. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.”
Braxton rose, then stopped briefly before turning to the door. Cabot didn’t offer his hand, his face impassive, and Braxton felt no obligation for civility. As he left the office, he heard the click of a phone. He wondered who Cabot would call first.
Just because he knew it would bother her, Braxton smiled pleasantly and waved at Abusan as he passed her desk. Her look could have frozen the Potomac.
Once through the entrance doors, he pulled his cell, Googled the D.C. Metropolitan Police Department and called the main number, hoping to catch the detective in charge of the case. A pleasant operator forwarded his call.
“Fowler,” came a muffled voice.
“Detective Fowler. My name is Adam Braxton. I understand you’re working on the Mohammed Ramal case. I’m trying to get some information on Mr. Ramal and wondered if we could meet?”
“Braxton? You a reporter or something?”
“Oh, no. I’m, ah, a computer security specialist working for CERT. I’m trying to find out what Mr. Ramal was working on.”
“What kind of information you looking for, Braxton? I’m kinda busy at the moment.”
Braxton hadn’t considered that the detective might not want to talk with him. From the sound over the phone it seemed as if all he was interested in was eating his lunch. He had to find a way to pique the cop’s interest.
“I’m looking into some of Mr. Ramal’s recent activities, Detective. Specifically his work at GW. I understand you have all of his records. Perhaps we could share some information? I’m at the University right now, but I’m free the rest of the afternoon.”
There was a long silence on the phone. Finally, Fowler responded. “Okay. Meet me at department headquarters at two o’clock. 300 Indiana, third floor. The desk officer will give you directions.”
“Two o’clock. I’ll see you then, Detective.”
“Sure.”
As Braxton hung up the phone, the reality of his situation hit. He had bluffed and the detective called him on it. He certainly didn’t have any information the cop hadn’t already gotten from GW. Fowler probably didn’t know about the email message to CERT/CC, but how was he going to explain that to some D.C. cop?
Well, he’d just have to play it by ear. It’s not like he was going to get in any more trouble over it.
Now where was he going to get some lunch?
* * *
Greystone circled the small conference table in his office summarizing the changes he required. Then he stopped and dramatically laid his hands on his assistant’s shoulders. “That’s it, Ted. I think we’re ready to go.”
Lombard let out a visible sigh of relief. The two had been reviewing Greystone’s Board of Directors presentation since 7:00 that morning. If Greystone didn’t let Lombard complete the modifications they’d never get done in time. The Board meeting started at 1:00 and Greystone still had other business to complete.
“Did you get any new information out of the Board members?” Lombard asked.
“Not a damn thing. They’re going to play this as close to the chest as they can.” Greystone stretched and rubbed his eyes. “The Chairman’s a sly old codger. Sometimes I think he just enjoys seeing all the infighting play out. He won’t commit himself until he gets a reading of the rest of the Board. Then he’ll proclaim victory.”
“They’ve got to see how important it is to follow this plan. We’ll all be out of jobs if someone doesn’t do something to move Keane out of the way.”
Lombard’s whining was pitiful. All he cared about was his precious job.
“I know that. But Charles still has a lot of support on the Board. And we don’t know what he may be up to.”
“Robert,” Lombard whispered, “I did hear a rumor yesterday about what Charles might be planning.”
So that was why his assistant had been so nervous all morning. Waiting to spring a surprise. “And?” Greystone challenged.
“He’s been meeting with a team of executives from Hawthorne Systems. What do you think they’d be up to?”
“Hawthorne Systems! What the hell do you think?” Greystone slammed his hands on the table. “The bastard’s going to give away the company. He’s so hell bent in not following my partnership plan, he’d sell out to a defense conglomerate. No wonder I haven’t been able to get Hawthorne to sit down and talk about working together. They’ve been trying to expand their electronics business for years. Charles is going to hand it to them.”
“Couldn’t he just be looking to sell off some of our assets?”
“Not a chance. They’re not going to play second fiddle in this market. They want a major piece and we may be it. It won’t take them long to build the products that we have planned.” He looked squarely at Lombard. “But they’ll surely do it without you and me.”
Greystone wanted to make sure Lombard knew they were in this together. His assistant was a valuable asset but without scruples or loyalty. He had known that when he had hired him. Lombard would do anything to get ahead. He had been sleeping with that mousy new secretary of Keane’s for months now and it was about time he picked up something useful. “Where did you get this?”
“I heard some of Charles’ lawyers talking at lunch yesterday.”
Greystone knew he was lying but it didn’t matter. “Can we confirm it?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ke
ep poking around. I did pull some data on Hawthorne this morning. I thought you might like to look at it.” Lombard reached in his pocket and pulled out a flash drive.
Greystone took the drive, pushed it into his laptop and opened the file. It was a detailed summary on Hawthorne Systems’ electronics capabilities, complete with charts, graphs and reference citations. Lombard must have spent all night on it.
“Finish the presentation,” Greystone finally ordered. “I’ll look at this and try to work out a counter strategy.”
He turned and walked slowly back to his desk while Lombard gathered his notes and computer. By the time Greystone sat down, the assistant had disappeared.
Chapter 10
George Washington University, Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 1:00 p.m.
AFTER LEAVING SCIENCE and Engineering Hall, Braxton looked for a friendlier environment for lunch. Fighting the surging lunch crowd on 23rd Street, he found the Rusty Nail, an eclectic Irish pub on a narrow side street. The sound level was only a few decibels short of a Stones’ concert and every horizontal surface was covered in peanut shells. Just his kind of place.
All the booths were taken, so he grabbed a stool at the bar and managed to shout an order over the din.
While he was waiting, his cell phone shook at his waist. It was from Flanagan. He carefully considered his options and pressed “Ignore”. If it was that important, she’d leave a message. He was sure he would never have been able to hear her anyway.
After waiting so long the cook must have had to cure the beef himself—he had been so bored he actually had started to count the peanut shells on the bar—his lunch finally arrived. With only fifteen minutes until his appointment, he wolfed down his Reuben and Coke, dropped some bills on the bar and hailed a cab for Metropolitan Police Headquarters.
Headquarters was in the Henry J. Daly Building on Indiana Center. It was a huge rectangular building, its stone facade stained from years of assault by rain and pollution. Inside was a swarm of citizens, administrators, and police officers, all trying to transact the business of local government. He squeezed past the line of unhappy citizens paying parking tickets and took the elevator to the third floor.
