by Jack Bowie
* * *
“Flanagan.” It was 4:00. Rachel Flanagan wedged the phone between her ear and her shoulder and continued typing her monthly report.
“Ms. Flanagan, it’s Adam Braxton. I need to talk to you about the Saracen Incident.”
She nearly dropped the phone on the floor. The FBI had spent all afternoon Friday at the Center grilling every employee on what he or she knew about the consultant. She had spent two hours with them, trying to calmly answer their inane questions.
When did she speak with him last? A few days ago.
Why did she request him? He was recommended by the personnel office.
How did he sound the last time they spoke? Normal.
It hadn’t been a pleasant experience.
One of the agents had said that Braxton might call but she never expected to hear from him again.
She took a moment to compose herself before she responded in her most concerned voice. “Adam, are you all right? We’ve heard all kinds of awful things about you.”
She scribbled something on a sheet of paper and frantically waved it over her head, hoping that one of her staff would notice.
“Don’t get all excited, Ms. Flanagan. I don’t intend to stay on the line long enough for you to get it traced. I sent you an email a little while ago. Have you seen it?”
“Uh, not yet, Adam. What is it about?” She finally caught Barry Lighthorse’s eye. He got up from his desk and walked toward her office. His movements seemed in slow motion compared to the racing of Flanagan’s heart.
“There’s a security trapdoor in Internet gateways made by Century Computer. The people behind it have run rampant through the Internet for years. They killed Ramal to keep him quiet and they have framed me.”
Lighthorse finally made it to her office. She shoved the note into his face and pointed to his desk.
“I don’t care who you tell. Just check it out. The instructions are in the message. Reply to the email when you have verified the trapdoor and I’ll give you more information.” The line went dead.
Flanagan replaced the receiver and stared at the notes she had made. She looked up and saw that Lighthorse was still on the phone.
“Rick, get me the network log!” she yelled across the room to Spaulding.
Braxton’s email had arrived fifteen minutes earlier. It had been sent from his local CERT account.
Flanagan forwarded the message from the public input queue to her private account. As she scanned the message on her screen, the local FBI agent-in-charge returned Lighthorse’s hurried message. She told him that Braxton had called but had only denied his guilt before hanging up. He thanked her politely but curtly and said he did not think further follow-up would be necessary. The simple explanation seemed to satisfy him.
She printed the email and laid it down in front of her. The message contained explicit instructions on how to unlock the trapdoor and how to test the security hole. If what he claimed was true, especially the murders, this was dangerous information for Braxton and for her.
It would be easy to simply give the message to the FBI. Why had she lied about what he had said?
Knowing the answer only too well, she turned to her terminal and typed the first commands.
* * *
“That was quite a performance Senator. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Greystone sat back in the plush wingback chair and tried to appear relaxed. When he had returned to his office after the meeting with Harding, he had found a message from Potterfield’s office, asking him to come to the Russell Building as soon as he returned. It had sounded more like an order than a request.
Intrigued by Potterfield’s openness with the message, he had decided not to argue with the old coot over the phone and had agreed to the demand. Santana drove him into the District and he had been shown into Potterfield’s office at 4:30.
“You’ll find I still have quite a bit in me, son,” Potterfield replied from a matching chair in his sitting area. “But I do admit I underestimated you. I spent most of last night going over Nick’s files. Now I understand how he always seemed to be able to get those special jobs done.”
Potterfield looked tired but content. He was wearing a freshly pressed blue suit with a pale red pinstripe. In a starched shirt and red cravat, he appeared ready for another round with the TV interviewers.
“Nick was very effective, Senator. A little headstrong and independent at times, but a good man. I’ll miss him.”
“As will I, Mr. Greystone. I hold you responsible for his death, by the way. You should have been more careful with this Braxton.”
Greystone felt the blood rushing to his face. He wasn’t sure he could keep from blowing up at the damned civil servant, or if he even cared if he did. “Now look, Senator . . .”
“All right, Greystone, take it easy.” Potterfield raised his hands in a mock defense. “I didn’t invite you here for a fight.”
The executive cringed visibly at the representation. “I didn’t realize it was an invitation, Senator.”
“Don’t get so testy, son. If we’re going to be working together, we may as well learn how to get along. Now that I’ve got all the documents I want Braxton taken care of. And that damned Lynch girl as well.”
“As do I, Senator. I arranged for that this morning. It was why I couldn’t join you until now. It will all be over tonight.”
“You found them already? Where are they?”
“The less you know the better, Senator. You can trust me.”
“Of course, son. Of course. Nick said the same thing to me. Then I found out about his damn library. You’re sure there is no tie back to us?”
“Absolutely not. We are all professionals here, Senator. And speaking of that, why the urgent call? It would be best if we did not meet so openly.”
“I can handle that. The reason I called you is that I’m moving up the vote in the Senate. It’s tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Greystone’s eyebrows unconsciously jumped. Why would he rush the vote? He was running scared and would blow the whole affair. Damn you Potterfield.
“I can see you’re surprised. No, I haven’t lost my mind. I have found over the years that even Senators feel empathy, especially to one of their own. They will attempt to lighten their hearts by giving me their most precious possession. Their votes. I would like to have you available in case I need some technical background, however. With Nick gone, you’ll have to do. Be in the chamber at 10:00 a.m. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
With that, Potterfield slowly pushed himself out of the chair and turned to go back to his desk.
Technical background, bullshit. Potterfield just wanted him there so he could gloat over the passage. If that’s what it took, Greystone would be there all right. But they weren’t finished yet.
“One more thing, Senator.”
Potterfield came to a halting stop and turned back to the sitting area. “Yes?”
“Nick’s files. Where are they?”
“I have them. They’re quite safe.”
“I’m sure that’s how Nick felt as well, but I’m still concerned. We are in this together, remember? Let me take them. I have a significantly more secure environment for them.”
Potterfield broke into a wide smile. His white teeth shown like a snarling tiger’s.
“More secure than the federal government, Mr. Greystone? I doubt it. I think I’ll just keep them for a while longer.” The smile instantly disappeared. “Good-bye, Mr. Greystone. I will see you in the morning.”
Chapter 66
Edgewood, Pennsylvania
Monday, 6:00 p.m.
FLANAGAN STOOD IN the shower stall letting the hot, surging water pound her neck and back. She still couldn’t understand why Candela had been so combative. He was a little creep with a chip on his shoulder, but his reaction to her request had been well beyond his normal obstinacy. She had met him late that afternoon on her way to Rydell’s office.
“Edward, have you seen Timothy?”
/> Candela looked her up and down with the familiar leer he used for all the women at CERT. “Not today. He’s at that Internet security conference in Los Alamos.”
“Oh, I thought he’d be back by now.”
“What’s the problem? Timothy left me in charge.”
She wasn’t sure whether to mention it to him, but decided she may as well. He would hear about it from Rydell anyway. “I think I’ve found a security hole in one of the Internet gateways. I’m going to assign a couple of my people to check it out and I wanted Timothy to be aware of it.”
Candela’s face changed to a look of concern. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private.” He put his arm around her waist and pushed her toward his office. She escaped from the claw, but followed him in. They sat down around his small conference table.
He wrinkled his nose and began the inquisition. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that consultant Braxton would it?”
It was a strange first reaction, but then she was used to the paranoia of administrators. She had already decided not to reveal the source of her discovery. “Nothing with Braxton, but it is consistent with the incident at GW. It looks like the alert we received was correct.”
“I’m not quite so convinced, Rachel. I’m concerned that we could get negative publicity from any work you were to do now. We can’t afford to have any further connection to the consultant. I’d like you to put off any investigation until I can discuss this with Timothy.”
“Edward, I don’t see what this could have to do with Braxton. We’ve found a security hole. I can’t just ignore it.” Her voice was rising and she realized she was losing her temper. His attitude didn’t make any sense.
Candela stood up and confronted his Deputy Director. “Ms. Flanagan, in Dr. Rydell’s absence I am in charge here. The Internet will not collapse while we think this over. You are not to proceed without my okay. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, Edward. Your orders are perfectly clear. You can be sure I’ll take this up with the Management Committee as soon as possible.” She had abruptly risen and marched out of his office. She hadn’t stopped until she had reached her car.
The hot shower was helping her to relax but wasn’t making her confrontation with Candela any less frustrating. Who the hell was he to tell her what to do? If that was the way Rydell wanted to run CERT that was fine, but she wouldn’t be a part of it. And she’d make a helluva noise when she left.
Quitting wasn’t going to fix the gateway danger, however. If Braxton was right and the security hole was intentional, if it was being used to subvert the Internet, she was going to find out about it.
She stepped out of the shower, toweled herself off, and immediately went to the phone. It was only 6:15. Most of her staff would still be on campus.
“Barry Lighthorse. How may I help you?”
“Barry. It’s Rachel.”
“Hi,” Lighthorse’s voice instantly lost its formality. “Are you still here?”
“No. I’m at home. I have another favor to ask.”
“Something new on the Incident?”
Damn. How does he do that? “More smoke signals, Barry?”
“No. Terry and Phil saw you leave Candela’s office. We figured it was something about Saracen. Everything okay?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got a project to discuss with you. Can you meet me in the Ops Room about eight?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. It’s important.”
“Sure. I’ll be there.” There was no hesitation. “Anything you want me to bring?”
“Nope. Just yourself. But let’s keep this between us for now?”
“Okay, Rachel. If you say so.”
“And Barry?”
“Yes?”
“Have some dinner. We might need to stay late.”
She made two more calls before hanging up the phone. The results were all the same; the young professionals had heard something was up and accepted the invitation eagerly. She knew they would love the idea of being involved in a cloak-and-dagger activity. Ever since an unknown SysOp at Berkeley named Cliff Stoll had become a computer legend for tracking down the German Chaos Club, it was every computer jock’s dream.
She slipped into a clean pair of jeans and pulled on a snow white V-neck pullover. May as well be comfortable. Breaking the gateway rogue was going to be complicated and tedious. They would all need to be at their best.
She left the house at 7:00, leaving just enough time to pick up a case of Coke and two dozen donuts before meeting her staff.
* * *
Flanagan arrived in the Operations Room at 7:50. It was hardly the stuff of techno-thrillers. CERT’s budget had certainly increased under Rydell, but the Director was not one to lavish funds on fancy trappings, even electronic ones. The Room was large, about twenty feet square, buried in the middle of the building. The only window overlooked the artificial landscape of the adjacent computer room. The walls were stark white; they were completely covered in porcelain white-board. Magnetic trays with erasers and markers had been randomly stuck on its surface.
The boards were eternally covered with scribblings; the room provided an ideal environment for brain-storming and training. Whenever she came into the room, she felt like an archeologist entering a cavern of undiscovered cave drawings. It was a personal challenge to decipher the graffiti. Tonight’s sketches looked like a comparison of network protocol stacks.
Along the wall under the window was a curved Formica table top, the closest CERT came to a command center. On the counter were the front ends of four top-of-the-line quad-processor workstations. They were loaded with the latest in graphics and video technology. A large television monitor hung from the ceiling above the workstations. The staff technicians had rigged a quick and dirty video patch panel that enabled any of the four screens to be displayed on the monitor. This made for easy viewing by other operators or observers sitting in the back of the room.
Behind the workstation console was a large oval conference table. It was used for impromptu meetings or discussions over listings and results. Apart from a few dark brown coffee stains, tonight it was clear. Barry Lighthorse and Christie Pratt were already sitting at the table when Flanagan entered. She dropped the donuts and a pile of papers on the table, pulled over a chair, and waited for the last member of her conspiratorial team to appear.
Pratt was tiny, only about five foot two with short curly hair, a pixie-like face, and dark impenetrable eyes. She was a very private person, keeping to herself and seldom joining in CERT/CC group activities. Frighteningly intelligent, she was also terribly introverted, a stark contrast to her boss, the only other female on the operations team. Pratt was satisfied to play a role behind the scenes, quietly working out a subtle software correction, or developing a new network certification procedure. For months after Flanagan had arrived at CERT/CC, she hadn’t even known Pratt worked there. She had finally noticed that all of her hot-shot male trouble-shooters would eventually disappear to an out of the way corner cubical when they were stuck on a problem. They would invariably return with a solution.
Rick Spaulding arrived at 8:10. Spaulding was one of the Center’s old-timers. He had been with the organization since its formation and was their computer virus expert. A graduate student and systems manager at CMU when the Worm had struck, he had played a key role in directing critical information around the net during the attack. Intrigued by the character of rogue programs, he had focused his ongoing studies in this area. After he finished his degree, he had jumped at the chance to join CERT/CC. Over the ensuing years he had worked with all of the well-known computer viruses, and was a consultant to many of the commercial anti-virus vendors. This wasn’t exactly a virus problem, but Spaulding’s background would be valuable nevertheless.
“Okay, boss. Why all the secrecy?” Lighthorse finally asked after Spaulding had sat down.
“You remember the email from GW?” Flanagan began. “The one about the network anomaly?”
>
They all nodded.
“Saracen was right. A rogue program has infiltrated the net. Specifically, gateways made by Century Computer. It apparently monitors traffic and selectively intercepts messages.”
“What do you mean ‘intercepts’?” Spaulding asked with an incredulous look on his face.
“I’m not sure, it may copy the message and forward it to another system on the net.”
“You mean someone can read every message on the Internet?” Lighthorse asked.
“Not everyone, but at least the ones that go through Century gateways,” Flanagan replied. “Whoever has set this up can take whatever they want from the net.”
“Encrypted messages are safe aren’t they?” Pratt asked.
Flanagan hesitated, then decided she may as well go all the way. “We think so, but there are millions of Century routers in the world. It is possible they are cooperating.”
“Jesus!” Spaulding exclaimed. “People believe in the security of the net, Rachael. This is a national security issue. How did the rogue get in the gateways, anyway?”
“We believe it was intentionally placed by someone inside Century.” She realized the slip too late; it was already out of her mouth.
It didn’t take long for Spaulding to react. “That’ll make it even harder to find. No offense Rachel, but how did you find it? And who’s ‘we’?”
“Let’s call it another anonymous tip.”
“It’s that consultant Braxton isn’t it?” Spaulding said.
“I said it’s anonymous,” Flanagan said with an uncharacteristic edge.
Lighthorse jumped in to break the confrontation. “What do you want us to do? Try to find a way to deactivate it?”
“Not yet,” Flanagan replied. “First, I want to find the bastard that’s responsible. I want to track the messages back to him.”
“Saracen must have discovered the statistics on the rogue messages,” Pratt calmly explained. “It would have put the counters off. Is that why he was killed?”
The implication of the question left everyone silent. Flanagan suddenly realized what she had gotten them all into. Going against Candela was one thing. She could take the heat on that. But putting her staff into jeopardy was something else entirely. Had she gone too far this time?
