Qubit, page 41
She sat down at her desk, wishing, as she did almost every morning, that she had some kind of view. This was a good job, she reminded herself, and she was lucky to have it. She knew she’d never be at home in an office like this, but it would do for now.
She studied the list of messages in her inbox. She’d been out late last night—learning how to be social again—and she hadn’t checked her email since yesterday evening.
When she saw the subject of her first email—Hello Again—she stopped breathing. She clicked open the message before she could tell herself that she didn’t particularly care, that it had just been a mistake in judgment, made under duress—
Dear Katya,
How are you? I hope you’re okay. I wanted to let you know, I’m alive and well. And to let you know Sophie’s recovery is going well. She is alive because of you. I’ll always be grateful for that. And for the time we had together.
Love always,
Lock
Katya leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. Standing, she paced around her office three times and then sat back down. After clicking the email forward button, she began to type:
To: CIA InfoSec
From: Katya Brittain
Subject: FWD: Hello Again
The email I’m forwarding is from Lochan Cairnes, who is on our _
She stopped typing for a moment, then hit the backspace four times and resumed:
your priority target list. As you will note from his profile, he is an expert hacker, so presumably he’s masked the IP from which this email was sent. However, I’m forwarding it to you as per procedure. Please advise if anything comes of it.
Of course, there was a good chance InfoSec had already read it. Haruo had pulled what strings he could to keep her from facing charges, but he also wasn’t about to take the fall for her. Which was only fair. Yet it meant that the CIA and NSA were likely watching her every move. And reading her every email.
And for the time we had together. That wasn’t going to help her cause any, especially since she’d insisted she had no influence over Lock, that he’d be too paranoid to agree to meet with her. She’d reminded them that he’d used the same trick himself to set up Vipul. But thanks to Lock’s careless remark, she’d probably have to rehash the whole argument.
She certainly wasn’t going to make things worse by concealing the fact that he’d contacted her. She stared up at the harsh fluorescent light emanating from behind a semitransparent ceiling tile. He was out there somewhere, while she was stuck in here. Why didn’t she try to bring him in? It probably wouldn’t get her out of purgatory, but it had to be worth something. Just because she’d made a stupid mistake didn’t mean she had to keep paying for it. The thing was, even if she could get him to come out of hiding, she knew she’d never be able to go through with it. She couldn’t do that to him.
She exhaled sharply. He was, in point of fact, a criminal. The kind of man she’d built an entire career fighting against. Why she’d thrown away that career, why she still wanted to protect him—that was an argument she was tired of having with herself.
Besides, her boss was expecting a brief on the state of oil production in Tanzania before lunch. Which would get compiled into a bunch of other similar reports on the socioeconomic influences of sub-Saharan Africa, which, in turn, would be condensed into a summary and included in another report, and so on, until, if she was lucky, her work would survive as part of a bullet point in a briefing to an assistant to the secretary of state on her upcoming meeting with the deputy president of South Africa.
You’re welcome, Lock, she thought as she pulled up the document on her monitor. Her fingers began clicking methodically on the keyboard. “Offshore oil and natural gas reserves continue to attract foreign investment…”
Hainan, China • Overlooking Yalong Bay
Saturday, August 18th
7:00 p.m. CST (China) (China Standard Time)
Lock leaned back in the oversized wicker chair, staring out at the bright blue waters of Yalong Bay. He was barefoot and wearing Ray-Bans, a white tank top, and mesh track pants. He took a sip of the Barbancourt fifteen-year he’d had shipped in from Haiti. Ever since his run-in with the Rathod crime family, he’d been unable to enjoy scotch. In fact, for the first month or so, while he’d been forging his new life, he hadn’t wanted a drink, period. Now that he was beginning to settle in a bit, he’d been surprised to discover that a fine rum was agreeable to him. It seemed to go with the tropical climate—and the fact that he wasn’t looking over his shoulder as often.
Lock glanced over at Kafka, sitting in an identical chair next to him. As always, sheaves of black hair stuck out at random angles from his head. Lock was still getting used to seeing his best friend in such a different locale. Or maybe it was just that he was starting to tan.
Lock took a sip of rum. “We have the call with Global Witness tomorrow, right?”
“Right.”
“Remember to use my alias on the call. Last time—”
“I know. John Lee. I got it. It’s just such an easy name to forget.”
“That’s the whole point. And then we have Ray in the afternoon?”
“They’ve got the cameras in place,” explained Kafka. “But Ray wants to work through something he calls a protocol. Basically, when are his guys supposed to take action?”
Lock arched an eyebrow. “Whenever it looks like Sophie might be in danger.”
“Yeah, but specifically. Like, if a friend picks her up, do they follow the car? That kind of thing.”
“Of course they follow the car. What’s the point, otherwise?”
“It’s just an example. Don’t blame the guy for wanting to be thorough.”
Lock rubbed his chin. “Good point.” He was silent again for a moment, overwhelmed by the beauty of the bay. Li Shan had set him up with a helluva hideout. Of course, it hadn’t come cheaply. In the distance, he could hear strains of music from a hotel farther down the beach. Weekend tourists from the mainland. “What’s for—?”
He was interrupted by the little chime that meant he’d received a text message. He shifted in his seat so he could pull the phone from his track pants. There were only so many people it could be from because only so many people had that particular number. It was a “burner” number, acquired via an Internet service. His phone could only get local service so that he could call Kafka or someone on his staff. Outside of that, he relied entirely on anonymous Internet services and the wireless Internet access on the phone. Since he almost never left this little compound overlooking the bay, except to go down to the beach, it worked out fine. More importantly, it made it virtually impossible for the CIA to trace him via his phone.
He read the message:
Cleopatra is live.
Symbols crashed in Lock’s chest. He sat up. “It’s her!” he exclaimed. He looked over at Kafka, as though seeking his blessing.
“Well, go,” said Kafka, waving a hand at him.
Lock stood up and walked quickly across the veranda and through the French doors that led into the main living room. He hadn’t actually expected her to try and reach him. She had to have figured out that her kidnapping was his fault. And, if she hadn’t, Karen had surely clarified the matter. Karen had been abundantly clear about not wanting Lock to have anything to do with Sophie. If it hadn’t been for Dennis, he’d never have even been able to set up the trust fund for her. He’d offered to provide a twenty-four-hour bodyguard for her, too, but Karen had insisted it would only scare her.
Lock made his way through the living room and down a broad stairwell into what looked like it had been intended as a library, except there were almost no books on the teak shelves. He burst through another pair of doors into a windowless room with a large wooden desk at one end and an elaborately patterned Turkish carpet covering most of the floor. He turned on a light and walked around behind the desk. The desk chair creaked as he sat down and opened up his laptop.
Lock clicked through on a link he’d bookmarked in his browser specifically for this eventuality and brought up an encrypted video chat service. The image of Sophie’s face appeared suddenly on the screen, her eyes focused slightly to one side. She’d probably started doing something else while she’d waited for Lock to get her text and join her.
“Sophie,” he prompted, his voice catching slightly as he studied her face. He’d been concerned that seeing her via video chat would bring back bad memories…for both of them. Maybe it was the fact that she looked like the Sophie he remembered, the Sophie from Before, but the only thing he felt was gratitude.
Her great big blue eyes focused on the camera. “Hi, Dad,” she began flatly.
“How are you?” asked Lock, knowing there was no simple answer to that question.
“Fine,” she replied. “You?”
“I miss you.”
Sophie looked to one side. “I’m supposed to tell Mom and Dennis if you try to contact me.”
“You should tell them.”
“Won’t they track you down if I do?”
Lock felt his throat tighten. He coughed lightly. “No, sweetie. But they probably wouldn’t let you talk to me.”
“There’s no probably about it,” confirmed Sophie, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
Lock smiled. “So I’m glad you didn’t tell them yet.”
“I suppose you can’t tell me where you are.”
“That’s probably best.”
“Is it somewhere nice?”
“Yes. Except that you’re not here.” Lock paused. He thought back to the email Katya had sent him shortly after he’d fled. “How’s therapy?”
“It’s good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. There’s this other girl in group who’s been to Hawaii too, and we’re BFFs now.”
“That’s nice. What’s her name?”
“Mallory. She’s really funny.”
Lock felt his chest swelling. Thank you, Mallory, whoever you are. “Friends that make you laugh are the best.”
“Yeah.” Sophie’s eyes wandered again. “Is it true what everyone says about you?”
Lock braced himself. “What are they saying about me?”
“That you’re a criminal. You’re not, though, right? Not really.”
Lock took a breath. She’d been through enough without her carrying that around. “I made some mistakes,” he admitted softly. “But I’m not a criminal.”
“Mom says you stole a lot of money.”
Lock thought back to the instructions he’d given Vipul’s broker network, which among other things had included a request to divert a million dollars apiece into a numbered account in Bermuda. “That’s not exactly what happened.”
“What did happen? Why are you hiding?”
“I got involved with some very bad people, Sophie.”
“Obviously,” she snapped.
“And I’m sorry you were ever mixed up in it.” Lock silently cursed himself. It sounded as if he was apologizing for being late to pick her up. There was no apology that could make up for what he’d put her through.
Sophie was silent. Her eyes drifted to the left. “I should go.”
“I made some mistakes. Do you remember when we talked about—?”
“Mom and Dennis will be home soon. I should go.”
Lock slumped slightly in his chair. “Okay.”
“I’ll text you again soon. Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, Sophie. I love—” The video went abruptly black. Lock leaned back in the chair, listening to it creak. “—you,” he finished.
Back out on the veranda, Kafka eyed him critically. “How’d it go?”
“Not so good,” Lock lamented.
“I’ll fix you a drink,” offered Kafka, rising up in his chair. “Rum?”
Lock waved his hand. “That’s fine. I don’t want a drink.”
Kafka sat back down wordlessly.
“They’re telling her I’m a criminal.”
Kafka laughed, gesturing out to the bay. “You are a criminal.”
“I know. But…that can mean a lot of things at that age. I don’t want her to be frightened or think I’m going to hurt her.”
“She’s probably just curious. I mean, Karen basically hates you, and Dennis just stays out of it.” Kafka had tried to act as Lock’s intermediary before joining him in Hainan.
“What’s worse is that I did hurt her. I just don’t want her looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. And when the time comes, I don’t want her to think she can’t take advantage of the trust fund.”
“It’s going to take time, Lock.”
He sighed. “You’re right. I guess it was a start.”
“Exactly. I mean, she did contact you. That’s something.”
Lock stared out at the bay, bisected by a bright ray of reflected sunlight. The sun would be setting soon. “What’s for dinner tonight?”
“Grilled prawns, I think.”
Lock felt his stomach growl and grunted happily. “Too bad Sophie can’t just come live with me. This is the life.”
“Eh, maybe she can one day. Never say never and all that.”
“Maybe.”
“I mean, look at us. Who’d ever have thought we’d be here?”
“Sure would be nice to have Sophie here, though,” insisted Lock. “That’s the only thing missing.” Which wasn’t quite accurate. But he hadn’t told his old friend about Katya yet. Besides, she’d never replied to his last email.
“Maybe someday, Lock.”
“Yeah. Maybe someday.”
Afterward
* * *
The science, finance, economics, and politics behind this story are real.
Practical quantum computers like the Wave Nine don’t yet exist, but active research is booming. Estimates for overcoming the technical challenges range from a decade on out, but the theory is well understood. (In fact, at least one firm claims to have already developed a quantum computer, though this is widely disputed.)
It’s also true that our cryptographic infrastructure was never designed to withstand attacks from quantum computers. Although the bulwark of this infrastructure, the Advanced Encryption Standard, has yet to be broken (at least not in a practical way), new quantum algorithms are being discovered rapidly. There is no guarantee that AES will hold up in the face of powerful quantum computers.
Fortunately, there are very smart people who recognize this and are working diligently to ensure something like the scenario in this novel never happens. The first post-quantum cryptography conference was held in Belgium in 2006, and has been repeated every year or two since.
Still, we have a long way to go before this work can be standardized and integrated into our global computing infrastructure. The process that culminated in the adoption of AES took three years, and it was more than another decade before AES was fully integrated into standard network protocols and fully debugged. The good news is that we’re far better prepared now for the adoption of new encryption standards. The bad news is that even a small window of vulnerability could be disastrous.
Our financial systems are increasingly dependent on the integrity of our cryptographic infrastructure. We also now live in a truly global economy: no crisis is strictly local. Thus, it’s not terribly far-fetched to think that major advances in computing could ultimately threaten a worldwide economic collapse.
The idea that the potential for such a collapse could be used to greenmail wealthy nations into sharing confidential information is speculative. But the value of that information is most certainly not. The daily volume of trades in the foreign exchange market is estimated to be nearly four trillion dollars. The volume in forward contracts alone is estimated to be nearly half a trillion dollars of that, and these are relatively unregulated. Not only that, but forward contracts offer tremendous leverage. With a relatively modest amount of capital and advance notice of the actions of central banks, a savvy investor could quickly and discretely earn a tenfold return. It’s certainly possible that such information could be leaked via email. In fact, that actually happened while I was writing this novel.
All that said, this is still a work of fiction. There are enough doomsayers out there predicting the collapse of the global economy without adding any fuel to the fire. In all likelihood, we’ll upgrade our cryptographic infrastructure in lockstep with our computing capabilities. And, hopefully, we’ll improve the controls over the dissemination of extraordinarily valuable information like central-banking policy changes. My point here is not that something like the premise of this novel will happen.
It’s just that it could.
Acknowledgements
* * *
I have a lot of people to thank. Before I do, please understand that any mistakes or faults in this novel are entirely my own responsibility.
If you enjoyed this novel, my editor, Tammy Salyer, is a big part of the reason why. I was very lucky to be able to work with her. She understood what I was trying to do from the start, and her critique improved the story a great deal. In addition, she helped tighten up my prose and curb my copious infractions of the accepted rules of grammar and style. Finally, my first attempt at a novel having ended, more or less, in failure, her enthusiasm for the project gave me a much-needed boost of confidence.
Jeremy Foster provided keen insights into the workings of high finance. In particular, he was the one who suggested greenmailing the G8 for inside information from the central banks. He also suggested the use of the foreign exchange markets as the way to turn that information into money. He corrected numerous mistakes in technical details and jargon. Finally, he ultimately helped me develop one of the themes of the book—the fragility and corruptibility of our financial institutions.
James LaBranche read and critiqued the first draft of the novel and patiently answered all my annoying follow-up questions. The story is better for it.
