ROGUESTATE, page 12
Eduard sat back in the chair and considered the implications. According to the Russian President’s projected itinerary, Putin was scheduled to visit the new American President in Washington during late January. It was a courtesy visit designed to ensure continued financial support through the International Monetary Fund.
Putin’s scheduled American visit put him beyond the protective boundary established by the Kremlin and thePrezidentskaya Sluzhba Bezopasnost (Presidential Security Service). Naturally, PSB bodyguard would accompany the Russian President, but their effectiveness would be circumscribed by the restraints imposed by the Secret Service and the FBI.
Eduard realized he needed to find Hyder quickly. He had concerned himself with travel inside the Russian Federation. It never occurred to Eduard that he should check international departures or run a check through passport control looking for Hyder. He wondered what kind of alarms he would trigger if he ran a check through Interpol. A lone rifle shot cracked in the distance and echoed through the broken ruin. The future beckoned.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
New York,Time/CNN,September 12, 2000 –The major party candidates remained locked in a neck and neck race for the White House. While today’s poll shows Al Gore to be three points ahead of Governor Bush, the race remains a statistical dead heat.
Pine View, Virginia
Monday, October 16, 2000
1:00 P.M. EDT
Damon Layne drove his Suburban through the wooded Virginia countryside over a muddy and rutted road. Big, sloppy raindrops splattered across the windscreen and drummed on the roof. The leafy canopy opened up into a rough yard leading to an abandoned barn and a rough-hewn hunting shack.
The property was one of many forgotten parcels owned by the CIA. Purchased years ago during the Cold War for an obscure operation, it remained a remote anachronism west of Pine View and south of Sumerduck. The entire parcel was a bit more than two hundred acres in size, and the locals hunted the northern acres in and out of season. No one inquired too carefully in another’s business. It was the perfect place for Damon to set up shop.
He pulled the truck behind the shack and turned off the motor. Behind him lay the initial supplies he required. He had purchased everything he needed at a Walmart Store outside of Richmond. The list included three cases of bleach, a case of Farber’s salt substitute, a case of distilled water, a case of Vaseline, four one-gallon cans of white gas, ten bricks of molding wax, a large Pyrex mixing bowl, a hydrometer, and a plentiful supply of wires and fuses. He explained to the curious clerk that it was for a craft project at an old folks home.
Despite the outward appearance, the hunting shack was well appointed and quite secure. Damon had stopped outside the perimeter and found the security system embedded in a metal cabinet similar to a phone company switch box. He entered the security code to shutdown the infrared imaging scopes and low light cameras, and issued instructions identifying the current activity as a black project. Those protocols temporarily severed the security links between the old farm and the action teams at Langley.
The cabin held a sink, hotplate, refrigerator, two bunk beds, and a heater. The shutters could be kept closed against the curious, and the large table was the perfect place to arrange his materials. His only regret was that each gallon of bleach only yielded enough material to make two or three bombs.
Damon stripped off his shirt and hung it on the hook. He purposely avoided his stash of vodka and bourbon. The process of distilling bleach into plastic explosives mandated he keep all his wits about him. Messing up on the temperature, or dropping something, or just dozing off could result in a fireball screaming skywards.
He poured half a gallon of bleach into one of the mixing bowls and began heating the noxious liquid. Next he flipped on an electronic powder measure—primarily used by ammunition reloaders. He flipped the unit-of-measure switch to metric, and set a paper cup on the scale. Damon hit the zero button, and then poured the proscribed amount of salt substitute into the cup. The salt substitute was nothing more than potassium chloride, which he mixed into the simmering bleach.
Damon opened the window over the sink and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He never let his attention waver far from the hydrometer reading. Once it hit his mark, he flipped off the hot plate and ushered the gurgling mixture into a waiting bowl on its way to the refrigerator.
Three hours and five batches later, Damon poured the cooled bleach mixture through a series of coffee filters. He had it running in a continuous operation and the salvaged potassium chlorate crystals turned into ominous heaps on top of metal cookie sheets. He had already mixed the earliest crystals with distilled water and commenced a new series of heating and cooling cycles. The fractional crystallization process removed impurities, until Damon refined his crystals to a fine powder.
He measured the potassium chlorate powder before dropping it into a plastic cake bowl. Oddly, the bowl’s color reminded him of his mother mixing a cake. He pushed the image from his mind—the police had never found his mother’s body and the suspicions they harbored were lost in the Columbian jungles he had haunted in the mid-eighties.
Damon added wax, Vaseline, and white gasoline to the brew. His hands wrapped behind surgical, skintight gloves, he began to knead the mixture in the bowl. Damon realized the cops would find a body or two this time—bits and pieces scattered everywhere.
Another three hours ticked by and the cool October night gathered about the isolated shack. Damon had two egg cartons worth of yellowish-gray dollops. He slid the gray cartons into large plastic Ziploc bags and moved them to a dry feed room in the old barn. On the shelf next to hiseggs was box of short, thin nails—brads. The angst he prepared to inflict on the unwary never entered his mind.
He was operational—a predator prowling through an uncertain milieu of soccer moms, homeless street bums, and trendy dealmakers. People were groggily focusing on the impending presidential election, and they grappled with the weighty issues of who would best enhance their 401K plans, provide for more government freebies in the way of prescription drug benefits, and solve the nebulous Social Security problem. The more demanding issues of national honor, security, and constitutional integrity never received a passing mention.
Into this national myopia, Damon Layne slithered. He worried about Conner Fadden finding him—it was his greatest fear. Yet, there lurked someone far more primal than Conner Fadden. Damon should have been born to a more barbaric time when he could meet his adversary face-to-face with saber and flintlock in hand. He was a coldly efficient killer and the twin phantasms named havoc and terror rode astride his shoulders.
In training, in raw ruthless rage, in getting the job done, there was little to distinguish Damon Layne from Jim Harper. But unlike Damon, Harper struggled with right and wrong, black and white. He was not for sale to the highest bidder, and the painful agony of what he had become constantly whispered at his feet. Honor and duty were more than words for Harper; they ran like mighty pillars to the core of his being.
Harper remained Damon’s antithesis. They had first crossed paths during OperationJust Cause —the American invasion of Panama 1989. A covert operation to eliminate a CIA officer gone bad—the results were inconclusive. Amazingly, eleven years later Harper found Layne again in Panama City, only to trail him to the heavily-guarded American Embassy. Neither time did Layne truly recognize his peril.
However, there was one thing Harper never forgot or forgave. It was the people who had attempted to kill him once. Generally, he never gave those people a second shot.
* * * *
Arlington, Virginia
Adrian Bridger climbed out of the golf cart and selected a five iron from his bag.The Fixer strolled across the manicured fairway to the ball. He ignored the Secret Service contingent bracketed about them and concentrated on his game—and it had little to do with hitting a white ball with a stick.
His golfing companion was the National Security Advisor (NSA) who decided to accept an invitation away from the quarrelsome Middle East. War and peace whipped like angry winter winds through the White House corridors, and it was unclear as to whether the enemy was Ehud Barak, Yasser Arafat, or the Texas Governor.
Bridger sent his ball sailing close to the third green.
The NSA grunted, “Good shot.”
Bridger dropped his club into the bag and waited until the NSA hit his ball. “We’re going to concentrate on three states,” he began casually.
The NSA cocked an eyebrow towards Bridger and glanced about towards the Secret Service. The Palace Guard had eyes and ears. During the impeachment scare, Ken Starr had subpoenaed one of the uniformed members. The NSA had become circumspect in his conversations. “Perhaps, there is a better place to discuss this.”
Bridger noted the NSA’s guarded gaze and continued. “Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Florida hold the key to the election.”
“Look, I don’t really handle…” protested the NSA.
They slid into the golf cart together and Bridger savored the squirming. “You did handleSpanish Poppy ,” murmured Bridger as the cart lurched forward. It was always the same story. Tawdry and petty men seemed to achieve high office with surprising regularity, and when the time came for them to settle accounts, they suddenly discovered honor.
The cart’s sun shade masked the NSA’s sudden fear, “I don’t know what…”
The other malady afflicting the powerful was memory loss. The First lady had lost track of her billing records. No one had any idea who hired Craig Livingston at the White House. The President did not even recall a sexual tryst. The cart rumbled forward and Bridger answered casually, “Of course, you don’t, and the forty-seven million dollars just happened to vanish. As I was saying, the key to the election is those three states.”
Forty-seven million dollars resided in a numbered account registered with a Switzerland Bank. It was the money garnered fromSpanish Poppy , and the Lexington Compact wanted its share.
The NSA escaped the cart, grabbing his pitching wedge. He examined the lie of his ball, attempting to concentrate on grip and swing, but inside he fumed at the blatant demand. He shot went long and missed the far side of the green.
Adrian clucked his tongue sympathetically. His clientele wanted everyone to believe they could achieve scores like Tiger Woods, but unless their address was 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
, no one accepted the mythical scores. “The Texas Governor could just as easily pick up those states.”
The NSA spun angrily towardThe Fixer and snapped, “We’ll fight you!”
Adrian used a nine iron to land his ball ten feet from the pin. Threats, loathing, and FBI files had become the preferred method for political conduct. Bridger held evidence far more damning than the Bureau’s intrusiveness. “There’s no need for such dramatics, and I hardly think you’d want to pick a fight you would clearly lose.”
Cold fear shot through his limbs as the NSA took his own nine iron to the far side of the green. He turned back to Adrian, certain someone had made a terrible error, “Lose?”
Adrian shrugged and whispered, “We have it on tape—wonderful high speed VHS tape. The entire meeting.”
The NSA wiped his sweaty palm down the side of his trousers. “You wouldn’t dare.” His ball tumbled across the green in a shaky pattern.
“Dare?” mused Adrian, “I don’t dare anything. I’m simply relaying to you the facts. We can throw the votes either direction—after all, we’re going to manufacture them one way or the other.” Adrian learned during Iran-Contra that facts and truth mattered little to headline-seeking politicians. He discovered truth was a commodity to be manufactured and packaged before it was fed to a bumbling congressional inquiry. Adrian learned his lessons well, and modern technology enabled him to make the people he had on tape say and do almost anything.
Adrian Bridger examined the distance between his ball and the pin.
“What do you want?” snapped the NSA.
Bridger relaxed his shoulders as his putter swung through the ball and sent the ball rolling into the cup. He looked up from his shot and removed an envelope from his back pocket. “Forty-five million needs to be transferred to this account today.” There was no need for threats or harangues; Adrian viewed their meeting as a business transaction. After all, the presidency hung in the balance.
The NSA stared at the folded envelope for long seconds before snatching it from Adrian’s hand.
The Fixersmiled as he swung his club into his bag. He pocketed the ball and clucked his tongue. “That wasn’t so hard.”
The NSA pocketed the envelope and glowered at the ball. He tapped the ball with his putter and it skipped around the rim of the cup.
“There is one other thing,” added Adrian.
The NSA looked up from his game and whispered, “What else?”
Adrian found true fear in a man who had diverted millions toSpanish Poppy, and ordered men to bleed and die. It gaveThe Fixer a great deal of satisfaction. “Your Senator friend agreed to pay fifteen million dollars.”
The NSA spluttered and his face flared red. A doctor might have concluded he was experiencing a heart attack. “Fifteen million dollars!” he seethed.
Bridger nodded innocently. “I’m sure he can convince the Chicago and Philadelphia people to come up with it.” What was another fifteen million when the NSA had just handed over forty-five million.
“He agreed to fifteen million dollars,” repeated the NSA.
Bridger chuckled. “He thought he was getting a bargain.”
The NSA sunk his putt and glared at Bridger. “You’d better deliver!” he warned.
“We always do,” he answered confidently.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chechnya,London Telegraph,Nigel Turner, July 6, 2000 –The Russian Army’s recent claim of victory over rebels appears to have been premature. In a series of well-coordinated hit-and-run attacks including suicide truck bombs and ambushes, the Russian Army is bent and bloodied. The attacks focused on security checkpoints and a police dormitory.
The Russian Army seems ill prepared to deal effectively with Middle-East style guerrilla tactics. Many of the dead came from an elite police unit from the Urals’ city of Chelyabinsk.
Chicago, Illinois
Tuesday October 17, 2000
1:30 P.M. CDT
Eduard Gurov hailed a cab outside Terminal 5 at O’Hare International. He arrived in America traveling under a Belgium passport produced by the Federal Security Service (FSB) Documents Directorate. He traded his flak vest, uniform, and sidearm for a French-made business suit, Italian loafers, and a Japanese silk necktie. He carried a briefcase stuffed with innocuous business papers, an American-made laptop computer, and a German-manufactured digital telephone.
The United States Customs Officers never bothered to open Eduard’s suitcase. They gave his documents a perfunctory glance, asked a few standard questions, and wished him a pleasant stay. Eduard answered them in highly accented English and moved through the terminal to the taxi stand. Regardless, the same computer system tracked both Eduard and Parvez and they left unavoidable footprints.
While Russia did not have the code-crunching capabilities similar to the massive mainframes above and below ground at the National Security Agency’s Headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland, the FSB did employ an imaginative and devious hacker group. They were known as theWild Bunch taking their name from an American Western movie.
TheWild Bunch did not spend their time attempting to crack multiple layer, single cipher, 1024-bit algorithmic codes. The computers capable of working through such complexities simply were not available. Instead, theWild Bunch focused its efforts on infiltration.
The defeat of George Bush in 1992 ushered in an unprecedented relaxation of American technology export controls. TheWild Bunch used International Monetary Fund (IMF) loans to purchase a dizzying number of personal computers, Cisco routers, and a variety of UNIX mini-computers. They learned how to build, patch, and subvert UNIX kernels. They discovered a plethora of security holes in everything from Windows 3.1 to Windows Millennium Edition. They tinkered with peer-to-peer networking solutions and spoofed address protocols using named pipes, TCP/IP, SPX/IPX, and ODBC drivers. They did it ostensibly with American tax dollars.
By 1995, the Internet crept beyond the shadows of academia and into the mainstream of American life. Within five years, email replaced snail mail, DVDs threatened the VHS market, and broadband solutions supplied by cable modems, DSL, satellite, and ISDN made the 56K modem seem as antiquated as horse-drawn buggies.
TheWild Bunch came of age with the technology, and, as with all technical generations, they understood the infrastructure behind the graphical user interfaces and pretty screens. While they could work in an X-Windows environment, most of their work delved deeper into the realm of HTML editors and telnet sessions.
Tracking Parvez Hyder through passport control and airline reservation systems was a relatively simple task. TheWild Bunch had already penetrated every major airline and hotel reservation system. Passport control was more difficult, because several third world countries still used paper systems. According to theWild Bunch, Parvez surfaced in Greece and boarded anAir France flight to Paris. From Paris, he made his way to London taking the train through the Chunnel between France and England.
Up to this point, Parvez had traveled under an Iraqi passport. TheWild Bunch ran its validation checks, expecting to find a forgery. However, Parvez’s Iraqi passport contained a valid serial number and it was legitimately issued in his name six months earlier. It was an odd bit of knowledge Eduard tucked away for later analysis.
