ROGUESTATE, page 21
Mary glanced up from the next two logs and replied automatically. “Technical term. The NCIC system covers seventeen distinct databases and catalogues forty-million entries. The entire system is staged across a substantial disk farm. We spent one hundred eighty million dollars. It certainly is big enough to develop a few problems.”
“And did you find any problems?”
“Not with the software,” Mary confidently declared. “However, the data is another story. I found three other occurrences where the SYSADMIN account issued a request from an unknown terminal and indicated the routing came from a legitimate law enforcement agency.”
Ellen’s intuition began working overtime.
“The new NCIC runs using a browser paradigm, which makes it very easy to maintain. I pulled the source code CGI scripts used for logon and user authentication. Each time a user connects to the system a row is populated in an auditing table, and I retrieved the audit tables from the system backups last night.”
Ellen tapped her fingers impatiently.
Mary noted the fingers and chose to ignore Ellen for a few seconds more. “There isn’t a corresponding audit trail entry for Detective Crosby’s request.”
“So is that yourglitch? ” demanded Ellen.
Mary shook her head and replied, “No, that’s our hack.” Mary folded her hands and stared straight at Ellen. “I need to know what you’re working on.”
Ellen held up a hand and hit the speaker button on the desk phone. She tapped in an extension and said, “Cecil, I was wondering if you had a minute to hear something.”
“I always have a minute,” replied the older man.
Ellen switched off the phone and said, “I don’t know where this is leading exactly, and before I tell you what we are working on, I need to have an idea where you think this might be headed.”
Mary already knew where the contact logs led. She had called a friend at the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland. The trace route bounced around North America before crossing the Atlantic and coming to a home on a French server in Lyon, France.
Two hours earlier, Mary had received the ECHELON logs tracking the account owners and access networks used by the owners of the French account. Everything eventually ended up in Russia. It was intricate and subtle. Mary had spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday tracking down the truth, and the truth was meaningless. Why would theWild Bunch be interested in a missing vehicle?
Cecil arrived through a side door, and took his seat.
Ellen smiled condescendingly. “Mary thinks the NCIC system has been penetrated.”
Cecil was aware of Mary’s reputation and ignored Ellen’s catty remark. “NCIC 2000—that’s the new system isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe it has been penetrated?”
Mary nodded.
Cecil sat back in his chair, considering her words. “Do you have an idea who might have done this?”
“We never got that far,” interjected Ellen.
Mary sighed and answered Cecil, “I have an idea, but it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” said Cecil in a fatherly tone.
Mary pursed her lips and said, “TheWild Bunch .”
Ellen crinkled her brow and looked from Mary to Cecil, who nodded thoughtfully. “The who?” she demanded.
“Specialized hacker group inside the Russian SVR,” he answered quickly.
Ellen shuffled her notes. She ran through the facts and asked quietly, “The SVR entered the bogus query into NCIC?”
“Yes,”
Cecil moved on to more practical matters—pay back. “Is there anything we can do to discourage them?”
Mary permitted herself a slight smile. “It’s already happened.” The Bureau maintained a stable of hackers ranging in age from seventeen to twenty-three. They called themselves thePhreaks . The Bureau decided there were better ways to repay society for youthful endeavors than prison time. ThePhreaks practice their craft from their bedrooms and dorm rooms by connecting into the super-secure servers at Quantico. Only a select group inside the Bureau knew of their existence and no one in the Justice Department had ever been briefed. They were the Bureau’s private counterintelligence army.
Last night thePhreaks penetrated the French based server and added a data bomb to theWild Bunch ’s hijacked email account. It was a subtle and elegant piece of code fresh from a teenager’s twisted mind designed to bypass any commercial virus checker. Unlike conventional email attacks, this virus only needed to touch the host system. Once in place, it proceeded to dump the contents of the server to an isolated system inside Great Britain’s MI6 server room at Vauxhall Cross. It was easier to trust the cousins across the Atlantic than any agency on the other side of the Potomac.
Cecil nodded and asked no more, because Mary would never tell him. “Thank you very much for your help.”
After Mary left them, Ellen asked, “Don’t we need anything more from her?”
Cecil formed a steeple with his fingers and answered, “She told us who planted the NCIC query. It certainly tells me you’ve stumbled into something rather interesting.”
Ellen remained perplexed. “I still don’t get it. Why would the SVR be tinkering around with the NCIC system?”
“Ellen, do you have any idea what is going on in Chechnya these days?”
She shook her head. It was her job to track domestic terrorism, and the Russian angle was completely beyond her scope.
“It appears the Russian Security Council has authorized a scorched earth policy against the Chechen military leadership. There are stories coming out of the refugee camps along Ingushetia/Chechen border. They claim thatSpetsnaz troops are actively engaged in the war. The only precedent we have for such actions is Afghanistan in 1980.”
Ellen closed her eyes. “Cecil we’re not a counterintelligence unit. We handle domestic terrorism.”
Cecil glanced at the closed door. “Ellen, dear, you have an terrorist act that was committed domestically. Does it matter that you have evidence of a SVR operation on American soil?”
“What about Feldman?” she probed.
“What about him?” asked Cecil dismissively.
“He’ll see my expenses…”
Cecil shook his head. “Ellen, you need to make a decision about your career here in the Hoover Building—are you going to be a cop or a paper-pusher?”
She thought to answer and stared open-mouthed at Cecil. As usual, the old man had crystallized the situation with the piercing clarity of his pale blue eyes.
“Feldman is a paper-pusher. It is amazing he can still pass his quarterly qualifications,” Cecil continued disgustedly. “I’m a dinosaur in this age of political correctness. We answer to an AG that seemingly obstructs justice and stonewalls congress. The Bureau is a sickly child in this government, and J. Edgar is probably spinning in his grave at what has been happening around here.”
Ellen shook her head dejectedly. “Cecil I don’t know how to chase spies.”
Cecil smiled and his eyes twinkled brightly. “I do—especially Russian spies.”
* * * *
Dwayne Morton rubbed the back of his neck. The report on the Congressman Russell Bronski bombing was thicker than he expected. He thumbed through the fire inspector’s and police reports. Paper clipped to the Bronski fire inspector report was a second report related to the Skinner bombing of a week ago.
The Bureau maintained a variety of databases designed to catalogue every crime report. The process tended to lose personal observations, but the computer excelled at keeping track of spurious data such as chemical compositions, ballistic markings, and tire treads. Modern inference engines capable of correlating a vast spectrum of datum generated reports describing relationships that would have been missed a few years ago.
All domestic explosion and shooting forensic reports were fast-tracked into one of the Bureau’s specialized databases. The Bronski explosion found its way to the top of the reporting queue, and the Bronski investigation received greater scrutiny than a normal event. Basically, all the bells and whistles were turned on in hopes of achieving a hit.
The search process evaluated a myriad of factors including chemical analysis, geographical proximity, and time currency. The Bronski/Skinner explosions achieved hits on all major categories, and those items were in bold type at the top of the report.
The initial report regarding the Skinner incident suggested a gas line explosion centered near the water heater. The insurance investigator uncovered evidence suggesting the water heater had help in demolishing the Skinner house. It appeared there had been a primary explosion on the first floor designed to trigger a natural gas pool in the basement. The fire department retrieved a severed copper gas line next to the water heater, and the Bethesda Police Department arrested Allan Skinner two days later on suspicion of homicide.
Murder fell under the guidelines for the Bureau’s Violent Crime Apprehension Program (VICAP), and the details of the Skinner explosion were dutifully entered late last week. The chemical composition derived from the trace residue at both explosions had identical potassium chlorate signatures. While potassium chlorate is a common explosive filler for military grenades and mortar rounds, the chemical markers were inconsistent with known military explosive mixtures. The computer analysis suggested the explosive was homemade.
Dwayne turned to his computer and accessed the records related to Allan Skinner. He skimmed through the interviews of Allan’s co-workers at the State Department. The portrait of a distant and socially inept administrator working through the devastating problems related to famine relief in Africa began to emerge. The office gossip suggested Allan had had an affair with an intern a few years ago. However, the most damning fact was that Allan could not account for his whereabouts on the day his wife was blown apart.
Unfortunately for Allan, he convinced a bail bondsman to post a bond on Friday. It meant hecould have planted the bomb in Bronski’s car, and his home was less than ten miles from Bronski’s mansion. The preponderance of circumstantial evidence convicted Allan faster than any kangaroo court ever could. Dwayne lifted his phone and issued a federal warrant for Allan Skinner’s arrest.
Quick action always pleased the Hoover Building’s top floor gnomes, and Dwayne had grown used to dealing with dumb crooks. Allan Skinner proved to be a handy criminal complete with opportunity and motive. Special Agents were encouraged to demonstrate initiative and practice proactive law enforcement. It would days before Dwayne realized his mistake. Damon Layne continued to mete out terror swiftly and surely.
* * * *
Rita Mason walked into Feldman’s office. She settled into the cushioned chair across from his desk and luxuriated like a cat on a sunny windowsill. Feldman glanced up from his paperwork and sipped his water. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got CYCLOPS activity.”
Feldman set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. “Who?”
“You favorite target,” she said slyly, and slid a photograph of Jim Harper across the desk.
Feldman licked his lips. He had been trying to lock Harper up for over two years. “Anybody else?”
Rita nodded playfully and added a photograph of Harvey Randall.
Feldman sat up. “He slipped away after that business in Baltimore this summer, and we never knew where he went,” murmured Feldman.
“They appear to be working on the Metro around Silver Spring. We’ve got several hits of them showing up at different stations along the same spur,” explained Rita.
“Are those radio earpieces?” he asked, squinting at the photograph.
“Yes, and they appear to be armed.”
Feldman nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll never get a weapon’s charge to stick. Harper has a valid Federal permit and Harvey probably has garnered enough favors to have one as well.”
“What do you want to do?” asked Rita.
“Wait for them to do something stupid,” replied Feldman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Washington D.C.,Detroit News,October 7, 1999 –In one of the most extensive cyber-attacks ever aimed at the US government, hackers apparently working from Russia have systematically broken into Defense Department computers for more than a year.
Investigators so far have failed to identify the hackers or to confirm whether espionage is the motive. But circumstantial evidence points heavily towards a Russian-based intelligence gathering operation. Privately, unnamed sources at the FBI’s National Infrastructure Protection Center suggest a group known as the “Wild Bunch” is responsible.
Washington D.C.
Wednesday, November 1, 2000
10:00 A.M. EST
Eduard Gurov wandered through the Smithsonian American History Museum. It was one of the few attractions on the Mall where metal detectors were not used to screen visitors, and he did not wish to park his Makarov. He followed the guidebook to the Museum’s coin collection. He found a fantastic array of gold and silver coinage minted by the United States and colonial mints as well as world coinage, although, nothing was quite as spectacular as the American gold collection.
The coin collection exhibit had enough corners and twists to frustrate a surveillance team and sufficient sightlines through the hard, clear Plexiglas displays to enable Gurov to perform an adequate counter-surveillance operation. His contact was the chief of station for the SVR.
Gennadiy Panferkov was a stout, balding man whose pate was circled by a gray fringe. His stride was a cross between a waddle and step, and he carried the appearance of a Swiss banker. He never asked any questions once Moscow informed him that Gurov operated under the auspices of the Security Council. Russia might suggest it was a democratic society, but the age of the Czars had merely been interrupted for seventy years by kings who waved a hammer and sickle in place of a scepter.
Eduard fidgeted with the museum map as he scanned the area around the American coin collection. He bent forward to peer at a Saint Gaudens twenty-dollar gold piece. Even a cynic like Gurov marveled at the boldly walking liberty against a background of stars and rays.
“They are beautiful, are they not?” asked Gennadiy.
“Stunning,” agreed Eduard.
Gennadiy gave a furtive glance to his surroundings and walked behind Eduard. “There have been problems.”
Eduard grunted. Hyder had faded into the swirling American culture, and Eduard had no more leads.
“Evidently, the FBI was not pleased with your foray into their NCIC system.”
Eduard shrugged indifferently. He needed to find Hyder immediately and eliminate the threat to the Security Council. “What has that to do with me?”
Gennadiy raised an eyebrow and continued, “We believe they call themselves thePhreaks .” He perused a five-dollar gold Indianhead profile. “They dropped a data bomb onto an important server in Moscow.”
Eduard fumed impatiently.
“They tell me the data bomb was attached to one of your emails,” Gennadiy added.
Eduard looked from the glittering coinage to Gennadiy and whispered, “What?”
“The data bomb wiped out fourteen servers inside one of our most secure data facilities. I am told it will be a while before we have repaired the damage and find ourselves in a position to assist you further.”
Eduard grabbed the smaller SVR man’s arm and spun him around. “I have a personal charter from the Security Council…”
Gennadiy looked at Eduard’s offending hand and shrugged his shoulder. “I think I was clear. You’ve invited the FBI down on our heads, and we have significant problems to fix.”
“Where do I go to get support?” Eduard asked desperately.
Gennadiy moved away and shuffled towards the entry to the gold coin exhibit. “It would be best if you avoided the Embassy. We do not need any more scrutiny from the FBI than we have already garnered.”
“You can’t cut me loose like this,” snarled Eduard.
Gennadiy spread his hands. “This is beyond my scope. We’re not even sure why you’ve come to America. My understanding is that the threat is in Chechnya.”
Eduard scowled and considered shooting the SVR man. The pistol hung heavily under his arm and it would be a casual thing to kill Gennadiy. He let his breath out as the SVR man turned away and walked out of the exhibit.
Neither man noticed the gray-haired grandma standing in the American textiles exhibit. She carried a loop handled shopping bag, and she seemed intent on the beautiful Bible quilt sewed by Harriet Powers. The camera inside the bag rolled tape of the two men as they exited the coin exhibit. Later that day the tape would be handed over to her CIA control officer. The Company no longer had any faith in the Bureau’s counterintelligence efforts. They believed Aldrich Ames had an accomplice, and after six years of internecine bloodletting, they no longer believed Ames’ alter ego existed inside the Company.
* * * *
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C.
Cecil Bixby was born towards the end of the depression. His youth was a time when his grandparents still talked about the dangerous days following the Civil War, and his father recalled battles fought during the Great War along the muddy zigzag trenches in France. Sound was a recent enhancement to movies and theWizard of Oz andGone With The Wind were still two years from release. Radio provided the main entertainment for a family, and there were disturbing news clips coming from Europe. The Old World was primed to erupt into global war before he turned four and the Imperial Japanese Navy would cross the Rubicon on a murderous mission to a little-known base at Pearl Harbor. Space flight was nothing more the fanciful tales in pulp magazines.
Technology did not intimidate Cecil as it did others his age. Cecil embraced the digital era and its inherent capability to track activities through cyber-space. He clicked open the specialized search engines for the Bureau’s internal systems.
Ellen Grafft pulled her chair next to Cecil and peered over his shoulder at the screen.
Cecil highlighted a record on the screen and explained, “Parvez Hyder entered the country on October 9. He was strip-searched and questioned extensively.” He reached over and handed Ellen a file folder. “That’s the transcript.”
“And did you find any problems?”
“Not with the software,” Mary confidently declared. “However, the data is another story. I found three other occurrences where the SYSADMIN account issued a request from an unknown terminal and indicated the routing came from a legitimate law enforcement agency.”
Ellen’s intuition began working overtime.
“The new NCIC runs using a browser paradigm, which makes it very easy to maintain. I pulled the source code CGI scripts used for logon and user authentication. Each time a user connects to the system a row is populated in an auditing table, and I retrieved the audit tables from the system backups last night.”
Ellen tapped her fingers impatiently.
Mary noted the fingers and chose to ignore Ellen for a few seconds more. “There isn’t a corresponding audit trail entry for Detective Crosby’s request.”
“So is that yourglitch? ” demanded Ellen.
Mary shook her head and replied, “No, that’s our hack.” Mary folded her hands and stared straight at Ellen. “I need to know what you’re working on.”
Ellen held up a hand and hit the speaker button on the desk phone. She tapped in an extension and said, “Cecil, I was wondering if you had a minute to hear something.”
“I always have a minute,” replied the older man.
Ellen switched off the phone and said, “I don’t know where this is leading exactly, and before I tell you what we are working on, I need to have an idea where you think this might be headed.”
Mary already knew where the contact logs led. She had called a friend at the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland. The trace route bounced around North America before crossing the Atlantic and coming to a home on a French server in Lyon, France.
Two hours earlier, Mary had received the ECHELON logs tracking the account owners and access networks used by the owners of the French account. Everything eventually ended up in Russia. It was intricate and subtle. Mary had spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday tracking down the truth, and the truth was meaningless. Why would theWild Bunch be interested in a missing vehicle?
Cecil arrived through a side door, and took his seat.
Ellen smiled condescendingly. “Mary thinks the NCIC system has been penetrated.”
Cecil was aware of Mary’s reputation and ignored Ellen’s catty remark. “NCIC 2000—that’s the new system isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe it has been penetrated?”
Mary nodded.
Cecil sat back in his chair, considering her words. “Do you have an idea who might have done this?”
“We never got that far,” interjected Ellen.
Mary sighed and answered Cecil, “I have an idea, but it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” said Cecil in a fatherly tone.
Mary pursed her lips and said, “TheWild Bunch .”
Ellen crinkled her brow and looked from Mary to Cecil, who nodded thoughtfully. “The who?” she demanded.
“Specialized hacker group inside the Russian SVR,” he answered quickly.
Ellen shuffled her notes. She ran through the facts and asked quietly, “The SVR entered the bogus query into NCIC?”
“Yes,”
Cecil moved on to more practical matters—pay back. “Is there anything we can do to discourage them?”
Mary permitted herself a slight smile. “It’s already happened.” The Bureau maintained a stable of hackers ranging in age from seventeen to twenty-three. They called themselves thePhreaks . The Bureau decided there were better ways to repay society for youthful endeavors than prison time. ThePhreaks practice their craft from their bedrooms and dorm rooms by connecting into the super-secure servers at Quantico. Only a select group inside the Bureau knew of their existence and no one in the Justice Department had ever been briefed. They were the Bureau’s private counterintelligence army.
Last night thePhreaks penetrated the French based server and added a data bomb to theWild Bunch ’s hijacked email account. It was a subtle and elegant piece of code fresh from a teenager’s twisted mind designed to bypass any commercial virus checker. Unlike conventional email attacks, this virus only needed to touch the host system. Once in place, it proceeded to dump the contents of the server to an isolated system inside Great Britain’s MI6 server room at Vauxhall Cross. It was easier to trust the cousins across the Atlantic than any agency on the other side of the Potomac.
Cecil nodded and asked no more, because Mary would never tell him. “Thank you very much for your help.”
After Mary left them, Ellen asked, “Don’t we need anything more from her?”
Cecil formed a steeple with his fingers and answered, “She told us who planted the NCIC query. It certainly tells me you’ve stumbled into something rather interesting.”
Ellen remained perplexed. “I still don’t get it. Why would the SVR be tinkering around with the NCIC system?”
“Ellen, do you have any idea what is going on in Chechnya these days?”
She shook her head. It was her job to track domestic terrorism, and the Russian angle was completely beyond her scope.
“It appears the Russian Security Council has authorized a scorched earth policy against the Chechen military leadership. There are stories coming out of the refugee camps along Ingushetia/Chechen border. They claim thatSpetsnaz troops are actively engaged in the war. The only precedent we have for such actions is Afghanistan in 1980.”
Ellen closed her eyes. “Cecil we’re not a counterintelligence unit. We handle domestic terrorism.”
Cecil glanced at the closed door. “Ellen, dear, you have an terrorist act that was committed domestically. Does it matter that you have evidence of a SVR operation on American soil?”
“What about Feldman?” she probed.
“What about him?” asked Cecil dismissively.
“He’ll see my expenses…”
Cecil shook his head. “Ellen, you need to make a decision about your career here in the Hoover Building—are you going to be a cop or a paper-pusher?”
She thought to answer and stared open-mouthed at Cecil. As usual, the old man had crystallized the situation with the piercing clarity of his pale blue eyes.
“Feldman is a paper-pusher. It is amazing he can still pass his quarterly qualifications,” Cecil continued disgustedly. “I’m a dinosaur in this age of political correctness. We answer to an AG that seemingly obstructs justice and stonewalls congress. The Bureau is a sickly child in this government, and J. Edgar is probably spinning in his grave at what has been happening around here.”
Ellen shook her head dejectedly. “Cecil I don’t know how to chase spies.”
Cecil smiled and his eyes twinkled brightly. “I do—especially Russian spies.”
* * * *
Dwayne Morton rubbed the back of his neck. The report on the Congressman Russell Bronski bombing was thicker than he expected. He thumbed through the fire inspector’s and police reports. Paper clipped to the Bronski fire inspector report was a second report related to the Skinner bombing of a week ago.
The Bureau maintained a variety of databases designed to catalogue every crime report. The process tended to lose personal observations, but the computer excelled at keeping track of spurious data such as chemical compositions, ballistic markings, and tire treads. Modern inference engines capable of correlating a vast spectrum of datum generated reports describing relationships that would have been missed a few years ago.
All domestic explosion and shooting forensic reports were fast-tracked into one of the Bureau’s specialized databases. The Bronski explosion found its way to the top of the reporting queue, and the Bronski investigation received greater scrutiny than a normal event. Basically, all the bells and whistles were turned on in hopes of achieving a hit.
The search process evaluated a myriad of factors including chemical analysis, geographical proximity, and time currency. The Bronski/Skinner explosions achieved hits on all major categories, and those items were in bold type at the top of the report.
The initial report regarding the Skinner incident suggested a gas line explosion centered near the water heater. The insurance investigator uncovered evidence suggesting the water heater had help in demolishing the Skinner house. It appeared there had been a primary explosion on the first floor designed to trigger a natural gas pool in the basement. The fire department retrieved a severed copper gas line next to the water heater, and the Bethesda Police Department arrested Allan Skinner two days later on suspicion of homicide.
Murder fell under the guidelines for the Bureau’s Violent Crime Apprehension Program (VICAP), and the details of the Skinner explosion were dutifully entered late last week. The chemical composition derived from the trace residue at both explosions had identical potassium chlorate signatures. While potassium chlorate is a common explosive filler for military grenades and mortar rounds, the chemical markers were inconsistent with known military explosive mixtures. The computer analysis suggested the explosive was homemade.
Dwayne turned to his computer and accessed the records related to Allan Skinner. He skimmed through the interviews of Allan’s co-workers at the State Department. The portrait of a distant and socially inept administrator working through the devastating problems related to famine relief in Africa began to emerge. The office gossip suggested Allan had had an affair with an intern a few years ago. However, the most damning fact was that Allan could not account for his whereabouts on the day his wife was blown apart.
Unfortunately for Allan, he convinced a bail bondsman to post a bond on Friday. It meant hecould have planted the bomb in Bronski’s car, and his home was less than ten miles from Bronski’s mansion. The preponderance of circumstantial evidence convicted Allan faster than any kangaroo court ever could. Dwayne lifted his phone and issued a federal warrant for Allan Skinner’s arrest.
Quick action always pleased the Hoover Building’s top floor gnomes, and Dwayne had grown used to dealing with dumb crooks. Allan Skinner proved to be a handy criminal complete with opportunity and motive. Special Agents were encouraged to demonstrate initiative and practice proactive law enforcement. It would days before Dwayne realized his mistake. Damon Layne continued to mete out terror swiftly and surely.
* * * *
Rita Mason walked into Feldman’s office. She settled into the cushioned chair across from his desk and luxuriated like a cat on a sunny windowsill. Feldman glanced up from his paperwork and sipped his water. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got CYCLOPS activity.”
Feldman set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. “Who?”
“You favorite target,” she said slyly, and slid a photograph of Jim Harper across the desk.
Feldman licked his lips. He had been trying to lock Harper up for over two years. “Anybody else?”
Rita nodded playfully and added a photograph of Harvey Randall.
Feldman sat up. “He slipped away after that business in Baltimore this summer, and we never knew where he went,” murmured Feldman.
“They appear to be working on the Metro around Silver Spring. We’ve got several hits of them showing up at different stations along the same spur,” explained Rita.
“Are those radio earpieces?” he asked, squinting at the photograph.
“Yes, and they appear to be armed.”
Feldman nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll never get a weapon’s charge to stick. Harper has a valid Federal permit and Harvey probably has garnered enough favors to have one as well.”
“What do you want to do?” asked Rita.
“Wait for them to do something stupid,” replied Feldman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Washington D.C.,Detroit News,October 7, 1999 –In one of the most extensive cyber-attacks ever aimed at the US government, hackers apparently working from Russia have systematically broken into Defense Department computers for more than a year.
Investigators so far have failed to identify the hackers or to confirm whether espionage is the motive. But circumstantial evidence points heavily towards a Russian-based intelligence gathering operation. Privately, unnamed sources at the FBI’s National Infrastructure Protection Center suggest a group known as the “Wild Bunch” is responsible.
Washington D.C.
Wednesday, November 1, 2000
10:00 A.M. EST
Eduard Gurov wandered through the Smithsonian American History Museum. It was one of the few attractions on the Mall where metal detectors were not used to screen visitors, and he did not wish to park his Makarov. He followed the guidebook to the Museum’s coin collection. He found a fantastic array of gold and silver coinage minted by the United States and colonial mints as well as world coinage, although, nothing was quite as spectacular as the American gold collection.
The coin collection exhibit had enough corners and twists to frustrate a surveillance team and sufficient sightlines through the hard, clear Plexiglas displays to enable Gurov to perform an adequate counter-surveillance operation. His contact was the chief of station for the SVR.
Gennadiy Panferkov was a stout, balding man whose pate was circled by a gray fringe. His stride was a cross between a waddle and step, and he carried the appearance of a Swiss banker. He never asked any questions once Moscow informed him that Gurov operated under the auspices of the Security Council. Russia might suggest it was a democratic society, but the age of the Czars had merely been interrupted for seventy years by kings who waved a hammer and sickle in place of a scepter.
Eduard fidgeted with the museum map as he scanned the area around the American coin collection. He bent forward to peer at a Saint Gaudens twenty-dollar gold piece. Even a cynic like Gurov marveled at the boldly walking liberty against a background of stars and rays.
“They are beautiful, are they not?” asked Gennadiy.
“Stunning,” agreed Eduard.
Gennadiy gave a furtive glance to his surroundings and walked behind Eduard. “There have been problems.”
Eduard grunted. Hyder had faded into the swirling American culture, and Eduard had no more leads.
“Evidently, the FBI was not pleased with your foray into their NCIC system.”
Eduard shrugged indifferently. He needed to find Hyder immediately and eliminate the threat to the Security Council. “What has that to do with me?”
Gennadiy raised an eyebrow and continued, “We believe they call themselves thePhreaks .” He perused a five-dollar gold Indianhead profile. “They dropped a data bomb onto an important server in Moscow.”
Eduard fumed impatiently.
“They tell me the data bomb was attached to one of your emails,” Gennadiy added.
Eduard looked from the glittering coinage to Gennadiy and whispered, “What?”
“The data bomb wiped out fourteen servers inside one of our most secure data facilities. I am told it will be a while before we have repaired the damage and find ourselves in a position to assist you further.”
Eduard grabbed the smaller SVR man’s arm and spun him around. “I have a personal charter from the Security Council…”
Gennadiy looked at Eduard’s offending hand and shrugged his shoulder. “I think I was clear. You’ve invited the FBI down on our heads, and we have significant problems to fix.”
“Where do I go to get support?” Eduard asked desperately.
Gennadiy moved away and shuffled towards the entry to the gold coin exhibit. “It would be best if you avoided the Embassy. We do not need any more scrutiny from the FBI than we have already garnered.”
“You can’t cut me loose like this,” snarled Eduard.
Gennadiy spread his hands. “This is beyond my scope. We’re not even sure why you’ve come to America. My understanding is that the threat is in Chechnya.”
Eduard scowled and considered shooting the SVR man. The pistol hung heavily under his arm and it would be a casual thing to kill Gennadiy. He let his breath out as the SVR man turned away and walked out of the exhibit.
Neither man noticed the gray-haired grandma standing in the American textiles exhibit. She carried a loop handled shopping bag, and she seemed intent on the beautiful Bible quilt sewed by Harriet Powers. The camera inside the bag rolled tape of the two men as they exited the coin exhibit. Later that day the tape would be handed over to her CIA control officer. The Company no longer had any faith in the Bureau’s counterintelligence efforts. They believed Aldrich Ames had an accomplice, and after six years of internecine bloodletting, they no longer believed Ames’ alter ego existed inside the Company.
* * * *
J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C.
Cecil Bixby was born towards the end of the depression. His youth was a time when his grandparents still talked about the dangerous days following the Civil War, and his father recalled battles fought during the Great War along the muddy zigzag trenches in France. Sound was a recent enhancement to movies and theWizard of Oz andGone With The Wind were still two years from release. Radio provided the main entertainment for a family, and there were disturbing news clips coming from Europe. The Old World was primed to erupt into global war before he turned four and the Imperial Japanese Navy would cross the Rubicon on a murderous mission to a little-known base at Pearl Harbor. Space flight was nothing more the fanciful tales in pulp magazines.
Technology did not intimidate Cecil as it did others his age. Cecil embraced the digital era and its inherent capability to track activities through cyber-space. He clicked open the specialized search engines for the Bureau’s internal systems.
Ellen Grafft pulled her chair next to Cecil and peered over his shoulder at the screen.
Cecil highlighted a record on the screen and explained, “Parvez Hyder entered the country on October 9. He was strip-searched and questioned extensively.” He reached over and handed Ellen a file folder. “That’s the transcript.”
