by David Bruns
“Boom.” Don stopped pacing and faced the room. “In addition to killing three men, the resulting explosion destroyed most of the Allegheny P&L generating capability. But our little piece of malware had one final mission.
“The term national power grid is often tossed around as if it’s one monolithic entity. It’s not. It’s a patchwork of fiefdoms and legacy operating systems from the last hundred years. There’s a reason the hackers chose to attack Allegheny P&L. Their plant is colocated with Midwest Power’s distribution operation. This site is the link between the East Coast and the Midwest transmission networks. These are two separate companies, operating two separate software systems with two separate levels of cybersecurity.
“The malware jumped the fence from Allegheny to Midwest and proceeded to take down every distribution node on that network. The only way they were able to contain it was to take their entire operation offline for eight hours and bring the system back online one network at a time.”
Don let the information sink in.
“All that damage, all those lives lost, all from one email. It does no good to complain about the guy who clicked on a link in an email from his mom. People are people; they will do things you don’t want them to do. We’re not here to try to change human nature, we’re here to find the bad guys and shut them down.
“Make no mistake about it, people. What is going on out there is a war, right under our noses. We are under attack every day from all sorts of people with all sorts of reasons to want to hurt us. Non-state actors, the Russian ‘patriotic hackers,’ the North Koreans, China’s cyber corps, even Israel’s Unit 8200—yes, even the countries we give billions of dollars to—love to hack us. And don’t get me started on the private sector.”
“Sir?” It was Everett again. “Who did it? The Allegheny hack, I mean.”
Don gave her a grim smile. “The thorny issue of attribution, Ms. Everett. Hackers don’t just leave a calling card. We need to pick apart their code, look at the context of the hack, backtrack on where the emails came from, and so on. Then, and only then, can we make some educated guesses about who did the deed.”
“So who did it?”
Don shrugged. “In this case, it was simple. The hack was claimed by a group affiliated with ISIS—Daesh, as the rest of the world knows them. According to our current rules of engagement, we retaliated with increased bombing and drone strikes. All of the suspected perpetrators were killed.”
“And is that what happened?” It seemed Everett was not going to let it go.
“Why do you ask, Ms. Everett?”
“Well, sir, you just described a scenario that was part intelligence operation and part hack. ISIS has not shown that level of capability before or since.”
Don considered her. He needed to pick someone from this class, and she seemed to be the most engaged so far. “The topic of attribution and public acknowledgment is for another class, Midshipman. Class dismissed.”
Everett hung back as the room emptied out. “That’s not really what happened, is it, sir?”
“Ms. Everett, I’m the deputy J2 at Cyber Command. You know what that means, right?”
“Yes, sir. You help run the military’s cyberwarfare operations. You complement what the NSA’s already doing.”
“Right. My stint here as a visiting lecturer is contingent upon following some strict security protocols. If I tell you that’s what happened, then you have to accept that answer at face value.” Her bright blue eyes met his without reservation.
In Don’s experience, there were two types of midshipmen: those who were naturally gifted and those who worked their asses off every day to stay above water. Janet Everett was the latter, a striver, the kind of midshipman who put in the hours needed to get the job done. “Even if there’s another answer that I can’t talk about,” he finished softly.
She gave him a curt nod. “I understand, sir.”
“Midshipman Everett, what do you think about the underclassmen in the seminar?”
Her brow wrinkled. “I know Ramirez, we’ve had other classes together. She’s solid. The plebe? Goodwin? Seems strange to have a plebe in an advanced course like this. I heard he’s a real brain.”
“You could say that.” Don resisted a laugh. “Brain” didn’t begin to cover Michael’s pattern-recognition skills. “Do you expect there to be any tension with the other upperclassmen?”
Everett’s broad shoulders shrugged. “Could be. He has to learn to deal with it. It’s the system.”
“We’ll be breaking into teams after the next class. I want you, Ramirez, and Goodwin on the same team. Understood?”
Don knew his request—she would interpret it as an order—was unfair. She was a young officer, not a babysitter. He had no business saddling her with a couple of underclassmen, but his gut told him she was the right person for the job.
Everett had every right to ask him why or what was in it for her. Instead, she nodded without hesitation.
“Understood, sir.”
CHAPTER 2
Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) Headquarters, London
In the movies, defector debriefings were tense affairs filled with sharp questions designed to catch the witness off guard. The answers always revealed some brilliant new plot twist.
Real debriefings were much less exciting. Every minute of face time with a defector required at least ten minutes of preparation. You only got one chance to ask a fresh question and see his initial expression, to judge if the defector was real or some kind of double agent. Of course, the British had had this guy in custody for weeks. The chances of two US agents being able to find an unanswered question was nil.
FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush studied the small monitor showing an image of the interrogation room. Kim Daiwoo was a slight, wiry man, but carried a shadow of past malnutrition in the lines of his face. Was it possible that even a third cousin of the Supreme Leader might have known hunger in his past?
“Ready?” said the man at her elbow. Reggie Bowerman, a Canadian by birth, was a strapping man with a perpetual five-o’clock shadow who probably weighed twice what the North Korean did. As a representative of the US Treasury Department’s Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes Division, he was assisting Liz on the money-laundering aspects of the counterterrorism case.
She flashed him a smile. “Let’s do this. I’ll take point, you jump in with technical details, just like we agreed, okay?”
Reggie popped up his thumb in answer.
Kim looked up as Liz entered the room with Reggie hulking behind her. He got to his feet in a controlled manner and offered a short bow, then seated himself after Liz had taken her seat.
She opened her folio on the table and drew a pen from the pocket of her jacket. The entire interview was being recorded, but she liked to take notes anyway. It helped her think.
“Good morning, Mr. Kim. My name is FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush, and this is my colleague Agent Reginald Bowerman of the US Treasury Department. I run the United States Joint Terrorism Task Force—do you know what that is, sir?”
The diplomat spoke in a cultured accent, reflecting his British education. “I presume you investigate acts of terrorism against the United States. But this is England; why are you here?”
“When an investigation of terrorism takes us outside the borders of the United States, Mr. Kim, we follow.” She placed a photo in front of him. His eyes widened for a split second, and a shadow flickered across his features.
“You know this man, Mr. Kim?”
The diplomat’s calm exterior slipped back into place. “Yes, I know him. Pak Myung-rok, the Supreme Leader’s man … I believe the American term is ‘fixer’?”
Liz and Reggie exchanged looks. “What does that term mean to you, Mr. Kim?” Reggie asked.
“When Kim Jong-un needs something done outside the normal channels of business or diplomacy, he calls this man.” Kim tapped the photo.
“I see,” Liz said. “We have reason to beli
eve that Pak is involved in money laundering, both in the US and in Europe. Do you have any knowledge of this?”
Kim relaxed in his chair. “Oh, yes, I’m certain he is involved in money laundering. What do you want to know?”
Reggie leaned over the table and began to pepper Kim with questions. The North Korean defector answered everything immediately and truthfully as far as Liz could tell, but her mind was stuck on his initial reaction to the charge of money laundering.
He had relaxed, as if he was expecting her to ask about something else. Something much worse.
Reggie was writing furiously. Times, dates, bank visits, diamonds smuggled in diplomatic pouches, illicit weapons deals, oil smuggling. It looked as if Kim was a gold mine for Treasury.
Finally, Reggie leaned over toward Liz. “I’m good,” he said.
Liz focused her gaze on Kim, saying nothing. The diplomat’s smile faded as the silence lengthened. Reggie shifted in his seat and she willed him to be quiet. Kim dropped his gaze to the table.
“What did you think I was going to ask about, Mr. Kim?”
He attempted another smile. “I don’t know what you mean, Agent Soroush. I’ve just provided you with plenty of information about Pak’s illegal money-laundering efforts. My answers were truthful. There is nothing else.”
“Tell me, Mr. Kim.”
The North Korean squirmed, his eyes pleading with her.
“Reggie,” Liz said. “You can go.”
“But the briefing plan. We got what we wanted, right?”
“Mr. Kim and I have another topic to discuss. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
After her partner had departed, Liz let the silence drag on. “I’m not leaving until you tell me,” she said.
“Have you seen my family? Are they safe?” Kim asked. His unflappable diplomatic shell had evaporated, replaced by a hunted expression.
“They’re safe—provided you cooperate completely.”
Kim sighed. “Pak is a playboy. He leads a charmed life. Favored by the Supreme Leader, he goes on expensive European business trips and does deals for the regime. Everyone knows he skims money off for himself, but he’s always willing to share with his friends. Everybody loved Pak.”
“Loved?” Liz asked. “That’s changed now?”
“Four years ago, Pak brought a foreigner to Pyongyang. He convinced the Supreme Leader to give the man asylum. Before long, Pak was doing more than money laundering. He used this man to carry out secret assignments for the Supreme Leader. That reporter in Germany who was investigating food shipments to North Korea?”
Liz vaguely recalled a car accident and conspiracy theories. She nodded.
“That was him,” Kim said.
“How do you know this? Did you see him do it?”
Kim shook his head. “No, not that one.” He was sweating freely, and his eyes roamed around the room.
“Then it’s just a rumor.”
“No, I know because I smuggled him into the United Kingdom.”
“And he did something while he was here.”
Kim nodded. “It was easy,” he said. “He’s nearly six feet tall, has European features, and speaks English with a Spanish accent.”
Liz felt a chill run up her spine. “What did you say?”
Kim mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. “Which part?”
“His accent,” Liz whispered.
“Spanish, but not Continental, more like—”
“South American,” Liz finished for him.
“Exactly.”
Liz stood so quickly that Kim drew back in his chair. She stabbed out her hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Kim. I wish you the best. You will have my recommendation for asylum.”
She made her way out of the room and found the nearest office. “I need a secure line to the CIA. Quickly, please.”
Her hand shook as she dialed her husband’s assistant in Washington, DC. The minutes dragged by as they tracked Brendan down. She tightened her grip on the receiver. Could it really be him? After all this time?
“Liz? What’s up, honey? Is something—”
“I found him, Brendan. I know where he is.”
“Who?”
“Roshed. I found Rafiq Roshed.”
CHAPTER 3
Undisclosed location in the Russian Far East
The hood came off Pak Myung-rok’s head with a snap of cloth. He squinted in the bright lights of the airplane cabin.
“Welcome to Russia,” said one of his escorts in broken English, followed by a harsh laugh. His companion joined in.
“Enough!” A new voice, a voice Pak knew. Borodin Gerasimov had to stoop in the confines of the Gulfstream cabin. Relief flooded through Pak at the sight of his well-tailored friend cursing out the guards in Russian.
He turned back to Pak, extending his hand. “Come, my friend,” he said in English, their only common language. “They’re waiting for us.”
Pak took the immaculately manicured hand and stood. He smoothed the front of his Armani suit. Wrinkled—not the way he wanted to meet members of the Bratva, the Russian Brotherhood, for what might be the most important meeting of his career.
The chill night air was refreshing after the stuffiness of the Gulfstream cabin. The guards had smoked and played cards the entire four-hour flight without so much as offering him a glass of water.
“How is the Supreme Leader?” Gerasimov said, his cultured English accent betraying his Western education. He’d once joked that British boarding school was the best possible education for an international arms dealer.
“The Supreme Leader is in good health,” Pak replied. “He looks forward to a fruitful business relationship with our Russian friends.”
Gerasimov’s smile glinted in the darkness. “Trust me, Pak. If you play your cards right on this deal, we all get rich. You, me, and the Supreme Leader.” He paused before a low-slung building and dropped his voice, his breath smoking in the air. “There’s only one man you need to care about tonight. Alexi Aminev runs the Far East Bratva; this is his home. Be careful—the man is an animal.”
Pak nodded. “Is there someplace I can freshen up? Maybe get my suit jacket pressed before the meeting?”
Gerasimov’s laugh rang loud and lusty in the night air. “My friend, you won’t need a suit for this meeting.” He placed a hand on Pak’s back and ushered him through the door. The interior was warm and humid, with a faint chlorine smell in the air. Gerasimov shucked his suit coat. “We’ll be taking this meeting au naturel, as the French say.” He handed his jacket to a woman in a bikini.
Pak stood rooted to the spot. They were having a business meeting naked?
Gerasimov snapped his fingers. “They’re waiting, Pak. Get a move on.”
A hand tugged at the lapel of his jacket and he looked up to find another scantily clad woman trying to undress him. He did not resist and soon he was standing in his underwear. The woman held up a snowy white bathrobe.
Gerasimov paced. “Pak, we need to do this deal before they get too drunk. Hurry!”
Pak turned away and slid his boxers to the floor. The woman draped the bathrobe over his thin shoulders. The material was soft and fluffy to the touch, expensive.
Gerasimov seized his elbow and steered him to the door.
For a moment, Pak wondered if they’d somehow walked into a high-end European spa. Italian tiles in tasteful earth tones covered the vast room. Pools of various sizes and shapes spotted the space with broad tile walkways between them. All were lit from underwater, lending an unearthly glow to the room. At least a dozen nude young women lounged in and around the pools, some carrying trays of drinks, others plastered to the sides of hairy Russian men. Europop played in the background.
Pak drew in a deep breath. This was the business meeting? As Kim Jong-un’s major representative for alternative business relationships, he’d seen and enjoyed many, many scenes, but this was unique. He was supposed to negotiate an international arms deal in front of two dozen peo
ple?
“Borodin!” came a booming voice from the other side of the room.
Gerasimov went into full salesman mode. With a huge smile painted on his face, he threw his arms wide and strode down the tile walkway, still herding Pak forward. “Alexi!” he bellowed back.
The man in the pool stood in the waist-high water, shaking off the girls on either arm. Gerasimov shucked his bathrobe, and waded into the pool, leaving Pak behind. He embraced Alexi Aminev, the pair exchanging a volley of Russian that Pak had no hope of following.
Aminev was half a head shorter than Gerasimov, with powerful shoulders, and a thick mat of graying hair covering his chest. With a square jaw and a generous mouth, the man looked friendly, like someone’s grandfather.
But the man’s eyes told Pak the real story. Flat, dark brown, like stone, they captured Pak’s gaze and held him.
“So this is your North Korean friend, Borodin,” Aminev said in a gravelly tone. His English was passable.
“Allow me to introduce Pak Myung-rok, the personal representative of Kim Jong-un.”
Pak held Aminev’s gaze, willing himself not to be the first to look away. Finally, the Russian nodded and slapped the water. “Join us, Mr. Pak.”
He allowed one of the ubiquitous young women to slip the robe off his shoulders, acutely aware of how scrawny and hairless he appeared next to these brawny, bearlike men. He stepped into the water. It was hot, searing, but he kept his face blank.
Aminev offered a thin smile as Pak seated himself, the water reaching his chin. He breathed through the discomfort. Gerasimov settled himself on the opposite wall, his arms spread across the tile rim of the pool.
“Borodin has told you about our needs?” Aminev asked finally.
Another test. “Borodin has told me you have a business proposition for the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, that’s all.”
Aminev held out his hand and one of the girls passed him a glass of vodka. He drank it off, then pointed at Pak. The girl swam across the pool with a fresh glass. Pak downed it and handed it back to her.
It was chilled, and the clear liquid burned straight down to his gut. He smiled at Aminev. “Good.”