That was because of me.
Drew smiled to himself. His viral video clip had somehow hijacked the news headlines despite major developments in China. His head felt like it was floating in the air, high above his body, in a foggy dreamworld. Another surge of adrenaline intensified the nerves in his stomach to remind him of what was coming—a live interview on national television.
A makeup artist appeared next to him, going to work on his sweaty face with some tinted powder. As soon as she touched up his face, beads of sweat reappeared, causing her to frown. A few moments later, she grimaced and then apparently gave up.
Drew’s hands started to shake, and he clutched them together. To distract himself, he took quick breaths and tried to listen to Tori and Emilio’s newscast.
“We just heard from the president,” Tori said. “And it’s clear that Tolley has no idea what she’s going to do about the legislation sitting on her desk, waiting for her signature.” Tori shook her head, apparently still stunned by what had happened. “I can’t believe she wasn’t prepared for that line of questioning. Hasn’t anyone in the White House been following social media this morning? Are they asleep at the wheel?”
“Apparently.” Emilio smacked the desk with his hand, a huge smile spreading across his face. “It made my entire year to see Tolley get hammered by those reporters and come off as a complete amateur. Someone in the White House should get fired for this.” He pinched himself multiple times. “This is like the best day ever. Tell me, is it Christmas?” Emilio was almost giddy.
Tori rolled her eyes at his theatrics. “Well, in her defense, Tolley might have been a tad preoccupied by the situation with China. The missile test. The aggressive tweets. And don’t forget, a few hours ago, we thought thousands of protesters were dying in the streets of Hong Kong. Anyone would be distracted under those circumstances.”
“Huh.” Emilio grunted. “I’m not sure what you mean by we. I, for one, didn’t think thousands of protesters were dying. I don’t want to come off as smug, but I called it on the deep fakes. I just knew something wasn’t right.”
Yeah, right.
Drew smirked as he observed the contortions on Tori’s face. He caught her rolling her eyes at her co-host for a second time.
Emilio waved his hands. “But now that we know the massacre is fake, you’d think Tolley could catch up on the most important piece of legislation of this decade.” He furrowed his brow. “Or maybe she can’t handle being commander in chief. If she can’t hack it, I bet General Burke is willing to step up to the plate.”
Drew raised his eyebrow.
Isn’t Burke the secretary of defense?
Then he remembered seeing a headline about Burke wanting the empty VP slot.
The makeup artist returned to comb Drew’s hair and dab his face one more time with powder and disappeared again. Seconds later, a producer showed up next to him, gave him a nudge, and handed him a notecard. Realizing he was about to go onstage in a few minutes, Drew’s heart began pounding like a bass drum.
“Look, Tolley has had her hands full this morning. China conducted a missile test of an anti-satellite weapon,” Tori said, defending Tolley. “All things considered, that’s a pretty provocative move. Maybe there are things going on behind the scenes that we don’t know about.”
Emilio’s eyes bulged, and he slapped the desk again. “But that’s what the damn press briefing was for! To let the American people know what’s going on. To help us understand why her administration appears to be flailing about without any sense of direction. To give us something to chew on. And what did we get? Nothing. I don’t know of anyone with credibility making a big deal about that missile test. Why not? Because it’s obviously part of the scheduled war game tomorrow. Are we gonna freak out every time China blows something up over the next few days? Don’t we have the most powerful military in the world?”
Tori shrugged nonchalantly. “For once, I don’t disagree with you. She did fall short of what I expect from a president.”
“Well then, there’s a first time for everything,” Emilio said, grinning at her and then directly into the camera. “Folks, here’s your soundbite for today. Tolley completely missed the boat on the most important issue for the American people—the question of authorizing the Department of Defense to field fully autonomous weapons systems on the battlefield. I don’t know of a more important issue at the moment.”
Tori turned her body toward the camera and smiled. “And that’s why we’re thrilled to have Drew Hudson back here with us to talk about the risks posed by autonomous weapons systems after the break. Stay tuned for more.”
“And we’re off air,” the cameraman said. Everyone exhaled and began moving about the set. A stage assistant rolled a third chair up onto the stage and situated it between the other two chairs.
Emilio scowled and crossed his arms, glaring at Drew and then at Tori. “Since when do we invite a single guest, representing only one side of the issue?” he asked, pointing a finger at Drew.
“You don’t think you can handle debating both of us?” Tori asked, poking fun at him.
A pit formed in Drew’s stomach. I’m not going to have to argue with Emilio, am I?
“That’s not the point,” Emilio said. “If we’re going to interview Terminator Boy, shouldn’t we also feature a guest who favors the development of autonomous weapons systems? Doesn’t our show always present both sides of the issue and let the audience decide?”
Drew shrank back, avoiding eye contact with Emilio. His pulse spiked.
Terminator Boy?
“We couldn’t find someone on such short notice,” Tori said. “We didn’t expect the video clip to have such a huge impact on social media. The executive producer decided it was a useful target of opportunity. It’s not my fault.”
“The executive producer, my ass,” Emilio said, throwing up his hands. “You’re the one who set this up, Tori. You might end up regretting this.”
Drew blanched. He’d assumed the interview would be a friendly affair. But now he got the impression he was being offered up as bait by Tori to one of the world’s most famous conservative commentators. If that was the case, Emilio would have him for lunch and then some.
33
The Dossier
MORGAN
1200
Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus
McLean, Virginia
Morgan pushed open the glass door and strode into the modern-looking suite of the National Intelligence Council. She flashed her White House badge at the receptionist, who nodded at her. Then Morgan followed the signs on the wall, making her way directly to the cubicle belonging to the national intelligence officer for Russia and Eurasia. This would only be her first stop at the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. Before learning more about potential cyberthreats, she needed to dig deeper on the Russian connection.
Rounding the corner, she saw a familiar face in the gray cubicle. Mike sat in an office chair across from two young intelligence analysts.
“Mike, what are you doing here?” Morgan asked.
Mike’s eyes widened when he saw her. He jumped up and approached her with his usual gusto. “Doing a deep dive on the Russian oligarchs. Since I managed to get a few minutes on the president’s schedule later this afternoon, I figured I’d better get up to speed on potential threats coming from Russia. You had the same idea?”
“Yeah.” Morgan nodded and glanced at the intelligence analysts in the cubicle, who were staring up at her.
“Does Grayson know you’re here?” Mike asked.
“Uh, yeah. When David and I brought the issue to the president, Grayson suggested I come by to see if his analysts could uncover any leads on the Russian connection,” Morgan lied.
After her uncle gave her a strange warning about Grayson, she’d decided not to ask him for access. Given the antagonistic relationship between him and her boss, Grayson wouldn’t probably want her anywhere near his staff. But the intelligence analys
ts didn’t need to know that. Mike turned and walked back toward the cubicle and initiated the necessary introductions.
“This is my colleague, Dr. Morgan Shaw, director for defense issues at the NSC,” he said.
The petite Asian-American woman stood up, her long, straight black hair falling forward as she shook Morgan’s hand. “Niko Takahashi, national intelligence officer for East Asia. I think we’ve met before when I had the opportunity to tag along on the president’s Daily Brief.”
Morgan’s face lit up. “Yeah, great to see you again.” She pulled over an empty chair from another cubicle and sat down next to Mike.
The male analyst reached over for a quick handshake. “Ma’am, I’m Wyatt Evans, national intelligence officer for Russia and Eurasia.” The skinny black-haired kid looked like he was fresh out of graduate school. “By the way, that was a stroke of genius to think of Russian oligarchs as being involved in this scheme. Without your suggestion, we would never have gotten as far as we have on our analysis.”
Morgan suppressed a frown, eager to get the pleasantries out of the way and down to business. “Okay. Between the tweets and fake video footage, I get the sense that there’s something more going on here. But this doesn’t feel like the prototypical Russian disinformation campaign. Things are moving way too fast for their usual strategic approach. I’m worried this morning’s mischief could be the prelude to something bigger.”
Mike bobbed his head. “Actually, we were just discussing exactly that theory, but you’re missing one major element.”
“I am?” Morgan asked, searching her mind for the one thing she was forgetting. She leaned forward in her chair.
“Brace yourself for a bombshell,” Mike said with a grim look. “The NSA has just picked up some chatter among Russian agents about some Top Secret space rocket launches scheduled to take place from a site in Siberia in the next few days.”
“What?” Morgan’s mouth fell open, and she shrank back. “The Russian government is planning to launch rockets without telling anyone about it? That’s extremely reckless. Have you informed Grayson or the president?”
Mike shook his head. “Not yet. For one, we’re not sure the Russian government is directly involved. It looks like the space activity might be coming out of the private sector. The NSA is still verifying the veracity of the information. But if the rumors are true, it changes everything.”
“I can’t imagine a private sector company launching space rockets without authorization from the Russian government,” Morgan said, sliding into a daze. Her thoughts drifted to Anton Vega and his grandiose plans for space travel.
Could Vega be behind all of this? Why the extreme secrecy around the space launches?
“But why bother with the bogus tweets and deep fake videos?” Wyatt asked, his face aghast. “How does that help with the space launches?”
Someone wants the United States and China distracted…
“Do we know where the tweets came from yet?” Morgan asked, snapping herself back from her internal thoughts to focus on the task at hand.
“We had our cyber specialists at the Cyberthreat Intelligence Integration Center take a look at the hack of the news handle. They found a known hacker’s signature.”
“The hacker left a signature?” Morgan asked.
“Yes, the hack was signed N0V4, or Nova as the hacker is known by name. Hackers like to sign their masterpieces, which also allows us to track their work online,” Wyatt said. “However, they’re also skilled at hiding their true identity.”
Morgan leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Okay, someone wants to toy with our perception of China’s intentions.”
“Yes,” Wyatt said. “We’ve also identified the individual who actually posted the tweets to the China Xinhua News handle. Thanks to some video footage of him leaving the building located next to the state news agency headquarters in Harbin, China. That’s the building linked to the IP address where the posts were uploaded. We also have infrared confirmation that no one else was in the building at the time. The man’s name is Dimitri Molotov.”
Morgan smirked at the irony. Molotov as in the explosive cocktail?
“Molotov is a former Russian FSB agent and now a well-known rogue operator for hire by organized criminals—and sometimes by the Russian government,” Wyatt said. “But he’s an equal opportunity thug who will work for anyone who pays in suitcases full of cash.”
“How in the world did you get your hands on that video footage and infrared data?” Morgan asked, giving them a blank stare.
“From our counterparts at the Chinese Ministry of State Security,” Niko said. “Didn’t Grayson mention our informal back channel with Chinese intelligence analysts this morning?”
Morgan shook her head, trying to recall his exact words.
“Well, I wasn’t at the meeting,” Niko said, “but I definitely put a note in Grayson’s talking points. Didn’t he bring it up?”
Morgan nodded. “Yeah, Grayson said Chinese intelligence admitted the Twitter handle was hacked and claimed the hacker was a Russian FSB agent. I guess they got it partially right. He’s Russian and former FSB.”
Niko gave her a slight smile. “Even if the Chinese government won’t make any official statements, they seem rather determined to clear up the misunderstandings behind the scenes.”
“But that doesn’t help us on the world stage,” Morgan said, furrowing her brow. “Or inspire much confidence. How do we know the Chinese intelligence analysts are telling us the truth? Maybe they’re just feeding us a line to keep us confused. Do you think this Molotov character was also behind the deep fakes?”
“We don’t know for sure,” Wyatt said. “NSA analysts have traced the source of the video footage from the deep fakes to an IP address within Russia, but we haven’t confirmed the identity of the individual who posted them.”
“What was the time lag between the tweets and the deep fakes?” Morgan asked.
“Huh. I hadn’t thought about that angle,” Wyatt said, glancing down at a piece of paper and pointing to the information. “The tweets were posted between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. this morning in Harbin, China. The videos went live around 6 a.m. from an IP address in Vladivostok, Russia. Wait a minute. I know why you’re asking. Molotov didn’t have enough time to make the long drive to do both. He must have been working with someone else, perhaps this notorious hacker.”
“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Do we know who hired Molotov?”
“Actually, we do,” Wyatt said. “It’s quite a coincidence. We’ve known for a long time that Molotov works on occasion for Igor Koslov, one of the two oligarchs Mike named for you. Interestingly, Koslov happens to be in New York City at the moment.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. “Koslov is here in the country? And he’s hired Molotov to mess with our relationship with China?”
Wyatt nodded. “We know this because the FBI has been surveilling a number of suspicious Russian citizens in our country and listening to their communications. Anyway, we picked up several conversations between Igor and his contacts in Russia, including Molotov. They were talking in code, using popular cocktail names. We believe they are playing up the irony of Molotov’s surname. Or they know we’re listening, and they’re just screwing with us.”
“What sorts of things have they said?”
Wyatt grabbed a classified folder from his desk, flipped it open, and read from the document. “In the first conversation, Igor told his Russian contact he was out with Maria at a Mexican place drinking both a piña colada and a daiquiri, but that the night ended with a blue lagoon.”
Morgan furrowed her brow. “What in the world does that mean?”
Wyatt shrugged. “No idea. We think Molotov could be the person on the other line. The phone is a burner so we’re not one hundred percent certain. In the second conversation, Igor said Maria finished an Americano and plans to take a Moscow mule. And the last conversation was about a white Russian, black Russian, and a side car.”
“Yup,” Wyatt said. “We’re still waiting on further information from the FBI about her. They’re pretty sure they know who she is. Once we have her identity, we might be able to get further in our investigation.”
Morgan squished her brows together, still thinking about the cocktail names. “The first three drinks mentioned… maybe they have something in common that offers a clue to their meaning? Piña coladas and daiquiris both have rum?”
“But the blue lagoon has vodka in it,” Mike said, shaking his head.
Morgan’s shoulders sank for a moment. Then a new idea came to her. “Okay, but don’t they all have ice in them?”
“Nope. A daiquiri is served straight up,” Mike said, sighing.
“But they’re fruit drinks,” Morgan said. “All three are served chilled.”
“Look, we’ve already spent too much time trying to decode the messages,” Mike said. “Koslov is probably trolling the NSA. He has to know he’s being monitored. I think we’re wasting our time attempting to figure out what these messages mean.”
“Sorry. You’re probably right,” Morgan said. She turned to Wyatt. “What do you know about Igor Koslov?”
“Not much,” Wyatt said. “But we’ve only had an hour or so to gather the dossier together after Grayson came back from the White House. Koslov was born in Vladivostok and grew up dirt poor. His parents died when he was a child, and he spent many years at an orphanage. Somehow, he mustered up the funds to attend the state university in Vladivostok where he studied engineering. In his early twenties, he moved to Moscow for graduate school on a full scholarship at Lomonosov Moscow State University and became an engineer for the oil and natural gas industry upon graduation—”
“Wyatt, this is all very interesting background,” Morgan interrupted, not hiding her irritation. “Did you find anything pertinent to the disinformation campaign?”
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