by Leslie Wolfe
“Lou, I’m so happy you’re here,” she said. “How did you guys pull it off?”
“Tom figured out a plan with Sam and Robert. They fudged some paperwork, and now I am a tenured QA analyst with DCBI, been with them for years.”
“Great! Maybe you can figure out how to get to the damn code,” she said, not letting go of his arm.
“Well, guess why I’m here,” he said and winked.
“I’m telling you, there must be something with the code. I’m sure of it. They protect it big time, and they’re very determined not to let anyone near it. They’ve threatened me, but so far nothing has happened.” She was excited to have someone she could trust. “How do they expect to continue to control our interaction with that code when they eventually have to deliver the software to DCBI? How does any of this make any sense?”
“Not sure yet. How do you want to attack this?”
“You have to get to the code; that’s really all there is to it,” she said with a shrug.
“Not quite. First, we must get rid of your driver,” Lou said. “Sam said that Pranav might become a risk fairly soon.”
“Great, just great,” she muttered.
“How about you and I start to date? For cover, I mean,” he clarified, seeing how confused she looked.
“Absolutely, would love to,” she replied. “We’ll start dating today at lunch, or is that too soon for you, sir?” She fluttered her eyelids in a mock flirting gesture.
“Nope, that will work. And I’ll take the role of driving you around.”
“You can drive in this?” She gestured in the direction of the street filled with chaotically moving vehicles in a concert of honks, several stories below them. Something caught her eye. “I wonder who that is and why he’s visiting,” she said, pointing at a car below.
His eyes followed her hand gesture.
“Who’s that?” Lou asked.
He looked down and saw a huge black limo pulling in front of the building. A man, wearing a dark suit and a burgundy turban, had the car door opened for him as he climbed out of the limo and entered the building.
“No idea, but it could be our first break in this damn case,” she said and pulled her SatSleeve phone. She speed-dialed Sam’s encrypted cell.
“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted her.
“Hey, do you have someone on the ground here in Delhi?” Alex half-whispered her question, while Lou kept guard, watching for anyone who could wander onto the roof for a cigarette break.
“I might, what’s up?”
“A limo just pulled up here; I’d love to know who the passenger is,” she whispered. “You need to confirm, ’cause otherwise I need to tail him myself.”
“Got it. Give me a minute.”
They chatted for a few minutes, putting their plan together and watching the limo to make sure it didn’t leave before Sam’s confirmation. They planned how to travel around, where to go, where to eat, when and how to get to the code.
The familiar chime of a new text message got her attention. Sam’s message read, “My friend already in position at your location.”
...71
...Monday, August 15, 6:47PM CDT (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Johnson Campaign Headquarters
...Chicago, Illinois
Anthony Fischer was willing to let his presidential candidate, Bobby Johnson, celebrate a little. Fischer had been stern and hadn’t even allowed him to celebrate when he had received the nomination, concerned with the media attention. However, today’s news was worth something to both of them, so he decided to let it be. By the looks of it, Johnson had already started celebrating on his own, probably as soon as one of his young interns brought the recorded newscast for him to view.
He was sprawled on the couch, his white shirt wrinkled, stained with sweat, and partially hanging out of his pants. Jacket and tie were on the floor, and Fischer had to pay attention not to step on them, or on the shoes, scattered randomly where Johnson had kicked them off. The level of remaining Scotch in the cut crystal bottle was less than half, and he knew for a fact that Johnson’s crew topped that bottle full every morning, like a ritual. Johnson hated seeing half-empty bottles. But of course he did, Fischer thought, almost chuckling when he saw that Johnson had replaced the original cut crystal glasses (that had come with the bottle as a set) with plain ones, only much larger. That was Johnson’s response to Fischer’s strict rule of only one glass per day before going home. Maybe he was cut out to be the next president after all. This type of response was very appropriate for many different crises, not just for his personal alcohol restriction.
Johnson held the TV remote in one hand and the Scotch glass in the other. He smiled jovially when Fischer approached.
“You’ve seen it?” Johnson asked, not even slurring that badly.
“Sure I have, Bobby, sure I have.” Fischer briefly ran his hand against his forehead and sat in an armchair next to his client.
“OK, but let’s watch it again, will ya? I just wanna watch it again,” he pleaded and pushed the button on the remote without waiting for Fischer’s consent. The TV played the recording of a prime-time political news show, Flash Elections, with the familiar voice of the anchor, Phil Fournier, opening the evening’s program.
“Is our strongest presidential candidate a Godless man?” Fournier opened. “The recently found recording, dated more than two decades ago, has Senator and presidential candidate Doug Krassner declaring that he’d prefer to see churches pay taxes. This strong stance has gained Krassner significant media and electorate attention of the kind he probably didn’t want at this time in his campaign. His ratings lost thirteen percentage points in the first day the recording came out, then lost additional points more gradually, placing him a little behind Bobby Johnson. This is the first time Krassner has ranked behind Johnson in the polls since the campaign started. Separated by only a percentage point, Johnson has the lead in the race for now, but he wasn’t able to capture all the losses Krassner incurred.
“Senator Krassner held a press conference today, the most heated one in recent history. It took a few minutes to get the press calm enough to ask questions in an organized fashion, and Krassner remained imperturbable while organizing a system that allowed him to have a productive session with the media. Here are the highlights from this session,” Phil announced, as the screen transitioned to a recording from the earlier press conference.
Johnson poured Fischer a stiff drink and handed him the glass. They both took long gulps, eyes glued to the TV.
“Senator, when’s the last time you went to church?” A young reporter with short, golden hair and elaborate makeup asked.
“I think that was in 2004, if I’m not mistaken, when I attended my best friend’s wedding,” Krassner replied with his usual charismatic smile, as if unaware of the storm his answer was going to generate.
The press fell silent for a second, the calm before the storm. Then everyone started talking at the same time, louder and louder, trying to cover one another’s voices in the tumult. A man from the back of the media room yelled, “Are you an atheist, senator? Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, I do believe in God,” he replied.
“But you’re not going to church? Would you care to explain?” the same man continued.
“I believe in God, not in one church or the other. I exercise my faith in the privacy of my home. That is where I pray, that is where I observe my faith. I guess I could say I am a faithful man, not a religious one. There’s a big difference, you know.”
The room fermented for a few seconds, and then a voice rose above the rest, “Our nation has as an official motto, ‘In God We Trust.’ Keeping this aspect in mind, how do you see yourself, when you haven’t set foot in church since 2004, fit to lead this nation?”
Krassner smiled before answering, as if secretly entertained.
“Our motto is, precisely as you said, ‘In God We Trust.’ It has never been, ‘To Church We All Go.’ I am drawing your attention to this key differe
nce. I see myself fit to lead our proud nation because I am a faithful man, and I do believe in God. This fact, if you think about it, has very little to do with attendance at a certain church. I happen to think I don’t need intermediaries to pray, confess, or talk to God. I can do that on my own.”
“Do you hate churches, senator? Do you hate pastors and priests?”
“No, absolutely not. I simply don’t need churches or ministers to observe my faith. I pray at home, I confess at home—to God, and I light candles at home. Nowhere in any scripture has this choice of observance been deemed any less worthy than churchgoing.”
“Senator, why would you have churches pay taxes? Do you still believe that?”
“Yes, I still believe that, for some churches, not for all of them. Let me explain why. Some of them advertise. If you recall the recording that started all the media attention regarding my beliefs, I was pointing to a billboard when I made that statement, many years ago. That billboard held an advertising piece for a church that, unfortunately, was not entirely captured in that video, only partially. Therefore, I can’t speak about that particular billboard message. But I can show you these billboards still exist today, and I can show you what they look like today.”
He clicked a small remote, and on the screen behind his lectern, some slides started showing, each holding for a couple of seconds. One read, “If you die today, where will you go? Heaven or Hell? For the truth dial 1-888-555-5555.” Another one read, “Judgment Day Is Coming,” and had another toll-free number posted. A third one said, “Anti-God is Anti-American. Anti-American is Treason.” The fourth and last one remained displayed on the screen, making an impression on the media. It read, “You will burn in hell. To save yourself call this number.”
Krassner allowed the media to absorb the images for a few seconds, and when whispers started to rise, he resumed, “A business that advertises to get more sales, a business that spends tens of thousands of dollars in advertising every year should be taxed. That’s the letter and the spirit of our tax law. But most of all what really gets to me is that these organizations are supposed to bring relief and comfort, not anxiety, fear, and guilt. These are the churches that I’d like to see pay taxes. They operate like reckless insurance companies, instilling fear and then offering relief for a price. What price, you might ask? Well, the majority of them charge or ask you to donate 10 percent of your income for being a member. That is precisely how a business operates. That’s a business that should pay taxes, in my opinion.”
Another reporter raised his hand to ask a question.
“I have another point to make, if you don’t mind, and then I will answer your question,” Krassner announced. The reporter lowered his hand. “My final point is that a church should be a place of healing and tolerance and should not promote hate, not under any circumstances. Hate is anti-American, not atheists. Our constitution guarantees our right to freedom of religion, and that includes having a different religion than the billboard is trying to sell, or having none, as an atheist or an agnostic. That’s why I still strongly believe that churches that demonstrate corporate greed or intolerance should be taxed, because they are in violation of their declared mandate, and they operate as corporations.”
He took a quick sip of water from the glass next to him and continued, pointing at the man whose hand was raised just a minute before. “Yes, sir, now your question, if you please?”
“Umm, you just answered it, senator. I have no more questions.”
Johnson clicked his remote and the TV went dark.
“He is so gonna burn over this,” he said, leaning toward Fischer and clicking his glass against Fischer’s. “Cheers! I am the new president of the United States, thank you, Mr. Krassner,” he said, raising his glass toward the TV and then taking another gulp.
“Maybe,” Fischer said thoughtfully. “It’s a possibility. He did make logical sense, you know, and I hate to admit it. I’m sure the religious fanatics will drop him anyway, but I’d be curious to see his ratings in a few days.”
“I did get lucky, didn’t I?”
Fischer considered the question before answering it. Either he was lucky or he had some very strong supporters who had started getting involved more. He knew Johnson came with a lot of strong support from some very powerful people, who chose to remain anonymous. Fischer was well aware of that support; although he still didn’t know who was behind it. That strong financial support had motivated him to come out of retirement and help Johnson ascend to power, persuaded by the generous, yet anonymous deal they had offered. It had taken a lot of money to get him engaged, but now it didn’t seem like enough. Even with all the experience he had putting people in the White House, Johnson had proven to be a hard case, making Fischer fear his career would end in shame rather than glory. After today though, he felt there was some serious hope, especially if Johnson’s unseen friends continued their campaign.
His entire reasoning was too much for Johnson to handle, even if he were sober.
“Yes, you did, Bobby. You did get lucky, and so did I.”
...72
...Tuesday, August 16, 6:07PM Local Time (UTC+5:30 hours)
...Taj Palace Hotel
...New Delhi, India
They had their routine down. In the mornings, Alex and Lou would go to the office, get involved for a while, ask to see the code, put some useless pressure on the local project managers, run into Bal every now and then and exchange some more pleasantries, then head out for a long lunch, from about 11AM ’til about 2:30PM. Then they’d waltz right back into corporate HQ, holding hands, smiling, and looking at each other, causing most women to snicker and men to frown. They’d kill some more time at the office, but at about 4PM or so they’d be out of there. Then they’d head to their hotel, the Taj, where surveillance would place them near the pool, mostly tanning in the pollution-filtered sunlight or hanging out in the hotel lobby. Later on they’d head out to dinner, always in one of two places, either the Bukhara, famous for its fantastic mutton, or the Masala Art, right inside the Taj. Finally, as darkness fell, they’d hit the road and get lost in the vast city.
That was when the real work started. Pranav, Alex’s driver, was history, and Lou did a fairly good job driving the streets of New Delhi and losing their surveillance. They’d drive around for at least half an hour, making sure no one was following them, then stop somewhere remote and safe to run the bug finder on their car, clothes, laptop bags, everything. Then they would resume their drive and choose, on the spur of the moment, a hotel they liked. They’d enter the hotel’s parking structure, making sure yet again they were not followed. Lou would checkin under a well-documented alias, provided by Sam, with fake passport, fake credit cards, and the whole nine yards. Alex, waiting for the checkin to be complete, would sip a cup of coffee in the lobby and watch for anyone who showed too much interest in Lou’s midnight checkin. Then they’d go up to the room, and their work would finally start.
At first, Lou wrote some code that allowed him to discreetly map the network security parameters and figure out ways to get in. The heavy and bulky Inmarsat device had proven invaluable. It made it possible for them to deploy the sniffer code and figure out a way in from the Leela Palace in central Delhi. Then they grabbed their first modules of code, hacking into precise locations within the ERamSys network, from inside the Dusit Devarana, via encrypted satellite connection. They were finally making some progress.
Back at their own Taj Palace, by the pool, Alex was reading a book on her iPad, while Lou, with his laptop open, scrutinized every line of code. He frowned and slapped the laptop lid shut, then turned to her.
“Come on, baby, let’s grab an early dinner,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her up from the lounge chair. Immediately, young poolside personnel approached them with towels and trays with fresh lemonade. The service at the Taj was impeccable, but Alex’s focus remained on the lines on Lou’s forehead. She grabbed her things.
After enduring a long dinner,
dying to ask questions she couldn’t ask until much later, they had finally made it though their daily routine. Once they were safely in an exquisite suite at the Shangri-La, she got to look at the code.
“What am I looking at?” Alex asked impatiently.
“This module seems fine, but it has some routines that shouldn’t be there. You see,” he pointed, “this routine calculates the results by state every five minutes. There’s no entry in the specification document that requires any such calculation. Seems redundant but doesn’t do any harm whatsoever. Then this other section of code shouldn’t exist either. It evaluates the state in which the vote is captured, and, based on the set of rules outlined here, it returns a value. That value could be called at some point into a different module to generate actions that might differ by state. Again, no harm done in this module, only a lot of useless coding. Nothing in the specs calls for processing by state or state type.”
“What actions?”
“Unknown. There isn’t anything in these modules that would explain that or call this variable. But keep in mind I couldn’t get everything. I just got a few modules, that’s it.”
“Then hack away, my man, hack away,” she said, stretching out on the luxurious bed and immediately falling asleep.
...73
...Wednesday, August 17, 10:02PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Flash Elections: Breaking News
...Nationally Syndicated
Phil Fournier’s smiling face came on the screen immediately after the opening credits faded.
“Well, it was not a given that the Republican Party would still support Senator Douglas Krassner in his run for president in the upcoming elections. It was not a given, especially after the recent turmoil in the media regarding Krassner’s views on religion, faith, and church—turmoil that happened at the precise time when people were casting their votes in the primaries. However, earlier today the Republican Party announced the results of the Republican National Convention, placing its support behind Krassner’s candidacy with a very strong majority.