by Andrew Watts
“You buy it?” Colt asked.
Rinaldi said, “We’re investigating all possibilities.”
Colt looked at Wilcox. “What do you want me to do about SANDSTONE?”
“Just hang tight for now. Let us know if she contacts you.”
Colt could see the look in both men’s eyes. They had arrived at the part of the conversation they’d come here for. Wilcox by himself could have told all this to Colt or sent him a covert message. Something was up. Based on the new assignment from his investment bank job, Colt thought he had a clue.
Colt said, “So my firm booked me on a flight to San Francisco tomorrow. And I’ve got a meeting with my boss later today. You have anything to do with that, Wilcox?”
He nodded. “Given the circumstances surrounding Kozlov’s death and the information he provided, the ITCU decided we need better eyes inside Pax AI.”
“I can’t spy on an American company inside the US, Ed.”
Wilcox and Rinaldi exchanged glances. Rinaldi said, “We looked at a variety of candidates and decided you were our best option. We’ve gotten all the approvals. Technically you’re on loan to the Department of Justice.”
Colt raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
He bit his lip. “Kozlov was killed seven days ago.”
Wilcox said, “Correct.”
“And my agent has gone dark.”
Wilcox nodded slowly. “I understand why you’re concerned.”
Colt clasped his fingers together. “I would think you would be just as concerned, Ed. If someone knew about Kozlov, then they easily could have known about SANDSTONE. And if they knew about SANDSTONE . . .”
Wilcox finished for him. “Then they might know about you. We’ve game-planned out every scenario, Colt. But the risks don’t outweigh the rewards here. If your cover is intact, then security isn’t an issue.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Honestly? Then Langley is willing to have you outed, if that’s the price. This operation is vital to national security.” Wilcox’s eyes were steel. “Your cover is expendable.”
Colt took a deep breath. “I knew this was what you were going to say as soon as I saw that San Francisco itinerary.”
Rinaldi said, “You’ll be in good hands. We’ve got an excellent support team. Ed and I will be there, too, helping you out.”
“So more people are going to know about me?” Colt turned to Wilcox. “Sounds like you’re pretty much resigned to the non-official cover being burned.”
“Not necessarily. It’s a very small group. The people in this room and two others. That’s it.”
Colt sighed. “There’s a complication. I know someone at Pax AI. A woman I had a prior relationship with. It was in my after-action report.”
Wilcox said, “We read it.”
“And that’s not a liability?”
“Quite the contrary.”
“Ah. I see.”
Agent Rinaldi leaned forward on the desk. “Listen, Colt. Pax AI is working on some extremely sensitive stuff, including several top-secret government projects. And thanks to Kozlov and your agent, we now know that someone is stealing those secrets. That could be catastrophic.”
Colt said, “Don’t you have government inspectors who can do this officially? I mean, you are running government programs with Pax AI. You must have an oversight capability. Why do you need me?”
Agent Rinaldi sniffed. “There are government scientists who periodically visit their Mountain Research Facility. And we do have federal inspectors who can turn Pax AI upside down. With a normal company, we might take this route. Hell, the FBI is at the Pax AI headquarters right now, taking official statements on Kozlov’s death. But I can tell you, in all my time doing counterintelligence, none of that official investigation stuff will work if we’re dealing with a pro.”
Colt sat back in his chair. He knew Rinaldi was right. Men like him were trained not to get caught. And if there was any sign of a hunter, the rabbits would go underground.
Rinaldi said, “It’s better to make this a mole hunt than a cyber forensics investigation anyway.”
“Why?” Colt asked.
Rinaldi said, “Frankly, I’m not overly confident our investigators would know what to look for. We’re talking about cutting-edge technology. Do you know how slow the FBI was to understand cybercrime in the early 2000s? I worked with a guy who was there, in one of the FBI’s first meetings with a group of white hat hackers. These were the good guys—experts who were trying to help. Trying to warn us what was going on under our noses. So, the FBI sat in a meeting with them for two hours while they talked about all the security vulnerabilities to our nation’s infrastructure. Vulnerabilities to personal computers. To banks. Everything. This was back when the internet was really taking off, right around the dot-com boom. Our guys sat there listening quietly, and then they left. My buddy told me one of the hackers made a comment on the way out. He was surprised we weren’t talking more. Asking more questions or giving feedback based on what we were already doing to prevent these security issues. They assumed it was because we wanted to keep it classified.”
Colt said, “But it wasn’t.”
Agent Rinaldi shook his head. “It was because the FBI agents in that meeting had no friggin clue what the hell these hackers were talking about. Our government has always been remarkably sluggish in understanding new technology, and any investigation into Pax AI will be limited by that lack of ability.”
“I’m no AI specialist,” Colt said. “My expertise is in corporate finance and business viability assessments. If you have government projects at their Mountain Research Facility, don’t you have agreements that you can leverage . . .”
Rinaldi shook his head. “There’s a lot of separation of church and state in those agreements. We wouldn’t be able to see all their hidden rooms and business secrets without getting FISA warrants that, admittedly, we probably wouldn’t get. FISA courts have tightened up a lot recently. Especially when dealing with the tech companies.”
Wilcox sat back in his chair, looking at Colt. “The real need isn’t technical. We need good old-fashioned human intelligence. We need to get inside their minds. Understand what they are thinking. What motivates them. What decisions we think they’ll make. We need you to embed yourself into the Pax AI executive inner circle. That’s the only way we’re going to be able to provide good intelligence assessments as to what comes next. There is a tremendous amount of pressure from above to let Pax AI operate full speed ahead. Any investigation we do needs to be . . . how do I say this?”
Rinaldi said, “Frictionless.”
“Yes. Exactly,” said Wilcox. “Two reasons. One, Washington thinks Pax AI’s well-being is tied to America’s. Both economically and technologically. They have consistently led the industry in AI breakthroughs. As they monetize this capability, Pax AI could earn enormous amounts of money. No one wants to hurt America’s best chance at winning the future AI economy.”
“And the second reason?”
“National security. Pax AI has a very big contract with the Pentagon. If we shut this company down, we end up setting back American AI progress in defense and intelligence. Switching horses will guarantee we lose progress, and likely the race. We need to investigate them to protect our national security. But we also need to continue to allow them to make forward progress to help national security. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Colt said, “Ed, this is very different than my normal operations. Why do you think I’ll be able to help?”
“We’ll be with you. We’ll back you up. Pax AI is going to do what they have to for the FBI’s investigation into Kozlov’s death. It will be surface-level compliance, overseen by their team of lawyers and their security head. But for their investors, whom you represent, they’ll go the extra mile. You’ll get an inside look at what’s going on there. The projects. The employees. Corporate secrets. Personal secrets. It will be similar to your other operations, j
ust with a mole hunt wrapped up in the middle. And with your prior existing relationship with Ava Klein . . . well, that’s a much quicker avenue for establishing trust.”
Colt looked at Wilcox. “What about my other work for you?”
Wilcox said, “This takes priority. Everything else will be shifted over to other case officers. We’ll discuss that offline.”
Colt shifted in his seat. “What if whoever killed Kozlov discovers what I’m up to?”
Wilcox and Rinaldi exchanged a look. Wilcox said, “Your mission has been deemed to be of the highest priority.” Translation: we’re willing to take that risk.
Colt smirked. “Great.”
Agent Rinaldi said, “We’ll be there for—”
“I know. Backup.” Colt looked out the window at the Hudson River below. “One thing you should know about the Ava Klein part. Our relationship was close. But it ended rather abruptly.”
Wilcox said, “You’ll figure it out.”
7
Haifa, Israel
10 years earlier
“I got number one?” Lieutenant Colt McShane, United States Navy, was sitting in his commanding officer’s stateroom aboard the USS Cole, looking down at the paper copy of his annual fitness report. The Navy’s official evaluation of his military performance.
The captain of the ship sat behind his desk, sipping coffee and watching Colt’s reaction. “Don’t be surprised. You earned it.”
“Sir, I mean, I appreciate it. It’s just . . .” Colt looked up, uneasy.
“Say what’s on your mind,” replied the captain.
“This is going to screw over some of the other junior officers. Sullivan, in particular. This is his last fitrep on this set of orders, and . . .”
“NAV.” The captain referred to Colt by his Navy job designation as navigator aboard the USS Cole, a US Navy Arleigh-Burke-class destroyer. “I don’t play the games that some of these other commanding officers play. I give my early promotes to the best performers, period. Now you are the best junior officer on this ship. And frankly, it ain’t close. You are a technical expert at every facet of your profession. You’re a respected leader. Hell, your chief tells me the men would run through a brick wall for you if you asked them. And you’re an exceptionally hard worker. But more importantly, you show excellent judgment, oftentimes when there isn’t a clear answer.”
Colt’s face reddened. “Thank you, sir.”
“I want to make sure the US Navy knows that you, Lieutenant McShane, are my number one ranked junior officer.”
Colt was still thinking of his fellow junior officers. This would help his career, but it might hurt theirs. He decided to try once more. “Sir, I still have another fitrep before I’m scheduled to rotate to my next tour.”
The captain said, “Then if you keep up your performance, you’ll get ranked number one twice in a row. It’s the right thing to do.”
Colt said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Do you want to be a CO?”
Colt didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely, sir.”
“Do you want to make flag?”
Colt shifted his eyes down to the floor. “Sir, I’m too junior. It’s probably silly to think about things like that . . .”
“It’s not silly to plan your career. Moments like these are when you should discuss it. Do you want to make admiral someday? Is that a career goal?”
Colt met his captain’s stare. “I would like to go as far as I can go in the Navy, sir.”
The captain smiled. “Good. This is going to keep you on that path. You keep performing at this high level, and good things will come, Colt. Now, get the hell out of my stateroom and go take some hard-earned liberty. Bravo Zulu.” Good Job.
Colt stood. “Aye, sir.” They shook hands and Colt left, walking down the passageway, still stunned at his high marks.
He went to his stateroom, changed out of his uniform and into civilian clothes. Then he grabbed his backpack and hustled to the gangway. He showed his military ID to the sailor on duty, walked down the gangway, then stopped and stood at attention while facing the flag before continuing onto the pier.
Colt felt elated as he stepped onto the pavement in Haifa, Israel, the sun on his face and a feeling of freedom in every breath. He wore khaki cargo shorts, a polo shirt, and sneakers that were worn from running on the ship’s treadmill. He gripped the straps of his backpack and looked through wraparound sunglasses as his “swim buddy,” newly married Lieutenant Mick Feyman, made his way down the gangplank.
“How’d your fitrep debrief go? You get an EP?” Mick asked.
“It went well,” Colt replied.
“Ah. You got an EP. I knew you would. Attaboy. That’s going to be two in a row. Shit hot, man.”
“Let’s just get out of here. I don’t want to think about the Navy for a few days,” Colt said.
“Sounds good to me, man,” Mick said, grinning widely. He wore an almost identical outfit. The joke was that even in civilian clothes, sailors wore a uniform. “God it feels good to be off that stinking ship.”
The two men walked down the pier, passing the line of ship’s company waiting for buses to prepaid tours and hotels. Colt and Mick headed several blocks further into the city before hailing a cab.
“The Ritz-Carlton, Tel Aviv,” said Mick as they slipped into the back seat.
The cab driver gave him a look, then held up five fingers, saying something in Hebrew.
Mick began fishing around in his wallet for cash, but the cab driver, seeing that he had enough, mumbled something and began driving. They drove south along the flat highway, catching glimpses of beach over low grass-covered sand dunes. Colt and Mick exchanged amused glances at the Israeli rap music playing on the taxi’s radio. Mick was texting on his phone, laughing every few minutes. Colt was in a euphoric state after being let off the ship following weeks of sea duty. Stress melting away. A couple days of freedom.
Mick’s wife greeted them at the hotel drop-off, jumping up and down in her sundress as her new husband got out of the car. Colt paid the driver as the newlyweds greeted each other for the first time in several months. They said their goodbyes and, to Colt’s amusement, were off to their hotel room swiftly. He doubted he would see Mick again until it was time to go back to the ship. That was fine by him, he thought, admiring the view of the marina behind the hotel.
Colt checked in and headed up to his own room, flopping down on a comfortable queen mattress, letting his backpack of folded clothes and toiletries fall to the floor. He let out a deep breath. It had been a long time since he’d had this much space to himself. He got up and walked over to the sliding door, opening it. A tiny patio area with two chairs overlooked the marina below. He could hear the sounds of live music and clinking silverware from the restaurants in the square.
It was a beautiful day. Warm sun. Gulls swooping by. A light breeze. Paradise.
Colt had fewer than three days to enjoy it, and he planned to savor every grain of beach sand, every note of music, and every morsel of local food. A few brief days of rest and relaxation before going back to his sleepless job as the navigator aboard a US Navy destroyer.
He hadn’t slept more than four hours a night for the past week and had been up all last night prepping the charts with his relief, who had just arrived on the ship.
Maybe he would just rest his eyes for a moment, he thought, lying back down on the bed. The soft pillow cushioned the back of his head as his eyes shut.
Colt awoke to darkness. Refreshed and ravenous, he hopped out of bed and walked out onto his balcony barefoot, making sure the paradise below hadn’t disappeared during his slumber. To his relief, the promenade remained alive with music and laughter. The outdoor bar and restaurant area were packed with patrons eating and drinking, dancing and laughing.
Colt checked his watch. Best get down there quickly. Navy port calls were, like the story of Cinderella, a timed event. One had to cram in as much fun as possible before they transformed into a pumpkin.<
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He took a hot shower—God it felt good—then threw on his “fancy” outfit. The slightly less wrinkled polo shirt that didn’t yet have sweat stains.
Colt walked out the door, patting his front pocket to check for his hotel key and slapping his rear pocket to check for his wallet. The elevator numbers couldn’t count down fast enough on his descent. Then he was in the lobby, the sweet scent of fresh flowers in the air as he walked through the hotel and out the back exit.
Outside, the nearby docks were teeming with the nightlife of wealthy boat owners. Gleaming charter fishing boats were empty and dark. Exotic powerboats, small yachts, and multimillion-dollar sailboats, their lines clinking against masts as they took light rolls, were lit up and filled with well-dressed partygoers.
A catered party was being held on one of the larger vessels, complete with waiters in summer tuxes who carried trays of food and booze. A stunning brunette about twenty years old caught his eye as she leaned on the yacht’s golden rail. She wore a blush-pink evening gown and held a glass of bubbling champagne, occasionally sipping it as she stared out toward the promenade. Colt turned to look where she was gazing and saw a music stage just behind him, which looked like it was being set up for a small band. When Colt turned back toward the yacht, he and the girl made eye contact. Colt’s heart skipped a beat and he looked away instinctively as he continued walking. When he looked back, she had turned to speak to other partygoers on the yacht.
Colt moved on, feeling like he had just seen into another world. To his right, in the square next to the Ritz-Carlton, a few restaurants had outdoor seating with umbrellas over the tables. Lively patrons drank and chatted loudly as the band began playing music in the center of the square.
He decided to try the nearest restaurant. Its large windows provided a great open-air atmosphere. Colt took a seat at the bar stool nearest the courtyard. He ordered a beer and asked the bartender for a menu. Everything looked good, and he ordered an appetizer and an entree.