by Marc Cameron
She yanked open the door and inserted the thumb drive, clicking a few keys to open the program as her handler had instructed her. She’d been assured it would do the rest. And it did, lightning fast. In less than forty-five seconds, she was able to remove the thumb drive and log off the terminal. Whatever this new program did, it didn’t need her to do it.
No one had told her what it was she was loading. She assumed it was a RAT—remote access Trojan—or some other virus that would turn over control of the system or wreak other sorts of havoc on behalf of the Chinese government. Stuxnet, the virus developed and implemented by the U.S. but blamed on Israel, and which caused Iran’s nuclear centrifuges to go off kilter and crash, had caused Iran to throw all the scientists working on it against the wall and shoot them on the mistaken notion that one of them had to be the mole. WannaCry shut down businesses, NotPetya brought a large portion of global shipping to a halt. Computer glitches (viruses that governments wouldn’t admit to having) had caused drones to crash and communication centers to go dark. The possibilities were deliciously endless.
Four and a half minutes after the fire alarm had gone off, Cecily ran out the side doors of the building, panting from jumping and sliding down three flights of stairs. She’d left Phil’s ID on his desk a few inches from where she’d swiped it, wiping any fingerprints off on the front of her shirt.
“Hey,” Phil said, giving her a quizzical look when she approached her group in the greenbelt behind the building. “Where were you?”
She gave the floor warden—an older woman who reminded her of a junior high English teacher—a nod to show that she was present.
“It’s embarrassing,” she said, rocking from foot to foot, working to slow her heart rate so she didn’t sound so guilty.
“More embarrassing than burning to death?”
Dr. Li was still on his phone, scanning the crowd of employees as he talked. His gaze settled on Cecily long enough to make her squirm, but he moved on, checking on the rest of his charges. A benevolent dictator.
She lifted the hem of her blouse so Phil could see her waist, conveniently showing a sliver of her belly to keep his mind right. “I wore button-fly jeans today. Took me a minute to get decent.”
“Ah,” Phil said. “Gotcha.”
She gave him a smile, groaning inside, adjusting the leather strap of her purse on her shoulder. A bead of sweat ran down her cheek, easily blamed on the warm weather. She could hardly wait to find out what she’d been a part of. This mission had been tense, but so far, at least, it had gone smoothly. The program was installed—and she hadn’t even had to use the pistol . . . Damn it.
Li looked at her again, then checked his watch—like he’d been timing her. She shook her head to clear it. That was impossible. There was no way for him to know what she’d done.
Was there?
26
It would have almost been a mistake to call Calliope sentient. She was not aware of her surroundings in a physical sense—plastic cabinets, circuit boards, and hard drives. But an observer who understood code would be hard-pressed to believe that she was not somehow alive and on a specific mission within the Dexter & Reed computer system. The software was so much more than a virus, but beautiful in her viruslike simplicity.
Using a variation of the problem-solving method called a Monte Carlo tree search, Calliope ran the possible scenarios—all outcomes of the game—tens of thousands of times, looking for the one that presented the result nearest to what she’d been coded to do.
Shortly after returning to the building after the fire alarm evacuation, Peter Li pushed out the notice of a software patch. Calliope attached herself to the patch, hitched a ride, and then deleted herself from Dexter & Reed computers, so there was no sign that she’d ever been there. Within minutes, avionics technicians with Carrier Airborne Early Warning Squadrons VAW 116 and VAW 117 out of Naval Base Ventura County and Point Mugu had downloaded the patch into the E2-C Hawkeye command and control aircraft in their squadron. With the mission of handling communication between other aircraft and surface vessels, the Hawkeye made the perfect vector from which to infect other machines.
Calliope was now in play.
* * *
—
Cecily felt like she might throw up when she saw Admiral Li enter the vault to begin pushing out software patches. She took her purse and made another trip to the women’s room. Phil was in there with him, acting as security second. She hung out at the door, watching, looking stupid, but too entranced to care. Phil was hunched over a separate screen beside Li. Li looked up, surprised by something he’d found. Phil gave an adamant shake of his head.
Cecily gave an audible gasp. There was no way. They couldn’t have figured it out already. The security entry logs would show Phil and Cecily had entered earlier that day—which they had. It would take closer inspection to note they’d gone in again during the fire drill, which would confuse the hell out of Phil. Then he’d remember he’d left his ID badge on the desk, and that Cecily had been late . . . He didn’t have to be much of a detective to figure out she’d been up to no good.
Cecily turned for the door without looking back, expecting to hear someone yell out behind her all the way down the stairs. Manny, the potbellied security guy at the front desk, waved when she walked by. He had no idea why she was leaving, though she felt certain there was a flashing neon sign above her head that said SPY!
She didn’t risk contacting her handler until she was driving south on 41 toward Chicago, a mile under the speed limit. She used Siri to make the call.
“The admiral suspects,” she said, when the other end picked up. She slammed her hand against the steering wheel. “What do you want me to do?”
“What do you mean suspects?” The voice spoke without any trace of an accent, androgynous, like a computer. “He suspects or he knows?”
“Suspects for now,” Cecily said. “But it won’t take much for him to put two and two together. Then he’ll know.”
“And FIRESHIP?” the voice asked.
“It’s in,” Cecily said, remembering only then that she was supposed to have sent a message confirming this. She gave it verbally instead, feeling more exhilarated than ever. “FIRESHIP IS IN PLAY.”
“Very well,” the voice said, like there was nothing else to discuss.
“Wait!” Cecily gasped, hitting the steering wheel again. “What am I supposed to do? I’m telling you, Li knows.”
“Suspects,” the voice corrected.
“This guy is wicked smart,” Cecily said, hyperventilating now. “He knows I was in the vault by myself. When he finds whatever it was I injected, he’ll know it was me.”
“There is nothing there for him to find.”
“The patches, then,” Cecily said. “He’ll start looking at the patches he sent out. I imagine you have the software cover its tracks, but if anyone can figure this out, it’s Peter Li.”
There was a long silence on the line. For a moment, Cecily thought it had gone dead. Then she heard a breath. A decision being made. “Li will not be a problem,” the voice said.
“I can’t go back to work,” Cecily said. “I need a way out tonight.”
Another silence, long enough Cecily looked at her phone. “Go pack a bag and then—”
“I keep a bag packed!” Cecily snapped. “Where should I go?”
“Go home and get your bag. Wait there. Someone will come for you.”
Cecily took 68 toward Prospect Heights—there was no way she could afford Lake Forest.
“What about the admiral? I’m telling you, he’s going to cause us problems.”
“And I told you not to worry about Li,” the voice said. “He will be taken care of.”
“You mean taken care of taken care of?”
“Go home, Miss Lung,” the voice said. “This is not your concern.”
What the
hell did that mean? She’d committed espionage, treason against her own government. She was up to her neck in it now. Every bit of this was her concern. “I’m only thinking of the mission,” Cecily said. “I want to help. That’s all.”
“Miss Lung, you must—”
“Listen to me!” she snapped. “We are on the same side. You can’t just send me to wait. I can assure you, this will not blow over. Tell me what I can do to fix it.”
The frustrated sigh was audible over the line. “Go home,” the voice said. “Someone will be along shortly to take care of you.”
The words sent a chill up her spine.
The line went dead and Cecily Lung made it to the shoulder of the highway just in time to vomit.
27
I would strongly urge you to reconsider, Mr. President,” Special Agent in Charge Gary Montgomery said. Resembling a defensive lineman in a wool business suit, he sat across the Resolute desk from Ryan, perched on the forward edge of his chair like he might spring to his feet at any moment and shake some sense into his boss. Arnie van Damm sat to his right, looking like he would be all too happy to help him.
Ryan was back from his trip to New York, accustomed by now to the herky-jerky nature of presidential travel. He might find himself in three or four different time zones in a single day, then three or four more the next. Back-and-forth trips to Manhattan were like trips to the corner bodega.
He couldn’t blame the men for trying to change his mind. The chief of staff’s job was one of constant pestering and pushing back, forcing him to look at other sides of issues that he didn’t particularly want to see. As the United States Secret Service special agent in charge of the Presidential Protection Division, or PPD, Montgomery had a tremendous responsibility on his shoulders. Jack Ryan had, at various times, been described as an off-the-cuff or nontraditional strategist. Privately, in the confines of the Secret Service office beneath the Oval, dubbed W16, Ryan was certain he’d been called a number of things—maybe even a crazy son of a bitch—for his penchant to take his pointed responses personally to the far corners of the world.
Montgomery had just reminded him of the angry mobs that attacked Vice President Nixon’s motorcade in Caracas in 1958. The windows had been smashed, the car severely damaged, before the Secret Service had miraculously been able to pull away from the furious crowd. “We’re following social media trends in Indonesia now,” Montgomery added. “It wouldn’t take much to set off a mob if they believe you are coming to break your friend out of prison.”
“Noted,” Ryan said, giving Montgomery a passive smile, though he felt like picking up the Lincoln bust and throwing it through the window.
Gary was too good a guy for that kind of treatment. The two had become, if not actual friends, as close as protector and protected can be. “I trust your experience and intellect,” Ryan said, “but I am going to Indonesia. I’d hoped you might bring some guys and maybe a helicopter or two and come along with me.”
“Mr. President,” Montgomery said, closing his eyes in an effort to come up with more convincing words. “You know we will make it happen, but—”
“Excellent,” Ryan said. “That’s what I wanted to hear, Gary.”
Van Damm bounced a fist on his knee. “President Gumelar was right. In addition to the social media buzz, we have word from Ambassador Cowley that the Muslim majority is being whipped into a frenzy by someone. The ambassador’s not sure exactly who’s behind it, but it’s got to be Beijing. Riots are popping up hourly all over Java calling for swift justice against Father West. As his friend, you’d be—”
“Guilty by association,” Ryan said. “I get it. Hell, President Gumelar probably leaked that I was coming to try and stave off the visit.” He looked back at Montgomery. “I’m not suggesting we go in without a plan. But I am going. My friend or not, something is going on over there and I’d like to get to the bottom of it.”
Van Damm opened his mouth to speak, stopped as if he’d thought better of it, then, unable to contain himself, said, “You have people for that sort of mission, Mr. Pres—”
The door from the secretaries’ suite opened and DNI Foley stuck her head in. She held up a manila folder with a striped red-and-white border.
Ryan motioned her inside. “Good thing for Arnie you got here when you did. He was about to say something impertinent.”
Foley smiled. “He wouldn’t be Arnie if he didn’t.” She stood to the side of the desk, the folder clutched at her waist, clearly waiting for the other men to leave before showing its contents to the President.
Montgomery got to his feet. “I have more concerns, but I’ll go over the specifics with Mr. van Damm.” Ryan gave them a closed-mouthed smile, a silent dismissal. He hated to do it. They had his best interests at heart, but there was something at play here that required getting off his ass in real time, not just thinking about it. There were moments when you had to worry about something besides your own skin. Like that Mike Rowe guy said, “Safety third.”
“Looks like they’re planning to mutiny,” Mary Pat said when she and Ryan were alone.
“It’s their job to make me see things.”
“And are you?” Foley said.
“I’m looking,” Ryan said. “Not necessarily seeing. What have you got for me?”
She pushed the folder across the desk.
“Remember the two PLA generals who are battling it out?”
Ryan opened the folder to find three photographs of General Song and his wife holding hands with a little girl of seven or eight. The photos weren’t covert. Everyone was smiling and looking directly at the camera.
“Okay.” Ryan arranged them side by side so he could compare. “Taken on separate occasions . . . What else am I looking for?”
Foley put the tip of her index finger on the little girl’s face. “This is Song’s granddaughter, Niu. Her mother, Song’s only daughter, died shortly after the child was born. The general and his wife have raised her from infancy. All accounts say he dotes on her the way most Chinese men dote on a son.”
“Okay . . .” Ryan said, still not following.
Mary Pat tapped the photo again. “Now take a closer look at her left eye.”
Ryan picked up the nearest photograph, studied it for a half-minute, and then shook his head. “Could be the angle,” he said. “Is it cloudier than the other one?”
“It is,” Foley said, lips set in a grim line. “Our experts think the little girl has something called a retinoblastoma.”
“A tumor?” Ryan said. Cathy was an ophthalmologist, so this was a term he’d heard before—medical knowledge by osmosis.
“Exactly,” Mary Pat said. “You hear of parents finding out their kids have it after they post a photo on social media and someone points out the white cloud in the iris.”
“Does General Song know?” Ryan asked.
Foley shook her head. “We don’t believe so. He and his wife keep the little girl completely off social media. She makes few public appearances at all, for security reasons.”
“How dangerous is this condition?”
“Very,” Foley said. “It can be fatal if left untreated. If it’s not removed quickly enough, she could lose her eye, or the cancer could spread beyond her eye to other parts of her body.”
“You weren’t thinking of trying to leverage this?” Ryan said.
“That’s your call, Mr. President,” Foley said. “I’m a mother, so . . .”
“And I’m a human being.” Ryan pushed the folder away to distance himself. “We have to tell the general straight-out. It’s not that child’s fault we find our two countries at odds.”
“Song will want to know how we discovered it.”
Ryan drummed his fingers on the desk. “The little girl makes no public appearances?”
“We’ll find something, somewhere.”
“I’m not
a doctor,” Ryan said. “But we’re talking cancer, so I’m assuming time is of the essence. I want General Song informed of this sooner rather than later. Offer him any help we can in the way of medical care.”
Foley sighed softly. “I thought you might feel that way. We considered inviting him to bring the child to Wilmer Eye Institute but ruled that out since your wife practices there.”
“I appreciate that,” Ryan said. “On oh-so-many levels.”
“I know one of the surgeons at Kellogg Eye Center in Ann Arbor,” Foley said. “A Dr. Berryhill. He’s evidently a med school classmate of Dr. Ryan’s.”
“Dan Berryhill?” the President mused. “He’s an eccentric coot, but yeah, he’s a hell of an eye surgeon, to hear Cathy tell it.”
“I’ve already taken the liberty of reaching out to him,” Foley continued. “Dr. Berryhill has agreed to see a VIP patient at Kellogg on short notice. He doesn’t know who yet, but he’s done sensitive work for us before. He’s been through a vetting process.”
“Very well,” Ryan said. “Protect our source, but do everything possible to let Song know about his granddaughter, within the hour if possible. And get with Scott to make sure State smooths the way for any entry visas. I want him handling this personally.”
“Right away, Mr. President,” Foley said. “It’ll be touchy, but we can get a note to the general through our embassy.” She turned to go, then paused. “I’m proud of you, Jack.”
“Because I chose the life of a sick little girl over national security? I’m not sure that’s the right call.”
“Maybe not.” Foley’s eyes sparkled. “But it’s the call I knew you’d make.”
28
Cathy Ryan set the manila folder down gently beside her plate, as if she might injure the child in the photographs inside if she were too rough. “They have to get this little girl to a hospital.”