“What about Stephen? What about Aarti?”
“What do you want me to say? We should have done all this work in-house, Rajive. You know that.” It was good that he wasn’t facing Rajive to witness his resentment. “We ought to find someone like Atiq or Jaan—someone like those two to figure out how to make our people like Aarti and Stephen. No more mandated ‘creativity time,’ no more huge projects that are doomed to fail under their own weight. Next time, we can’t afford to do this work outside our walls, Rajive. Look at Ubatoo, all that data, all that security and all the other crap they have in place, none of it matters. It just matters what one little intern decides to do. We can’t take that risk again.”
Rajive was furious. He stopped Alan before he walked any further. “I know all that. I’m the one who fed you these warnings for years. But now, Alan, what about Aarti and Stephen?”
“Stop the whining, Rajive. You’ve got more important things to worry about. What do you think? They did it to themselves, nobody forced them, and that’s that.”
“That’s that,” Rajive sniped back.
They didn’t speak on the ride back to the local FBI office. It wasn’t until they were pulling into the local FBI’s parking lot that Alan threw Rajive a bone. “Look, you want to try to come up with something for Stephen and Aarti, be my guest. It’s probably past the point that you or I could do anything for him, but maybe you can do something for Aarti. I’m not going to waste my time on this, but if you think you can save these kids, fine. Make sure NCTC comes out of this clean.”
“Will do,” Rajive replied quietly. Doors were opening—doors that had previously been locked. He was sure of it. But which ones? He needed to devote his full attention to swiftly reconfiguring his plans to find a place for Aarti and Stephen. But like Alan said, there were so many more important things to worry about.
-DISCONNECT-
August 12, 2009.
It had now been more than twelve hours since Molly had last communicated with Stephen, and that was only via a short text message. The questioning she had endured, all told, had lasted more than seven hours. Her web site and its posts had been thoroughly scrutinized, with her dutifully sitting by and providing any insights when she could. Then, a new set of agents were brought in to uncover all she knew about the meeting she had attended, the one purportedly organized by ACCL. Nobody in the room believed that ACCL organized the meetings, but she had no more information to offer. She didn’t know who the group really was and the agents didn’t volunteer any information, if they had any.
Molly had endured the questioning voluntarily, and didn’t think they had any right to make her stay, but never once thought of asking for a lawyer. She always believed, from the first fifteen minutes to the last, that she had done nothing wrong and that the questioning was on the verge of ending. She feared that if she had demanded a lawyer, if she was even allowed one, that it would make this nightmare all too real.
Eventually, the hours in a confined room, hashing and rehashing every detail she could remember, took their toll. She was physically sick, her head pounding, her hands trembling to the point where she had to press them tightly against her chest to stop the shaking. Had someone not called a taxi for her, she would have still been sitting in her car unable to move.
Molly returned to an empty apartment and sat in her usual place, in front of her computer, to rest for a minute before trying to muster enough energy to drink some water. Though she was convinced it would be physically impossible to sleep in her agitated state, when her body did shut down, she didn’t have much say in the matter. She woke an hour later, still in front of her computer, still parched.
She tried to drink something. But as the glass fell from her hand and crashed onto the tile floor, Molly couldn’t do anything but cry hysterically. She rested on the kitchen floor, trying to calm herself. Soon, her small shivers became violent shakes before she once again faded into sleep, broken glass surrounding her limp body.
Fighting the heaviness of fading sleep and unrelenting exhaustion, Molly resumed her search for Stephen. He hadn’t answered his cell phone or any of her text messages. She could only think of heading to Ubatoo to see if he might have gone there. When the receptionist was also unable to locate Stephen, Molly asked for Kohan and Yuri. Through the glass doors from the lobby, she soon saw them rushing toward her.
A loud and hurried exchange erupted between the three as they shared all they knew about Stephen and Atiq. But nobody had seen Stephen nor knew where he was. Kohan and Yuri both assumed that all of this turmoil was a direct result of the service that Stephen was trying to launch for his final intern project. Molly wasn’t as certain, but she was too tired to convey all that had happened with ACCL. Someday she would tell them about her day, but not today. Today, she just listened, absorbing as much as she could.
“Can’t you just track him on his phone?” Molly asked desperately.
Kohan reached in his pants pocket and handed her Stephen’s phone. “Stephen left this in Atiq’s office. Atiq gave it to me this morning to return to Stephen whenever I saw him. I think Atiq really wanted me to see if I could get any more information from it, but I’m not sure.”
“Did you find anything on it?” Molly asked hopefully.
Kohan hesitated a moment before answering, but decided this was not the time to quibble over what was acceptable to look at in Stephen’s life and what wasn’t. “I checked everything I could. Everything that I found, you already know. He only tried to contact you and Sebastin.”
“What do I do now?”
Yuri and Kohan looked away. The only thing she had learned from their exchange was that Atiq made it back. At least that was something—it left some hope for Stephen, too. She needed time to think.
By the time she returned to her apartment, Ubatoo’s news was already being aired on numerous TV stations. When a company that big makes a mistake, especially one involving privacy, terrorism, and a recognizable brand name like Ubatoo, the media coverage is immediate and immense.
The first image she saw on the screen was a still photo of Stephen’s face. Atiq was talking in the background. “We’re assessing the amount of private information that was leaked. We suspect it’s limited to a few isolated individuals. We’re contacting them now, and have already taken the necessary precautions to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”
“How long was Stephen Thorpe an employee at Ubatoo?” an attractive female reporter asked Atiq.
“He’s been with us for almost three months, as an intern.”
“An intern had access to all the information you collect on your users? Do you always allow that?”
“He had access to some of it, not all of it,” Atiq replied. But Molly knew he was lying. “And we’re reviewing the details of his access as well as what access will be given to our interns, as well as our employees, in the future.”
“As I understand it, Thorpe supplied this data to ACCL, to a Sebastin Munthe. What terrorist organization was contacted? Was Thorpe in direct contact with them or was it Munthe? Is Ubatoo going to continue working with ACCL, given these developments?”
Atiq was taken aback that the reporter knew Sebastin’s name. He wondered whether Alan and Rajive had something to do with this. He would have to think about that later. “I have to emphasize that we’re just uncovering the details now. It’s a very fluid situation. But I can assure you, that, as far as we know, Stephen had no contact with any terrorist organizations. Also, ACCL is a fine institution, and we respect the goals they are pursuing. It is specific individuals who are at fault, not ACCL and certainly not Ubatoo.”
“It was Munthe who contacted them?”
“I don’t know Munthe. All I can say is that I trust it was not Stephen.”
“Do you know exactly what information was handed over to Al Qaeda, then?”
“Al-Qaeda? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where are Stephen Thorpe and Sebastin Munthe now? And were there others
involved? We’re getting reports now that others from Ubatoo might be involved.”
“I don’t know. I presume that the FBI or CIA or whoever handles these matters has them. As for others being involved, as I said, it’s a fluid situation. We’re trying to figure this out, just like you are.”
“So there are others?”
And so the questioning continued, filling a full seven minutes of the nightly thirty-minute news. This reporter had been lucky in finding Atiq as worn out as he was. What he might have revealed if the interview had gone on longer was anybody’s guess. The seven minutes were sufficient, nonetheless, for all to hear Atiq’s revelation of Stephen’s role as the source of information. And so the inevitability of Mohammad’s part in the remainder of Sebastin’s life was cemented.
With no other options, Molly called Ubatoo and left a desperate message on Atiq’s voicemail, pleading for any help in finding Stephen. Just telling her the right people to contact to make sure he was okay would be a start. She hoped Atiq would take pity on her and return her call, but it would be a week before she eventually heard from the man, and then only to apologize and inform her that he couldn’t say anything, as much as he would like to.
That first night alone in her apartment, Molly did nothing more than lay curled on the couch, flipping channels from news story to news story, trying to find the latest details as they aired.
What would follow on TV in the coming week was a step-by-step unfolding of the events of the last few days as the trickle of information became a steady stream of a few facts, a lot of speculation, and even more opinion. Even Molly’s name was mentioned, but thankfully that angle was not deeply pursued. Her phone, which rang constantly one day that week, was silent the next.
Seven days gone, and nothing had changed. She hadn’t left the apartment or seen the sunlight behind the drawn curtains since the day she returned from Ubatoo. For a week, the news coverage had been relentless, and she never ventured more than a few feet from the TV. The news stories continued to escalate, the intensity of the words used elevating the severity of the alleged transgressions. Seven days was a long time to be alone. It was a long time to do nothing but be blanketed by distressed thoughts—a long time to dissect each possible “what if” and “maybe.” All Stephen did was help Sebastin. What had Stephen done wrong? More was behind this than anyone was saying. The feeling made her long to be with people who still cared, people who wanted to know what was left unsaid.
The confusion and desperation of the seven days held few, if any, flashes of actual clarity, though at times she may have mistaken some moments as such. Her delusions and suspicions were numerous and intricate. Of all the theories and explanations she invented to understand all that had happened, each crumbled under the weight of a second glance, except for one.
She had been questioned. Stephen had been questioned. She was free, but Stephen wasn’t. Who could take him and prevent him from contacting her? What had he done to warrant this? She was the one who created the web site and had attended the meeting. If anything, she should have been the one in custody, not Stephen. All he had done was tell her about the meeting. He had read her e-mail to find out about it. No, that wasn’t the case; it was more than that. He knew she was on the list before she received her e-mail. He knew to look there. This insight, or more accurately, this recollection, put her on the first step to finding her own truth.
Stephen knew she would be on the list because he created the list. He knew everyone who was on the list, and had shared it with Sebastin. That Stephen wasn’t with her today was an unmistakable sign that whatever he had found was credible. If Stephen had done as much research on these people as he had offered to do for her that night at Ubatoo, Stephen probably knew everything about them—who they were, where they lived, their friends, their e-mails, and maybe much more. With all this in his head, how could he ever be set free? She was here at home because all this wasn’t about her or EasternDiscussions or the meetings she had attended. This was about Stephen and what he knew. This was about Stephen and what he had uncovered in Ubatoo’s data.
She was close. Through a series of misconceptions, incomplete knowledge, and the steadfast belief that Stephen could not have done all he had been accused of, her final theory, the one she could not easily dispel, verged as close to the truth as any ever would. Perhaps it didn’t matter that she didn’t know and couldn’t infer any more of the details of what had transpired. Even if she had, the anger and the consequences would have been the same.
She read again the private e-mails she had printed on that night at Ubatoo, from GR.Zadeh and Tarik78’s accounts, the angriest and most vocal of the posters on her site. As Sahim, she initiated contact with both of them—the closest she had come to speaking to anyone in seven days. She wrote to them privately of her hypothesis, and asked only for their opinion, nothing more. Tarik78 was the first to reply. In his response, the reasoned writing and evenhanded consideration of her conjectures seemed well thought out. By the end of his e-mail, he affirmed the likely veracity of her theories. She believed Tarik78’s response; he had understood all she was trying to convey.
The clarity that eluded her earlier had finally been found.
-SAHIM-
August 19, 2009.
Seven days alone. Seven days and finally clarity had come. But who to tell? Who would believe her? Molly turned to the only place she could. She posted a message on her web site, EasternDiscussions.com. She needed everything these forums provided, support, a place to be among friends, and a place to be heard.
Brothers,
Have you all been watching the news? It seems that everyone is convinced more than ever that Ubatoo has been leaking their information to terrorist groups. Absurd. Do not believe it. I have many friends who know the accused person, Stephen, and they all proclaim that the charges and accusations are nothing but lies.
Why, then, is all of this happening? The reasons are not always what they appear. But maybe this will help. Let me ask you, what government wouldn’t want to know what Ubatoo knows? Wouldn’t want to see the e-mails we’ve written and the friends that we have? How else could they credibly demand this information other than to create this sense of urgency and panic through the veil of terrorism? All of you who pray for peace must also pray that Ubatoo’s information does not wind up in the wrong hands because of this. Think carefully of how all that Ubatoo knows about us can be used by our enemies. No, it is better for all of our sakes that this box be left closed.
What will be next? Stephen is in custody now. What will become of him? I fear he will not be the last to suffer from this latest attempt by “our” government to crawl into every part of our lives—through any lies necessary. What lengths will they go to next, when such sickening witch hunts cannot mask their even worse true intentions?
Tell me, what should we do now?
—Sahim
Within five minutes she had a response. Within an hour, 20, and within three hours, well over 500. For EasternDiscussions.com, Ubatoo’s indiscretions were exactly the event it needed to cement its long-term survival. Somehow, Sahim’s posts always seemed to know more about Ubatoo than what was in the news. Users returned often to see what insights he might offer next. The large crowds on EasternDiscussions attracted even larger crowds, and the traffic to Molly’s web site soared with new members needing a place to rant about the latest news and receive Sahim’s wisdom. As Molly had documented already, controlling the opinion of a message board wouldn’t be difficult. Her message boards became the playground of all things anti-U.S. Whether she just let it happen, or ensured that it did, is a matter of opinion.
Feeling empowered from her posting and the flood of responses it incited, she wanted to do more. But she didn’t need to. She had already opened her readers’ eyes to an alternate, deceitful, interpretation of the events taking place around them. Hundreds of posters on her site now passionately spoke of Ubatoo’s data and how to most effectively harness it for their own use. For many
, the Stephen on TV became a role model. Once the extent of the data collected by Ubatoo was made public, editorialized, and sensationalized, it was too much for anyone with a cause not to crave access. Next year, thousands of would-be Stephens would apply for internships. The intern candidate pool would swell to its largest ever.
August 28, 2009.
After two weeks of nonstop coverage, Stephen Thorpe’s moment was over. The next time Molly would see Stephen’s face was when an old photo of him was shown on TV the day Sebastin’s body was found in a hotel room ninety miles outside Las Vegas on August 28, 2009, apparently only hours after he was executed. The only new lead was a cocktail waitress who claimed to have last seen him with a “Suspicious, foreign-looking man.” Sebastin’s life and death became the talk of the media: Successful entrepreneur in Silicon Valley, working as the co-founder of a wildly successful activist group, who had sold his loyalties to the highest bidder, to a tragic end. The story was built for primetime news and glitzy breaking-news special reports. Neither Molly, Stephen, nor anyone else, would find out who the original buyer of the data was supposed to be or who the final buyer actually was. All of that information, if known, was diligently redacted for reasons of national security.
It would be more than a month before she found a letter from Stephen waiting in her mailbox. She had never seen his handwriting before and it was left unsigned. He was okay, he missed her terribly, and he wasn’t sure when, or even if, he’d ever be able to return. But if it were possible, he promised to contact her somehow whenever he could. He told her again how much he admired her for what she was doing, and wished her all the best in finishing her thesis, something he would have been much better off having done, if he had only remained on that path many years ago.
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