The Manganese Dilemma

by Ian Miller

  "And if I decline?"

  "You want to see a file of some of your recent activities brought before a judge?"

  Rutherford sat silently for almost a minute, then he asked, "Exactly what do you want done?"

  "You realise this has to be secret, and –"

  "Cut the crap. You know I won't say anything, but I'm not going to sit here freezing while you read me –"

  "Fair enough. What I want you to do is hack Putin and a number of selected oligarchs."

  "Sorry. No."

  "Any reason?"

  "A very good one. I simply don't have the skills or the knowledge of how to get into their networks."

  "And if I provide you with those skills?"

  Rutherford stared at him. This was a totally unexpected development. "So what you're asking is to plant one of your agents –"

  "Not at all. I'm giving you the address of someone who is quite capable, and currently unemployed."

  "Because?"

  "We fired him."

  "And why did you do that?" Rutherford asked with an amused look on his face. "You're asking me to take on someone too unreliable for you?"

  "In answer to your first question, nominally sexual harassment."

  "Nominally?"

  "He was set up."

  "Well, that must have been great for him. Why set him up?"

  "To make him available for an off-the-books exercise."

  "And if I don't want him?"

  "He's collateral damage. But my guess is, you will, because I promise you the alternative looks suspiciously like jail time, and at the very least, extraordinarily bad publicity for you."

  "Jail time? For what?"

  "Oh, believe me, we'll make up something convincing."

  Rutherford gave a snort and shook his head in disbelief. "So you want me to pay him while he develops the means to do this, which might take years, and –"

  "We shall finance it and it will take hardly any time at all. Further, we shall throw in a sweetener for you."

  "This sweetener is you won't deport me or send me to jail?" Rutherford said in a derisory tone.

  "Oh no. A real sweetener, but you find out what it is when you set this up. As for the qualifications of this young man, he was working in this area before he was fired."

  "And if he hasn't got an encyclopaedic memory and he can't recall the programs?"

  "Everything he needs is on these two memory devices."

  Rutherford looked down at the gloved hand holding a small bag.

  "Will he know how to use them?"

  "He should. He helped develop what's on them, and we have added the necessary data. So, your answer?"

  "This is, I guess, a black op?"

  "Very black."

  "So, supposing for an instant I get this done, how do I find out what you want, and how do I deliver?"

  "We shall sort that out, together with a payment mechanism, when you commit."

  "Then I shall have to ask him. I don't suppose you're going to tell me who he is?"

  "His name is Charles Burrowes, and he lives at the address on this piece of paper. And don't ask him. Persuade him."

  "He may not respond so well, given –"

  "This envelope here contains enough that should encourage him to accept."

  Rutherford took the rather fat looking envelope and stuffed it in a pocket on the inside of his coat. "Then I guess I had better go visit Mr Burrowes." He got up, stretched, then after nodding to his "client", he strode off towards the nearest café. He needed to get warm, outside and inside.

  * * *

  Rutherford nodded approvingly when he saw the apartment building. It was expensive enough to offer some degree of security, but cheap enough to be affordable to someone who did not want to waste money. There was a small keypad, together with apartment numbers. He pressed apartment six, brushed some snow off his arm, and wrapped his coat a little tighter. This day was becoming more miserable by the minute.

  "Yes. Who's there?"

  "You Mr Charles Burrowes?"

  "Yes, why? And who are you?"

  "You don't know me, but I have a job offer for you, if you would let me in."

  A long silence followed, during which Rutherford started to think Burrowes was going to be a problem, when the voice said, "How do I know you're for real?"

  "You don't, I suppose," Rutherford said, "but I gather you need a job, and you won't get one without seeing people."

  "They don't come here."

  "I can give you an address if you like, but I could also find someone else. I'm in a bit of a hurry so –"

  "OK, come on up." There was a click and the door opened. Rutherford came in, and the door closed immediately and locked. Rutherford glanced at the apartment numbers and worked out that number six would be on the next floor. He took the stairs, and approached the door of number six. He noted with approval that he had passed three security cameras. The door opened almost as he started knocking, and a rather downbeat young man waved him in. His hair looked as if it had not been brushed or combed for a week, and he had not shaved for at least four days. His clothes hung as if he slept in them. A glance through the kitchen door showed a great pile of unwashed dishes, together with a pile of fast food cartons. Rutherford sat down in the offered lounge chair.

  "You want?" Burrowes asked, with a total lack of enthusiasm. Rutherford noted the man was down. The question was, could he get him up?

  "I am here to offer you a job, and to tell you why you're in the mess you're in."

  "Look, I never did anything to that wretched woman –"

  "Of course you didn't. You're as white as snow." He noticed that that piece of sarcasm had no perceptible effect on this man in front of him. This was getting more difficult by the minute. "The trouble is, the NSA doesn't believe you, and I'm convinced they will make your life so very miserable if you don't accept my offer."

  "So?"

  Burrowes had made no perceptible response to the 'if you don't accept my offer', and Rutherford could not read why not? He knew he had to continue, because this train wreck was on the verge of throwing him out. Burrowes could never do it literally, but Burrowes was hardly likely to accept the job offer if he simply resorted to beating some sense into him. "So you were set up," he continued. "I don't know the details, and frankly I have no interest in them, except I am going to require you, when working at my place, to keep your desires completely offsite and leave our one female strictly alone."

  "Eh?" So Rutherford had young females working for him?

  "There will be a young woman assistant to, well, assist you. There are to be no romantic attachments or you are back in the deep shit."

  Burrowes stared at Rutherford. It sounded as if neither Rutherford nor the NSA really believed he was innocent. If he ever got his hands on that Rhonda . . . He had to pull himself together. None of this was to his liking, but what choice did he have? On top of that, at the back of his mind, something was starting to make sense. He needed to find out more. "How do you know I was set up, assuming it's true?"

  "Someone considerably higher up the food chain at the NSA than you told me."

  "Charming. What do they expect? Me to sue them?" What a wretched employer to do that sort of thing. Then there was Rhonda. How much did they pay that bitch to do that?

  "No, they expect you to work for them, on an operation sufficiently black that they don't want anyone in the NSA except the very high to know you're working on it."

  "They've got a funny way of recruiting me," Burrowes grumbled. "As far as I'm concerned they can go to –"

  "Stop! Don't be stupid. You need a job, and they'll make sure you don't get one if you diss them."

  "And why is being pleasant to them going to be any better?" Burrowes scowled.

  "They're sort of promoting you." Rutherford leaned back, a wide smile on his face as he saw the various expressions float across Burrowes' face.

  "And how do you work that out?"

  "First, compensation, and a
starter pay," Rutherford said, and pulled out the rather fat envelope. "I don't know what's in it, but my guess is it's cash, and it should be quite a large sum."

  Burrowes' eyes lit up, he reached out a hand, then looked quizzically at Rutherford as the envelope was withdrawn.

  "You don't get starter pay until you indicate that you are prepared to start."

  "OK, let's suppose I agree. What do I have to do, and more importantly, what with?"

  "You will continue the project started at the NSA, but with a change in targets."

  Burrowes stared at him. "You're joking."

  "I assure you, I am not."

  "And exactly where do I get the equipment I need, and where do I get my program? You expect me to rewrite it when it took several people –"

  "Your programs are on these memory devices," Rutherford said. "The equipment will be provided." There was a silence, then Rutherford said, "Time to choose."

  "You said there is a change in targets. Who?"

  "Sorry, but you find that out if you accept."

  "And the danger level?"

  "Probably less than if you decline," Rutherford said. "We are going to do this, and once started, if there is any counter against anyone, which admittedly is not that likely, you would probably be blamed anyway. If you accept, at least you get some protection."

  Burrowes accepted. He was clearly unhappy, not the least because he found out the place he had to work in was to the west of Newark, but equally he was financially strained. Rutherford handed him the envelope, and told him he would be contacted as soon as the new work place and equipment was made available.

  Interestingly, the NSA was providing Rutherford and his small group with a new place to work, a place that officially did not exist. The NSA had promised to provide proper computer equipment for Burrowes and one assistant, who would also be provided. This also annoyed Rutherford. This "assistant" would be a young woman, and Rutherford was to try to ensure there was to be no romance in the air with anyone. Burrowes was given an email account where he could request whatever equipment he thought to be necessary, then Rutherford took his leave.

  Rutherford had recognised the expression on Burrowes face when he accepted. Burrowes would have to be watched, and he would have to be carefully handled. He might accept the situation, but he might also end up as some sort of whistle-blower. This was yet another problem that he really did not need. He kicked a heap of snow, and kept walking. Curse the NSA. Why was he helping them? Because he felt they probably knew something about his other operations, and this would keep them off his back. Maybe. But the truth was, he really did not need them looking into his operations, and if he declined, that is exactly what they would do. It would be a bad idea to invite the most powerful agency on the planet on computer surveillance to take a deep look at his activities. Maybe they would anyway, but at least he had some sort of assurance they would not. That would not last, once this favour was completed, so he needed to plan his exit strategy, and quickly.

  Chapter 4

  When Burrowes arrived at what was supposed to be his place of work, he saw what looked suspiciously like a factory, and judging from the large sign in the centre of the front wall, it made baby products. This could not be right, except it looked suspiciously like the building that he had seen when he had put in the address on the computer the night before, and had zoomed in for the close-up image. This property had no clear street number, but if the building next door was correctly numbered, this could not be anything else. He checked the address he had been given just to make sure; his memory was right. What a start to his first day: he could not find the address. Nevertheless, he had to do something, and simply going home was not going to fix his financial woes. There was an office for visitors, so he went there first, in the hope that whoever was there might know where he was supposed to go.

  It was then he realised that he did not know the name of the organization he was visiting. He looked at the rather attractive receptionist, who grinned a little and said, "You look like you're little boy lost."

  "I'm looking for a Mr Rutherford."

  The young woman behind the desk laughed at his discomfort, and said, "Around the back."

  Burrowes turned towards a door, when the woman said, "No. Out the front door, turn left, and walk around the building." She laughed again at him, and added, "Watch out for trucks and don't slip."

  There was a truck lane going around the right of the building and there were plenty of tyre-marks going along it through the snow. Deeper snow was piled up against the wall and the fence; there was also no grit on the pavement where the trucks had been, but there was ice underfoot. That advice had been meaningful; the last thing he needed was to turn up for work on his first day having fallen on the pavement.

  When Burrowes reached the end of the building, he could see the back of their building was a loading bay, and it was presumably well used because there were very clear tyre-tracks in the snow. But another twenty meters back was another building that had no sign. This was not right. The computer image had clearly shown one building and a large loading area and parking area for trucks. Yet there was a building, and it had four cars parked outside it. The NSA had presumably removed the image from all publicly available satellite photos. In a way that gave him comfort. This would only be done for a black site, so it looked as if he were in the right place. It also made him shake his head in despair. There was no point in hiding a building like this if it were a black ops site because the Russians had their own satellites, and comparison between what they saw and what the Americans allowed others to see would make this stick out like an organ stop.

  This second building had two doors, so Burrowes tried the closest one, but it was locked. He pushed the remaining door and found that it opened. He stepped in and shook the snow off him. There was a corridor in front that was rather gloomy. There was obviously no budget for excessive light, or, for that matter, replacing some of the fluorescent tubes. He walked in to see a small shelf to his right, and on it was a buzzer, together with a sign that said, "Ring Me." He pressed the buzzer, and wondered whether he would suddenly shrink to ant-size.

  "You're late!" came a voice over some form of intercom. "Take the first corridor on your right, then the second door on your left."

  With few options, Burrowes walked on and turned into another dingy corridor. The corridors must have been painted at least forty years before, and the lighting was clearly designed for energy conservation reasons and not illumination. He found the second door and opened it.

  He gasped. While everything he had seen so far was run down, this room was well illuminated, it had positive air pressure at a very pleasant temperature so it had to be air conditioned, and the room contained a remarkable amount of serious computing power.

  "Any reason why you're late?" Rutherford stared at him, but he had a slight smile as if he knew fine well.

  "I couldn't find it, and you forgot to tell me what it was called."

  "Would it have helped?"

  "I suppose not," Burrowes admitted, "since there are no signs around. Also . . ."

  "Also?" Now a challenging and superior smile, as if he knew the answer very well.

  "I did a computer search last night," Burrowes admitted, "and this building is not supposed to be here."

  "From which you deduce?" Rutherford challenged.

  Burrowes looked around to see three other faces staring at him, as if expecting him to fail. "My guess," he started, "was since the satellite images do not lie, and this building is not exactly easily transferred, someone hacked the records and did some photo-shopping, which means this is some sort of black ops site."

  "Surely you don't think we'd do that, do you?" Rutherford asked, with something of a scowl, but not exactly a true one.

  Burrowes had looked around at the other three faces, and there was a young woman who looked quite attractive. When he had given his guess, she had given a slight laugh, as had the others, but she had also given an impercep
tible nod of agreement. "I'll put a hundred bucks on someone having done it, and trust you to pay if I'm right," Burrowes said, and began ferreting in his wallet.

  "Intriguing approach," Rutherford said with a shrug, "and I guess I owe you. You're right. Now, come over here to your workstation."

  Burrowes took off his parka and followed him, and found himself adjacent to the very attractive female face. The rest of her looked good as well. She would be about his age, or maybe slightly younger, she had light brown hair that fell down over her shoulders, she had blue eyes that seemed to penetrate straight through him, and he felt awkward. She had a well-fitting light red dress that fitted a rather attractive figure, but her look showed she was amused as he had to try to keep his eyes on either her face or the equipment. He placed his parka over the back of what he assumed would be his chair.

  "Your job will be to hack into certain Russian accounts," Rutherford said. "You will work with the young lady whom you seem to have noticed."

  Burrowes gave a wan smile in her direction. He far preferred to work by himself, partly because he hated people asking him what he was doing, or worse, criticizing him for what was obviously correct. It was not his job to teach people. Also, other people were distractions, and he was only too painfully aware that this young woman would be a very big distraction. "Is there any reason I am working with her?" he asked.

  "Introductions: Charles Burrowes, meet Svetlana Antonovna. The reason you will be working with her is she speaks fluent Russian, which I gather you do not."

  "Hello," Burrowes said, and nodded at her. Interesting, he thought. There were two others in the room, and he was not introduced to them. He looked back at Rutherford, and said, "True. I don't speak Russian." That was strictly speaking not true. He had been chosen for the Russian bench at the NSA because he did understand Russian, at least to some extent, but he decided that it might be desirable for the moment not to admit to this. If they did not know it, all the better, and in any case, the last thing he needed was being corrected by this young woman.

  "Hello," came the reply, with what he took to be a moderate Russian accent.