by A. G. Riddle
David opened the iron door with a second palm scan and led Josh into a room probably half the size of a gymnasium. The cavern had concrete walls and their footsteps echoed loudly as they approached the center of the room, where a small glass room hung from thick twisted metal cords. The glass box was softly lit, and Josh couldn’t see inside it, but he already knew what it was.
Josh had suspected the cell had such a room, but he’d never seen it in person. It was a quiet room. The entire Jakarta station headquarters was a kind of quiet room — it was shielded from every manner of listening device. There was no need for further precautions within the station — unless you didn’t want another member of the cell to hear you.
There were certainly protocols that required it. He suspected the Chief talked with other station chiefs via phone and video in this room. Maybe even with Central.
As they approached the room, a short flight of glass stairs descended and quickly retracted after they climbed into the room. A glass door closed behind them. There was a bank of computer screens on the long wall of the room, but other than that, Josh thought the room was surprisingly sparse: a simple fold-out table with four chairs, two phones and a conference speaker, and an old steel filing cabinet. The furniture was cheap and a bit out of place, like something you might see in the on-site trailer at a construction site.
“Take a seat,” David said. He walked to the file cabinet and withdrew several folders.
“I have a report to make. It’s significant —”
“I think you better let me start.” David joined Josh at the table, placing the files between them.
“With due respect, what I have to report may change your entire perspective. It may cause a major reassessment. A reassessment of every active operation at Jakarta station and even how we analyze every—”
David held a hand up. “I already know what you’re going to tell me.”
“You do?”
“I do. You’re going to tell me that the vast majority of the terror threats we’re tracking, including operations in developed nations that we don’t yet understand — aren’t the work of a dozen separate terrorist and fundamentalist groups as we’d suspected.”
When Josh said nothing, David continued, “You’re going to tell me that Clocktower now believes that these groups are all simply different faces of one global super-group, an organization with a scale exceeding anyone’s wildest projections.”
“They already told you?”
“Yes. But not recently. I began putting the pieces together before I joined Clocktower. I was officially told when I made station chief.”
Josh looked away. It wasn’t exactly a betrayal, but realizing something this big had been kept from him — the head of analysis — was a punch in the gut. At the same time, he wondered if he should have put it all together, if David was disappointed that he hadn’t figured it out on his own.
David seemed to sense Josh’s disappointment. “For what it’s worth, I’ve wanted to tell you for a while now, but it was need-to-know only. And there’s something else you should know. Of the 240-or-so attendees at the analysts conference, 142 never made it home.”
“What? I don’t understand. They—”
“They didn’t pass the test.”
“There wasn’t a test—”
“The conference was the test. From the minute you arrived until you walked out, you were under video and audio surveillance. Like the suspects we interrogate here, the conference organizers were measuring voice stress, pupil dilation, eye movement, and a dozen other markers. In short— watching the analysts’ reactions throughout the conference.”
“To see if we would withhold information?”
“Yes, but more importantly, to see who already knew what was being presented, specifically, which analysts already knew there was a super-terror group behind the scenes. The conference was a Clocktower-wide mole hunt.”
At that moment, the glass room around Josh seemed to disappear. He could hear David talking in the background, but he was lost in his thoughts. The conference was a perfect cover for a sting. All Clocktower agents, even analysts, were trained in standard counter-espionage methods. Beating a lie detector was first base. But telling a lie as if it were true was much easier than faking an emotional response to a surprise, and sustaining the reactions, with credible body metrics, for three days — it was impossible. But to test every chief analyst. The implication was…
“Josh, did you hear me?”
Josh looked up. “No, I’m sorry, it’s a lot to take in… Clocktower has been compromised.”
“Yes, and I need you to focus now. Things are happening quickly, and I need your help. The analyst test was the first step in Clocktower’s firewall protocol. Around the world, right now, the Chief Analysts who returned from the conference are meeting with their Station Chiefs in quiet rooms just like this one, trying to figure out how to secure their cells.”
“You think Jakarta Station has been compromised?”
“I’d be shocked if it wasn’t. There’s more. The analyst purge has set events in motion. The plan, firewall protocol, was to screen the analysts for moles and for the remaining Chief Analysts and Station Chiefs to work together to identify anyone who could be a double.”
“Makes sense.”
“It would have, but we’ve underestimated the scope of the breach. I need to tell you a little about how Clocktower is organized. You know about how many cells there are — 200-250 at any given time. You should know that we had already identified some of the chief analysts as moles — about 60. They never made it to the conference.”
“Then who were—”
“Actors. Mostly field agents who had worked as analysts before, anyone who could fake it. We had to. Some of the analysts already knew the approximate number of Clocktower cells and the actors provided an operational benefit: they could facilitate the 3-day-lie-detection, ask pointed questions, elicit responses, get reactions.”
“Unbelievable… How could we be so deeply compromised?”
“That’s one of the questions we have to answer. There’s more. Not all the cells are like Jakarta Station. The vast majority are little more than listening posts; they manage a small group of case officers and send Central the HUMINT and SIGINT they collect. A compromised listening post is bad, it means whoever this global enemy is, they have been using those cells to collect intel and maybe even send us bogus data.”
“We could be essentially blind,” Josh said.
“That’s right. Our best case scenario was that this enemy had co-opted our intelligence gathering in preparation for a massive attack. We now know that that’s only half of it. Several of the major cells are also compromised. These are cells similar to Jakarta station, with intelligence gathering and significant covert ops forces. We are one of 20 major cells. These cells are the last line of defense, the thin red line that separates the world from whatever this enemy is planning.”
“How many are compromised?”
“We don’t know. But three major cells have already fallen — Karachi, Cape Town, and Mar del Plata have all reported that the cell’s own special forces swept through their HQ, killing most of the analysts and the Station Chiefs. There have been no communications from them for hours. Satellite surveillance over Argentina confirms the destruction of the Mar del Plata HQ. The Cape Town insurgents were assisted by outside forces. As we speak, firefights are on-going in Seol, Dehli, Dhaka, and Lahore. Those stations may hold, but we should assume they will be lost as well. Right now our own special ops forces could be preparing to take over Jakarta Station, or it could be happening this second, outside this room, but I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“I believe they’ll wait for you to return. Given what you know, you’re a liability. Whenever they attack, you’ll be at the top of the target list. The morning briefing would be the ideal time for a strike; they’re probably waiting for that.”
Josh felt his mouth go dry. “That’s why you
grabbed me off the elevator.” He thought for a moment. “So what now, you want me to identify the threats on the staff before the briefing? We initiate a preemptive attack?”
“No. That was the original plan, but we’re past that now. We have to assume Jakarta Station will fall. If we’re compromised as badly as the other major cells, it’s only a matter of time. We have to look at the big picture and try to unravel our enemy’s end game. We have to assume that one or more cells will survive and that they will be able to use anything we learn. If not, maybe one of the national agencies. But there’s still one question you haven’t asked, a very important one.”
Josh thought for a second. “Why now? And why start with the analysts? Why didn’t you clean the field operatives first?”
“Very good.” David flipped open a folder. “Seven days ago, I was contacted by an anonymous source who said two things:
1) there was an imminent terrorist attack — on a scale we’ve never seen before
2) that Clocktower had been compromised.
He included a list of 60 analysts that he claimed were compromised. We shadowed them for a few days and confirmed them making dead-drops and unauthorized communications. It checked out. He said there might be more. The rest you know: the other station chiefs and I organized the analyst conference. We interrogated and quarantined the compromised analysts, replacing them with actors at the conference. Whoever the source is, he either didn’t know about the field agents or didn’t disclose it for his own reasons. The source refused to meet, and I received no other communications from him. We proceeded with the conference and after… the purge. The source was radio-silent. Then, late last night, as the analyst conference was wrapping up, he contacted me again. He said he wanted to deliver the other half of the intel he promised, details of a massive attack code-named Toba Protocol. We were supposed to meet this morning at Manggarai Station, but he didn’t show. Someone with a bomb did. But I think he wanted to be there. A kid gave me a newspaper with this message right after the attack.” David pushed a page across the table.
________________________
Toba Protocol is real.
4+12+47 = 4/5; Jones
7+22+47 = 3/8; Anderson
10+4+47 = 5/4; Ames
________________________
“Some kind of code,” Josh said.
“Yes, it was surprising. The other messages were straight-forward. But now it started to make sense.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Whatever the code is, it’s the real message — it’s what the entire setup has been about. The source wanted the analyst purge to happen so he could send his coded message at the right time — and know it would be decoded by someone who wasn’t a double agent — namely you. He wanted us focused on cleaning up the analysts and delaying the fireworks until he could send this message. Had we known how thoroughly we had been compromised, we would have quarantined the field operatives first and sent Clocktower into total lock-down. We wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Yeah, but why even bother with a code? Why not send the message in the open like the previous communications?”
“It’s a good question. He must be under surveillance as well. Communicating whatever he’s trying to tell us in the open must have repercussions; maybe it would cause his death or speed up this terrorist attack. So whoever is watching him assumes we don’t know what the message says yet. That may be why they haven’t taken more of the cells down — they still think they can contain Clocktower,” David said.
“Makes sense.”
“It does, but one question still bothered me: why me?”
Josh thought for a moment. “Right, why not the director of Clocktower, all the other Clocktower Station Chiefs, or simply alert all the world’s intelligence agencies? They would have more far-reaching power to stop an attack. Maybe tipping them would start the attack early — just like sending the message in the open. Or… you could be in a unique position to stop the attack… or you know something.”
“Exactly. I mentioned earlier that I began investigating this super terrorist group before I joined Clocktower.” David stood, walked to the filing cabinet and withdrew two more folders. “I’m going to show you something I’ve been working on for over ten years, something I’ve never shown anyone, even Clocktower.”
CHAPTER 13
Interrogation Room C
West Jakarta Police Detention Center
Jakarta, Indonesia
Kate leaned back in the chair and thought about her options. She would have to tell tell the investigator how the trial had begun. Even if he didn’t believe it, she had to get it on the record in case they tried her. “Stop,” she said.
The man paused at the door.
Kate set her chair down and put her arms on the table. “There’s a very good reason why my trial adopted those children. There’s something you should understand. When I came to Jakarta, I expected to run this trial like any other trial in America. That was my first mistake. We failed… and we… changed our approach.”
The little man turned from the door, sat down, and listened as Kate described how she had spent weeks preparing for patient recruitment.
The trial had hired a Contract Research Organization (CRO) to run the trial, just as they would have in the US. In the US, pharmaceutical companies focus on developing a new drug or therapy, and when they have something promising, they hire a CRO to test it for them. The CROs find medical clinics with doctors interested in clinical research. The clinics, or sites, enroll willing patients into the trial, administer the new drug/therapy, then test them periodically for any health problems — adverse events. The CRO keeps close tabs on every site in the trial, reporting results to the sponsor/research organization, who makes their own reports to the FDA or governing body in countries around the world. The endgame was a trial with the desired therapeutic effect without any negative or adverse effects. It was a long road, and less than 1% of drugs that worked in the lab ever made it to pharmacy shelves.
There was only one problem: Jakarta, and Indonesia at large, had no autism clinics and only a handful of specialty practices focusing on developmental disorders. Those clinics weren’t experienced in clinical research — a dangerous situation for patients. The pharmaceutical industry was tiny in Indonesia, mostly because the market was small (Indonesia imported mostly generic drugs), so very few doctors were ever contacted about research.
The CRO came up with a novel concept: engage parents directly and run a clinic to administer the therapy. Kate and the trial’s lead investigator, Dr. John Helms, met with the CRO at length, searching for any alternatives. There were none. Kate urged Dr. Helms to move forward with the plan, and finally, he agreed.
They built a list of families within 100 miles of Jakarta that had any child on the autism spectrum. Kate booked an auditorium at one of the nicest hotels in town and invited the families to a presentation.
She wrote, re-wrote, and revised the trial booklet for days-on-end. Finally, Ben had barged into her office and said he would leave the trial if she didn’t just let it go; they were ready to recruit. Kate relented, the pamphlet went to the ethics committee, then the printer, and they prepared for the event.
When the day came, she stood by the door, ready to greet each family as they arrived. She wished her hands would stop sweating. She wiped them on her pants every few minutes. First impressions are everything. Confidence, trust, expertise.
She waited. Would they have enough booklets? They had 1,000 on hand, and although they had sent only 600 invitations, both parents could show up. Other families could show up — there was no reliable database or registry of affected families in Indonesia. What would they do? She told Ben to be ready to use the hotel copier just in case; he could prepare copies of the highlights while she talked.
Fifteen minutes past the hour. The first two mothers appeared. Kate dried her hand again before shaking vigorously and talking just a little too loud. “Great to have yo
u here—thank you for coming—no, this is the place—take a seat, we’ll get started any moment—”
Thirty minutes past the hour.
An hour past the start time.
She circled the six mothers, making small talk. “I don’t know what happened—what day did you get the invitation?—no, we invited others—I think it must be a problem with the post…”
Finally, Kate led the six attendees to a small conference room in the hotel to make it less awkward for everyone. She gave a short presentation as one-by-one, each of the mothers begged off, saying they had children to pick up, jobs to get back to, and the like.
Downstairs, at the hotel bar, Dr. Helms got drunk as a skunk. When Kate joined him, the gray-haired man leaned close and said, “I told you it wouldn’t work. We’ll never recruit in this town, Kate. Why the hell— hey-ho, bar keep, yeah, over here, I’ll have another, uh-huh same thing, good man. What was I saying? Oh yes, we need to wrap it up, quickly, I’ve got an offer in Oxford. God I miss Oxford, it’s too blasted humid here, feels like a sauna all the time. And, I must admit, I did my best work there. Speaking of…” He leaned even closer. “I don’t want to jinx it by saying the words No. Bel. Prize. But… I’ve heard my name’s been submitted — this could be my year, Kate. Can’t wait to forget about this debacle. When will I learn? I guess I’ve got a soft heart when it comes to a good cause.”
Kate wanted to point out that his soft heart had certainly driven a hard bargain — three times her salary and his name first on any publication or patents — despite the fact that the entire study was based on her post-doctoral research, but she held her tongue and swallowed the last of her Chardonnay.