by Tom Clancy
“Back up a second. What the hell is the ‘meat space’?”
“The real world, Jack. You and me. Physical stuff. Not cyberspace.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.”
“Haven’t you read any William Gibson?”
Ryan confessed that he had not, and Biery gave him a look of utter bewilderment.
Jack did his best to get Biery back on the task at hand. “Can you tell who he used the attack tool kit on?”
Biery looked it over for a moment more. “Actually, nobody.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, but he never launched any of this stuff. He downloaded it one week to the day before you whacked him, but he never used it.”
“Where did he get it?”
Biery considered this for a moment, and then he opened the drive’s Web browser. Quickly he scanned through the history of the webpages Kartal visited, going back several weeks. Finally he said, “Script kiddies can buy these tool kits on the Internet on special underground economy sites. But I don’t think that’s where he got it. I’d bet money that this Center character sent it to him via Cryptogram. He got it after the e-mails between them ceased and Cryptogram was launched, and the Libyan didn’t go anywhere on the Internet that would have these tools for sale.”
“Interesting,” Jack said, but he wasn’t sure what that meant. “If Center sent it to him, maybe it was part of a bigger plan. Something that never got off the ground.”
“Maybe. Even though this stuff isn’t the highest-level hacking known to man, it can still be pretty damaging. Last year the computer network of the Federal Reserve Bank of Cleveland was hacked. The FBI spent months and millions on the investigation, only to find out that their culprit was a seventeen-year-old operating out of a karaoke bar and cybercafé in Malaysia.”
“Damn. And he used a tool kit like this?”
“Yep. The vast majority of hacks are done by some flunky who only knows how to click his mouse. The real malicious code is written by what are called black-hat hackers. They are the bad guys. Kartal may have the attack tool kit on his machine, but I have a feeling Center is the black-hat who sent it to him.”
* * *
After all the documents were mined by Jack for intelligence value, Gavin Biery began hunting through the device’s software, looking for any clues as to how Center had been able to remotely operate the camera. There was no obvious application to do this present on the drive, and no e-mails between Kartal and Center discussing Center’s access, so Biery concluded that the mysterious Center had probably hacked the Libyan’s computer without his knowledge. Biery decided he would take as long as required to ferret out the hacking tools Center used in order to learn more about Center’s identity.
In this endeavor Jack Junior was out of his element; he could no more pull intel out of raw software code than he could read Sanskrit.
Ryan rejoined his fellow analysts and went to work looking into the Libyan cell and their mysterious benefactor via other means, while Biery spent virtually every waking minute when he was not working on other Hendley/Campus IT duties huddled in his lonely but secure conference room with the Istanbul Drive.
It took Gavin weeks to open and test and retest every one of the hundreds of executable files on the drive in order to see what it did and how it affected the rest of the machine, and when this task yielded nothing of value he then drilled down into the source code, the text-based instructions of each program, tens of thousands of lines of data that, ultimately, revealed nothing more than the executables.
Then, after he’d expended weeks of effort, he began digging into the machine code. This was the computer language sequence, long strings of 1’s and 0’s that really told the processor what to do.
While the source code was high-tech and arcane, the machine code was nigh on indecipherable to anyone but an expert in computer programming.
It was mind-numbingly boring, even for a guy who lived for computer code, but despite suggestions from his fellow computer geeks that he was chasing ghosts in the machine, and nudges from the top brass at Hendley to hurry up or declare the exercise fruitless, Gavin kept working at his slow, methodical pace.
* * *
Jack had been thinking about the night in Istanbul and the subsequent monthlong investigation while he waited for his computer to boot up. He realized he’d lost track of time for a moment, snapping out of it to find himself staring at the camera above his computer monitor. It was a built-in device that was sometimes used for Web chat communications with other departments around the building. Even though Gavin had pronounced the company network impregnable, Jack still spent a lot of time with that twitchy feeling that he was being watched.
He looked deeply into the camera, still thinking of that night in Istanbul.
With a shake of his head he said, “You’re too young to be paranoid.”
He stood to head over to the break room for a cup of coffee, but before he walked off he grabbed a Post-it note from a pad next to his keyboard, then stuck the gummed portion of the paper over the camera lens.
A low-tech solution to a high-tech problem, more for his own peace of mind than anything else.
As Jack turned he took one step toward the hallway before he stopped suddenly, heaving in surprise.
In front of him stood Gavin Biery.
Jack saw Biery virtually every workday, and the guy never exactly appeared to be the epitome of good health, but today he looked like death warmed over. Here at eight-thirty a.m. his clothes were wrinkled, his thinning gray-brown hair was askew, and dark baggy circles hung pronounced above his fleshy cheeks.
On the best of days Gavin was a guy whose face looked like the only light it ever saw was the glow of his LCD monitor, but today he looked like a vampire in his coffin.
“Holy shit, Gav. Did you spend the night here?”
“The weekend, actually,” answered Biery in a tired but excited voice.
“You need some coffee?”
“Ryan… at this point, I bleed coffee.”
Jack chuckled at this. “Well, at least tell me your shitty weekend was worth it.”
Now Biery’s soft face tightened into a smile. “I found it. I freaking found it!”
“You found what?”
“I found remnants of the malware on the Istanbul Drive. It’s not much, but it’s a clue.”
Jack pumped his fist into the air. “Awesome!” he said, but internally he could not help but think, It’s about damn time.
NINE
While Ryan and Biery headed together down to the technology department, John Clark sat in his office, drumming the fingers of his good hand on his desk. It was just past eight-thirty; the director of operations of The Campus, Sam Granger, would have been in his office and working for more than an hour already, and the director of The Campus and the “white side” operation, Hendley Associates, Gerry Hendley, would just now be settling into his office.
No reason to put this off any longer. Clark picked up the phone and pushed a number.
“Granger.”
“Hey, Sam, it’s John.”
“Morning. Good weekend?”
No. Not really, he thought. “It was fine. Hey, can I come talk to you and Gerry when you guys get a moment?”
“You bet. Gerry just walked in the door. We’re free right now. Come on.”
“Roger.”
* * *
Five minutes later Clark stepped into the office of Gerry Hendley on the ninth floor of the building. Gerry stepped around his desk and executed the left-handed handshake that most everyone in the building had been offering Clark since January. Sam stood from a chair in front of Gerry’s desk and led John to the chair next to his.
Out the window behind Hendley’s desk, rolling Maryland cornfields and horse farms ran north toward Baltimore.
Gerry said, “What’s up, John?”
“Gentlemen, I’ve decided it’s time to face facts. The right hand is not coming back. Not one hundr
ed percent. Say seventy-five percent, tops, and that’s only after a hell of a lot more therapy. May be another surgery or two in my future.”
Hendley winced. “Damn it, John. I’m sorry to hear that. We were all hoping this time under the knife would be the one that made you one hundred percent again.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Sam said, “You take as much time as you need. With the ongoing investigation into the Istanbul Drive, the stand-down could last several more weeks, and if analysis doesn’t—”
“No,” John said flatly with a shake of his head. “It’s time for me to pack it in. To retire.”
Sam and Gerry just stared at him. Finally Sam said, “You are a crucial part of this operation, John.”
Clark sighed. “I was. That son of a bitch Valentin Kovalenko and his henchmen ended it.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got more capabilities than most of the National Clandestine Service at Langley.”
“Thanks, Gerry, but I’ve got to hope the CIA is sticking to paramilitary operations officers who can hold a firearm with their dominant hand if required to do so. That skill is beyond my capabilities at the moment.”
Neither Gerry nor Sam had a response to this.
Clark continued, “It’s not just the hand. My clandestine fieldwork potential was damaged by all the press about me last year. Yeah, the heat is off at the moment, most of the media ran off with their tails between their legs when it came out that they were spreading propaganda for Russian intelligence, but think about it, Gerry. It will just take one intrepid reporter on a slow news day to do one of those ‘Where are they now?’ stories. He’ll tail me here, they’ll dig a little deeper, and then next thing you know 60 Minutes will be down at reception with a camera, asking for a moment of your time.”
Hendley’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell them to get the hell off my property.”
Clark smiled. “If it was only that easy. Seriously. I don’t want to see another convoy of black SUVs with FBI tactical guys pulling up on my farm. Once was more than enough.”
Sam said, “The kind of expertise you possess is invaluable. How ’bout you hang it up, operationally speaking, and transition to more of a behind-the-scenes role?”
Clark had thought about this, of course, but in the end he realized that The Campus was set up as efficiently as possible.
“I’m not going to just roam the halls here, Sam.”
“What are you talking about? You keep the same office. You continue to do—”
“Guys, we’ve been in stand-down mode since Istanbul. The entire team is working their computers eight hours a day. It’s a sad fact that my grandson is better with a computer than I am. There is absolutely nothing here for me to do now, and, should the Istanbul Drive get resolved and the operators get the green light to go back into the field, in my diminished capacity, I won’t be taking part.”
Gerry asked, “What does Sandy say about you roaming the halls at home?”
Clark laughed at this. “Yeah, it’s going to be a transition for both of us. I’ve got lots to do around the farm, and God knows why, but she seems to want me around. She may get sick of me, but I owe her the opportunity to find out.”
Gerry understood. He wondered what he would be doing now if his wife and kids were still alive. He’d lost them in a car crash several years ago, and he’d been alone ever since. His work was his life, and he would not wish that life on a man who clearly had someone at home who wanted him there.
Where would Gerry be if his family were still alive? Gerry knew he would not be working sixty to seventy hours a week at Hendley Associates and The Campus. He would damn well find a way to enjoy his family.
He could hardly begrudge John Clark one second of a life that Gerry would give anything to have for himself.
Still, Hendley ran The Campus, and Clark was one hell of an asset. He had to do what he could to keep him. “Are you sure about this, John? Why don’t you take some more time to think it over?”
John shook his head. “I’ve thought about nothing else. I’m sure. I’ll be at my place. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I’m available for you or anyone on the team. But not in an official capacity.”
“Have you talked to Ding?”
“Yeah. We spent all day yesterday at the farm. He tried to talk me out of it, but he understands.”
Gerry stood from his desk and extended his left hand. “I understand and accept your resignation. But please don’t ever forget. You always have a place here, John.”
Sam echoed the sentiment.
“Thanks, guys.”
* * *
While Clark was upstairs in Hendley’s office, Jack Ryan, Jr., and Gavin Biery sat in the locked conference room just off Biery’s second-floor office. In front of them was a small table, upon which the desktop computer sat with the cover removed, exposing all the components, wires, and boards of the device. Additional peripheral components were attached to the system via cables of different thickness, color, and type, and these pieces were strewn across the table haphazardly.
Other than the computer hardware, a telephone, a single coffee mug that had left dozens of small brown rings on the white table, and a yellow legal pad, there was nothing else in sight.
Ryan had spent many hours in this place over the past two months, but that was nothing compared to the time Biery had spent here.
On the monitor in front of Ryan was a screen full of numbers and dashes and other characters.
Gavin said, “First, you’ve got to understand one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“This guy, if Center is a guy, is good. He’s a first-rate black-hat hacker.” Biery shook his head in amazement. “The code obfuscation is like nothing I’ve ever seen.
“He’s using a totally new species of malware, something I couldn’t find without a long, exhaustive manual search of the machine code.”
Jack nodded. He motioned to a string of numbers on the monitor. “So, is this the virus?”
“A portion of it. A virus has two stages to it. The delivery method and the payload. The payload is still hidden on the drive. It’s a RAT, a remote-access tool. It’s some sort of a peer-to-peer protocol, but I haven’t been able to ferret it out yet. It’s that well hidden inside another application. What you are looking at right here is a portion of the delivery method. Center removed most of it after he got in, but he missed this little string.”
“Why was it removed?”
“He’s covering his tracks. A good hacker — like me, for instance — always goes behind himself to clean up. Think about a thief breaking into a house. Once he makes entry through a window, the first thing he does is close the window behind him so no one knows anybody is inside. He did not need the delivery system any longer once he was inside the computer, so he erased it.”
“Except he did not erase it all.”
“Exactly. And that is important.”
“Why?”
“Because this is a digital fingerprint. This could be something in his own malware that he does not know about, doesn’t know he’s leaving behind.”
Jack understood. “You mean he might leave it on other machines, so if you see this again, then you will know that Center is involved.”
“Yes. You would know that this extremely rare malware was involved, and the attacker, just like Center, did not clean this one part off the machine. You can infer, I think, that it could be the same guy.”
“Any idea how he managed to get his virus on Kartal’s computer?”
“For a guy with skills like Center’s, it would have been child’s play. The tough part about installing a virus is the social engineering — that is, getting human beings to do what you want them to do. Click a program, go to a website, give up your password, plug in a USB drive, stuff like that. Center and the Libyan knew one another, they had communication between one another, and, from the e-mails, it’s clear the Libyan did not suspect Center was spying on his machine, operating his webcam, g
oing through back doors in the software to install files and delete the footprints he left. He had Kartal hook, line, and sinker.”
“Very cool,” said Jack. The world of computer hacking was arcane to him, but he recognized that in many respects, espionage was espionage, and many of the principles were similar.
Gavin sighed now. “I’m not finished looking through this drive. It might take another month or more. For now all we really have is an electronic fingerprint that we can tie to Center if we see it again. It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Jack said, “I need to have a meeting with Gerry and the other operators and let them know your findings. Do you want me to do it alone so you can go home and get some sleep?”
Gavin shook his head. “No. I’ll be okay. I want to be there.”
TEN
Todd Wicks had never done anything like this, but, then again, Todd Wicks had never been to Shanghai.
He was here in town for the Shanghai Hi-Tech Expo, and though this wasn’t his first international trade show, this was, without question, the first time he’d met a beautiful girl in the lobby bar of his hotel who made it abundantly clear that she wanted him to come up to her room.
She was a prostitute. Todd wasn’t the worldliest guy around, but he managed to figure this out pretty quickly. Her name was Bao, and this meant, she told him in her heavy but alluring accent, “precious treasure.” She was gorgeous, maybe twenty-three years old, with long, straight black hair the color and luster of Shanxi black granite and a tight red dress that was at once both glamorous and sexy. Her body was long and lean; when he first saw her, he thought she might be a movie star or a dancer, but when he caught her eye, she lifted her glass of chardonnay off the marble bar with delicate fingers and floated over to him with a gentle but confident smile.