Olivia had given Dwyer the flash drive that Garin had obtained from the Iranians. Dwyer had promptly awakened Matt and Ray, and they drove to a DGT facility just outside of Quantico. While Olivia remained at Dwyer’s place under the protection of the tactical team, a group of DGT technicians began analyzing the contents of the flash drive. At the same time, Dwyer ran the photographs of the frog through the DGT facial recognition system.
Dwyer’s technicians told him that a full forensics analysis of the flash drive would take a while, but it was clear that the device harbored a worm—an extraordinarily complex one. The FRS, however, returned a match in relatively short order, and when it did, Dwyer immediately remembered where he had seen the frog before: the Russian embassy on Wisconsin Avenue. He was Yevgeny Torzov, an ostensibly innocuous functionary in the Russian diplomatic corps. Only a select few knew he was SVR.
Dwyer pondered the possible reasons why Julian Day, counsel to the chairman of Senate Intelligence, would meet with Yevgeny Torzov. No matter how hard he tried, Dwyer couldn’t think of an innocent one.
—
Arlo led the national security advisor on one of his frequent strolls along the north side of the National Mall. It was not a daily stroll, the demands of the office being such that doing nearly anything on a regular basis was difficult. But Arlo and his master usually could be found somewhere along the path between the Capitol Building and the Lincoln Memorial four or five mornings a week.
The stroll provided Brandt an opportunity—uninterrupted by aides or conference calls—to sharpen his thoughts and shape inchoate theories. The exercise was a substitute for a cigarette habit long since vanquished. Now the only times he smoked were on celebratory or contemplative occasions. Even then, he indulged in a solitary Winston.
At the moment, Brandt’s focus was on, of all things, warehouses. Warehouses in Murmansk. Warehouses outside Vladivostok. Warehouses around Ust-Kamchatsk. Cavernous warehouses filled with inventory for which the market was, at best, static: standard generators, cables, transformers, capacitors, routers, distribution boards, circuit breakers, switchboards. Nothing advanced or cutting-edge. And, as Olivia had insisted, Brandt was beginning to sense there was something troubling about that. Something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. But something connected to the Russian-Iranian–sponsored UN resolution condemning Israel and to Olivia’s conversation with Michael Garin, both of which signaled major problems in the offing.
The night before, the UN General Assembly had voted to condemn Israel. Only the United States, Great Britain, Canada, and Australia had voted against it. Germany had abstained. The resolution provided cover for Israel’s enemies and within hours the number of skirmishes between the IDF and Hezbollah had increased dramatically. Syrian troops were massing close to the frontier villages near the Golan Heights. Hundreds of rockets were being fired on Israel from southern Lebanon with deadly effect. Although most political pundits contended that full-scale war was unlikely, they were talking out of terminal ignorance. The National Security Council believed the probability of all-out war was greater than at any time since 1982. To lessen the possibility, the Pentagon ordered the US Fifth Fleet, based in Bahrain, to deploy ships to strategic locations throughout the Mediterranean and Persian Gulf.
As troubling as Brandt found these events, they were dwarfed by what Olivia had told him. The information she had gotten from Michael Garin filled in the blanks in her hypothesis regarding Russian-Iranian cooperation on the UN resolution. In short, the latest crisis in the Middle East was about more than Israel. She and Garin believed the United States was also a target. And that nukes were involved.
The problem with the United States–as–an–ultimate–target hypothesis, however, was that all intelligence indicated that Iran didn’t yet have the ability to strike the United States with a nuclear weapon. And Brandt knew that the Russians would never do so.
Nonetheless, Olivia maintained that Russia and Iran planned to hit the United States in addition to Israel. And they planned to hit the United States hard. Precisely how they were going to hit the United States, and with what, Olivia didn’t say. But the Oracle, strolling in the warming morning air past some of the most recognizable monuments in the world, was in the process of formulating the answer. Before going to the president with it, however, Brandt needed more evidence. And he needed to consult with Olivia, the one person who probably was closer to the answer than he. Telling the commander in chief to prepare for one of the greatest threats to national security since the Cuban missile crisis required more support than the hunch of a man currently sitting atop the FBI’s Most Wanted list.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
NORTHERN VIRGINIA
JULY 17 • 10:30 A.M. EDT
Four identical black Ford Explorers, tinted windows shielding their occupants from scrutiny, emerged from the underground parking garage at DGT’s facility near Quantico and sped single file onto I-95.
When the caravan reached exit 156, the second SUV in line peeled off and disappeared around the end of the ramp. When the vehicle came to Dale Boulevard it engaged in a series of countersurveillance maneuvers, including three U-turns. The SUV last in line did the same after reaching the exit for Prince William Parkway.
The remaining two vehicles proceeded north on I-95 until the one in front, Dan Dwyer riding in its backseat, took the exit toward Route 1. The last vehicle crossed the bridge over the Occoquan River on its way toward the District.
Dwyer’s Explorer was driven by Matt, who spent the next several minutes driving circuitously about Lorton, doubling back twice to flush any tails. Satisfied that they weren’t being followed, he parked in the rear of the crowded parking lot of a strip mall featuring a large Sport&Health Fitness Club.
Dwyer and Matt sat in the Explorer for nearly ten minutes, waiting patiently as they surveyed the lot. Neither saw Garin approach the vehicle from the left rear until there was an electronic click and he opened the door and slid into the rear seat next to Dwyer. Dwyer and Matt broke into broad grins, amazed and amused that Garin had, as he’d so often done in the past, evaded their detection.
For his part, Garin, holding up the remote he’d opened the door with, was, as usual, stone-faced.
“If I were one of the Iranians, both of you would be dead,” Garin said, a hint of irritation in his voice.
“Well, Captain Perfect,” responded Dwyer, “before passing judgment on the tradecraft of your inferiors, you may want to take a peek at the roof of the Mexican place to your right.”
Garin looked out the tinted windows. Barely visible atop the restaurant fifty yards away was the matte-black muzzle of an SR-25 trained on the Explorer. Had Garin been one of the Iranians, he would’ve been dead before he had touched the door. A faint smile creased Garin’s face. He turned back to Dwyer and the two clasped hands enthusiastically.
“That’s Ray on overwatch up there,” Dwyer said. “You haven’t met him. Hired him after you left DGT. He has orders to shoot anyone approaching the vehicle who looks better than a pregnant rhino. Figured you’d be safe.”
Garin leaned forward and grasped Matt’s outstretched hand. “Good to see you, Matt,” Garin said. “How’ve you survived for so long working with this worthless SOB?”
“He encourages us to drink on duty. Quite liberally,” Matt said, his voice deadpan.
“Matt’s been walking on air ever since he met the lovely and talented Olivia Perry,” Dwyer said. “Unfortunately for Matt, it appears that Ms. Perry’s intrigued only by the Great and Powerful Garin.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garin deflected. “But if you don’t mind, there are a few items more pressing than who I’m taking to homecoming.”
“No sale,” Dwyer said. “It’s our understanding you spent a couple of hours alone with the luscious Olivia at the Mayflower. Matt here, along with Ray, Carl, and every man on the tac units I deployed to the hot
el last night, would’ve killed for that opportunity. If it were up to me, you’d have no business going anywhere near her, no way, no how. But since that ship’s already sailed, you have a moral obligation—warrior to warrior—to provide us with details about your enchanted evening, pal.”
Dwyer wore the mischievous look of a pubescent boy, a look Garin had seen on Dwyer dozens of times in the past. It was usually a mistake to indulge Dwyer, a former SEAL and savvy businessman who nonetheless had the mentality of a college athlete at a strip club. He strenuously resisted separating work from play, regardless of how serious the circumstances.
“You want details? Here are the details,” Garin replied. “My team’s dead. I’ve killed more than half a dozen Iranians in the last seventy-two hours. All hell’s breaking loose in the Middle East, and none of these things happened in isolation.”
Garin’s speech sobered the other two occupants of the car. Dwyer shook his head. “Mike Garin. All work and no play . . .”
“Keeps me alive,” Garin finished. He inclined his head toward the former SAS man. “Matt, please drive.”
As the SUV pulled out of the parking lot, Dwyer’s demeanor became more serious. “Mike, you’ve been in some bad situations before, but this may be one of the worst.”
“What do you have for me?” Garin asked.
“That flash drive you gave Olivia contains a very sophisticated worm. We’re still working on the codes, but I can tell you, this thing is well beyond the capabilities of the Iranians. Not that they’re that bad. In fact, as you know probably better than most, they’ve got some serious cyberattack capabilities. But this thing is next, next, next generation.”
“Then who engineered it?”
“There are only about a half dozen countries that even conceivably could have done it: Russia, Israel, China, Germany. Maybe the Brits and Japan. That’s about it.”
“Then it’s definitely the Russians,” Garin said unequivocally. “What’s the worm supposed to do?”
“I think the technical phrase is ‘screw with our defense computers.’”
“You mean disable them? Shut them down?”
“No. This thing is a lot more subtle. Kind of like the Stuxnet worm that wreaked havoc on the computers in Iran’s nuclear program, another situation with which I believe you have a passing familiarity. Only this one’s even more advanced, more like the Snake or Ouroboros used against Ukraine when the Russians invaded Crimea. Apparently, this worm infiltrates a system like missile defense, locates a certain target, and then knocks it just slightly off kilter. Enough to render it essentially useless, but not enough to be detected,” Dwyer responded.
“But even slight anomalies would set off alarms,” Garin said. “Besides, we have multiple redundancies in our systems to guard against systems failures and data corruption.”
Dwyer nodded. “That’s the beauty of this thing—if, that is, you’re trying to knock out a segment of our defense grid. It has up to seventy-five submodules, giving it the ability to adapt, to evolve. The worm disguises itself, fools our systems into thinking everything’s operating okay. The system’s been corrupted, but the data appears normal. We don’t know anything’s wrong until we get hit.”
Garin stared out the front windshield, assessing what Dwyer was telling him. “So, say a satellite detects a Topol-M missile launch from the Teikovo missile base in Russia . . .”
“The worm scrambles the data so that our computers show no launch. Or, it might actually show a launch, but that the missile’s trajectory is taking it to China as opposed to the actual target—the US. Point is, we have no way of knowing anything’s amiss. We believe the data. And we react—or don’t react—accordingly.”
Garin shook his head slowly. “How much damage can the one flash drive do?”
“Enough,” Dwyer replied. “A bad guy inserts it in the USB port of a defense laptop connected to a particular network and the worm crawls toward its targets. It searches for specific lines of code, attaches itself to it, and does its mischief. It keeps expanding, keeps infecting the system. Keep in mind, Mike, my guys tell me it’s unlikely the flash drive you gave to Olivia is the only one. Our bet is that several flash drives have been created—each with its own codes. All it takes is for one to be inserted into any laptop that may be a gateway to a DOD network, and it’s off to the races.”
“I figured as much,” Garin said. “Tell me something. Now that we’re on notice of a worm, do your guys know whether we can find out which computers have been infected? Aren’t there diagnostics that can be performed?”
“The short answer is ‘probably,’” Dwyer replied. “We haven’t gotten that far. But remember, we don’t know which systems have been infected. DOD’s huge. Figuring that out would be a colossal undertaking. That takes time. We didn’t know the Chinese had hacked OPM for months. How much time do you think we have?”
“Don’t know. As usual, probably not enough.”
Matt drove back onto I-95 heading south. The traffic was light.
“Why do you think the Russians want to screw up DOD computers?” Dwyer asked.
“I don’t really know. In fact, I’m not sure it’s DOD computers or only DOD computers that they’re attempting to hit. Could also be NSA, Department of Energy, who knows? But I’ve seen evidence of Iranian interest in our missile defense systems. The Russians are working with the Iranians. So I’d conclude that the Russians have got the Iranians running around trying to sabotage our missile defense systems.”
“And trying to kill you, too, Sherlock. Busy Iranians,” Dwyer added. “But I don’t understand why the Russians would want to sabotage our missile defense systems. Why do it? What’s their interest?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” Garin said. “The Russians are usually more subtle. And why enlist the aid of the Iranians? Russians have more and better assets by far. They don’t need the Iranians to do their dirty work.”
“Maybe for plausible deniability,” Dwyer offered. “The Russians always liked to use proxies, cutouts, during the Cold War. East Germans. Bulgarians. You know, the KGB themselves rarely, if ever, killed anyone on US soil, at least not Americans. So they may have farmed out this operation to the Iranians this time.”
Garin nodded, not in agreement, but in thought. “Regardless of who they’re using, we keep coming back to the same question. Why would the Russians want to scramble our computers—missile defense or otherwise—when they wouldn’t dare risk attacking us?”
“Well”—Dwyer shrugged—“have you considered that maybe screwing up the computers is, in fact, the end game? Multiple worms could do serious damage—set us back quite a bit. Stuxnet set Iran back two years. The Russian president is known to want to restore Russia to coequal superpower status. Resurgent Russia, and all that.”
“Maybe,” Garin said. “But I’m not convinced.” Garin switched gears. “What about Laws? Any updates?”
“He was really in bad shape, Mike, but barring any setbacks, the old horndog’s going to make it. He’ll be in the hospital for quite some time. Then rehabilitation, physical therapy. They say several months, but I bet the chastity of most of the nurses in ICU will be in jeopardy by the end of the week.”
Garin’s expression didn’t change.
Dwyer said, “I thought you’d be pleased with Laws’s progression.”
“I am.”
“You’re thinking about how you’re going to kill his attackers, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
The news about Laws did cheer Garin. “Did your men get any more information from him?”
“No,” Dwyer replied. “It appears Laws really didn’t hear anything beyond what he already told us.” Dwyer shifted in his seat, pulled his cell phone from his hip pocket, and searched for the photo he had taken the previous evening at the Mayflower. “Speaking of updates, you might be interested in who you
r close friend Julian Day is having dinner with.”
Dwyer displayed a shot of Day for Garin, who squinted at the image.
“What am I looking at?”
“You’ll recognize the gentleman with his back to the camera, head turned slightly to the right, as His Self-Important Majesty, Julian Day, counsel to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. His dinner companion facing the camera, though resembling a well-dressed toad, is actually one Yevgeny Torzov, a member in good standing of the Russian diplomatic corps, currently attached to the embassy in Washington.”
“SVR?”
“We think so. Maybe FSB.”
“Any idea why Day would be meeting with him?”
Dwyer shrugged. “None. But whatever the reason, it’s peculiar, don’t you think?”
“No argument there,” Garin concurred.
“No coincidences in this business.”
“That phrase is starting to become the understatement of the decade.
“Why would Day be meeting with Torzov?” Garin asked, more to himself than to Dwyer.
Dwyer examined Garin’s face again. “You’re thinking about asking him, aren’t you? You hardheaded, stupid son of a bitch. Everybody but the third-shift janitor at the FBI is looking for you and you’re thinking about going to make a house call on the chief snapping turtle for the Senate Intelligence Committee, a turtle who, by the way, has hated your guts since before you were born. He hates the very idea of Mike Garin. In his mind, you’re the chief locus of evil in the world. You know that? He’d love to nail you to the wall. What the hell could you possibly accomplish?”
“Might frighten him a little.”
“Beautiful,” Dwyer said, flinging his arms in theatrical exasperation. “World’s going to hell and you want to make a detour to scare a one-hundred-fifty-five-pound lawyer. I’ll tell you what, that shouldn’t be a problem. As much as he hates you, he’s even more afraid of you. I’m pretty sure he wets his pants every time he hears your name.”
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