With a sigh of irritation he spelled it out, making it abundantly clear that she should have known the spelling already—indeed, he was careful to cultivate an air of someone who expected to be recognized, who had only contempt for the ignorance of those who did not.
She pursed her lips, got back on the phone. A short conversation followed, and then she hung up. “Congressman, I’m terribly sorry, but the general is out for the day and his secretary has no record of the appointment. Are you sure…?” She faltered when Gideon fixed her with a severe look.
“Am I sure?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Her lips were now fully pursed, her blue hair beginning to quiver with suppressed offense.
He looked at his watch, looked up at her. “Mrs.…?”
“Wilson,” she said.
He slipped a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. “You can check for yourself.”
It was an e-mail he had concocted, allegedly from the general’s secretary, confirming the appointment with the general he’d already known would be out. She read it and returned it to him. “I’m very sorry, he doesn’t seem to be in. Shall I call his secretary again?”
Gideon continued to glare at her, fixing her with a subzero stare. “I should like to speak to his secretary myself.”
She faltered, removed the phone from its cradle, and handed it to him, but not before dialing the number.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Wilson, but this is a classified matter. Do you mind?”
Her face, which had gradually darkened, now flushed rose. She stood up silently and took a step away from her desk. He put the receiver to his ear. The phone was ringing, but turning to block her view, he depressed the button and, almost imperceptibly, dialed another extension — this time, the secretary to General Shorthouse, the director himself.
Only, like, the top three in the organization get the passphrase—director, deputy director, and security director…
“Director’s office,” came the secretary’s voice.
Speaking quietly and rapidly, and summoning the voice of the man who’d confronted him at the trash cans the night before, he said: “This is Lamoine Hopkins in IT returning the general’s call. It’s urgent — a security breach.”
“Just a moment.”
He waited. After a minute, General Shorthouse came on. “Yes? What’s the problem? I didn’t call you.”
“I’m sorry, General,” said Gideon, speaking like Hopkins but now in a low, unctuous tone, “about the lousy day you must be having.”
“What are you talking about, Hopkins?”
“Your system being down, sir, and the backup not kicking in.”
“It’s not down.”
“General? We’re showing your whole grid as down. It’s a security violation, sir — and you know what that means.”
“That’s preposterous. My computer’s on right now and working perfectly. And why are you calling me from reception?”
“General, that’s part of the problem. The telephony matrix is tied into the computer network and it’s giving false readings. Log off and log back on, please, while I trace.” Gideon glanced over at the receptionist, who was still standing to one side, making a conscientious effort not to overhear.
He heard the tapping of keys. “Done.”
“Funny, I’m not reading any packet activity from your network address. Try signing off again.”
More tapping of keys.
“Nothing, General. Looks like your ID might have been compromised. This is bad — it’s going to require a report, an investigation. And it would be your system. I’m so sorry, sir.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Hopkins. I’m sure we can fix it.”
“Well…we can give it a shot. But I’ll have to try resetting, and then accessing your account from down here. I’m going to need your ID and passphrase, please.”
A pause. “I’m not sure I can give you that.”
“You may not realize this, but in the case of network resets the passphrase is automatically changed, so you’re allowed to release the passphrase internally to IT. If you feel uncomfortable with that, sir, I understand, but then I’ll have to call the NSA for a passphrase override, I’m really sorry—”
“All right, Hopkins. I wasn’t aware of that regulation.” He gave Gideon the passphrase and ID. Gideon jotted it down.
After a moment, with huge relief in his voice, Gideon said: “Whew. That reset did it, sir. Apparently, it was just a hung screen. No security breach. You’re good to go.”
“Excellent.”
Gideon depressed the key and turned to the receptionist. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, handing her the receiver. “Everything’s straightened out.” He walked briskly out of the building to the waiting car.
Thirty minutes later he was back in his motel room, stretched out on the bed, laptop connected to an unsecured computer in the bowels of the General Services Administration that he’d remotely hijacked. He had chosen to target the GSA — the vast government bureaucracy that handles supplies, equipment, procedures, and the like — because he knew it would be a relatively easy mark, and yet one still within the government security perimeter.
Hopkins had explained—unwittingly, of course—that the INSCOM archive could only send documents to previously authorized IP addresses, and unfortunately most of those were also inside classified perimeters…except for one: the National Security Archives at George Washington University. This private archive, the largest in the world outside the Library of Congress, collected vast amounts of government documents, including virtually everything being routinely declassified as part of the Mandatory Declassification Review: the government’s program for declassifying documents under several laws requiring them to do so. A veritable Amazon of information flowed into this archive on a daily basis.
Via the GSA computer, Gideon sent an automated request to the INSCOM secure archive at George Washington via port 6151, directing that a PDF file of a certain classified document be transmitted out through the same port, authorized via General Shorthouse’s passphrase, to be added to a routine dump of Cold War declassified documents headed for the National Security Archives daily batch files. The file was duly transmitted; it passed through the firewall at the sole authorized port, where the passphrase was examined and approved; and the document was subsequently routed to George Washington University and stored with millions of others in one of the archive databases.
Thus, Gideon had successfully arranged for the erroneous declassification of a classified document and hid it within a huge stream of data leaving the secure government perimeter. Now all that remained was to retrieve the document.
The next morning, at around eleven, a certain rumpled yet undeniably charming visiting professor by the name of Irwin Beauchamp, dressed in tweeds, mismatched corduroys, beaten-up wing tips, and a knitted tie (thirty-two dollars; Salvation Army) entered the Gelman Library at George Washington University and requested a slew of documents. His identity was not yet in the system and he had lost his temporary library card, but a kindly secretary took pity on the scatterbrained fellow and allowed him access to the system. Half an hour later, Beauchamp departed the building with a slender manila folder under his arm.
Back in the motel, Gideon Crew spread out the papers from the folder with a trembling hand. The moment of truth had arrived — the truth that would make him either free, or merely more miserable.
6
A Critique of the Thresher Discrete Logarithm Encryption Standard EVP-4: A Theoretical Back-Door Cryptanalysis Attack Strategy Using a Group of φ-Torsion Points of an Elliptic Curve in Characteristic φ.
Gideon Crew had studied plenty of advanced mathematics in college and, later, at MIT, but the math in this paper was still way over his head. Nevertheless, he understood enough to realize what he had in his hands was the smoking gun. This was the memo his father had written to critique Thresher, the memo his mother said had been destroyed. Yet it
hadn’t been. Most likely, the bastard responsible — believing it too difficult or risky to destroy the document outright — had stuck it into an archive he believed would never be declassified. After all, what American general in the era of the Berlin Wall would have believed the Cold War could ever end?
He continued reading, heart racing, until, finally, he came to the final paragraphs. They were written in the dry language of science-speak, but what they said was pure dynamite.
In conclusion, it is the author’s opinion that the proposed Thresher Encryption Standard EVP-4, based on the theory of discrete logarithms, is flawed. The author has demonstrated that there exists a potential class of algorithms, based on the theory of elliptic functions defined over the complex numbers, which can solve certain discrete logarithm functions in real-time computing parameters. While the author has been as yet unable to identify specific algorithms, he has demonstrated herein that it is possible to do so.
The proposed Thresher standard is therefore vulnerable. If this standard is adopted, the author believes that, given the high quality of Soviet mathematical research, codes developed from this standard could be broken within a relatively short period of time.
The author strongly recommends that Thresher Encryption Standard EVP-4 not be adopted in its current form.
That was it. Proof that his father had been framed. And then murdered. Gideon Crew already knew all about the man who had done it: Lieutenant General (ret.) Chamblee S. Tucker, currently CEO of Tucker and Associates, one of the high-profile defense industry lobbying firms on K Street. They represented many of the country’s largest defense contractors, and Tucker had leveraged himself to the hilt in order to finance the firm. He was raking in huge bucks, but they managed to go right back out the door thanks to his extravagant lifestyle.
By itself, this document meant little. Gideon knew that anything could be counterfeited — or be claimed to have been counterfeited. The document wasn’t an endpoint; it was a starting point for the little surprise he had planned for Chamblee S. Tucker.
Using the remote computer he had previously hijacked at the General Services Administration, Gideon stripped the document of its classification watermarks and sent it to a dozen large computer databases worldwide. Having thus secured the document from destruction, he sent an e-mail directly from his own computer to [email protected] with the document as an attachment. The covering e-mail read:
General Tucker:
I know what you did. I know why you did it. I know how you did it.
On Monday, I’m sending the attached file to various correspondents at the Post, Times, AP, and network news channels — with an explanation.
Have a nice weekend.
Gideon Crew
7
Chamblee S. Tucker sat behind an enormous desk in the oak-paneled study of his house in McLean, Virginia, thoughtfully hefting a four-pound Murano glass paperweight in one hand. At seventy years old, he was fit for his age and proud of it.
He shifted the paperweight to the other hand, pressed it a few times.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in.” He set the paperweight down with exquisite care.
Charles Dajkovic entered the study. He was in civilian clothes, but his bearing and physique shouted military: whitewall haircut, massive neck, ramrod posture, steely blue eyes. A grizzled, close-clipped mustache was his only concession to civilian life.
“Good morning, General,” he said.
“Good morning, Charlie. Sit down. Have a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you.” The man eased his frame into the proffered chair. Tucker indicated a silver salver on a nearby side table with coffeepot, sugar, cream, and cups. Dajkovic helped himself.
“Let’s see now…” The general paused. “You’ve been with Tucker and Associates for, what, ten years?”
“That’s about right, sir.”
“But you and I, we go way back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have a history. Operation Urgent Fury. That’s why I hired you: because the trust built on the battlefield is the finest trust that exists in this crazy world. Men who haven’t fought together in battle don’t even know the full meaning of the words trust and loyalty.”
“That’s very true, sir.”
“And that is why I asked you to come to my home. Because I can trust you.” The general paused. “Let me tell you a story. It has a moral but you’ll have to figure it out on your own. I can’t be too specific — you’ll see why.”
A nod.
“Ever hear of John Walker Lindh?”
“The ‘American Taliban’?”
“Right. And Adam Gadahn?”
“Isn’t he the guy who joined al-Qaeda and makes videos for Bin Laden?”
“Right you are. I’ve come into possession of some highly classified information regarding a third American convert — only this one is far more dangerous.” Tucker paused again. “This fellow’s father worked for INSCOM when I was there. Turned out the man was a traitor, passing information to the Soviets. You may remember the aftermath: he took a hostage over at the old HQ. Our snipers took him down. His kid witnessed it.”
“I recall that incident.”
“What you don’t know, because it’s also classified, is that he was responsible for exposing twenty-six operatives. They were swept up in one night and tortured to death in Soviet gulags.”
Dajkovic said nothing. He set down the now empty coffee cup.
“That’s just background. You can imagine what it was like to grow up in that kind of environment…Anyway, just like Lindh and Gadahn, this fellow converted. Only he didn’t do anything stupid like go off to a training camp in Afghanistan. He went on to MIT and now he works at Los Alamos. Name’s Gideon Crew. C-R-E-W.”
“How’d he get security clearance?”
“Powerful friends in high places. He’s made no mistakes. He’s good, he’s totally convincing, he’s sincere. And he’s al-Qaeda’s pipeline to getting the Bomb.”
Dajkovic shifted in his seat. “Why don’t they arrest him? Or at least cancel his security clearance?”
Tucker leaned forward. “Charlie, are you really that naive?”
“I hope not, sir.”
“What do you think’s going on in this country? Just like we were infiltrated by the Reds during the Cold War, now we’re being infiltrated by jihadists. American jihadists.”
“I understand.”
“Now, with the kind of high-level protection this fellow has, he’s untouchable. There’s nothing concrete, of course. This information fell into my lap by accident, and I’m not one to shy away from defending my country. Imagine what al-Qaeda would do with a nuke.”
“It’s unthinkable.”
“Charlie, I know you. You were the top Special Forces guy in my command. You’ve got skills no one else has. The question is: how much do you love your country?”
The man seemed to swell in his chair. “You don’t ever need to ask me that question, sir.”
“I know that. That’s why you’re the only one I’d dare share this information with. All I can say is, sometimes a man has to take his patriotic duty into his own hands.”
Dajkovic remained silent. A faint flush had suffused his weathered face.
“Last time I checked, the fellow was in DC. Staying at the Luna Motel out in Dodge Park. We believe he’s going to make contact with a fellow jihadist. He may be getting ready to pass documents.”
Dajkovic said nothing.
“I don’t know how long he’s going to be there, or where he’s going next. He’s got a computer with him, of course, which is as dangerous as he is. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand completely. And I thank you for giving me this opportunity.”
“Charlie, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.” He grasped Dajkovic’s hand and then, in a spontaneous display of emotion, pulled him in and gave him a crushing hug.
As the fellow left
, Tucker thought he noted tears in his eyes.
8
Skyline Drive swept around the curve of Stormtower Ridge, and the Manahoac Lodge and Resort came into view, a collection of condominiums and A-frames surrounding a hotel and golf course at the base of Stormtower Mountain. The Blue Ridge Mountains, layer after layer, stretched off behind into the hazy distance.
Dajkovic eased his foot off the pedal as the car approached the entrance to the resort, and he came to a stop at the gate.
“Just checking in,” he said, and was waved through.
Crew had left this forwarding address at the Luna Motel, written it down “in case someone needed to find him,” according to the clerk. He was staying at this resort now — isolated, long drive to get to, no doubt with security cameras up the wazoo. So either, as Tucker had said, Crew was getting ready to meet a fellow operative…or this was a trap. The latter seemed more likely. But a trap for whom? To what purpose?
Dajkovic swung into the entry drive and parked in front, giving the valet a five-dollar bill. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“Oh yes,” said the lady at the front desk in response to his query. “Gideon Crew checked in this morning.” She clicked away at a keyboard. “Left word for you he was climbing Stormtower Mountain—”
“For me?”
“Well,” she said, “the message he left says a man would be coming to meet with him, and we were to tell him where he’d gone.”
“I see.”
“It says here he’s climbing Stormtower by the Sawmill Trail, expects to be back by six.”
“How long is the climb?”
“About two hours each way.” She looked at him with a smile, her eyes running up and down his physique. “For you, probably less.”
Dajkovic checked the time. Two o’clock. “He must have just left.”
“Yes. The message was left at the front desk…just twenty minutes ago.”
“Do you have a map of the mountain?”
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