The Jason Betrayal

by Jack Bowie

  Inside was a twenty-something man, his long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. His skin was pale, too many hours spent in the glow of a computer screen, and gray eyes were set close astride a thin nose. He wore a stained white shirt and was sitting behind a heavily-decaled MacBook, all the stickers proclaiming various liberal causes like “Save the Whales” and “Ban Pesticides”.

  “Mr. Corley,” Walker began, “my name is Beatrice Plenty and this is Jacob Smith. We are from the Justice Department.” They both flashed leather wallets with copies of long-expired DIA and DCPD ids. “We’d like to speak with you about our investigation into Mr. Adam Braxton.”

  Corley’s head popped up. “You’re investigating my story?”

  “That’s part of our investigation. Yes.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that. It’s about time.”

  Since there were no chairs in the room, Walker and Fowler remained standing, Fowler to Walker’s side. He stood like a stone monument to a law enforcement hero.

  Corley pulled a small notebook and pen out of his pocket. “Now tell me, what have you found out?”

  “No notes, Mr. Corley. We’re just starting the investigation, and honestly, we’re trying to determine the veracity of the claims.”

  “Veracity? What do you mean? You have the evidence. The emails are very explicit.”

  “Yes. We have read the article. But we do have some questions.”

  Corley reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Excuse me. I’ll cancel this call.”

  “Of course,” Walker replied, pulling out her phone and tapping at the display.

  “Thank you,” Corley said after setting the phone on his desk. “Now how can I help DoJ?”

  “Well, first I would like to know where you got your information.”

  “From an anonymous source. I’m sure you know the name of that source is protected.”

  “If you choose to protect it,” Walker replied. “By telling us, you could assist in our confirmation of its accuracy.”

  “I choose to maintain my First Amendment right.” Corley was absolutely glowing in self-righteousness.

  “Very well. Now, are you familiar with the principle of chain of custody?”

  “Sure. I covered the police department in Richmond before I came to D.C. When the cops collect evidence, like a blood smear, they log it. And it is tracked as it goes through the laboratories.”

  “Why do you think that is done?”

  Corley smiled, proud of his knowledge. “To protect the integrity of the sample. Otherwise, it could be damaged, replaced, or even lost. Chain of custody makes sure the evidence is valid for a trial.”

  “Very good, Mr. Corley. Correct.”

  Corley’s smile became even wider. “But what does this have to do with your Braxton investigation?”

  “Before I answer that, perhaps you should look at your email.”

  “My email?” Corley reached for his cell phone. He tapped a few keys and read the screen. “You forwarded an email. … What the hell!” Corley’s face turned crimson. “I didn’t pay for those files! This is a lie.”

  “Really? It looks authentic to me.”

  “Where did you get this?” Corley was beginning to shake. “Tell me!” He suddenly stood up and leaned toward Walker.

  Fowler took a step forward. Corley took one look and quietly shrunk back in his chair. Fowler retreated to Walker’s side.

  Walker just stood quietly. She was glad she brought her partner along. Not that she would have had any trouble controlling the reporter, but the look on his face was priceless.

  She held Corley’s gaze for a minute, then continued. “Certainly. I wrote it in the car on the way here.”

  “You wrote it? But how?”

  “Just a little program I have on my computer. But then I imagine any high school student these days could do it easily.”

  Corley regained his composure. “But it’s a lie. No one would believe it.” He sat back in his chair.

  “If you say so. But let’s get back to chain of custody. You receive a file purporting to be from Adam Braxton’s email server. Since you won’t identify the source, it’s a file that was likely stolen by a cabal of hackers from, say the Ukraine, who were paid by some extra-governmental organization. One of those hackers sent it to you. You published it, without corroboration, and it was picked up by every conspiracy site on the planet. Okay so far?

  “Now let’s imagine you are called into court by the Justice Department, or more likely Mr. Braxton’s lawyers in a civil libel suit, to describe the chain of custody. What are you going to say? Repeat what I just described? And what will happen to your chosen career after that? You’ll be lucky to find a job back at the Richmond Times-Dispatch covering obituaries.”

  Corley sat silently, staring at his visitor.

  Walker waited him out for a few seconds, then turned to the door.

  “Wait,” Corley called. “He calls himself Scheherazade. It came from an untraceable account.”

  She stopped and looked back at the reporter. “Thank you. We will remember that should it become necessary. A retraction would be appreciated as well.” She left the threat hanging.

  “And if I were you, I’d delete that email. You wouldn’t want it to be discovered in some subsequent inquiry.” Corley nodded, his face showing the fear Walker had expected. As his thumbs flew over the screen, she added, “But then, we both know files never really disappear, do they?”

  Corley stopped typing and just stared. Then he began pecking again.

  “Oh, and I wouldn’t count on listening to that recording of our conversation you started. I think you’ll find that the mike on your cell phone is disabled.” Walker had been able to perform that bit of magic using one of the “special items” she had retrieved from her apartment and loaded on her phone. Something she had borrowed from DIA when she had left.

  On the way back to their cars, Fowler turned to his partner. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”

  Walker grinned, then pulled out her phone and typed a quick text:

  Message delivered. Source was Scheherazade.

  Chapter 20

  Budapest Marriott, Budapest, Hungary

  Thursday, 3:30 p.m.

  I must be getting old.

  Walker used to be able to hop off an overnight transatlantic flight, jump into a taxi, arrive at a meeting and kick-ass with the best of the locals. She had done it for years when she was with the DIA.

  But she had had an overly-long wait for her connection in Amsterdam and then a flight full of screaming children, the combination leaving her tired and cranky when she finally arrived at the Budapest Marriott. It was after three o’clock by the time she checked-in, so she decided she had better register before the conference desk closed down. The evening reception was later today and it would be her first opportunity to see Donnelly.

  The registration line was long, even in this late hour. She had read the prospectus for Eurocrypt, The International Conference on the Theory and Applications of Cryptographic Techniques, on the airplane. As Donnelly had promised, it was a comprehensive event that drew experts from all over the world. The names of the sessions—including Homomorphic Primitives and Lattice-Based Cryptography—were as intimidating as the paper titles and their authors.

  She finally reached the front of the line, presented her identification and was given her credentials and a nylon bag with all the conference materials. Emblazoned across the side of the bag was the IBM Research logo. She saw other sponsor materials from Chinese telecom equipment manufacturers and European think-tanks; anyone with an interest in creating, or breaking, secure communications. Walker had attended similar events when she was undercover with the DIA. She wondered whether the spooks outnumbered the civilians.

  How will I ever be able to see if Donnelly is passing secrets?

  Exhaustion finally hit and she took the elevator up to her room. Maybe she could get a short nap before the reception.


  * * *

  Braxton had spent most of the morning calling his clients and apologizing for the negative publicity they received. The good news was that while he wasn’t actually hacked, almost every one of the companies had had some experience with hacked assets or intrusions. He was far from recovering his business losses, but it had been a start and one that he felt was appreciated by his friends and colleagues.

  It was now time to make that last call. He could feel the bile rise in his throat. The astonishing gall of the original call still infuriated him.

  He used the access instructions he had been given years ago, when he had first met the agent. He had no idea if they would still work. He dialed the number.

  “Forty-two twelve.” A pleasant female voice repeated the extension number.

  “I’d like to speak to Roger Slattery please.”

  “Just a minute.”

  It only took ten seconds.

  “Slattery.” The voice was deep and raspy. Braxton would have recognized it anywhere.

  “Mr. Slattery. This is Adam Braxton. I wanted to inform you that that situation has been resolved. I believe that there should be no more impact on … your organization. And as this is what I hope will be our final interaction, I will mention that if you are looking for someone to blame, I suggest you try to find that individual known as Scheherazade.”

  “Adam, I’m—”

  Braxton slammed down the phone.

  * * *

  Slattery sat silently, listening to the dial-tone pulse in his ear. Then he set the headset back in its cradle.

  He had already heard about the retraction, the Agency’s news bots had been primed the day before. They had also tapped Corley’s email accounts and were aware of the Scheherazade connection. S&T was still trying to determine the real identity of the hacker. And that might help him find Singer.

  But how had Braxton found out? And how had he forced the retraction? He guessed that Sydney Walker had something to do with it. She was a very resourceful investigator.

  Braxton’s anger had been personally painful. He had known the consultant for almost five years. The then-Boston-based contractor had stumbled into a conspiracy of high-profile executives who were using hidden backdoors to tap the Internet. Braxton had contacted a Washington, D.C. cop, Sam Fowler, about his investigation. Fowler, a friend of Slattery’s, had informed the spook of the contractor’s activities.

  Braxton’s activities ran parallel to a similar investigation by the CIA, so Slattery had let him run, without any intervention. That was until two high-profile murders had brought the inquiry to the attention of the DCPD and FBI.

  There was no way Slattery could let a public investigation proceed—the national security implications were too high—so he had intervened and forced a National Security Finding over the whole operation. One that assured nothing would ever be public. And one that included full amnesty for the errant contractor.

  In the ensuing years, Slattery had enlisted Braxton’s help in a few operations—the consultant might have a different characterization of the cooperation—and the two had become, if not friends, at least collaborators.

  It looked like that collaboration might have come to an abrupt end. There was nothing to do now but wait. And hope the anger would eventually dissolve away.

  He picked up the phone. Now he had to placate Markovsky.

  * * *

  “What?” Braxton yelled into the phone. He was still fuming from his conversation with Slattery.

  “Adam? Is that you?”

  Crap. It’s Trevor.

  “I’m sorry, Trevor. I’m having a bad day.”

  “I imagine. I just heard about Karen. How is she?”

  “Okay. Uh, just an accident. Nothing serious; she’ll be back in a couple of days.” Braxton didn’t want the details of Chu’s attack to go any farther than they already had.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Karen’s an angel. I’ve been meaning to call about that awful article. I tried to find out more, but saw this morning that it had already been retracted. I knew it was all lies.” He paused. “Adam, I don’t know where the information came from, but I’m sure no one hacked your files. I don’t know where those names came from.”

  Braxton had never heard Lambkin sound so apologetic. He took it as sincere concern rather than just a CYA.

  “I believe you, Trevor. It came from Scheherazade. And we know how he got the basics. But the intrusion attempts were definitely a part of his plan. Thank you for protecting our data. Have you had any luck finding Scheherazade?”

  The line became oddly silent.

  “Ah, not yet,” Lambkin finally replied. “But we’re still working on it.”

  Braxton noticed a subtle change in Lambkin’s tone. Like he was hiding something. He wrote his concerns off to paranoia.

  But then, some people really were after him. Maybe Lambkin did need to know what had happened.

  “Trevor, I wasn’t completely honest just now. Karen didn’t have an accident. She was attacked in our office. The outline of the article was what they forced out of her.”

  There was not very much that surprised Trevor Lambkin, but Braxton heard an audible gasp.

  “They tortured her?”

  “Not physically, thank god. But she was so pumped full of drugs I don’t think she knew what she was saying. And it was tied to Scheherazade.”

  Another suspicious silence.

  “How about we get together for a drink?”

  Back to social niceties? That’s quite a transition.

  “Okay, Trevor. Any time.”

  “This afternoon. Around four?”

  This afternoon? What was going on?

  “Ah, sure, I can do that.”

  “Great. I’ll meet you outside the Tower.” And he hung up.

  Chapter 21

  Budapest Marriott, Budapest, Hungary

  Thursday, 7:00 p.m.

  Walker had known her first conference event would be the reception and had debated on what to bring. Given the subject of the meeting, she hadn’t thought a slinky little black dress would be appropriate. She was supposed to be an interested attendee, not a Mata Hari in-waiting.

  So she had opted for a conservative blue suit—friends had said it complemented her figure—and a cream silk blouse. She added some heels and went to the mirror, smoothing the jacket and skirt with her hands. Approved, but one outfit down.

  She took the elevator downstairs and followed the signs to the Budapest Ballroom. It would have been just as easy to follow the line of attendees, most with white name tags still hanging around their necks like cowbells on alpine cattle, snaking through the lobby.

  The ballroom was a bright, modern space, designed to support any type of event including conferences, formal dinners and lavish weddings. Tonight it had been outfitted with tall tables where attendees could gather in small numbers and exchange new ideas, business cards, and maybe national secrets.

  The two front corners of the room had well-stocked, and highly popular, bars. A long table across the front wall was filled with a wide selection of snacks and hors d'oeuvres. Setting her priorities, Walker headed for the nearest bar and ordered a glass of white wine.

  She began walking around the room looking for her colleague. Attendees—mostly men she noticed—filled the space, locked in small groups joking and chatting. She was worried she would miss Donnelly in the crowd.

  Then she saw him. Off to one side, in a group of four other young, well-dressed men. Probably other academics. She hoped.

  As she approached, Donnelly turned and saw her. He said something to his colleagues, then broke from the group and came to meet her.

  “Sydney! You made it.” He seemed to hesitate, then stuck out his hand. “I was afraid something had happened with your plans.”

  She took his hand, watching for any too-interested observers. She saw none. “I’m sorry, Ian. It took a while to get my approval. Candice was out of town, and I needed to get the okay from t
he finance manager. Then I had to pack. I just didn’t have time to call.”

  Not to mention a side trip to a recalcitrant reporter.

  “No worries. You’re here now. You look great, by the way. It usually takes me a day to get over the jet lag.”

  “Well, I am feeling it a bit. Conference going well, I hope?”

  “Just fine. But unfortunately, I’m booked pretty tight. Lots of pre-scheduled meetings and meals.”

  She remembered seeing Donnelly’s name on the list of Program Committee members. They were the ones who coordinated the conference and were responsible for its continued existence. He would definitely be busy.

  “But how about lunch tomorrow? We really should talk.”

  “Well, sure. That would be nice.”

  “Great. I’ll meet you in the DNB restaurant at the noon break. Hopefully, it won’t be too packed. Sorry, but I’ve got to get back.” He nodded to the table he had left. “Those are the other participants in my session. We need to do a little planning. Have you been out to the terrace?”

  She glanced around. “Terrace? No, I guess not.”

  “Well, you really must. It’s off that way.” Donnelly pointed to the opposite side of the ballroom. “See you tomorrow.”

  Donnelly promptly strode off in full plume. Walker could see he was in his element: a room full of adoring executives and researchers.

  What more could a Jason want?

  Walker still hadn’t made up her mind about Donnelly. Could he be the guileless scientist he seemed? Or was that just the persona he assumed to better hide his traitorous activities? She hoped this trip would expose the truth.

  She made her way through the crowd in the direction Donnelly had indicated. As she moved forward, she saw that the end of the room was glass, with doors leading to an open, outdoor terrace. A number of the attendees had already escaped from the noise and stuffiness of the ballroom to the cool evening air.

  When she passed through the door, her jaw dropped. The terrace ran the length of the ballroom and was set with more tall tables and cushioned seats arranged along the railing.

  But what was truly amazing was the view. The terrace overlooked the Danube River as it ran through the city’s center, dividing the historic Buda on the west from Pest on the east. Lights from both shores reflected off the waves of the river giving it a surreal, sparkling aura.