by Ryan Quinn
“A bug?”
“Yes. A plane like this relies on its computerized flight-management system to fly. And because of that, it has four redundant systems to prevent an in-flight catastrophe. That’s standard on modern aircraft, and it ought to be sufficient, at least for combatting the odd unlucky software glitch. If the main system malfunctions, the plane easily switches to one of the three backup systems. It’s unlikely that all three backup systems would fail. Unless, of course, you program them to. If you know how the FMS is built, you can design a logic bomb. That is, a—”
“I know what that is.” What he meant was that MSS hackers had written a bug that had been inserted into the jet’s flight-management system. When the trigger was activated—for example, when the plane reached a predetermined altitude—the bug woke up, crashed all the backup flight-management software, and sent a mishmash of commands through the avionics systems before simply cutting all power. The plane would be transformed into an erratic hunk of metal that the pilots would be unable to control manually. “OK. How did that lead you to these OPERATION MAYFLOWER files?”
“I followed a digital trail. The MSS had provided me with files that contained the code and specs for the Gulfstream’s flight-management software. I traced those files back to a man who worked for Gulfstream in the United States. Using a backdoor I’d discovered in the Unit 61398 network, I ran a search for both Hu Lan and the Gulfstream employee. Mr. Hu has a large file with Unit 61398 and the rest of the MSS, but MSS’s interest in the Gulfstream employee was much narrower. In fact, they’ve apparently used him only for that one task. There was just one document in which both men were listed, and you’re looking at it.” He pointed to the names of the two men on the spreadsheet.
Kera had been listening closely for the Russian to utter a contradiction that would reveal he was making this all up. But she’d only spotted one such flaw in his claims. She shook her head. “Beijing has little to gain by crippling America’s economy—and too much to lose.”
“They may not want to actually cripple America’s economy, but they most definitely want the ability to do it. It’s the same reason every nation wants nuclear weapons, even though the consequences of using them would be catastrophic. The MSS simply wants the same thing that’s coveted by your CIA and NSA—more power and control.”
Kera was about to retort that the CIA wasn’t assassinating foreign diplomats and innocent civilians to get it—but she knew better. She’d seen firsthand the lengths the agency went to in order to serve its interests.
“But what threat did the ambassador pose? Or any of the others you’ve helped them kill?”
“The threat isn’t any individual. It’s Gnos.is.”
“You mean the articles Gnos.is has published about China?”
“No. Not the articles it has published. The ones it might publish next.”
Kera froze, remembering the TERMITE story, the way Gnos.is had pieced together the existence of the secret TERMITE program using information that was scraped from the Internet. The MSS had caught on to that, and they were anxious that Gnos.is might do the same to expose OPERATION MAYFLOWER.
“But why did they go after the ambassador, Angela Vasser, and Conrad Smith? They have nothing to do with Gnos.is.”
“Sure they do. They may not have a direct involvement with Gnos.is or OPERATION MAYFLOWER, but they leak data that makes its way online, just like everyone else. The unlucky problem for them is that, because of their positions, they were the likeliest people to possess key pieces of information—whether they knew it or not—that Gnos.is could analyze and use to potentially discover OPERATION MAYFLOWER. To counter this, the MSS made a cool calculation: if they could remove a few key data points from Gnos.is’s intake, it might prevent, or at least delay, the discovery of their plot.”
“Data points? We’re talking about innocent people,” Kera said.
“Innocent people die in war,” the Russian said, a little too nonchalantly, as if he knew anything about the real consequences of war.
But that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A war. A war that had escalated in secret to a point so dangerous that killing an ambassador—an offense that by any other standard might have started a conventional war—was viewed by China as a justifiable, if desperate, attempt to prevent an even worse conflict. That told her one impor-tant and horrifying thing: China was as afraid of the consequences of OPERATION MAYFLOWER as the US ought to be.
“What’s in the second folder?” she asked him, clicking open the file labeled BYZANTINE. He said nothing, as if he wanted to watch her discover it on her own. The folder contained hundreds of documents. She chose one at random. When the file opened, she found strings of numbers that she immediately recognized as IP addresses. She didn’t dare let herself hope it was what it appeared to be. “Are these—?”
“More files I stole.”
“These are from Unit 61398’s internal network?”
He nodded, unable to disguise his pride for this achievement, even as a woman was pinning him to the pavement.
Kera clicked through a few more documents. In addition to scores of IP addresses, the files contained personal data on Unit 61398 employees, including their e-mail addresses and pass codes. Kera could hardly breathe. At the CIA, she’d worked on a handful of task forces that had tried to breach Unit 61398, known in US intelligence circles as BYZANTINE CANDOR. None of those attempts had succeeded. The US intelligence community was dangerously in the dark when it came to the capabilities of Chinese cyberespionage. What she was looking at on the screen represented a quantum leap in that knowledge.
“How did you get this?”
He made the familiar pfft sound. “Unit 61398 is a complicated organization. They are not impenetrable. They have weaknesses, just like airplanes do, and elevators, and even your CIA. After they lied to me and framed me for a crime I never intended to commit, I needed something to level the playing field with them.” His mouth was a crooked grin. “So I went after the secrets they thought they’d guarded most carefully.”
“Do they know you have this?”
“Not yet. But it’s time.” He looked up at her with a grin that exposed a discolored row of neglected teeth. “I’ve been preparing this for a reason. This will be Gnos.is’s biggest scoop yet.”
She shook her head. “None of this can be made public.”
“But it has to. That’s why I stole it. You of all people should understand that.”
She disconnected the computer from its weak Wi-Fi source, suddenly afraid to have opened these files on a computer that had access to the Internet, potentially within Gnos.is’s reach. If there was one thing that could not happen, it was for him to release these files to Gnos.is. Given the precarious state of diplomacy between China and the United States in the wake of the ambassador’s death, a news story exposing OPERATION MAYFLOWER would almost surely force China’s hand. The United States would retaliate. Within hours, the world’s largest superpowers would be crippled by their own vicious cycle of attacks and counterattacks.
She removed the flash drive and tucked it into her pocket. The Russian squirmed beneath her.
“I have backup copies,” he protested. “If you take those, I’ll just release them myself.”
“You’re too inexperienced for this work. Get up.” She untied his hands and then lifted herself from him, grabbing the computer. He sat up, rubbing his wrists and arching his back. Finally, slowly, he stood.
“Let’s go,” she said, gesturing for him to walk ahead of her out of the small room, back the way they’d come.
“What are we doing?” He looked down at the shoelaces as if debating whether he needed them.
“I’m going to get us out of here.”
He lingered for a moment, his eyes frantic and distrusting. She thought he looked suddenly paler than before.
“Let’s go,” she repeated.
He took a few steps ahead of her and crossed through the door into the half-finished retail space. He was
n’t halfway across the room when he bolted.
She wasn’t surprised, exactly, but the suddenness of his move caught her off guard, giving him enough of a gap to escape her grip when she lunged for him. He sprinted toward the wide opening at the store’s entrance and cut sharply right, grabbing the wall with his inside hand to swing himself around the corner. Two pops burst from out of sight as soon as he disappeared, followed by a hard thump. Her own momentum carried her through the doorway, and, reeling defensively, she dropped the laptop, which clattered end over end into the corridor. When she came to rest, she was staring at the hot end of a Sig Sauer P229, trained chest high at her from about ten yards away.
The man holding the firearm was without question the same man she’d seen on the building’s surveillance feeds. His features were much more visible now. He was sturdy and bald-headed with a ginger goatee, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. Definitely American.
Slowly, Kera raised her hands. A surreal silence filled the air in the wake of the gunfire.
“We’re on the same team,” she said.
“Oh yeah? What team is that?”
“Lionel’s team.” The American hesitated. She’d gotten his attention.
“Most of Langley thinks you’re working with him,” he said, nodding down at the ground but keeping both his eyes and the Sig Sauer trained on her. Kera glanced down at the young Russian. He lay facedown and motionless on the concrete between them. Both shots had struck him, rendering two exit wounds—rough edged and ringed with glistening pink, white, and black flesh—one at the back of his head, the other at the base of his neck. She guessed that either would have been fatal on its own. A bright pool of blood expanded slowly from beneath his face.
“I can prove that I’m not,” she said.
“I don’t care. If it were up to me, I’d just as soon shoot you. You leakers have put a lot of my colleagues in danger.”
“I didn’t—” Kera started, but then thought better of trying to defend herself here. “Listen. I have a flash drive on me with some sensitive files.” She held up her hands higher to stop the thought that she knew had immediately entered his head. “Files that I don’t intend to leak. Files that must not be leaked. The files were stolen from a secret cyberespionage division of the MSS known as Unit 61398.”
“I know what Unit 61398 is.”
She could hear a change in his tone; even if he didn’t fully believe her, he seemed to understand the implications if she was telling the truth.
“Good. These files provide, among many other things, an explanation for what happened to Ambassador Rodgers. They are very time sensitive. I need your help to get them to Lionel Bright at Langley.”
The American squinted, unconvinced that she wasn’t trying to play him.
Kera pressed on. “Here’s your dilemma, though. The data is on an encrypted flash drive. It’s a long encryption key, one that might take the guys at the NSA weeks to crack.” She paused to make sure she still had his attention. “I, however, memorized the key. And I’m not going to give it up until I can personally deliver the files to Lionel Bright. So it’s your call. You can shoot me and then explain to Lionel why you weren’t able to deliver intel that’s going to be pretty valuable in the wake of this clusterfuck. Or, my personal preference, you can give me a lift to the embassy so we can catch a goddam flight out of here.”
The American had fallen into a silent deliberation with himself. But like her, he’d been trained to make tough decisions quickly.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s go. But we can’t go to the embassy. The MSS will anticipate that. We’ll never make it. Besides, you don’t have any friends at the embassy.”
LANGLEY
Bright was in his office, sitting on the back of the couch and watching the dawn light seep into the courtyard outside his windows. It was now past six in the morning and he was still wearing the jeans and untucked collared shirt he’d dressed in hastily when he’d been summoned to the ops center in the middle of the night. After the director kicked him out, he’d retreated to his office, too furious to go home and get some sleep.
Maybe it was the sleeplessness, or the lingering effects of the previous evening’s unsatisfying exchange with Karen. Or maybe it was just the sting of being chastised and suspended from his own case—but suddenly he felt the pull of a dark undertow threatening to upend his whole world. He pictured the agency’s immense, color-coded parking lots beginning to fill, badge-wearing bureaucrats taking up positions in cubicles and conference rooms. This was how a multibillion-dollar bureaucracy brought itself to life. Every day.
It all felt suddenly so routine. Maybe, he thought for the first time with real conviction, maybe it was time for him to get out.
Bright could sit no longer. He looked at his desk phone, willing it to ring with a conciliatory call from the director. But the phone was quiet. He got up, fuming again, to pace his office while he gamed out his options.
Finally a phone rang. He looked hopefully at the secure phone on his desk. But the call wasn’t coming from the director or anyone else in the ops center. The ringtone, he realized, was coming from the pocket of his jacket on the couch—his personal satellite phone.
BLACKFISH.
“Did you find her?” Lionel asked immediately. He had to know that first. He shut his eyes, bracing for grave news.
“Yes. I have her here with me.”
“She’s unharmed?”
“Yes.”
“What about the hacker?”
“He didn’t make it.”
“Where are you?”
“At a safe house.”
Bright’s mind raced. “Did she come in voluntarily?”
“Sort of.” BLACKFISH gave a brief summary of the encounter at the construction site and, particularly, the files Kera claimed to have, which she would only deliver to Bright in person. “She might be bullshitting about the files. But I figured that wasn’t my call to make.”
A calm clarity possessed Bright’s mind. “Does anyone know she’s with you?” he asked.
BLACKFISH assured him that he had not yet checked in with the station chief at the embassy; no one was aware that he’d brought in Kera Mersal.
“Good,” Bright said. Then he gave BLACKFISH careful instructions.
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE
On the plane, Kera had slept in short fits. She awoke picturing life in a cell, where she was visited only by lawyers and let out only to give sealed depositions or to attend secret hearings. Eventually, she might hope for the opportunity to agree to a plea bargain that would give her a life to look forward to. She knew these were not dreams—they weren’t even nightmares. They very probably were glimpses of her future after she set foot on American soil.
The American had driven her to the airport in a beat-up Peugeot that was parked in the safe house’s driveway. At a gated entrance to a cargo terminal, he produced a magnetic card that got them past the perimeter fence. The car rolled right onto the tarmac and dropped her off almost directly at the base of a stairway that had folded out of a small jet with no tail markings. The American never told Kera his real name. When she asked, he said only that she could call him BLACKFISH, which she assumed was the cryptonym assigned to him by the agency. Then he said good-bye and wished her luck.
The plane touched down at Andrews after dark. A fresh pulse of adrenaline—mustered from where, Kera couldn’t imagine—woke her body from the fourteen-hour flight. The stone-faced steward, with whom Kera had exchanged at most a dozen sentences throughout the duration of the flight, opened the cabin door. When the stairway extended to the tarmac, Kera disembarked. A charcoal-suited man waited for her beside an idling black SUV. She noticed the clear, coiled wire running from his ear down into his collar. There was not another human being in sight. By the time he opened the backseat door for her and she climbed in, the plane’s stairs had already retracted, the cabin had been sealed, and the aircraft began to taxi away.
The man climbed behind the whee
l and steered the SUV in the opposite direction. He left the headlights off. They glided through the dark for only a minute or two before the vehicle turned off the taxiway and onto a wide square of tarmac. Through the blackness, Kera could see a line of UH-1N Huey helicopters. The birds rested quietly in the humid night, with no hint that they were tuned to spring to life at a moment’s notice.
The SUV pulled up to a hangar. The driver got out, but only to open her door. “Here you are, ma’am.” He pointed to the small human-scale door set within the towering, sectioned hangar wall designed to slide open for aircraft. A dim light illuminated the door, but otherwise the hangar’s exterior, like the tarmac, was dark. Kera walked toward the light.
The hanger housed two Hueys, their fuselages partially disassembled for maintenance. The scale of the cavernous room made the helicopters look like miniature toys. Seated at a break table between the two birds was Lionel Bright. Walking toward him, she scanned the office doors along the walls and the overhead catwalks. As far as she could tell, they were alone.
Lionel stood when she approached. “Kera,” he said. They’d not seen each other in weeks. With everything that had happened, it felt like years.
“You look good,” Kera said.
“Do I? I’ve been seeing someone. It’s kind of an ordeal, but maybe it keeps me young. Welcome home,” he said, appraising her cautiously.
“Is that where I am?”
He stepped back and looked at her with sad eyes.
“How’s this going to work?” she said. “We talk for a bit and then you give a signal and the building’s surrounded?”
“There’s no one here but us,” Bright said. “I’ve taken precautions to protect you.”
“And to protect yourself, I’m sure. It’s OK. You want cover if the files I claim to have aren’t legit. Go ahead, say it. You don’t trust me. No one does anymore, and you’re not willing to be the last one to go down with my ship. That’s fine. I’ve changed my mind about Langley. I don’t think I’d go back anyway. Not after what you guys did to Angela Vasser.”