Oumid arrived a short while later, and was duly introduced. He was about forty, plump, and with a white, soft face. He reminded Patricia of the shopkeeper in Shiraz who sold her a bracelet.
Oumid joined them at the table and Farhad told him, in a mixture of English and Farsi, the story of their guests’ visit. His mother brought coffee, cold water, and an assortment of sweets.
Then it was John’s turn to explain his presence. Oumid listened silently throughout.
“I hope everything is clear now,” John said.
“No guns? No bombs?” Oumid said. “What can you hope to accomplish?”
John explained in broad lines how they planned to work and what the effects would be.
“It’s all science. No one will get hurt. Isn’t that worth a try?”
Oumid shut his eyes and sank into a deep reverie. The others waited patiently and made no sound. Patricia glanced at John and he acknowledged with a slight nod. Finally, Oumid straightened up and opened his eyes.
“What you have described has never been attempted before. I think no one has even thought about it before. So none of us—in fact, nobody anywhere—can foretell what the results will be.”
“Let’s assume,” John pressed on, “just for argument’s sake, that one isolated incident will not topple the dictator. But you must admit that there will be some sort of aftermath. The Iranian people—the whole world—will be abuzz about it. The press will have a field day! The despot will be much more careful about what he does in the future. And then, perhaps, we’ll revert to phase two. We shan’t be idle, you can imagine.”
Oumid appeared nervous. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
“What can I say? Perhaps you should try it. But I don’t see how I can help.”
Patricia spoke for the first time since entering the Iranian house.
“We need people to place things, of the type we’ve mentioned, in certain places in Tehran. We cannot do this. We’ll be watched at all times. Only men and women who live there—who do not draw attention to themselves—can do the job. In short,” she drew a deep breath, “we need to contact someone in Tehran whom we can trust.”
They waited some more time for Oumid to deliberate with himself.
“Listen. I believe you,” he said finally. “But that is not enough. Personally, I know no one in Tehran who could help you. I hope you realize that I am now taking a great personal risk for you. I shall try to have someone meet with you, Mister John, alone—not you, Miss Patricia. Sorry. It will be up to you to interest this person the same way you’ve interested me.”
“Very well,” John said. “When?”
They set a meeting for later that night.
Outside, Patricia gave voice to mixed feelings.
“John, I don’t really like us being separated on this mission. Oh, I know it can’t be helped—that’s the way they want it, and that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“Look, Patty. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. This is London, not Tehran, and we haven’t done anything wrong. After the meeting, I’ll call you at your flat. Okay?”
“Yes, do that. No matter how late it may be. I must know what went on there.”
Steve’s Blog, The Internet
This blogger has seen many diplomatic blunders in the past, but none as blatant as the recent agreement with the North Korean government. The North Koreans are undertaking the dismantling of their nuclear installations under the supervision of the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA). We, of course, are fully aware that nobody knows where all these installations are located, and that all we hear is hyperbole and diversion tactics. In return, North Korea will receive massive economic aid and support, without which the already catastrophic economic situation of the country will totally collapse. Your correspondent has heard reliable sources point out the weakness of the democracies in that they assist sworn enemies, allowing them to recover their strength. Don’t they realize that when the troubles these dictatorships face today, troubles they themselves have wrought onto their own people, are resolved—when they get back on their feet again—that they will again turn against their benefactors? All this in the name of ‘exalted humanitarian rights’. I ask you—what about our humanitarian rights?
The Iranian President, Ahmadinejad, has recently announced that Iran has three thousand centrifuges in continuous operation, and therefore Iran is now a nuclear power. Various intelligence agencies report that within a year Iran will have sufficient raw material to create one atomic bomb each year. Many nations have declared in reaction, that Iran is becoming a threat to them. Most of these declarations have come from Middle Eastern Arab nations. Western democracies, on the other hand, think they are doing their job by complaining that United Nations members are not enforcing the sanctions decided upon by the Security Council.
Admiral Patrick Stone regularly visited his son to see his family. This time, however, he took special time to be with his grandson, Brian. Brian was a very bright seventeen-year-old, a model student, who spent every available minute at his computer.
Brian and his grandfather spent longer than usual in the lad’s room. This, for the boy, was an exceptional gesture, and he was delighted at the opportunity for additional quality time with his grandfather, whom he adored. They sat opposite each other; Brian at the computer’s keyboard.
“So tell me, Brian,” the admiral said, “what do you do hours on end by the computer?”
“Come on, Grandpa,” the lad said, “you use a computer yourself. You know its power.”
“Oh, I just dabble with the mere basics, Brian. A document here, an email there—nothing serious.”
“Don’t you do any surfing on the Internet?”
“Not really, my boy. Why would I want to do that?”
“I can hardly believe it,” Brian smirked. “Then again, I suppose that in your days you had underlings to dig up information for you.”
“Correct. And I am not totally ignorant about the Internet. But not everyone can access everything, right? Take, for instance, reading the Pentagon files. I’ve heard it’s been done.”
Brian raised his eyebrows.
“I expect you know about such things, Grandpa, being an admiral and all. Probably more than I do.”
“No, Brian. Of course I know of the break-ins, and how many times and what they found. What I don’t know is how they did it.”
“Neither do I, Grandpa.”
The admiral winked.
“If you did, it would make you one of them, wouldn’t it? No, I was wondering about the technique of going about such, umm … endeavors.”
“Hacking, you mean?”
“Ah, yes, that’s the term.”
“It’s a very interesting and quite dangerous occupation,” Brian said carefully.
“I can imagine. How limited, from the geographical point of view, is the hacker?”
“No limit whatsoever. An experienced hacker can access any computer connected to the Internet. And that means worldwide.”
“So, if I understand correctly, if the hacker can simulate the actions of a bona fide user, he can access that user’s data. Right?”
“Yes, Grandpa. That’s one of the ways—perhaps the easiest way. All you need is the user’s password and you can do with his data whatever he can.”
“And what are the other ways?”
“The equivalent of brute force. Hacking is mainly possible because of lax security. System administrators leave loopholes that the hacker uses to penetrate. The hacker uses tools—which, by the way, are available to everyone on the Internet—that ‘sniff’ out these loopholes. There are other methods as well. The tighter your security, the more up-to-date your protection, the harder it’ll be for the hacker to get in.”
“But not impossible,” the admiral suggested.
“Nothing is impossible,” Brian said modestly. “For the very secure systems, hackers usually write custom programs to break in.”
“Won’t the
target know he’s being, er … hacked?”
“Well, yes, if you don’t use extra precautions in your program to conceal your penetration. No easy task, by all means.”
“But not impossible,” the admiral repeated. “Can you write such a program?”
Brian grinned up at him from the computer console.
“I was wondering when you’d come to that. You’re going somewhere with this, Grandpa. Perhaps if you tell me the whole story I’d be able to help you.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
“How long would it take?”
There was a twinkle of amusement in Brian’s eyes. He could not tell how serious his grandfather’s questions were.
“Depending on the target, I’d say three to four months,” he said.
“That’s too long.” the admiral muttered under his breath. But Brian heard him.
“I’ll be straight with you, Grandpa. I’ve been occupied with this type of program for several months. So now I have a prototype program that needs only some outside parameters in order to run properly. Once I have a target, I could probably have the program ready in days instead of months, custom made for that specific target.”
The admiral took a deep breath. He’d have to reveal a bit of his plans if he was to get anywhere.
“I know it’s illegal,” Brian went on, “but I haven’t used the program yet. So I haven’t broken any law so far. I’m telling you this because I sense that you have a problem that I could help in solving. Am I right?”
“It’s tougher than you think, my boy. There’s secrecy involved … oh, hell, let’s go a bit further. It involves penetrating into the national security systems of a hostile country.”
“That’s not telling me much.”
“You’re aware, I’m sure, that as my grandson and a loyal British citizen, you are sworn not to reveal anything of our conversation this evening. Not to your parents, not to your friends—nobody!”
“That’s what I thought,” the lad said coolly.
The admiral had every reason to be proud of his grandson. He took the final plunge.
“Iran,” he said. “Iranian War Ministry or the equivalent. Iranian Atomic Energy Commission or the equivalent. Iranian President’s private correspondence and files.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” The boy had not batted an eyelash.
“Her Majesty’s government is not involved in this in any way. You are absolutely on your own. I am counting on you.”
The enormity of the task was beginning to dawn on Brian Stone. His eyes glittered and his voice became a little hoarse.
“Thank you for your confidence in me, Grandpa,” he said softly. “I’ll try not to let you down. If and when I have results, I’ll call you and tell you I’ve solved the puzzle. You can then tell me what to do next.”
They got to their feet and stood facing each other. They embraced and then shook hands firmly, looking into each other’s eyes. It was almost a ceremony.
Patricia Welles waited impatiently for John to call. She had a bite to eat, listened to the Beatles’ Revolver, and finally fell asleep on the sofa facing the television set, watching Doctor Who.
She woke up with a start at a particularly loud commercial touting the pleasures of touring the Caribbean Islands. It was two in the morning. John hadn’t called. For a moment, she was alarmed, but she convinced herself that an intense argument might be going on. Perhaps John needed to go into great detail explaining their philosophy. He just doesn’t want to disturb me this late, she thought. He’ll call first thing tomorrow.
Patricia went to bed.
SIXTY-ONE
But John didn’t call the next morning either. When Patricia tried calling him, there was no answer. Now she was worried. She decided to wait another hour, and if John hadn’t called by then, she’d take action.
The hour passed, and Patricia racked her brain—what was her best move now? Martin was away—no use trying to call him. Should she look for Farhad at the Bita restaurant and confront him with John’s disappearance? Or go back to where he lives, and inquire there? Better not just now, she thought. If I disappear too, nobody will know of our absence. Wait a minute! The old man on the Tunisia trip—what was his name? Patrick Stone! At least, as far as I recall, that is how he registered at the hotel.
Patricia hunted through the telephone book feverishly. There he was—adm. ret. She let out a low whistle. She dialed, and a man answered the phone.
“Good day. Is this Admiral Stone?”
“It is. And who are you, please?”
“My name is Patricia Welles. We met on a trip to Africa. Admiral, I have an emergency on my hands and no one to turn to. Can you see me?”
The admiral was surprised. He knew she had teamed up with John Carmichael on the Iranian contact mission. If she saw fit to call him, there must be a special reason.
“Certainly, my dear. You may come to my office right away, if you like.” He gave her his address.
An hour later, they were sitting face to face in the admiral’s office. She related all that had happened the previous evening and expressed her concern regarding John’s well-being. The admiral listened calmly, and did not seem overly worried.
“We have two addresses,” he said, when she had finished. “The restaurant and his residence. I see no other resort but to approach Farhad and inquire. It’s about lunchtime now, so he should be at work already. Stay where others can see you at all times. If he asks you to step somewhere secluded, such as an office or the kitchen—refuse. And if he knows nothing, you’ll need to talk to his brother, Oumid. He must have information—he is the last person we know to have seen John. I doubt he’ll try anything untoward at his home, for fear of involving his family. Anyway, your main safety hatch is that you let them know that there are others who know exactly where you are and whom you are seeing. If you’re really in a tight spot, say that if you don’t make a call by a certain hour, the police will be alerted and they will raid the house. I suggest you go now, and clear up this issue. Call me whenever you can.”
He gave her his home and cellular phone numbers.
Martin Cooper and Philip Brown arrived at Mauritania’s capital, Nouakchott, on an Air France flight directly from Paris. They double-checked that they had everything they needed for the trip—passports and visas, of course, documents confirming their business as IFP—International Film Promoters—the script of the movie, including a scene in a mine shaft, and a satellite phone—in case there was no cellular phone coverage in Mauritania.
They had done their homework before leaving London. They now knew that the country’s official name was The Islamic Republic of Mauritania, and that its population was around three million, that the capital, Nouakchott, had a population approaching two million, that the official language was the Hassaniya dialect of Arabic, but that French was also spoken—as the country was a French colony until 1960. They crammed up their knowledge on the currency, the ouguiya, on geography—mostly the Sahara desert—and on the economy, as most of the national income came from iron mining.
The oddest fact they learned was that slavery was still rife in Mauritania, though it was officially abolished in 1981. In fact, children were taught that being a slave was a religious obligation for being a good Muslim. Many still believed that, and remained slaves their entire lives. It was estimated that about thirty percent of the population were slaves. The government went to great lengths to deny this—it had banned the word “slave” from use by the media, and foreign journalists risked arrest and deportation for investigating the issue.
“Have you ever seen a slave in our life?” Philip whispered, as they took a rickety taxi to their hotel.
“Never,” Martin whispered back. “And here they are in the thousands, roaming the streets. Amazing!”
“How can you distinguish between a slave and a free man?” Philip wondered.
“I don’t know,” Martin said.
Patricia returned to the
Bita restaurant. Her determination had returned after her short talk with the admiral. Farhad was serving a customer. She went up to him.
“Farhad, I need to talk to you,” she said quietly.
“I am terribly sorry, Miss Patricia,” he whispered back. “As you can see, I am very busy right now.”
“Please excuse yourself for a few minutes. We need to talk now.”
The Iranian seemed not only nervous but distressed as well.
“Miss Patricia …” he began.
“Now!”
He could not withstand Patricia’s staunchness. He made hand signals to the kitchen, and stepped outside with her. She got right to the point.
“Where is John?”
“Miss Patricia, I don’t know what you’re—”
“Farhad, last night your brother took John to meet someone. He has not returned since then. Where is he?”
“Miss Patricia, please. I have no idea whom Oumid knows or meets. He never—”
“Is he at home right now?”
“Actually no, Miss Patricia. He left this morning for Rome.”
Global Conspiracy Page 33