Never Forget

by Richard Davis

  Suddenly, a thought struck me. ‘These photos – wouldn’t US national security have similar catalogs, and therefore know to look out for these guys if they ever came over?’

  Matt chuckled. ‘Again, I’m not sure you’ve got the measure of things. For one thing, our three letter agencies are in many ways less equipped than the private sector when it comes to fending off hackers, and I’d be greatly surprised if they had such a catalog. And even if they did, I highly doubt they’d be able to keep tabs in the way you’re suggesting. As a country, we’re so hopelessly overrun by Chinese hackers, we can hardly keep up.’

  ‘Titan Rain,’ Ellen piped up again. ‘That’s the NSA codename, isn’t it?’

  ‘Precisely,’ replied Matt.

  I shook my head. I was lost.

  ‘In short, this Chinese nationalism and desire to redress wrongs has manifested in a colossal effort to steal intellectual property from the US through hacking. And when I say colossal, I mean colossal: trillions of dollars’ worth of intellectual property since the late 90s.’

  ‘Like the F-35 Fighter Jet, right?’ said Ellen.

  ‘Right,’ said Matt, with an impressed nod. ‘The US Government invested a trillion dollars in the F-35, and outsourced the work to a private company, Lockheed Martin. But in 2006, Chinese hackers stole the blueprints, and six years later, the Chinese unveiled a near identical jet.’ Matt paused. ‘But that’s only one example. I’ve just shown you a small team of hackers, but there’s one team that’s over a thousand strong and works from a 130,000 square foot office in Shanghai. Theft on an industrial scale.’

  I was shaking my head. ‘I knew China hacked us, but I had no idea of the scale.’

  ‘That’s the problem. Even someone like you – someone with years of experience at the FBI – has little idea. In part, it’s because this sort of theft is hard to make people care about: it’s intangible. But in part, it’s because our leaders are too scared to call China out: they’re terrified of alienating our second biggest trade partner. And since the public is almost completely in the dark about it, they can’t put pressure on the politicians.

  ‘If you want my opinion, this resurgent Chinese nationalism’s a ticking time bomb, and unless we start confronting it, we’re gonna have a crisis on our hands sooner or later.’

  I sighed. What Matt didn’t realize was that we already had a crisis on our hands; that this nationalism was already making itself felt in a far more sinister fashion – through unprecedented acts of violence on US soil.

  ‘Okay, I think we’ve got what we needed.’ Matt nodded and stood. I looked at him a beat. ‘I’m happy to tell you more about this, Matt. But I do believe that knowing is more trouble than it’s worth. It’s your call. But either way, I owe you big-time.’

  Matt put a hand on my shoulder. ‘As always, I trust your judgment.’

  I smiled, gestured to Ellen, and started across the room. Then the TV caught my eye: it was the news, and it was about to give a rundown of the top stories.

  I wanted to see if they were reporting on Vegas.

  ‘Mind if we turn that up a minute?’ I asked, gesturing at the TV.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  I picked up the remote and thumbed on the volume. Immediately the anchor started talking about Vegas. Three more sniper victims – all high-profile hackers – had been found at Caesar’s Palace, Vegas. That’s all they were reporting right now.

  I knew at least a few cameras would have caught us in Vegas, and that law enforcement would be in the process of connecting dots. But though it would be clear to them we’d had enough knowledge to know which rooms to investigate, I knew there’d be little to suggest we’d actually done the crime…

  I sighed and refocused my attention on the TV. The anchor was now discussing a local incident in which a guy had almost gotten himself run over by a San Fran tram about twenty minutes ago. They were playing footage of it that someone had caught on their cell phone: a blond-haired man jumping in front of a tram – apparently to kill himself; the tram making a futile emergency stop; the guy jumping clear at the last moment, and darting away.

  I felt a twist in my gut. I was just like this guy. I’d thrown myself in front of an unstoppable force. And I had two choices: either get out the way, or wind up road kill.

  Chapter 22

  Sunday, December 12, 7:20 a.m. – Battery Street, San Francisco.

  After leaving Matt’s, Ellen and I drove east to the financial district, parked up, and walked to the corner of Battery and Sacramento. Five minutes later – at 7:31 – Scott Brendan materialized out of the crowd, wearing a neat suit, thick spectacles, and nervous grimace.

  I knew he’d be tense. Scott was a good guy. But he was also straight-laced, and this underhand stuff wasn’t his bag.

  ‘Saul, good to see you.’ He gave a quick nervous smile as he shook my hand. He turned to Ellen. ‘And you must be… Ellen.’

  Ellen nodded.

  ‘We really appreciate this, Scott,’ I said. ‘I know it’s a big deal.’

  He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t sweat it. Although the next time I’m in your neck of the woods and need to borrow a supercomputer, I expect you to return the favor.’

  I smiled at the attempt at humor. At the attempt to convey that – despite what his body-language might be saying – he was happy to do the favor.

  ‘I’ll mail-order one the moment I’m home so I’m not caught off guard.’

  Scott smiled. ‘Right, here’s the situation. The office is closed today, but there’s still security at the door. We head in, I present my ID, and sign the two of you in under false names. We really should have no problems, so just keep a low profile, and follow my lead. Then we’ll head up to the Data Analytics Center.’

  Ellen and I nodded, and Scott led the way into an impressive forty-story building that might’ve been a bank or law-firm. Minutes later, we were in the elevator on the way up.

  The elevator opened on an expensive-looking hallway, and Scott headed for a reinforced metal door – like the ones you might get in a three-letter agency headquarters; then he inputted a fifteen digit code, swiped a card, and the door swung open and we stepped in.

  Along the left- and right-hand walls, there were a number of more conventional desktop computers. And on the far side, behind a Plexiglas wall, was a huge machine – the Cray supercomputer – in a separate room. To gain access, there was a second reinforced door.

  This wasn’t like the hacking spaces I’d encountered the past few days. These were cutting-edge machines, worth sums that’d make your eyes water.

  Scott wiped the considerable sweat on his face with a handkerchief after which, he moved across the room, and opened the second reinforced door.

  ‘It’s in a separate room, because it generates lots of heat, and this room has its own tailor-made air-conditioning system. Only four Crays in the US not in government hands.’

  He was talking to take the edge off. He headed for the Cray, and turned it on. Suddenly there was a soft whirring in the air.

  Scott returned. ‘Okay, let’s see this USB.’

  I handed the USB over. Scott approached the last computer on the right-hand side – the one nearest to the door to the Cray – and switched it on. It booted fast, and Scott plugged in the USB.

  ‘Right,’ he said, after a few clicks of the mouse. ‘We can work with this. As you said: it’s encrypted and it’s pretty much unbreakable for most ordinary people. But since the Cray can run sustained multi-petaflops a second – that is, some thousand trillion calculations per second – it can brute-force it in maybe two hours.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Ellen, ‘an encryption requires a key – a sequence of numbers – to unlock it. But since this encryption is weaker, the number of conceivable keys that might unlock it is smaller, meaning the Cray can try every single permutation in that time.’

  Scott looked at her a moment, then nodded. He wasn’t the first to be impressed by her knowledge – Matt had given her
a similar look. At any rate, she certainly blew me out of the water on the tech front.

  ‘Right, let’s do this,’ said Scott. He stood, ejected the USB, entered the adjoining room, and plugged the USB into the Cray.

  As he did so, Ellen shot me a quick look. And this time, it spelt uncertainty: she was unsure about Scott. But though his nervous demeanor hardly inspired confidence, I knew we could trust him. I raised a hand as if to say, ‘ride it out.’

  A moment later, Scott re-entered. Again, he looked at Ellen hard; then he said:

  ‘So, you’re Lawrence Kelden’s sister?’

  Ellen nodded.

  Scott hummed. ‘I’ve read lots about him, and have to say, I’ve got an awful lot of respect for his work. The NSA’s full of smart guys, but Lawrence was a genius among geniuses. The speed with which he acted during Buckshot Yankee was – inspiring.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  Ellen smiled. I was pleased. Wanted them to get along.

  Scott opened his mouth to speak, looked like he’d decided against it, then said: ‘If you don’t mind talking about your brother, I’ve got a question. I once spoke to a guy who worked alongside him during Buckshot Yankee who had a theory that Lawrence actually set up a second computer with the unique software and hardware capable of communicating with the virus on the US air-gapped computers. The guy wasn’t certain about it, though he was also one of those libertarian-leaning sorts, and so seemed delighted by the prospect.

  ‘But I suppose my question is – is it true?’

  Ellen chuckled a sincere chuckle.

  ‘Well, seeing that nobody can chuck his ass in jail now, no harm in telling. Yeah, it’s true. In fact, he told me that he always took it with him wherever he moved, because he felt it was too risky to leave it in anyone else’s hands. But he never used it himself: it was more of a symbolic middle-finger to the establishment.’

  Scott whistled. ‘Remarkable.’ He thought a moment. ‘But if this technology – this de-anonymization of TOR and bypassing of Public Key – is real, it’d surpass anything he’d done before. But while it’d be a remarkable achievement, it’d also have some very serious implications for liberties if, say, the NSA got hold of it. Yes, there’d be some good – the jig would be up for terrorist and criminals – but at the same time, it’d give the NSA unprecedented powers, and their track record is hardly great.

  ‘And if the PLA were to get hold of it – don’t get me started. Many dissidents use TOR. Heads would roll.’

  ‘Well, right now, only a small team have it,’ I replied. ‘And heads are already rolling. So clearly this is an explosive tool.’

  We were silent a spell. Presently Ellen said:

  ‘Scott, are any of these computers connected to the internet?’

  ‘Only that one.’ Scott pointed to the last computer on the left-hand side, directly opposite to the one he’d used. ‘The rest are disconnected for security purposes.’

  ‘Would I be able to use it – to check for news?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Ellen went and booted the computer. She opened a browser, and looked over at us.

  ‘I’m gonna visit that pro-Tibet blog – see if there’s any news. That okay?’

  ‘I’m sure that’s fine,’ I replied, and Scott nodded. I walked over as Ellen was typing in the URL: I was interested to see, too.

  The page loaded with the same words across the top – The Free Tibet Guy – this time overlaid on an image of thick Californian Oak trees. And there was indeed a new article, entitled: ‘Friends of Dalai Lama murdered at Caesar’s Palace.’

  Ellen began reading aloud. ‘Three friends of the Free Tibet cause, who aided the Dalai Lama by purging his virus-riddled computers in 2008, were found dead yesterday afternoon in Caesar’s Palace Hotel, Las Vegas… They appear to be the latest victims in a string of killings conducted with a sniper rifle on the West Coast, for which the police believe a lone serial-killer is responsible… The trio had been involved in a number of political causes, and as such, there is little to suggest that their deaths had anything to do with their pro-Tibet work in particular. On the contrary, the police believe they attracted the attention of a serial killer purely because they were in the public eye…’

  Ellen trailed off with a sigh.

  ‘There’s playing it close to the bone,’ I said. ‘But at the end of the day, nobody’s gonna be able to say this has anything to do with Tibet or China. If I had to guess, the people they’re forcing to carry this out are being told it’ll never come back to them. But at some point, the nationalists will dump the rifles that’ve been using for all these killings, and the DNA on them will point to all the folk they’ve been blackmailing.’

  Ellen nodded. ‘And then it’ll be an open-and-shut case.’

  Chapter 23

  Sunday, December 12, 9:22 a.m. – SAIC Inc, 275 Battery Street, San Francisco.

  We spent the next couple of hours in relative quiet as we let the Cray work its magic. At 9:22 a.m., the whirring stopped, and Scott gave a nod. The job was done.

  Scott retrieved the USB. ‘The Cray says it’s cracked it,’ he said, as he plugged the USB into the same desktop computer as last time. Next instant, it was clear the Cray had indeed come through – the computer found two documents on the USB. One entitled ‘Explanation;’ the other, ‘Proof.’

  Scott opened ‘Explanation,’ and a document filled the screen. One paragraph:

  Success! We have bypassed TOR and Public Key. First, we realized that computers running TOR created excess heat, which caused the computer’s internal clock to deviate, meaning we could identify which computers were running TOR. Next, we realized that – when a device is running TOR – each keystroke in fact also generates a unique amount of heat, and thus had a unique impact on the computer’s clock, meaning we could determine keystrokes before they were scrambled with Public Key. We have thus – because of its limited size – been able to monitor all traffic on TOR. The software currently exists only on a single external hard-drive. Given the nature of the software, we have not made any copies.

  ‘Remarkable,’ said Scott quietly.

  Ellen and I looked at him probingly.

  ‘In English,’ said Scott. ‘When your computer’s connected to the internet, it’s possible for others to see what time your computer’s internal clock is showing. And by measuring the microscopic deviations in a computer’s clock – how it differs from the true time – it’s possible to determine if the user is running TOR. And also, if they are running TOR, what they’re typing.’

  ‘So,’ said Ellen, ‘they can see what you’re writing before the text is encrypted?’

  ‘Correct. But significantly, this explanation alone wouldn’t allow us to go off and do it. What’s still a mystery is how they’ve implemented this theory.

  ‘But if all this is true, it’s genius. In short, it’d mean they could see every computer running TOR, and what’s being typed on all of these devices.’

  ‘Well, let’s find out if it is,’ I prompted.

  Scott closed ‘Explanation,’ and double clicked on ‘Proof.’

  Again, a document filled the screen. But this one – according to the toolbar in the bottom left – was over fifty pages long. On the first page was a list of five names. First, a Californian Congressman in the House of Representatives. Second, the Consul General to the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco. Third, a notorious San-Diego-based hedge-fund manager. Fourth, a judge on the Californian Supreme Court. Fifth, the Assistant Chief of Operations at the LAPD. All five were hyperlinked.

  My heart was pounding painfully. This was the real goddamn deal.

  ‘Click on the cop,’ I said, choosing one at random.

  Scott did. It took us to a new page. At the top it read, Alistair Duncan. Assistant Chief of Operations, LAPD. Arms trading; Drug Dealing.

  Underneath was the evidence. And there was a lot of it. The IP address of the computer he’d used – which had been geographically linked to Dunca
n’s home. Records of the Dark Net websites he’d visited. And most damning – as Scott continued to scroll down – reams of chat-logs, which revealed that Duncan had been selling firearms and drugs that the LAPD had seized and which made clear that Duncan was personally behind it. He had, on a number of occasions, obliquely disclosed his identity, as well as a number of other personal details, presumably because he was convinced the line of communication was secure.

  ‘This is absolutely explosive,’ said Scott after a few minutes.

  I grunted agreement. ‘And I imagine this is why your brother reckoned we couldn’t trust the police.’ Ellen didn’t reply and I looked up from the screen.

  She was looking over her shoulder at the computer across the room.

  ‘Ellen?’ I said.

  ‘Hold on,’ she said distractedly. ‘There’s something happening.’ I could see the blog on the opposite computer had refreshed, but couldn’t make out the text. She paced across the room, then uttered a sharp gasp. ‘My God. There’s a huge Free Tibet flash protest at the Chinese Consulate right here in San Fran; at 1450 Laguna Street. Thirty-three protestors have locked themselves into the east wing following a breach in security. But also, now that they’ve sealed the doors, the protestors have apparently formed a Sleeping Dragon.’

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘When protestors chain themselves together, and run those chains through PVC pipes, so police can’t separate them with bolt-cutters.’

  My mind was reeling. Revelations hitting on all sides.

  ‘So they’ve barricaded themselves in, and immobilized themselves?’

  ‘Right,’ said Ellen. ‘Sid, the blogger, says that apparently the last protestor, just before he joined the Sleeping Dragon, took photographs, and emailed them to the press.’

  ‘And does he mention the catalyst?’

  Ellen shook her head, then typed something into the browser. ‘Right, I’m on CNN.’ She paused a moment. ‘Okay, got it. A high powered Chinese dignitary was set to be visiting the Consulate this afternoon – Minxin Gu, a State Councilor. Notorious for his harsh stance on human rights, particularly Tibetan rights. That’s what they’re protesting.’