Trojan Horse

by Russinovich, Mark

  “All right.”

  “If there is a change in the story, let me know.”

  “What am I to do when finished?”

  “It isn’t decided but they will not be released, obviously. He is valuable so take care of him. Do the same with the woman. For now it may be enough to keep them away, especially if they’ve lied to you. There is something more. I am sending you a photograph, a name, and a home address.” He told Ahmed what he wanted done. “For the couple, move to the next stage. Learn what they know of the virus they were working on and who else knows about it. Be certain.”

  When the call was finished, Ahmed took the phone apart and removed the SIM card. The phone itself he broke up and scattered into the shrubbery in the rear of the lot. As for the card, he glanced about, then went to the patch of dirt where the key had been concealed under the flat stone. He broke the card with a rock, then pushed it deep into the soft, moist soil and smoothed the surface.

  Unlike some he knew, Ahmed had never enjoyed torture. It was occasionally necessary and his instructor had carefully taught him how to use it to best effect. He looked heavenward into the cloudy sky. He heard the sound of a jet landing not far away, the slight sound of distant traffic. There was the lightest sprinkling of rain against his face. For a moment, he thought of home, of his sister whose wedding he had missed. He sighed and flipped his cigarette to the damp ground.

  Inside, Jeff rubbed the metal against the cord steadily, careful to give nothing away. What he feared most was dropping it, certain the sound would be noticed. Whatever he had—he thought it a broken drill bit—it cut into his fingers. He pushed the pain out of his mind, telling himself not much longer. He could feel the wet of his blood.

  The problem was what to do once his hands were free. His feet were still tied. He’d tried to communicate what was happening to Daryl and thought he’d succeeded but she was now ignoring him. That’s what she’d do if she understood, but also if she had no idea what his facial expressions had meant.

  The heavy door creaked open and in stepped their interrogator. Jeff stopped. This one with the mustache was much cleverer than the other two, and far more observant. He watched Ahmed speak to the man guarding them, then nod toward Daryl. The big man went to the woman, grabbed her by her shoulders, jerked her from the wall, sitting her upright.

  Ahmed looked on, then squatted in front of Jeff. “Mr. Aiken, I must determine if you have told me the truth. It is necessary. I do not wish to harm you or the woman but . . .” He shrugged.

  “I have told you the truth,” Jeff said quickly, trying desperately to stop what he knew was coming. “If there is anything else you want to know, just ask. Neither of us has any reason to lie to you. Just don’t . . . don’t hurt her. Ask me. Please.”

  Ahmed stared at Jeff for a moment. A man of considerable courage, he thought, though he has yet to be tested. “I understand,” he said.

  Ahmed rose, went to the bag, and removed an unused heavy plastic shopping bag. He carefully unfolded it, then went to Daryl and stood behind her. She craned her neck to look back at him. Jeff started to shout, then was dumbstruck as in a single practiced motion Ahmed slipped the bag over Daryl’s head, cinching it tightly around her neck.

  Daryl shrieked. It was the most frightening sound Jeff ever heard. The bag muffled the sound only slightly. Ahmed stood behind Daryl, holding her head in the vise of his two hands while the other man held her strongly by her shoulders.

  “What else have you to add?” Ahmed asked Jeff.

  “Stop it!” Jeff shouted. “Stop it! I’ve told you everything!” His hands were all but free. “You’re killing her.”

  Daryl was no longer making a sound. Instead, she sucked air hard now, the heavy plastic moving back and forth in front of her mouth.

  “No, Mr. Aiken. You are killing her with your lies.”

  “What do you want?” Jeff shouted. “Just tell me. I’ll say it. Tell me what you want to hear!”

  “The truth. That is all. Are you really finished with your work? Truly?”

  Daryl was slapping her legs against the concrete floor. The men held her fiercely. The plastic before her mouth was going back and forth more rapidly. Jeff worked the bit furiously, the pain now so sharp he could no longer ignore it.

  Just at that moment Ali hurried into the room. “Police outside,” he said.

  “Did they see you?” Ahmed asked.

  “No.”

  “Let’s look. Karim, watch them.” Then mercifully, he pulled the bag from Daryl’s head. “You two be quiet or we kill you at once. There will be no rescue.” Ahmed and Ali went into the next room.

  The man released Daryl and she toppled to her side, taking deep breaths, her face bathed in sweat. Jeff looked at the man who was eyeing him steadily as if he knew something.

  Ali led Ahmed down a short hallway, then to his watching spot and pointed. It was a good location, deep in the shadows. A patrol car was stopped across the street, the engine still running. The lone officer inside was looking at his lap, as if writing something. The men watched patiently, unmoving. Finally, the car eased slowly away.

  “Stay here,” Ahmed said. He turned to go back into the rear room just as he heard noise come from down the hallway, on the other side of the door.

  The moment the mustached man had left the room, Jeff freed his hands. He’d given Daryl an affirmative look. She was still breathing deeply and he feared she was too distracted to help. Instead she said, “You there. I’m thirsty. Give me some water.”

  Karim shook his head as if he spoke no English.

  “Water,” she said slowly. She licked her lips. “Thirsty.”

  The man nodded in comprehension, then looked about. Spotting the carry bag he reached inside and came out with an unopened plastic bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap, then went to Daryl, leaned down, straightened her to a sitting position, then placed the bottle to her lips.

  With his hands, Jeff pushed himself erect as Daryl butted the man with her head. Jeff dove at Karim and knocked him over. The man fell hard. Jeff sat on the floor, grabbed at the cord holding his ankles together, and was able with some effort to sweep it off his feet, taking his shoes with it. On his feet he lunged at Karim before he had a chance to get up and struck him hard across the jaw. Just as he turned to Daryl, the door to the other room opened.

  “Run, Jeff. Run. Now!” Daryl said. “Get help!”

  Jeff hesitated, looked at her in desperation, then turned to the heavy door and pushed it open. Ali was on him in a flash but Jeff had the door open and was outside. Ali came after him, dragging his arm, and shouting in a foreign language. Jeff turned and punched him in the face as hard as he could, striking him directly on his nose. The man cried out and released him.

  Jeff turned to his right and fled in his thin socks down the narrow pathway into the street. Quickly orienting himself he spotted a busy street not far away and began running toward it, expecting the sound of a gunshot any second but none came. When he looked back, the street was empty.

  For a crazy second, Jeff thought to return to rescue Daryl. But he didn’t have a prayer of success against three armed men. So he turned and ran for all he was worth down the middle of Avenue de Vaudagne to the Route de Meyrin, praying he could find help in time at this time of night.

  His socks were quickly worn away, then the skin of his feet. He sprinted. Running harder than he’d ever run in his life, praying this was the right choice.

  DAY SIX

  TUESDAY, APRIL 14

  CYBER SECURITY NEWS

  OUR DEADLY HIJACKED DRONES

  By Dietrich Helm

  Military Drones Turned on U.S. Troops

  April 14

  A leaked classified report confirms what has been rumored for some months. The drone aircraft on which the U.S. military has become so reliant has been successfully turned against our own forces. Use of all drones has been suspended pending a comprehensive review.

  The United States military has placed in
creasing reliance on remote, semiautomated surveillance and weapons delivery systems. Their security has long been a matter of major concern. “I fear the day the enemy takes control of one,” an army sergeant in Afghanistan said last year on condition of anonymity.

  Though the government isn’t releasing figures, it is estimated that well over three hundred insurgent leaders have been killed by rocket attacks launched from unmanned aerial drones since Operation Iraqi Freedom. Thousands of insurgents have been similarly killed. Roving drones armed with Hellfire rockets are operated from mainland America. The rockets are unleashed by the press of a computer key.

  According to the report, a common software program such as SkyGrabber, which can be bought for less than $30 off the Internet, allowed insurgents to hack into the drone cameras and control system. This was possible, sources say, because though the system cost billions to develop and build, no antivirus software was ever installed in its operating system. The U.S. military ignored repeated warnings about this shortcoming.

  The report reveals that last January a drone in Afghanistan was turned against American forces. Its rockets reportedly killed eight Special Forces. The drone had been launched for an attack on an insurgent stronghold but the U.S.-based operator lost control of the craft. The deadly attack took place a few minutes later.

  “It will cost millions to fix and delay the use of drones for months if not a year,” one informed source reports. “Software security measures should have been installed from the beginning. It’s not as if this was an unexpected turn of events.”

  The overriding question is just how many Americans will die as a consequence of this failure. The Department of Defense has declined comment or confirmation of the leaked report.

  Tags: drones, Afghanistan, friendly fire, insurgent hackers

  23

  MADRID, SPAIN

  CALLE DE LEÓN, 11

  8:49 A.M. CET

  Gholam Rahmani glanced at his wristwatch and realized he was running late. Moving about in central Madrid at this hour was always a problem and he should have allowed more time to reach the meeting. Pedestrians crossed the busy streets without regard for the cars inching along. Madrid had grown from a traditional pueblo and the city center had retained that small town configuration with its narrow winding streets and low buildings.

  Rahmani eased back in the taxi and reminded himself not to worry about it. This was Spain and though these were Iranians with whom he was meeting they’d surely been contaminated by the chronic tardiness characteristic of Spaniards. He’d be lucky if the rest were even there. He drew an American cigarette from a pack, lit and decided he should simply relax.

  As executive director of the Frente Democrático Iraniano, or FDI, headquartered in Rome, he made at least one of these fund-raising trips to Madrid each year. The FDI was one of the oldest organizations in opposition to the ruling mullahs in Iran. From his office in Italy he maintained the FDI’s Web site and confidential forum, connecting Iranian ex-patriots from across Europe.

  The organization received the ongoing attention of VEVAK, Iran’s intelligence service, and Rahmani’s rise to the directorship had been in part due to the assassination of two predecessors. This was the price expatriate Iranians once loyal to the Shah were forced to pay to return their country to freedom, to release it from the iron grip of theocracy.

  The fall of the Shah had been disastrous for the Rahmani family. At the time he’d been living with his father in Rome where a new branch of the family’s successful Persian rug export business had been established. But most of the family’s wealth was in Tehran as was the rest of the family. When things appeared sufficiently settled his father had returned to bring them out, leaving his nineteen-year-old son to tend affairs in Rome. Rahmani had never heard from his father again.

  It had been several years before he received word from his mother informing him that his two younger brothers had died as martyrs in the war against Iraq and that his two sisters had both been married and were now widowed for the same reason. She cautioned him not to return and instead to do all he could to someday find a way out of the country for the family, but most of all to take care of himself. That was his only contact with his mother. Afterward, she and his two sisters were lost in the unsettled time that followed the end of the war with Iraq.

  The taxi driver tapped his horn to alert three talking women, then stopped beside the four stout pillars planted in front of the two-story building. These were meant to prevent anyone parking here. Rahmani stepped out, paid the driver, then went to the front doors. One of the young women seemed to pay close attention to him and he turned his face away. In the lobby he punched the elevator button for the third floor and waited. He heard the motor engage above, then felt the slight sense of movement as the small elevator descended to him. He glanced surreptitiously outside and noted that one of the other women was taking a photo with her cell phone. He would be in the picture.

  He sighed. Nothing to do about it. They were likely harmless anyway. He glanced at his watch. Just after nine o’clock. Not so bad after all.

  Rahmani was a diminutive man, though all his features were well formed. He stood just five feet five inches. His hair was luxurious and long. A source of pride, he kept it carefully combed. A closely cropped beard concealed the acne scars of his youth and he wore heavy-rimmed glasses. His usual dress was a dark business suit, though he wore a tie for occasions such as this.

  He was greeted as he stepped from the elevator, the man speaking Farsi. They shook hands, then Rahmani entered the meeting room and found it almost full—an excellent sign. Nearly everyone turned to face him, most smiled and nodded in greeting. It was an older crowd with a scattering of young faces, adult children of men and women who had died in exile. For every woman there were three men. He walked to the front and stepped up on a slightly raised platform. There was a lectern and behind it a row of seven folding chairs.

  Rahmani was urgently required at the office in Rome and he’d asked to advance the starting time for this meeting, so such a large crowd had come as a pleasant surprise. A woman of about fifty, slightly overweight and a few years old than he, greeted him.

  “You see?” she said. “I told you they would come. Everyone is very excited to hear what you have to say.” Her name was Zarah and she’d taken over local leadership of the Iranian community in central Spain when her father had died three years before. She’d proven less effective and contributions were down since then but she was enthusiastic. She wore too much makeup in Rahmani’s view and smelled vaguely of sandalwood. “I know you must leave so I suggest we start at once.”

  Rahmani nodded and took a seat.

  There were perhaps just fifteen thousand Iranian exiles living in Spain and they were by and large an affluent class. They’d always been generous to the FDI. This though his three largest donors had all died the previous year, two when they were struck by cars, the third having gone missing while sailing, his body later washing up on a beach near Tariff.

  As Zarah introduced him in glowing terms his mind returned to the three women outside. It wasn’t like the VEVAK to use women but they were changing their ways. He knew this community was watched and he was all but certain his donors had been murdered. It took courage to oppose evil.

  Perhaps it was like that pizza parlor about which he’d read in Jerusalem. It was a special target for suicide bombers and over the years the slaughter had been enormous. But the parlor was always rebuilt and always well attended. The young Israelis refused to be driven away, refused to surrender to the terrorist. This was like that, Rahmani thought.

  Zarah was done speaking and he stood to a round of strong applause. He acknowledged old friends in the crowd, then began with an update of FDI’s activities this past year, followed by an account of his travels on behalf of the cause. He reported events within Iran that it was unlikely they’d heard. The mullahs kept a tight lid on the country but the FDI had its ways.

  The most significant news from I
ran was the progress it was making with its nuclear program. Everything else in the country was falling apart. With but a single gasoline refinery in a nation awash with oil it was necessary to import refined gasoline by tanker. As Iran’s economic condition declined through corruption and mismanagement, there were constant shortages and long lines at service stations. And that was just an outward sign of the chronic deficiencies in nearly everything.

  Even the vaunted nuclear program was experiencing serious setbacks. The virus attack surely initiated by Israel had significantly set back the production of enriched uranium. The nation’s single nuclear power plant was very much an on-again–off-again operation. But as badly as the program was progressing, at least it was progress, if that’s how you chose to see it.

  Iran will have the bomb soon, Rahmani told his audience. Very soon. And when that happens everything will change. His audience turned sober at the thought. He’d discussed the likely consequences with them before and they were informed people. They knew.

  Within Iran, even some of those in opposition to the mullahs took pride in the prospect of their country becoming a nuclear power. India had the bomb; so did Pakistan and Israel. Why shouldn’t they? The bombing of nuclear facilities by either America or Israel would anger many Iranians who otherwise despised the nation’s rulers. It could very likely unite the nation in an unpredictable way.

  But no one in this audience wanted to see Iran with the bomb. It would solidify the mullahs’ hold on power and spread more tyranny throughout the region. It could very easily lead to the first nuclear war.

  A counterstrike could not be prevented. The United States was pledged to respond with nuclear weapons if they were used against Israel. Israel itself could nuke Iran. Even if the Iranians managed to knock out Israel’s land-based capability with a sneak attack, there were Israeli submarines with nuclear-tipped rockets cruising off the coast of Iran. And they could not be stopped.