by David Lender
“As we professionals call it,” really. Ledouce, do you think I am an ignorant fool? Get on with it.
Ledouce twisted in his seat, seeing the Sheik’s menacing stare.
Ali responded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. I’m one of the few who has penetrated the U.S. Army’s Telstat network. I now ‘own’ three account names and passwords on the most classified of the computers on the network and have a score of others on various other less important systems.”
That was what he wanted to hear. Now if Ledouce could ascertain the young man’s level of sophistication. He looked away, afraid his gaze would paralyze the greasy idiot.
“How do you conceal your activities?” Ledouce asked.
“I have telephone links perfected through Computel, the U.S. online service that provides access to computer networks around the world. I access all of them through dial-in modem links through various computers on either the Saudi Peninsula or Europe, chiefly at universities who rarely police their accounts. They’re considerably slower than T-1 lines through the Internet, but none of my links has yet been detected.”
“Are these networks landlines or satellite?” Ledouce asked.
“Computel uses either satellites or undersea fiber optics. These interconnect to U.S., European and Asian telephone lines through which I hack my way into various computer systems.”
“And what about the Internet,” Ledouce asked.
Ali smiled. “That access is available to even less sophisticated hackers. I can hack into thousands of industrial computer networks that way. Many multinational corporations have only third or fourth generation computer security firewalls. Most are inadequate in the face of one with the level of sophistication of a hardware architecture designer and software developer such as myself.” He allowed himself to look less humble. “And even corporations that understand security haven’t yet come to comprehend the ability of hackers to invade their systems through means as a lowly as email, automatic data feed and preprogrammed input accumulation access points.”
The Sheik looked at Ledouce for an explanation of Ali’s last words, but saw the vacant look on Ledouce’s face and turned back to the young man. He nodded for Ali to go on.
“I’ve even saved hard disk copies of all my online hacking sessions and can produce examples of any of the hacks into specific networks I just cited. I can also provide you with references from satisfied customers, ranging from corporate customers to foreign governments, at least to the extent I am able to disclose them.” The young man paused, seemingly finished for the moment.
“And now,” Ledouce asked, “getting to the heart of the matter, what about sabotage? What is your experience?” The Sheik thought Ledouce looked like he was hoping Ali would shrink and run from the room. He smiled. He knew from his investigations the young man was experienced. Not some journeyman like Ledouce. Ledouce continued, “What would be your preferred approach to a sabotage assignment? Be specific, and remember we would wish to remain undetected. At least,” and Ledouce looked at the Sheik with matinee melodramatic affectation, “in the short run.”
Intolerable, pompous fool!
Ali rose up in his chair. “Logic bombs—computer programs that sabotage other computer systems at a predetermined time—planted within ‘trojan horse’ programs that infiltrate the host computer, lie undetected and then unload their cargo.”
“That is a most impressive recitation of credentials,” the Sheik said, beating Ledouce back with a glare, tired of his stageplay. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”
“No, Sheik bin Abdur.”
The Sheik spoke. “Ali, we’re impressed. I’m impressed.” Ali bowed. “We are interested in engaging you. As a perfunctory matter of confirmation, Mr. Henri Ledouce will evaluate a representative sample of your previous sessions, after which we will negotiate the terms and specific objectives of your engagement. Mr. Habib here will act as our advisor in those negotiations.” The Sheik paused as if to receive Ali’s gratitude for his magnanimous gesture. Ali responded with a wave of his hand that flattered the Sheik with its submissiveness. “We would like to discuss your first assignment with you at this time. Are you familiar with the means to access any of the computer networks associated with the Saudi Aramco Oil Company?”
“I am.”
“Very good. We’re specifically interested in your ability to succeed where we have previously failed”—he looked critically at Ledouce—“at the main refining facility in Dhahran. It will be a trial run, before our real business. We wish to implement certain measures which would, shall we say, slow down the company’s processing of oil into its various by-products. This would not be intended to harm the Saudi people but to serve as a warning of Saudi Arabia’s vulnerability to outside forces. We’ll take other steps to make the act appear to be the work of the Western infidels, specifically the Americans. So we want you to be clever, and we want you to leave no obvious traces that would point in any direction. We will take care of the rest. Do you understand?”
“Of course. As one of the Believers, I understand completely.”
“Good. Mr. Ledouce will give you your specific instructions.”
Jesus Christ, Habib thought, watching the two. Like two peas in an insane asylum.
Habib saw the Sheik look at him as if to ask, “Well, what do you think?”
I think you people are scary. You, your pubescent little freak here, your religious fanatics, the lot of you. Scarier than me on my worst day.
July 2, This Year. Milford, Pennsylvania. Daniel stopped at the stoplight—the only stoplight—in Milford and felt the ache creep up again. It had been easier to avoid it with someone in the passenger seat next to him, someone to talk to, have fun with, argue with, make love to. Five warm bodies had occupied that seat in the time since Angela’s death.
He parked in front of his house. Now that Angela was dead it seemed enormous—a five-thousand-square-foot Greek revival clapboard on the edge of town. Empty. On the front porch he heard his phone ring, fumbled for the key, then, guessing who the caller was, looked across the street and waved. Sammy opened his kitchen window and waved back.
“Last one sober does the dishes,” Sammy called, motioning for Daniel to come over. Daniel nodded and went into his house.
Sammy and Mickey were fellow New Yorkers who had bought the rambling Victorian place across the street a year after Daniel and Angela moved in. Mickey worked 18-hour days all week at his own computer consulting business so they could afford for Mickey to work 18-hour days all weekend restoring the Milford house, because, as Sammy said, he couldn’t sit down for more than five minutes. Sammy managed a Greenwich Village clothing boutique and, according to Mickey, was in charge of griping on weekends.
Sammy and Mickey and Daniel drank as the afternoon faded, Daniel his red wine, Sammy and Mickey their vodka martinis. Periodically Mickey would disappear, preoccupied with some peculiarity in the garden, leaving Sammy to berate Daniel with his unique brand of effrontery.
“…not thinking of that slut, Rebecca, are you?” Sammy’s eyes twinkled from under his bushy brown eyebrows. He had more hair than Daniel could imagine on three people.
“What?”
“I said you’re not thinking of that slut, Rebecca, are you?”
“Of course not, what makes you say that?”
“Because you’ve got that same cross-eyed stare now that you had from the day you met her. After you decided you were in love with her—Mickey and I decided you were in lust with her—until you broke up with her six months later.”
Daniel scowled. “I wish it had been six months. It was on and off for a year and a half. There were Sandra and Kimberly—the second time for Kimberly—in between.”
“Ah, yes, Kimberly. Sweet lady. Too bad she was so dull.”
Daniel laughed. He didn’t know what he would do without Sammy and Mickey. In the weeks after he had returned from Peru with Angela, they had sat with him in his vigil as she alternately burned up, stren
gthened, slipped away, and finally died from the fever that wouldn’t relent. After she died they shopped for him, sat with him and when necessary saw to it that he ate during the weeks he was incapacitated with grief.
It took at least a month before Daniel could speak about his guilt. Yes, he told them, it was Angie’s idea to hike the mountains of Peru. But it was Daniel’s idea to visit with a shaman, to explore the third world’s mystical Other Side. Later, Daniel would sit for hours in their house, rambling on after making a good show of it all week at work. And Sammy and Mickey would put their arms around his shoulders when Daniel broke without warning into sobs.
And so Daniel wasn’t only bound to Mickey and Sammy by friendship, but now through the intimacy of their knowledge of his pain and his guilt. They had adored Angie, just as everyone had adored Angie, and it didn’t take Daniel long to realize he would feel better if they railed at him for his negligence in taking her from them, from everyone.
Sammy said to Daniel, “You’re lost. You don’t believe in anything anymore. That shit about not making partner at Goldman just made you bitter and cold.”
Daniel looked at Sammy’s glass. It was full, but he couldn’t recall how many drinks had preceded this one. He could be exasperating enough when he was sober. But give him a few martinis… “I came back from that,” Daniel said. He shifted in his chair and raised his chin like a defendant protesting his innocence under cross-examination.
“Yeah, maybe, but I bet it didn’t make you a better investment banker. Just made you more resolved. And hard.”
“Maybe. But my career’s back on track. And I’ve got at least one potential assignment for the Saudi government that could get me excited about getting out of bed every morning.”
“Well maybe you’ve gotten over the Goldman thing, but you haven’t gotten over Angie. Your personal life is still a mess.”
“I’m over Angie.”
“Bullshit.”
Nobody else talks to me this way. Where would I be without Sammy?
“After Angie died you curled up in a ball and pulled the covers over your head. You don’t take chances anymore.”
“Where is this coming from?”
“Look at you. You used to race Aston Martins with that asshole Kovarik on that stupid summer circuit you rich guys dreamed up. Used to do crazy shit like bungee jumping.”
“I cut out nonsense like that after I met Angie.”
“Bullshit. The Peru trip with Angie? You two scaled a two-hundred-foot vertical face down there two days before you went to the shaman. You don’t do stuff like that anymore.”
After a moment Daniel said, “Where’s this going?”
“Where are you going? You used to be a risk-taker, hotshot investment banker who lived out at the edge, only you haven’t taken a real chance since Angie died.”
“Sammy…”
“Don’t ‘Sammy’ me. You’ve had a half-dozen girlfriends—”
“Five.”
“—Okay, five—and never let anybody get close to you since Angie. You’re scared of getting hurt again. It’s time,” Sammy said. “Time you took a chance again. Make a leap of faith on somebody. Have a relationship. Get your life back on track.”
July 3, This Year. New York City. Habib hated wearing a suit and tie, but if that was the price of not sweltering in the damned Saudi desert, it was a good trade. Although at 96 degrees and 84% humidity, New York City was a hostile environment all its own, particularly after his overnight flight.
He entered the revolving doors to 299 Park Avenue and felt the soothing blast of air conditioning. Habib plopped a New York driver’s license bearing a name not his own on the security desk. “I’m going to Kovarik & Co.,” Habib said.
Upstairs, Kovarik & Co.’s offices were done up like they’d been in business longer than the Rothschilds. The lobby smelled like old leather. Habib crossed a Persian rug—a Tabriz that had to be at least 300 years old—past leather club chairs and 19th-century English wooden armchairs to a receptionist in her 20s. She introduced herself as Tracy from beneath an oil painting of someone’s grandfather, then showed Mr. Kareem Kapur into the conference room to await the founder of Kovarik & Co.
During the 15 minutes Kovarik made him wait, Habib ran through in his mind why Kovarik would be perfect: the man leaves his job as Goldman Sachs’ lead oil and gas partner and sets up his own boutique investment bank; he leaves, say, 80% of what he thinks are his clients behind, because they’re really Goldman’s clients; the new offices he’s been carrying for six months during renovations are probably costing him $120 a square foot, say, $100,000 a month in addition to the $3 million or so he must have sunk into the renovations; and just as he launches his new firm he realizes, unless he’s a complete moron, he’s going to lose out on his pitch to represent Yassar and OPEC on their global acquisition program, because Yassar will never hire some no-name start-up firm.
Habib felt a tingle of anticipation.
Kovarik arrived, a dandy with a matching silk pocket square and tie, starched shirt collar and an open button on the sleeve of his jacket so you knew it was a custom suit. He walked with a limp that seemed from some old injury and smelled of cologne, a lot of it. “Bob Kovarik. Sorry to make you wait,” he said, not looking the least bit sorry. Then he went on about being a Harvard man, a Goldman man and a marquee deal oil and gas man. After 10 minutes of it Habib decided this was harder than listening to the Sheik, so he took a long moment to glare at his watch, then put his hands on the edge of the table to push his chair back, like he was ready to get up and leave.
“Let me tell you why I’m here in the few minutes before I have to go,” Habib said.
Kovarik looked startled, then gave Habib a patronizing smile and rested his clasped hands on the table. “Okay, shoot.”
“On the phone I told you I’m an independent contractor to a client who wants to remain anonymous.”
Kovarik nodded.
“I need to hire someone with your expertise for a confidential project. In turn, you would be an independent contractor to my client, whose identity you wouldn’t know.”
“What’s the nature of your client’s business?”
“You don’t need to know that either, only that he needs your expertise in the oil and gas business.”
Kovarik nodded again. “May I ask the nature of your business—what kind of independent contractor you are?”
“I do whatever my clients need me to do, including jobs like this. Frequently they involve security issues.”
He saw Kovarik look at Habib’s hands: the right scarred from knife wounds, the tip of the pinky severed; the flesh on the back of the left hand bumpy and hairless from the napalm burns that extended up to his shoulder. Kovarik smiled and said, “Would it be safe to say you’re a mercenary?”
“If I said yes would you decline this assignment?”
“Depends on how much it pays.”
“And what my client’s asking you to do?”
“Within certain boundaries.”
When Habib didn’t respond right away, Kovarik leaned back in his chair and smiled more broadly, then lowered his voice into a conspiratorial tone. “Investment bankers are sometimes described as mercenaries. We sell our services for a fee, hired guns to accomplish specific client goals, all the while maintaining complete confidentiality. We aren’t fainthearted.”
Habib looked into Kovarik’s eyes, taking his measure of the man, still without responding. Kovarik looked back evenly, not shrinking from Habib’s gaze. He’ll do.
Habib said, “Good. Then here’s what we plan to do—”
“Are you sure you want to tell me that?”
“You won’t be able to give us the information we need if you don’t know what we’re going to do.”
Kovarik nodded. Habib now thought Kovarik might be losing his nerve; he saw him shift in his chair and tense his jaw.
Well, here goes. “Our client wants to slow down the flow of oil around the world to achieve hi
s political ends. His tactics will be to trigger certain events in the computer software that runs the operating systems at all levels of the industry—drilling, refining, pipelines, and all other aspects of production and distribution.”
“How will he do that?”
“Computer tinkering. We’ve lined up the experts for that.”
“So where do I come in?”
“We need information you have and access to people you know.”
“Okay.” Kovarik seemed to be turning it over in his mind. “What, specifically, do you need?”
“We need you to identify and get us access to the software vendors who supply the brains to the oil and gas industry’s computer operating systems. We need the information organized into three tiers: first, the investment bankers who advise the software vendors; second, the software vendors themselves, organized by type of operating systems their software runs; and third, the oil and gas industry companies who are customers of each software vendor. You understand?”
“Yes, it’s very clear.”
Habib paused, again taking in Kovarik’s reaction, waiting.
Finally Kovarik said, “We need to resolve my compensation.”
Habib suppressed a smile. “I assume the fees we discussed on the telephone are acceptable?”
“A starting point. Since you don’t have much time, I’ll cut to it. I’ll need a retainer of a hundred thousand dollars per month. I’ll credit the retainer against a transaction fee—we call it a ‘success’ fee—payable on successful completion of the project. The transaction fee of two million you proposed is low, given the complexity and critical nature of what you want me to do. I’d accept four million dollars.”
Habib didn’t feel like screwing around with the man all day. Besides, it wasn’t his money. He nodded.
“There’s only one more issue,” Kovarik said.
“What’s that?”
“How do we define ‘success’?”
“Oh, there won’t be any question about that.”