by David Lender
Daniel felt as if his entire body was exhaling with relief.
“And there’s more,” Lydia said. “A CIA team will be here tomorrow morning with a satellite hookup for us to participate by videoconference.”
“Progress. But let’s hope it’s not too late.”
Teske arrived late to the top of the tower of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. First the cleaning staff kept him away from the doorway accessing the stairs, then one of the priests was doing some mumbo-jumbo near the candles for 20 minutes.
He took his time removing his .338 Lapua Custom from its case, attached the 24X enhanced magnification Zeiss scope and screwed the tripod onto the bottom of the Lapua. He took his time, because he needed to catch his breath from the climb so he’d be steady for his shot. Three hundred yards to 30 Rockefeller Plaza wasn’t that far, but even a slight tremor of his hand could send a round a foot off target. And it was complicated enough with a shot through the 30 Rock’s half-inch-thick tempered glass. He was using armor piercing rounds, but even they couldn’t assure a perfect trajectory on the other side of the glass, and Habib had insisted on a head shot.
When he finished setting up, Teske sat down on the cool granite to fully collect himself. After five minutes he stood up, positioned the Lapua and looked through the scope. He counted one window down and four across from the left. The light was on in that office and the target was working at the computer on his desk. He lined up the Zeiss’ crosshairs, exhaled. He pulled the trigger, saw the target disappear, dropped the Lapua and started back down the tower stairs.
CHAPTER 36
SEPTEMBER, THIS YEAR. RIYADH, SAUDI Arabia. “You’re right, it’s a logic bomb,” CIA Mideast Section Head Tom Goddard said, his hand clamped around an English bone china coffee cup. He looked around the conference room in the Saudi Royal Palace. Everything was marble. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. Even the windows might as well have been marble, given that you couldn’t see much out of them. He’d been told they were inch-thick bullet-proof glass that would withstand a Scud missile. That had been a design change after scores of windows had been shattered from the explosion that blew a 40-foot-wide hole in the perimeter wall the night Prince Ibrahim was murdered. Tom was uncomfortable, not just in the suit, shirt and tie, which he was unaccustomed to wearing, but because Yassar was observing him through cool, blinking eyes. It was the first time he’d sat face to face with him since they’d killed Ibrahim.
He and Yassar sat across from each other at one end of the conference table. On the credenza about 10 feet from them stood a satellite video hookup from New York with some guy and woman that Yassar had insisted participate. The guys at Langley had done an overnight security clearance on them while Tom flew in on the redeye. The two CIA computer systems analysts and two Joint Terrorism Task Force computer experts Tom brought with him sat all the way at the other end of the table. So did four Saudi Council of Ministers members, along with a cadre of fifteen of their own experts. Tom had been at the game long enough to know that’s how it was done in Saudi Arabia. It’s no democracy. Yassar here, the other guys in the cheap seats.
One of the JTTF computer jocks was talking, booming it out from the bleachers, “The logic bomb is a computer program carried inside another program called a trojan horse. The subject sneaks it in undetected, it lies around for as long as the subject wants, then drops its bomb from the inside. It’s a program that’s timed to go into a destructive subroutine at a specific moment. In this case, tomorrow.” If the logic bomb the Saudis had found was anything like the one the Brits had discovered in the Stockton refinery near the North Sea, there wasn’t much time to be lost. Tom knew he had to convince the Saudis to let them place the sniffer program to help chase it back to whoever planted it. Tom added, “And when it does, your main refinery complex at Dhahran is ashes,” he said.
“Go on,” Yassar said. Back in Langley they’d told Tom it was Yassar who’d called to ask for help, seemed to understand the problem, how destructive the logic bomb could be. And they’d said he’d asked for Tom Goddard to lead the team. “The youthful boy genius of Saudi Arabia. And of Nice,” he’d said.
Tom took in Yassar. Pretty cool, but sort of an enigma. Doesn’t show much. Tom thought the man looked peaceable enough, even gentle, but barrel-chested, big, and capable of coming across the conference room table at him. His nerves were on overload. He felt the butterflies he’d experienced as a schoolboy before a fight. “As my colleagues explain it to me,” Tom said, nodding to his computer jock, “at twelve hundred hours tomorrow this program would invoke an infinite loop in the refinery’s catalytic reformer heating cycle, gradually raising the temperature, then spiking it upward to cause an explosion.”
“Go on,” Prince Yassar said.
“That part is fairly simple. We know what the logic bomb is intended to do. We don’t know who put it there, whether it was from the outside or the inside, and whether it was designed to be a prank or a terrorist attack.” Stupid, he thought. They both knew this was no prank. For a second he wanted to tell him about the logic bomb they’d found in BP’s North Sea refinery. But he wanted the JTTF techs and his own CIA experts to get a better look at this one first, confirm that the one the Saudis found had the identical design. “It’s a simple piece of software, really. At a certain time, the program has the built-in logic to be triggered to go into its routine. In this case, it’s a loop that won’t allow any of the other software to shut down the heating cycle.” His voice grew stronger. “Do you have any idea who would want to do this? Have you made any traces to see if you can figure out who planted it?” Tom was almost certain he knew the answers, but wanted to hear what the Saudis thought.
“We both know with whom we’re dealing,” Yassar said.
“Right. It’s gotta be bin Abdur and his al-Mujari.”
Yassar nodded. “What do you recommend?” Yassar asked.
This was his opening. Would Yassar go along with it? “We put in a sniffer.” Tom knew the Saudis had to trust him completely, and that he was probably the wrong guy to pitch the idea. At least to Yassar. He felt worse than grungy. Still, he had to take a chance.
“We have no such programs, although we have heard of them,” Yassar said. “Tell me about these sniffers.”
Man goes right at it. “It latches onto anybody who comes in and accesses this program, and lets us to trace him back to where he came from.” He was aware he was hurrying his words, felt the tension pressing in on him.
“And you can give us one?”
“Well, it’s proprietary. We put it into your system, monitor it, and remove it once the situation is secure. That is, if anybody ever comes back to check on this program.”
“You’re a clever man, Mr. Goddard,” Yassar said. “I don’t need to tell you how sensitive that would be for us. To allow you access into some of our most important computer systems.”
“We’re aware that might be an issue. At the same time, we can’t give out this code.”
“A matter of national security,” Yassar said, “just as it is for us.”
“We’ll just have to trust each other.”
Yassar smiled. “No. I understand the situation. It’s we who will have to trust you.”
“Right. But why wouldn’t you?” Tom regretted the words even as they left his lips. Yeah. Why wouldn’t this guy trust somebody who’d orchestrated the assassination of his son. And turned some woman who was almost like his daughter into a trojan horse so she could help them do the job.
“Because we have history,” Yassar said. His voice was calm, which made it all the more menacing.
“Yes,” was all Tom could manage. He had the crazy notion to apologize to Yassar. Screw it. The only way to do this was to go right at it. “What happened to Sasha?”
Yassar didn’t answer, just looked puzzled, then glanced at the video screen.
“It was me who arranged for her to get back in. She said she needed to come back to you.”
Yassar remained sile
nt.
“We were the ones who got the tape,” Tom said. “I gave it to her.” He looked into Yassar’s eyes. “Those were bad times.”
“Yes,” Yassar said. “Yes, they were.” He sipped his tea, then looked at the video screen again.
What’s with the damn video screen?
Yassar said, “So. What’s our plan of action? You put in the sniffer, then what?”
Tom felt relief flood through him. Yassar was letting them do it. “As I said, the sniffer latches onto anybody who comes back in to access the logic bomb. That means we have to re-inject the logic bomb, obviously defusing it first. Then we hope someone comes back to check on it, maybe to see why it didn’t go off.” He took another sip of his coffee. Inky, bitter stuff but he needed it. “Not much hope of anybody coming back in before that, though. As I said earlier, the thing’s set to go off tomorrow.”
“But let’s assume someone does go back in. Then what?”
“If we’re lucky, we find out where they are. Maybe through a domain name on the Internet. Then if it’s not too late, we take tactical action. We’ll take the lead.”
Yassar’s eyes narrowed; he didn’t look gentle now. Tom felt an ominous sense of blackness. And just as quickly he felt guilt wrenching his guts. He looked into Yassar’s now cold eyes and wondered why he’d ever helped Sasha go back to him.
September, This Year. New York City. It had taken Daniel a few minutes to sort out what he was seeing and hearing on the satellite screen. Figuring out the players wasn’t easy—he’d never attended a business meeting where people didn’t at least introduce each other in the beginning. And then the discussion seemed to be dancing around the real issue. He motioned with his head to Lydia to step out of his study. He didn’t know how to put the satellite hookup on mute, and, besides, he didn’t feel like talking in front of the CIA technician. Lydia wrinkled her brow, confused or annoyed, but got up and followed him into the bedroom. He closed the door.
“What the hell’s going on in there?” Daniel said.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Are you intentionally playing dumb?” Lydia looked wounded. He softened his tone. “Lover, in the first place, the head CIA guy, Tom, doesn’t seem to know you’re here, or maybe even alive. In the second place, they’re only talking about a single logic bomb at Saudi Aramco. Nobody’s even mentioned the real issue of an effort to sabotage the whole world’s oil and gas operations. Why’s Yassar holding out?”
Lydia listened with her mouth ajar and hands clasped to her chest. Off balance. What’s going on?
Lydia said, “They won’t believe it without some proof.”
“The Saudi Aramco logic bomb proves it.”
“It’s the wrong time to bring it up.”
Daniel couldn’t believe this. “Then when’s the right time? One of my guys got murdered last night, undoubtedly intended for me. We’ve got a half-dozen CIA guys in that room. What more do you need?”
Lydia didn’t answer. She just stood there, looking stunned, maybe thinking.
Daniel said, “I’m going back in there.” He strode back into the study, head lowered. He sat down again at his desk in front of the video screen, pulse starting to thump, confidence flowing. Lydia sat next to him and rested her hand on his arm. He turned and saw her nod to him to go ahead.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Daniel said. He saw Yassar and Tom turn toward the screen. He waited a moment. Take yourself down a peg. Treat it like a group negotiating session. “I think it’s important I interject some new facts that will bring us down a new line of discussion.” He saw Yassar lean forward to speak to Tom, thought he heard his name murmured. Then he saw Tom do a double take at the screen as if he’d just seen a ghost. He had. I guess now he knows it’s Sasha.
Daniel cleared his throat. Let them have it. “My name is Daniel Youngblood. I’m an oil and gas investment banker based in New York. Everyone in that room may or may not know that this logic bomb is not an isolated situation. Lydia—Sasha”—he looked to his right—”has told me she is aware of a suspected al-Mujari plot to sabotage the oil and gas industry by placing logic bombs in its operating software. In the last forty-eight hours she and I have developed a list of my clients who provide operating software to the industry who we believe may be part of the means through which the al-Mujari will accomplish that. I believe analyzing this logic bomb will tell you what to look for in the al-Mujari’s other terrorist attacks, and help you figure out how to defuse their entire operation.”
Daniel had seen somebody suck the air out of a conference room many times in his career, but never witnessed the near-perfect vacuum he’d just created. A full 30 seconds passed with Tom and Yassar looking at each other without anyone speaking a word in the room. Then Tom got up and walked toward the video screen, put his hand down near it and the screen went blank.
Daniel looked over at Lydia, who now slid her arm through his. “Tom’s the man who recruited you, had you kill Ibrahim?”
Lydia nodded.
“Lover, I think it’s time I started calling you Sasha.”
She clutched Daniel’s arm tighter. He felt her breast press against him, saw her eyes get teary.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m a little emotional. I’m very proud of you right now. I don’t know what I was thinking earlier. I’ve been keeping things secret so long, and I’ve been so caught up in the Saudi royals versus the al-Mujari, that maybe I’ve lost perspective. Of course we need to do everything we can to stop these people. Maybe I was stunned silent by the shock of seeing Tom and Yassar together, then hearing Tom bring up…Ibrahim.”
“I saw Yassar looking at you at that point.”
“Yes, I’m sure he was making certain I was alright.”
Daniel unhooked his arm from hers and pulled her close to him. “We’ll have a lot to talk about when we get out of this thing.” Daniel turned to the CIA tech. “What now?”
“I guess we wait. Nobody tells me.”
Daniel stood up, then led Sasha by the hand into the kitchen. He made them both tea. A half hour later the CIA tech walked in and said, “We’re back online.”
Daniel and Sasha walked in to see Tom’s face on the screen, Yassar at the far end of the table in the background talking to the other Saudis. Tom said, “Daniel, I’m gonna need a full dump on everything you and Sasha have come up with—your client list, contact information for all of them, everything. I know I don’t need to tell you how critical your help will be to this. We need to get out in front of this thing and stop it. Is Intelligent Recovery Systems one of your clients?”
Daniel felt a rush of adrenaline. “Yes.”
“We understand they’re the largest provider of operating software to the industry.”
“That’s right.”
“BP is a customer of theirs. We found another one of these logic bombs in their North Sea refinery.”
Another refinery. “We figure they’re targeting refineries first. Maximum impact to the industry, hardest to repair.”
He saw Tom nod. “We’re scrambling a CIA and JTTF team of computer analysts out of New York. I need you two on a plane to Houston within an hour.”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. You got all your contact information in your Blackberry or something or other?”
“Yes, and I have all the analysis we’ve done on my software clients and their customers in my laptop.”
“Our computer techs can offload it onto their system on the plane. Get IR Systems on the phone, tell them you’re coming in with our guys. I’ll be flying back into New York shortly. I’ll coordinate however many teams we can get on this from the air.” He looked at Sasha for the first time. “Sasha, sounds like we have some catching up to do.” Tom looked back at Daniel. “Okay, get going. Good luck.”
Daniel called Dick Jantzen on his cell phone from the car on the way to JFK airport.
“Can this wait?” Jantzen said. “I’m on the golf course.”
“No, it can’t. Remember what you said before about not calling you back unless I had the CIA?” Daniel didn’t get a response. “Well, I’m flying into Houston with a CIA and Joint Terrorism Task Force team of computer analysts. They want your systems guys in the office by five p.m. You too. And you’ll get to meet my bimbo spy girlfriend in person.” Daniel hung up.
CHAPTER 37
SEPTEMBER, THIS YEAR. BURAIDA, SAUDI Arabia. Sheik bin Abdur knelt in prayer in the simple dirt-floored room in the building next to his mosque in Buraida. It was the place from which he conducted the business of his dual roles—religious cleric and head of the al-Mujari, both part of his holy calling.
Eventually the Sheik closed the Koran, wrapped it in cloth, kissed it, replaced it on its shelf, then summoned three Saudis who had been waiting for him in the outer room.
“You all know what day this is, do you not?” Sheik bin Abdur asked. “There is no God but Allah!”
“La ilaha ilallah!” they called in unison.
“These are historic times. Today our jihad begins. Abdul, have the wire transfer arrangements been made?”
One of the Saudis spoke. “Yes, ten million U.S. dollars in four separate two-and-a-half-million-dollar transfers to accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands designated by the man who calls himself Habib. Four million dollars in two separate wire transfers of two million dollars each to bank accounts in the Cayman Islands and the Netherlands Antilles on the instructions of Ali. A check for four million dollars from an account at Bank of America on the instructions of the man in New York, Kovarik.”
“Good. I wish to have the reputation for promptly honoring our commitments.” The men sat in silence for a minute, then began to speak among themselves in low whispers. “What is it?” Sheik bin Abdur asked.
“We are concerned for your safety, Sheik bin Abdur,” Abdul said. “What if the infidel nations or even our Saudi brethren who have been polluted by the infidels strike out against you?”