by David Lender
Habib wasn’t crazy about dealing with one of the Sheik’s terrorist cells in New York, but the little job the Sheik wanted him to do paid well: $100,000 for just locating the investment banker, Youngblood, and the girl, Sasha. It was a mystery how the Sheik found out where the girl was this time, or that she was with Youngblood. But it was always a mystery. The crazy old man seemed to have antennae for the girl. But that wasn’t his business. All he had to do was find them. Then let the Sheik’s men take care of them so the Sheik could regard that he’d cleansed them from the world himself. That is if the Sheik’s men could get out of their own way. It didn’t matter to him. If they botched it, he’d probably get paid to do it right. Thinking that made him wince. Teske blowing away that kid who worked for Youngblood was a rookie mistake, one he wouldn’t let happen again.
CHAPTER 39
SEPTEMBER, THIS YEAR. RIYADH, SAUDI Arabia. Prince Yassar reacted with outward calm. Assad al-Anoud, the head of the Saudi Secret Police, stood before him, his message brief, a summary of the day’s events.
We are dealing with monsters, he thought. This bin Abdur. These al-Mujari fanatics. And the old emotions, those he had not felt since Ibrahim’s murder, assaulted him. Venom rose from a place deep within him.
Arab brother against brother it shall be.
September, This Year. Aboard a C-5 over Africa. “I know that,” Tom Goddard said. “But the PeakOil drilling rig proves they’re not just going after refineries. That multiplies the problem.”
“Exponentially,” Nigel Benthurst said.
Tom sensed he was the conductor of an orchestra with no score; 30 or so professionals—computer jocks and intelligence wonks—on a conference call. They were working on the fly, improvising. He hoped the collective experience and brains on the line would allow them to muddle toward some answers.
“There are about a thousand refineries worldwide,” Terry Jenkins, Tom’s lead CIA systems analyst, said into the conference call from across the aisle on the plane. “If you add drilling rigs, that’s gotta be another twenty or thirty thousand. How the hell do we chase all of them down?”
“There’s no way they could hack into that many individual systems,” an FBI Com-Tech analyst in New York interrupted. She had a deep, Lauren Bacall voice.
Tom said, “Sasha said their plan was to plant the logic bombs in the software vendors’ programs and feed them into the individual customer locations with routine updates.”
“That makes perfect sense,” the throaty voice came on again. “And so far we’ve only got one vendor, Intelligent Recovery Systems. They sold the software for all the sabotaged locations—the BP North Sea refinery, the Saudi Aramco refinery, the River Rouge refinery, and the PeakOil Challenger.”
“Youngblood gave us their customer list,” Tom said.
“It doesn’t matter,” somebody said. “If the logic bombs are being placed with software updates, we can defuse them at the source; we don’t need to chase them down at all the customers. We’ve analyzed the three logic bombs from the refineries and they’re all the same. And they were only in computer systems on hardware platforms running Unix, or on IBM AS400s running on IBM’s proprietary TSO operating system.”
“Who said that?” Tom demanded.
“Stone. FBI based in New York.” It was the throaty FBI voice he’d been hearing.
“Good. Youngblood’s got eleven other software vendor clients,” Tom said, happy to have something to grab onto. “Stone, can you chase them down? See if anybody else’s software runs on those platforms? That might be the key. Maybe peel off with a few analysts and chase that lead?”
“I’ll take one of my techs here in New York,” Stone said. Two voices, one from Homeland Security in Maryland and one from CIA in Langley, volunteered.
Tom said, “We can keep looking for other leads while we’re checking on that one.” One small victory. He exhaled and cracked his neck. “Okay, what else do we know?”
Stone spoke up again, “Before I go, somebody should start working on a patch.”
“A what?” Tom said.
“A patch,” Terry Jenkins said. “Some software code to defuse the logic bombs we’ve already found. I already have the guys in Langley working on it. I’ll get an ETA from them.”
“That you, Terry?” Stone asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Stay close. If you find logic bombs in any more of Youngblood’s clients’ software, I’ll ship you the patch—when we finish it.”
“What do we do with it?” Tom said.
“Send it out to defuse the logic bombs the same way they were deposited in the first place,” Stone said. “Zap out a software update.”
“How long?” Tom said, feeling a tickle of anticipation.
“Hours,” Terry said, “maybe a day.”
Jesus, Tom thought. “What’s the good news?”
“That is the good news,” Stone said. “The bad news is the patch will only work for the logic bombs we’ve seen—for refineries. We don’t know what the one that went active on the PeakOil Challenger looked like, or what subroutine in the program it attacked.”
Tom remembered the number of drilling rigs that someone mentioned early in the call—20 to 30 thousand. He felt his throat constrict.
September, This Year. Houston, Texas. Sasha was sandwiched between Daniel and two CIA computer analysts in the lead Chevy Suburban in a three-SUV convoy. They hurtled through the streets of Houston toward Intelligent Recovery Systems’ offices, escorted by police, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Two computer techs sat in the third seat behind them, two more in the front. The techs to her right were like Jack Spratt and his wife: a bone-thin man and an overweight woman whose skin was sticky from perspiration against Sasha’s arm. She felt as if she was on a bus in Bombay, where the Indians jammed together in the seats out of habit, even when the bus was half-empty.
A cell phone rang. The skinny one. The man passed it over to Sasha. “For Daniel. Tom Goddard.”
“Hello,” Daniel said. Sasha watched him, awed by his command, proud to be his. Daniel had shown his mettle today, most recently in the crisis at Rouge North. She’d watched from the doorway of the refinery—unable to sit in the bloody SUV anymore while he was at risk—as he dashed across the floor to save the plant.
“I know, I know,” she heard him say. “Yes, I’d say twenty to thirty thousand is a good estimate. But if it comes to production wells—man, there are forty thousand in California alone. I’d say eight hundred thousand worldwide.”
She could hear Tom barking, agitated, on the other end of the phone but couldn’t make out his words.
Daniel said, “Well that’s good news on the refinery fix. You should get it to…”
She heard Tom again, almost yelling.
“That’s what I was trying to say. You have my client list. I’ve called them all. Your guys I’m with have sent teams to all of them. Dresner Technologies would be my second priority. They’re across town.” She heard the authority in his voice, saw it in how he emphasized his words with his free hand.
Then more from Tom, quieter now, calmer.
“Right.” Daniel hung up and held the phone out to Jack Spratt. “They have a fix for the refinery logic bombs,” Daniel said. Sasha saw the relief in his eyes. “And they’re sending it out to their techs at all my other clients.”
“A software patch?” she asked.
He nodded. He turned to look into her eyes. She clutched his hand. “And so far no other incidents.”
“Maybe we’re not too late,” Sasha said.
“Maybe. But the PeakOil Challenger brings up a different problem Tom wants us to jump all over once we get to IR systems. Find the logic bomb that targeted the drilling rig and come up with a fix for that, too.” He looked to the front, his eyes focusing off on the distance, at nothing. “And even if we solve that, it could get worse, still. So we need to hurry.”
Sasha felt a flash of alarm at the new concern she saw in Daniel’s eyes.
CHAPTER 40
SEPTEMBER, THIS YEAR. HOUSTON, TEXAS. It was after 5:00 p.m. when they arrived at the offices of Intelligent Recovery Systems. Sasha was amazed as she saw the bodies pile out of the SUVs. It looked like almost two dozen of the technicians from the various CIA and other federal agencies were there, more than she saw on the plane from New York. The conference room they entered was dimly lit, as if for an evening ball. She assumed Dick Jantzen was the man seated at the center of the head table that was arranged perpendicular to the other conference table like the top of a “T”. He wore a ridiculous outfit—pink pants, green golf shirt and crocodile loafers with no socks. Her eyes found Daniel’s, who motioned at the man with his head, then nodded. Yes, it was he. A gray-haired man in his 60s sat to Jantzen’s right. They were both flanked by four others on each side.
Daniel strode to the head of the perpendicular conference table, as close as possible to Jantzen and his group. Without looking at Sasha he said, “You feel comfortable starting off?”
She said into her handbag, “Ever known me to be bashful?”
She heard him chuckle. “I think your background on the computer terrorism is essential here. You heard Jantzen on the phone with me. Go heavy on the Saudi intelligence, the al-Mujari. Lay it on thick, lover. That guy to his right is Stanley Walters, senior partner of his law firm.”
Sasha waited until the others had filed into the room, then stood up before anyone else had a chance to speak. Okay, wing it. “Ladies and gentlemen, perhaps I can give some brief background perspective. I am an agent of Saudi Arabian intelligence, working jointly with U.S. intelligence on this crisis. What we’re dealing with is a now-confirmed terrorist plot, we’re certain by the al-Mujari, to cripple the oil and gas industry, and in the process topple the Saudi government and destabilize the Mid-East region.”
She was speaking directly to Jantzen. She saw his eyes get large. He whispered something into his lawyer’s ear.
“Their method is to infiltrate oil and gas software vendor programs and plant trojan horse code that will jettison logic bombs to sabotage key processes in oil and gas operations. You’ve seen the results in the PeakOil Challenger drilling platform explosion today. Three other logic bombs were found in refinery programs.”
She saw Walters nod back at Jantzen and lower his gaze at her as if to be intimidating.
“One was arranged as a decoy that I helped create by posing as an accomplice computer hacker and allowing the terrorists access to Saudi Aramco’s Dhahran refinery. Our efforts were successful. We found a logic bomb they planted, then called in the CIA. That has led to creation of a patch for the refinery logic bombs. Through my undercover efforts I became aware that Intelligent Recovery Systems was one of the prime vehicles to target clients via routine software updates.”
Walters stood and opened his mouth to speak. Sasha held up her hand to stop him.
She went on, “All four logic bombs to date were planted in IR Systems software code, resident in its customers’ systems.”
Walters said, “That presumes a number of things, including that the PeakOil Challenger explosion was not an accident…”
“Yes, a fairly good hypothesis given that the crew reported out-of-control software prior to the explosion…”
“My client has not acknowledged or been accused…”
Sasha heard the rustle of a chair behind her and turned to see one of the team stand up. He said, “Just a minute. I’m FBI, with full authority to intervene. I don’t like how this is going.”
“Sir, stand down, please,” Walters said. “My client is anxious to cooperate in stopping this terrorism, but simply waltzing in here with a lot of accusations and two dozen people to begin poking around his software…”
“Who said anything about poking around?” the FBI agent said.
“I think that’s fairly obvious…” Walters said.
“That’s exactly what these people are here to do,” Daniel said. “First, they need to install the patch for the refinery code, then find the logic bomb for the drilling rigs.”
At that point Sasha saw six technicians stand up. One said, “Who’s your head systems analyst?” Sasha saw potential chaos dissolving into action.
A member of Jantzen’s group stood. “Frank Desoto,” he said. The techs started at him like pit bulls after a rabbit.
Jantzen now stood up. “Just a minute,” he said. He looked tentative, but pushed out his chest as if to project bravado. A short man. That explains a lot. Sasha looked over at Daniel. He didn’t show any emotion, but she hoped he was at least enjoying this moment. Jantzen continued. “Stanley’s right. You can’t go poking around our code. It’s proprietary. Plus that means screwing around with our clients. It exposes us to liability.” He looked at his lawyer for support.
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,” the FBI agent said, approaching. Sasha watched the man walk behind the table, pull something out of his pocket—handcuffs—and cuff Jantzen.
“You can’t do that!” Walters shouted.
“Yeah? Obstructing a federal investigation of a matter of national security.” He pulled out another pair, spun Walters around and cuffed him. He motioned to one of his men, started walking Jantzen and Walters out. “We don’t have time to screw around with shit like this.” Partway across the room he turned back to look at Jantzen’s team. “Anybody else?”
The man who identified himself as the head systems analyst said, “Who has the refinery patch?” One of the CIA techs who’d approached him earlier raised his hand. The man pointed to two of his colleagues. “These two will work with you on installing it and feeding it out to our customers.” He turned and pointed to two more of his people. “And these two will get you set up on the drilling rig code. We’ve already started on it.”
Daniel turned to see Sasha nod as if handing it off to him. She sat down. “Frank?” Daniel said to the Director of Systems Analysis. “Can I get you a second?” Frank walked around the table toward Daniel. Daniel turned to the techs. “Who’s next?” Four of them walked up. He turned back to Frank. “Tom—the CIA head of this operation—talked about other targets they might be going after. Sasha and I did what we were calling triage. We figured refiners would be the top priority to inflict the most damage, but now that approach is off the table after the PeakOil Challenger. I figure it could be ten, maybe fifteen different types of attacks, each with separate code for the different types of operations—production wells, pipelines…”
Frank was shaking his head.
“What?” Daniel said.
Frank said, “We’ve only got four types of program platforms, subject to modifications to adapt them to different applications in the field. Refineries, drilling rigs, wells and pipelines. Any other operations work off those basic designs.”
One of the techs behind Daniel said, “Okay, so we need two more teams for wells and pipelines. Where do we start?”
Frank said, “Come on,” and motioned with his head toward the side door the other techs had exited through. “I’ll get some more of my guys,” and started walking.
One of the CIA agents came up to Daniel. “Tom just called. He wants you and Sasha back in New York ASAP. We got it under control here anyhow. Our guys will get you to the airport.”
Daniel was nervous about leaving, but figured he and Sasha couldn’t do much more good down here anyhow. Besides, something was bothering him that he needed to check out back in New York.
CHAPTER 41
EARLY A.M. SEPTEMBER, THIS YEAR. New York City. The C-5 rumbled and shook, buffeted by a sharp side wind.
“Hang on, this won’t be pretty,” the captain said over the intercom. Tom looked out the window as the plane landed with a bounce. The pilot threw the thrusters into reverse, trying to get off the runway as quickly as he could to get the team off the aircraft.
Tom was back on his cell phone to Stone at the FBI regional office in Midtown Manhattan as he hurried off the plane to the waiting helicopter, “Where are we?” To
m had to strain to hear her over the chopper’s rotors. He wished he had his hands on bin Abdur’s throat.
“Multiple teams working, a large one on the Intelligent Recovery Systems’ programs. Others at Youngblood’s other clients. Another is chasing down your Saudi sniffer trail. The guys from JTTF are working with Sabre, the computer reservations system in Dallas, on it.”
“The sniffer picked something up in Riyadh?” Tom felt his blood pumping now.
Stone went on. “About one a.m. our time, the Saudis contacted CIA in Langley. Your sniffer went active. Seems that one of the Saudi Aramco systems manager’s accounts had been tampered with and the hacker used it to go into the subroutine in the refinery software to see why the logic bomb hadn’t gone off. Your sniffer traced him out and into the Sabre airline reservations system. The Sabre guys helped us trace it back out to Switzerland then back via satellite to right here in New York. He’s still online, believe it or not.”
“Where is he?” Tom had his first real taste of success. And some heat in what until now had been only cold fury.
“A PC in an office in an investment bank called Ladoix Sayre right here in Midtown. Thirty Rockefeller Plaza.”
“That’s Daniel Youngblood’s. Sasha said they might be using it for access.” Tom wondered for a moment, but Daniel was on the way back from Houston. “Anybody checked it out yet?”
“No, we’re scrambling tactical agents right now.”
“I’m coming along.”
“Shouldn’t we leave it up to the muscle guys?”
“No,” Tom said. “I want to be there when we catch the son of a bitch, whoever it is.” Tom paused to savor the thought. “What else you got?” he asked.
“Good news from IR Systems, too. They’ve installed and sent out the refinery patch. And we think they’ve traced back the entry port into IR Systems’ network through an email entry from, you guessed it, a PC at Ladoix Sayre. The email address is [email protected].”