“He does,” Burls replied.
“We’d appreciate it if you’d let us speak with him,” she said. “We need to ask him a few questions about this message. We think it’s a critical link to whoever is behind Bounty4Justice.”
Burls frowned. “I imagine we can arrange that,” he finally murmured. “I’d certainly like to hear what Jeremy has to say, as well. Unfortunately, he’s away on personal leave for the next two days.”
PAYMENT METHODS CHANGE NOTIFICATION
Payments via credit card will no longer be accepted, as per section 27 of our user agreement. Effective immediately, all future pledge fee transactions will be accepted only in NcryptoCash. Likewise, effective immediately, all bounty awards will be paid exclusively in NcryptoCash. These changes will ensure better service and protect the privacy of our patrons.
Thank you for your support, and we look forward to serving you.
CustomerCare@bounty4justice.com
# 65.01
@ St. George’s, Bermuda
11:59:23 AST
The archipelago sat on coral reefs in emerald ocean waters just over six hundred miles southeast of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. Not exactly middle ground for the emergency strategy meeting of Archer Offsite Systems LLP, but there was a bit of tradition here, since this was where the original concept for Razorwire had been hatched, nearly two years ago.
Jam had the advantage of arriving first at the pub, where he ordered a drink from the barkeep—a dark ’n’ stormy, of course, the drink befitting any self-respecting pirate. Outside, he sat at a secluded table along the wharf, overlooking the picturesque harbor, where the big cruise ships dropped anchor during peak season to unload herds of tourists, who would explore St. George’s quaint pastel-painted boutiques and watch the town crier and a woman in period costume reenact a wench-dunking in the harbor. This time of year, however, the place was desolate, the winds chilly and ominous.
Jam had read that in 1609 the island’s English founders, Admiral Sir George Somers and Lieutenant General Sir Thomas Gates, had crash-landed their ship on a nearby reef during a brutal storm. Over the months that followed, the admiral and the general vied for superiority over the few dozen surviving castaways, thus dividing the men into two factions. Each faction constructed a ship to escape the island—one christened Deliverance, the other Patience—and each sailed onward to Jamestown, Virginia. Four centuries later, a similar power struggle promised to splinter allegiances here on majestic Bermuda. But this time, the odds favored only one superior player journeying on to his final destination.
It was a shame that things had come to this, thought Jam. He’d liked Pike ever since they’d first met, at a DEF CON hacker symposium in Las Vegas. At the time, Jam had been the NSA’s guest speaker (the conference was a prime recruiting ground for the agency), and his presentation had centered on tactical cyberdefense methods and the accelerating struggle for nations to protect their sovereignty in the cyber realm. During a cocktail mixer later that night, the charismatic Englishman had pulled Jam aside to compliment him on his keen vision. Then he’d offered the NSA employee an enticing opportunity to put that vision to immediate work by participating in a most lucrative project.
They’d designed Razorwire to be the ultimate cyberweapon—one that could claim absolute dominion over the new digital battleground, an all-encompassing suite of capabilities that would exploit, simultaneously, network computing, logistics, banking, crowd psychology, propaganda, secure communications, covert ops, the works. Know thine enemy. Subdue thine enemy. Turn thine enemy against itself. Above all, Razorwire needed to be impervious to assault or infiltration while embodying the very essence of stealth and subterfuge. Invisible. Invincible.
In its infancy, Razorwire had seemed too ambitious, too bold. So many disciplines needed to be coordinated, with no single programmer fully knowing the scope or intent of the finished product. After all, what good was intelligence if you couldn’t keep a secret? Like most defense agencies, the NSA outsourced the development and production of component code writing to contractors. Overseeing the final assembly of a finished product was Jam’s forte, which gave him great latitude in procuring highly specialized code from programmers and specialists around the globe. They provided the eggs, and he was the incubator. Despite the logistical challenges, as the months went by and each module blossomed in isolation, Razorwire showed promise that exceeded the original vision by orders of magnitude, much the way the collective force behind the Manhattan Project had defied the odds a few decades earlier to rewrite the rules of modern warfare.
The fatal breach—the lethal hack—had occurred just over five weeks ago, during the project’s final stages, just as all those independent parts had been assembled into the whole, yet before safety layers and protocols had been thoroughly activated. Ever since then, Jam had been trying to deconstruct just how the project had been so disastrously compromised. And now he thought he’d figured it out.
“Hiya, mate,” a voice said.
Jam turned and saw Pike swaggering out of the pub, sipping a swizzle (his favorite rum drink) through a straw, his scruffy mop of hair blowing in the breeze. The limey hadn’t changed a bit, even wore the same beatnik outfit as the last time they’d met. Though he was also in his late twenties, he looked like he could be in a boy band. The two of them made quite an odd pair: the English heartthrob and the bespectacled American nerd—the glitzy Web, the grungy darknet.
Jam’s brother-in-arms sat in the chair across from him, with no offer of his trademark chummy handshake, just a curt nod.
Pike stared at the choppy emerald water for a long moment. “Looks as if a storm is heading our way.”
“The w-weather’s not looking so good, either,” Randall scoffed.
Jeremy Grimes grinned. “That’s a good one, mate.”
“I trust your flight was pleasant?”
“First-class.”
Advantage Pike.
The Associated Press @AP • 1h
Following Senator Barbara Ascher’s lead, 27 more targets surrender to authorities worldwide to escape wrath of @Bounty4Justice.
apne.ws/1vlDcd
# 66.01
@ London, England
“So Grimes was with you the whole time?” Novak asked.
“That’s right,” Burls said. “He was with me outside in the Rover, where we observed the operation, then went back up to the penthouse so he could code the video.”
“Did you confirm that he really submitted that video file to Bounty4Justice?” asked Michaels.
Burls paused for a moment, looking troubled. “No. There was no reason to doubt him. He’s always been top-notch. The best we’ve got.”
“And all you saw was this message on his screen that said, ‘Nice try’?” she asked.
“That’s right. Understand that it was all rather chaotic at that time. We were focused on getting the baron to safety. I didn’t have the wherewithal to ask Jeremy many questions.”
“Then it’s at least possible that he submitted a warning instead of the video,” Novak said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he easily could have alerted Bounty4Justice about what was really happening.”
Burls frowned. “Why would he do that?”
“If he knew you were getting close to breaking through to the website,” Michaels said, “he might have tried to protect it from being compromised. And if we’re correct that he’s somehow involved with the website’s development, it would certainly explain his motive. He might simply have been trying to cover his tracks.”
Burls mulled this over, and Novak tried to read if their suspicions were hitting home.
“It’s a plausible theory,” Burls said, “but do understand that I must hold off on conjecture until I speak with him directly.”
“We need to talk with him as soon as possible,” Novak said. “And it would be best if we do it in person. Can you call him in?”
“It’s not that easy. You se
e, he’s on holiday. Out of the country.”
“How about the laptop he used during the operation?” Michaels said. “Can we analyze it to see what activities he actually performed?”
Burls held up his hands. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? You must understand—”
“Do you at least know where that laptop is?” Michaels insisted.
Burls looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “We have strict rules. During off-hours, all those machines remain in-house.”
# 66.02
Within five minutes, Sarah returned with the laptop she’d fetched from Jeremy’s office. It was a slim Apple MacBook about the same dimensions as the leather-bound folio resting on Novak’s lap.
Burls set it down on his desk and drummed his fingertips on its lid, his lips drawn tight.
“I assure you that whatever we discover, if anything, will remain absolutely confidential,” Novak said.
“That won’t matter, I’m afraid,” Burls replied, unhinging the laptop and turning it toward them. “We’d need the password, and only Jeremy knows it.”
“Try ‘iArchos6I6,’ ” Novak said.
Burls did, albeit reluctantly. “That’s not it.”
Novak slouched a little as a sinking feeling hit his gut—but with genius timing, Walter threw him a lifeline from five time zones away, in the form of a text message that vibrated his BlackBerry:
Novak—
URGENT!!! Please call me ASAP. HUGE NEWS about B4J!
Walter
“Hold on, I think we’ve got something,” he said.
Walter picked up on the second ring.
“Thank God,” Walter said. “Oh, man, you won’t believe what we’ve got here!”
Novak smiled broadly as he listened to what Walter and Connie had stumbled on.
“And we just go right through the chatbot?” Novak clarified, jotting down notes.
“That’s right. Should work the same for you as it did for us,” Walter said.
“This is great, Walter. Really great.”
“I know. Now let’s show this thing who’s boss.”
Novak ended the call, slid his notes across the desk to Burls, and tapped on the string of characters he’d jotted down. “Try this password instead.”
Burls pecked the MacBook’s keyboard, hit ENTER, and grinned. “We’re in.”
They’d found their man.
The Royal Gazette @TheRoyalGazette • 7m
@Bounty4Justice moves exclusively to NcryptoCash, proving once more that what authorities fear, privacy advocates cheer.
fb.me/28Ylmt
# 67.01
@ St. George’s, Bermuda
The two black hats stared at each other like gunslingers at high noon, Randall Scott nipping at his drink, Jeremy Grimes sipping from his straw. Absent the shield of the Atlas-5 secure message board—that ability to edit or censor each reply in advance—the interaction between Jam and Pike had taken on an entirely different dimension, one driven purely by human assessments, each man trying to deconstruct the other, trying to separate truth from fiction. Neither the American nor the Briton was particularly adept at such up close and personal analysis. By nature, each was much more comfortable—skilled—with ones and zeros.
“Look at us,” Jeremy said. “Stuck in the middle of some international conspiracy, complete with bodies piling up. Two computer geeks who’ve gone and knocked the world out of orbit. All this brainpower, yet neither of us knowing who to trust or who to blame. Pretty crazy that two fuckoffs like us could create such chaos, wouldn’t you say, Jam?”
“Sure. It’s one big mind-fuck,” Randall replied sarcastically. “Whatever.”
“Things have gotten a bit ropey as of late. Seems our monster turned out a might bit scarier than we’d ever imagined.”
“I’d say Razorwire is everything we hoped it could be,” Randall replied. “And more.”
“Now that the world has witnessed its capabilities, who knows what one might fetch for it. Perhaps that’s why you stole the codes…to make a spectacle of Razorwire so as to prime it for auction to the highest bidder?”
Randall used his index finger to push his glasses back up on the bridge of his sweaty nose. “How many times do I have to f-f-fucking tell you, fuckwad? I didn’t steal jack shit. We were fucking hacked. How do I know it wasn’t this client of yours who did it…this Firewolf? Or maybe it’s much simpler than that and you just went ahead and gave it to him, along with nearly all the bank account numbers.”
“Have you gone absolutely bonkers? Think it through, mate. He’d be stealing from himself.”
“Or he’d be getting the program and a refund on his seed money. An honest to goodness double cross. Exactly who is he, anyway? Someone inside Trident?”
Trident was their nickname for the three major branches of British intelligence: Government Communications Headquarters, MI5 domestic intelligence, and MI6 foreign intelligence.
Jeremy shook his head, studying Randall intensely. “No, no. Uh-uh. I told you the moment this project began to never ask that question. Tread lightly.”
“I’m already f-fucked. I’d just like to know who’s doing the f-f-fucking. You owe me that. Once word of this gets out, I’ll be public enemy number one. We’re talking about treason here. I refuse to be locked away in a prison cell for the rest of my life. Not for you. Certainly not f-for this damn Firewolf.”
# 67.02
Jeremy sipped his swizzle and studied the American, thinking that Razorwire was, by design, the stuff of nightmares for any enemy upon which it was unleashed. The real monster to be feared, however, was the enigma named Firewolf, who’d bankrolled Razorwire under the full expectation that the technology would be delivered to him, as promised. Jeremy had never actually met the man; the initial contact had been made by his stunning Chinese female envoy, just over three years ago, in Trafalgar Square. Whether Firewolf was some Sun Yee On mob boss or a key figure with direct ties to Beijing, clearly he was a force not to be reckoned with. With the U.S. and British intelligence alliance maintaining supreme dominion over the digital realm—a world order that stifled the ambitions of the East—Firewolf was determined to reset the balance. Tip it, in fact. And Jeremy had agreed to help him, in return for the promise of becoming a fabulously wealthy man. All of their communications had been exchanged via a PGP-encrypted message board similar to Atlas5—which had ceased abruptly on Tuesday, the same day the news broke that authorities had raided a huge money-laundering operation in Ottawa run by an Asian mastermind known only as “Firewolf.”
The endgame was nigh.
“I thought we trusted each other, Randall,” Jeremy said.
Randall fixed him with a long, dismantling stare. “That’s touching, but we’re spies, you and me. I trust no one. We’re not f-friends. I’m simply looking to get paid, same as you.”
Get paid. Having seen how dire the situation had gotten, Jeremy had initiated an ad hoc backup plan to beef up his cash flow last week, when he’d handily killed Baron Andrew Smith in that lift at the Windsor Arms. Sitting there at his laptop that day in the baron’s gourmet kitchen, after submitting an obviously malicious Trojan to Bounty4Justice that the website spotted straight off, he’d used his phone to remotely activate the Web camera he’d discreetly planted along the ceiling panels in the service lift, their usual exit route. Once MI5 had spirited the baron into the lift, he’d used his phone once more to initiate the command sequence that sped the baron’s cardiac defibrillator into overdrive…for real. Later that night, he’d retrieved the encrypted video and uploaded it to Bounty4Justice’s claim-submission in-box. By the next morning, he’d received a simple email response that read:
TARGET: ANDREW SMITH, autocrat, UK
Claim submission date: 10/30/2017
Final bounty: £1,711,123
Selected payment method: NCRYPTOCASH
Dear Claimant:
Congratulations! We have validated your video claim submission. As per section
22 of our user agreement, you have been awarded the final bounty amount listed above. Please allow 24–48 hours for delivery.
Thank you for your patronage.
› CustomerCare@bounty4justice.com
And sure enough, two days later, Bounty4Justice had sent those NcryptoCash certificates to an anonymous Gmail account he’d set up, as promised.
But he’d also need the money that remained here in Bermuda, so he’d have enough to create an entirely new life—a new identity—in some faraway land, beyond the reach of Trident and Firewolf. To make that happen, he’d need Randall to accompany him to Hamilton to cosign in person for the withdrawals. It would take some convincing. But seeing as money was what drove the American, too, maybe it wouldn’t be so bloody hard after all.
Jeremy leaned across the table. “Don’t think for a moment that you can get away with this. They’ll cut us into pieces, Randall. Quite literally. Do you understand? Stop being so daft. I’ve protected you long enough. It’s my neck on the block now. It’s you or me. And I’m looking to keep my head. You think you know what you’re dealing with?” He shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Look, you have done a lot for us…”
# 67.03
You have done a lot for us. Randall thought that was a bit of an understatement. He’d recruited most of Razorwire’s programmers through a simple hack in the NSA’s secure contractor procurement system, reserved for only the most secret protocols. Those deals were so covert that face-to-face interactions never occurred. They were the undisclosed deals, the digital version of the back alley. He was the one who’d tapped freelance talent from all over the globe, each contractor working under the illusion that the U.S. intelligence apparatus was fine-tuning its systems.
Time to skewer the pig.
“Look, Jeremy,” Randall snapped. “I’m through with this bullshit game of you accusing me. Here’s the bottom line. The other day, this jackass cryptographer who sits next to me at work f-found what looked like a p-p-password in an old Gmail message, mixed in with a bunch of cryptobabble. Does ‘iArchos6I6’ sound f-familiar?”
Bounty Page 32