“Bounty4Justice,” Novak said.
The sniper turned the faucet to fill the coffeepot. “I figured as much. I recognize both of you from the news. They’re saying you shut the killing machine down. What was the final head count?”
“Well, if you’re talking about how many bounties were awarded, that would be twenty-nine here in the U.S.,” Michaels said. “Another fifty-two in Europe and Asia.”
“Damn. Impressive.” He strode over and eased into an armchair facing them.
“There were nearly five hundred active profiles before the website stopped targeting people,” Michaels said. “Could’ve been a lot worse. But let’s not forget that plenty of innocent people were also killed along the way.”
Farrell nodded. “So what does all that have to do with me?”
“Chase Lombardi,” Novak said, flat out.
Farrell remained impassive.
Novak said, “David Furlong’s license was run by D.C. Metro during a minor accident the day Lombardi was shot, even though he’d been at a gun range in Virginia at that time. The officers could only tell us that the driver looked like the picture on his license: Caucasian male with his hair cut ‘like a jarhead.’ Their words, not mine. The clerk at the Avis car rental agency told us the same story, but by the time we got there, the security videos taken that day had been recorded over. So we had Quantico run a list of former military sharpshooters capable of a half-mile head shot.” Novak looked over to Michaels.
“We used a ten-year window,” she said, “and filtered for Caucasian males. Still a fairly long list. Until Randall Scott and Jeremy Grimes were killed in Bermuda by bullets with ballistic markings matching the bullet that killed Chase Lombardi. Same weapon killed all three men. As it turns out, a local who’d been fishing on the pier when the shooting took place had spotted a man in scuba gear out on Hen Island, right near where he thought he’d heard the shots fired. The diver had disappeared into the water, carrying a long dive bag. The police found flattened bushes along the island’s shoreline in a position that perfectly aligned with the trajectory of the slugs pulled from the wall of the Seadog Pub. We wondered how many of our Caucasian male sharpshooters over the past ten years had gotten scuba certified. It came down to three.”
Farrell continued to listen attentively.
Novak resumed the narrative: “Then we looked at bank accounts, since snipers generally don’t kill people simply for sport. And that’s when we discovered that one of our three suspects had recently opened an account not far from here, over in Lake City, into which large wire transfers had been made from an account in Zurich that had no clear ownership. In that account was one rather large deposit that exactly matched the bounty sum paid out on Chase Lombardi, and it had been wired from Archer Offsite Systems, a company in Bermuda registered to Randall Scott and Jeremy Grimes. We also noted steady monthly deposits made to that account in Zurich, going back nearly four years. Turns out, those deposits are being made by the top office of the U.S. Intelligence Community.”
Farrell seemed perfectly relaxed. Novak imagined it took a lot to unnerve a man whose service record reflected 148 official kills during six years of active duty with the Navy SEALs. As a top secret hired gun for the ODNI for the past few years—a lone operator who took on the most harrowing jobs, the sort that necessitated zero accountability—Jonathan Farrell had likely terminated Lord only knew how many more lives to protect American interests.
“Supposing all this was true,” Farrell noted in a level tone, “I’d probably say something like ‘I certainly can’t vouch for secret accounts in Zurich and who puts money in them.’ Then maybe I’d point out that certain contractors receive payments for services that they’re not at liberty to discuss and that inquiries pertaining to national security would need to be directed to Washington. And that makes me wonder why we’re even having this discussion.”
“John, we know you report directly to the Office of the Director of National Intelligence,” Michaels said, point-blank. “And those orders to kill Lombardi, Scott, and Grimes all came to you the way your orders typically do: on a secure satellite connection. You were only doing your job, like you always have. And it’s that loyalty and sacrifice that keeps America safe,” she said without irony. “I served in Afghanistan, too. So I respect that more than most.”
Farrell shifted ever so slightly in his chair, his gaze hardening.
“Problem is, you’ve been had, my friend,” Novak said. “Used. Not unlike the rest of us. Your phone has been compromised—hacked, actually. Along with a lot of other assets that fall under the purview of the intelligence community. Any orders you received over the past few weeks did not actually come from the ODNI. They came from the person who masterminded Bounty4Justice…this woman you’ve been hearing about in the news who calls herself Rhea. She needed professionals to start the killing, to ensure a lot of attention, fast. She needed people like you.” Since Josh Tierney wasn’t at liberty to disclose the NSA intercepts detailing the actual directives Rhea had sent to Farrell, Novak had only been able to work backward from the outcomes. Judging from Farrell’s subtle tells, those deductions looked to be spot-on.
“My phone is encrypted,” Farrell replied. “Big-time. So I’d say that’s impossible.”
“The NSA confirmed it,” Novak said. “And they’re pretty good at this sort of thing. They traced those text messages you sent to Chase Lombardi. No matter how secure your communications may seem, the NSA inevitably holds the decryption keys that unscramble all of it. They don’t guess. They just cheat. You know that.”
“Coffee’s just about ready.” Farrell stood and made his way to the kitchen.
Novak looked to Michaels for a read. She shrugged.
Mugs distributed, Farrell sat again, cupping his hands around his coffee, looking conflicted, saying nothing.
“Look, John,” Novak said. “The NSA and British intelligence are already under fire. It’s a public relations nightmare. No one is looking to drag another intelligence agency through the muck. We’ve got enough conspiracy to deal with as it is.”
After a long pause, Farrell asked, “So you’ve come all this way to tell me to get a new phone?”
Novak smiled. “That, and we also hoped you might be able to help us.”
“Really,” Farrell said dubiously. “In what way?”
Novak opened his folio and handed Farrell a sampling of the Atlas-5 screenshots Josh Tierney had sent him, then explained how Scott and Grimes had clandestinely communicated under the screen handles JAM and PIKE.
“In those exchanges,” Novak said, “I’ve highlighted references to someone named Firewolf. That same code name is also associated with the man behind the massive money-laundering operation we shut down in Canada that was unknowingly fulfilling Bounty4Justice’s cash bounties. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
“I have.”
“During that raid,” Michaels added, “we arrested one of Firewolf’s bookkeepers, who helped us map the operation’s finances to accounts in Shenzhen, China. Those same accounts wired funds to Scott and Grimes in Bermuda, which they presumably then used to build Razorwire. Those accounts are also associated with a manufacturing concern in Shenzhen named Chongxin Shenme, which is a front for stealing U.S. trade secrets. We’re talking espionage on a grand scale. And I don’t mean just pirating golf clubs and handbags.”
Novak added, “Bounty4Justice’s scales of justice pins were manufactured by Chongxin Shenme.” That connection had been overlooked until Tierney’s intercepts connected the dots. In reviewing the events as they’d unfolded throughout the investigation, Novak realized just how cleverly Rhea had been playing him at every turn. “These pins, the cash procurements…all of it was intended to lead the FBI straight to Firewolf’s doorstep.”
“Hold on. Exactly who is this Rhea, anyway?” Farrell asked.
Novak smiled. On paper, Rhea simply didn’t exist. She’d used a burner phone, prepaid with cash. All of her income was collected
in NcryptoCash. With multiple aliases and no Social Security number or birth date or valid address for the FBI to go by, she could officially be labeled a ghost…had he not met her in the flesh at the onset of the investigation. “We’re still trying to establish her true identity. But we’re close.”
Farrell studied the pages some more, then said, “And you’re saying that all along she’s been using Bounty4Justice to set up this Chinese character named Firewolf?”
Novak nodded. “She set up Firewolf, Grimes, and Scott. A trifecta. And some intelligence people overseas, too.”
“And you,” Michaels reminded Farrell.
“Problem is,” Novak said, “she has most everyone believing she’s some kind of freedom fighter hacktivist who’s out to right all the wrongs in the world. But I’m thinking that she doesn’t give a shit about justice or freedom. I think she’s a psychopath with a major God complex. And she’s an expert at manipulation.”
“Then what’s her objective?” Farrell asked.
“Rhea wants to own the Web, lock, stock, and barrel,” replied Novak. “She’s not looking to secure it. She’s looking to tear down all its defenses, using Nexus and everyone else to help her do it, so that eventually she’ll hold all the keys to the kingdom. To achieve that goal, she’ll need to eliminate her competitors, like Firewolf. And she’s just getting warmed up.”
“Seriously, you’re kidding, right?” Farrell grinned. “Own the Internet? You really think that’s possible?”
“I’m not about to wait around long enough to find out,” Novak replied. “She’s already come a long way. She’s proved to be smart and ruthless, and she’s already got her hacker fan boys breaking down our entire arsenal of cyber safeguards and tools, which she’s pegged as threats to freedom. That we can debate. But not if she’s in charge, dictating what’s secure and what’s not. So it’s critical that we track her down before she does more damage. I’m sure Firewolf isn’t very happy about what she’s done to him, so I suspect he’ll be out there looking for her, too. For obvious reasons, I think we’d all agree that it would be best if we get to her first. I’ve got some ideas about our Rhea, but we’ve got our work cut out for us. And we won’t make it far without the help of a specialist who can operate outside the normal framework, if you know what I mean. Bottom line is, we need a hunter.”
Farrell nodded thoughtfully. He turned away from them and stared long and hard at the bright flames dancing behind the stove’s glass door, then finally asked, “How much are you paying?”
Michaels smiled. “Come on, John…can you really put a price on freedom?”
“I reckon not,” he said, smiling back. “When do we start?”
PRIZE PAYOUT NOTIFICATION
TARGET: CHATTER.WORM, packet transmission exploit (NSA, USA)
FINAL BOUNTY: $1,385,805
VIEW PROOF OF CLAIM (coding patch) @
http://www.bounty4justice.com/CHATTER.WORM
# 79.01
@ Grand Cayman Island
15:33:14 EST
With his toes buried in the warm sand and an icy mojito in his hand, Josh Tierney was feeling relaxed for the first time in a good long while. Looking out at the blue sky and the emerald ocean calmed the swirl of other colors that had been muddling up his thoughts. And his brain certainly needed a reboot, because there’d be plenty of thinking to do once he got back to the office. The NSA had been in code red ever since its cyberarms catalog—its arsenal of exploit algorithms—began posting slow and steady to Bounty4Justice, which was still lurking undetected in the uncharted depths of the darknet, now morphed into its second incarnation.
Whoever was behind all of it was being hailed by the hacker community and freedom advocates as some kind of Robin Hood—or, more appropriately, Robin Hoodess. It was a chick, after all, who had turned the world inside out. Go figure. She still hadn’t been identified, so they just kept referring to her by the code name Rhea. And the co-conspirators Randall Scott and Jeremy Grimes were to be forever immortalized in the pop culture pantheon as “Scrimes,” alongside Brangelina and Bennifer and TomKat. Crazy to think that that stuttering dweeb—that savant go-to man for NSA’s senior management who’d been granted the highest systems clearances and privileges—had been sitting next to him the whole time, ransacking the world’s most preeminent intelligence agency, poaching algorithms and exploiting the weakest vulnerability of all: trust. Good old social engineering—the surefire back door that no firewall could ever patch. Yet misplaced trust had also led to Randall’s downfall in a most poetic double cross.
Josh’s small victory was bittersweet. Sure, he’d helped the authorities find the servers hosting Bounty4Justice, which had inevitably forced the website to stop targeting human marks for assassination. Not that he viewed it as some noble deed, seeing as mostly every target on that website was a sleaze or scumbag who pretty much deserved what they’d gotten.
But a deal is a deal. So the NSA and his boss still made good on their end of the bargain and sent him off to Grand Cayman, all expenses paid, with fifty grand in spending money.
Behind Josh, the sliding door on the veranda opened and closed, and his plus-one sashayed over in a white bikini top and floral sarong, her jet-black hair pulled back to flaunt her graceful neck. Man, did she have a slammin’ body. Normally, she sure wasn’t one to show it off—one of her better qualities, he thought—with those retro-grunge outfits of hers. Trying to figure out some way to get her to share her body, however, had so far proved to be his next ultimate puzzle. Ever since he’d met her at DEF CON, a couple years ago, he’d been working every angle he could. Still, she’d managed to give him the slip every time. She was nothing like any other woman he’d ever met. Smokin’ hot and brilliant and cool? Like some comic book seductress brought to life. He had high hopes that this trip might tip the scales in his direction.
“Beautiful day,” she said, unwrapping her sarong. She knelt in front of his beach chair with her back facing him. “Can you get my shoulders?” She handed him a tube of sunscreen.
“Sure.” He set his drink beside his laptop on the table and sat up beside her.
“Do you ever take this thing off?” he said, tapping the custom headset wrapped over her left ear. “You don’t have to be Borg all the time, you know.”
“Sorry,” Christine said. “You’re right.” She plucked the headset off her ear, neatly folded the monocular lens, and tucked it into her beach bag. “Just been really busy lately.”
“You going to make me one of those?” he asked, squeezing a dollop of lotion onto his palm. “I can even pay you, you know, being that I just came into a lot of dinero.”
“It’s not for sale,” she said playfully.
He smoothed the lotion over the silky white skin of her shoulders, and his libido responded as if he’d touched a live wire. “You should give Google or Apple a call. I’m telling you, they’d buy that design in a heartbeat, and you’d be a billionaire.”
“It’s not about the money,” she said.
“Seriously?” he jested. “Come on, you mean to tell me you’d turn down that kind of coin?”
“Not everything’s about money, jackass. Make sure you get my tattoo.”
He slathered extra lotion on the wicked ink on the back of her left shoulder. It depicted some Greek goddess in a toga sitting on a throne with a loop in one hand, an orb in the other, and two lions at her feet. He’d once asked her what it meant, but she’d given him some blow-off explanation, even though he’d known it had some deep significance. That aloofness was another quality that inextricably drew him to her.
“I’m just saying,” he added. “Everybody has their price.”
“Look at your buddy Randall,” she scoffed. “See what greed bought him?”
“Okay. I guess he’s a bad example,” Josh admitted. Christine had known Randall well, too. Same with that British dude Jeremy, who’d also gotten his head blown off in Bermuda. Josh had always thought that guy was a pretty-boy poser douche
bag, because for months after they’d all first met at DEF CON, he’d tried to hook up with Christine. Kept sending her emails and was pretty much cyberstalking her. But she was the master of her domain and never let him in. “I mean, I won this trip. Is that greedy?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“Sorry.” He finished rubbing lotion on her lower back, and some graphically impure thoughts started reeling through his mind. “All set,” he said, capping the tube and giving his fantasies a cold shower.
She stood, put her hands on the shapely curves of her hips, and looked out to the water. Then she slung her beach bag over her shoulder, turned to him, and said, “Let’s take a walk.”
“Okay.” He stood and grabbed his mojito, feeling a bit woozy. He’d started drinking four hours ago, and the potent Caribbean rum was doing a number on him. He was looking forward to a nap before they headed out for dinner that evening.
“You think it’s smart to leave your laptop sitting here on the beach?” she said, glancing back at the table.
“Eh.” He shrugged and tossed his towel over it. “Nobody’ll see it. Besides, it’s encrypted.”
A wicked smile broke across her face. “Silly me. Of course it is.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
By their very nature, intelligence agencies are not forthright about the true extent or intent of their capabilities. Though I’ve taken liberties with my portrayal of NSA and GCHQ, the ongoing revelations brought forth by Edward Snowden (theguardian.com/us-news/the-nsa-files) have let us peer behind the surveillance firewall to see how our online identities—from phone calls to browsing histories—have become digital DNA, mapped and coded and stored away in massive data centers like the behemoth in Utah.
Razorwire is a fictional cyberweapon that bundles a number of NSA signal intelligence capabilities—DNS sinkholes, network kill switches, encryption bypasses, and more. I’ve underplayed the danger of an intelligence asset such as Jonathan Farrell dutifully following Razorwire’s phantom directives, only to discover that he’s been manipulated by an anonymous puppeteer. Similarly, it’s no big stretch to imagine a top-level cyber tech bamboozling both boss and bureaucracy to rob an intelligence agency blind, nor a fiendishly clever hacker who can outsmart even the best cyber experts in both the virtual and real worlds. People, not hardware and software, are the Internet’s most vulnerable access points.
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