“That’s correct,” said Ian.
“And none too soon,” said Goldfarb. “Cutting it close, are we?”
“We can’t risk another incident,” said Wolfe diplomatically. “Bluffdale is our number-one priority these days. We have a lot invested in the demonstration.”
Bluffdale, Utah, was home to the Utah Data Center, soon to be the world’s largest intelligence collection and storage site, where six months earlier the NSA had installed two hundred Titan supercomputers. It was billed as “a state-of-the-art facility designed to support the intelligence community in its mission to enable and protect national cybersecurity.” In reality the Utah Data Center was a vacuum cleaner designed to suck up as much of the world’s communications traffic as technologically possible. It collected traffic from undersea cables and underground fiber-optic cables, from satellites high in the sky and dishes on firm ground. Its servers were so large that they measured contents not in gigabytes or terabytes or even petabytes. They measured their take in yottabytes, where one yottabyte equaled 500 quintillion (500,000,000,000,000,000,000) pages of text.
It was the Utah Data Center’s primary mission to gather and store all communications traffic generated by the entire world for the next ten years.
“And ours, too,” said Ian. “But that was six months ago, immediately after we took over the project from John Merriweather. As you’ll see, we’ve made some improvements.”
“Frankly, the boys at Oak Ridge are skeptical,” said Goldfarb. “A few of us are more than that.”
“Until yesterday I was doubtful, too. I can promise you that the specs are accurate.”
“Exaflops,” said Goldfarb. “Really?”
Patel chimed in. “It was our team’s primary consideration when we took over management of the project. Speed’s the primary factor when executing algorithmic strategies.”
The strategies Patel referred to involved decrypting encoded messages, or, in the vernacular, “breaking a code.” There was only one reason the NSA wanted the world’s most powerful supercomputer. It was during an initial test that Titan had overheated. A second demonstration was scheduled for the following morning, with many high-ranking government officials set to attend, including the vice president. It would be Titan’s second and final chance.
“I’m sure we’ll be able to judge for ourselves,” said General Wolfe, playing the peacemaker. “So? The test?”
Ian nodded at Patel, who distributed a set of bound notebooks to the NSA men. No one spoke as the government officials studied the detailed results of the prior day’s test. The men finished reading. Their eyes met each other’s, then Ian’s. Ian imagined that Franklin Roosevelt and his advisers must have looked much the same way after Robert Oppenheimer informed them of the successful test of the atomic bomb in May 1945.
“Exaflops,” said Goldfarb.
“Exaflops,” said Ian.
“Exaflops,” said General Wolfe, taking ownership of the word.
“Two hundred degrees Fahrenheit,” said Goldfarb. “Sounds low.”
“Two hundred six, actually,” said Ian. “Then the cooling system kicked in.”
“At which point Titan’s internal temperature decreased to one hundred eighty degrees,” added Patel.
“How?” said Wolfe. “It’s a gosh-darned miracle.”
“Just a little tinkering,” said Ian. “An extra fan here and there.”
“Whatever you did,” said Wolfe, “we want Titan on-site at Fort Meade.”
“I believe that’s another contract,” said Ian.
“Soon you’ll have a monopoly,” said Wolfe. “There won’t be a network in D.C. that doesn’t come from ONE.”
“Maybe one day,” said Ian.
Bob Goldfarb’s skepticism had vanished. His dark eyes sparkled greedily as he placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “How soon can we install it?”
“Dev can work with your people to install the software patch today. If all goes as it should, we can keep to our plan for the demonstration tomorrow morning.”
“That’s cutting it close,” said Wolfe. “You’re sure?”
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
“Tomorrow morning it is.” Wolfe moved to a table at the end of the conference room and poured glasses of sparkling apple cider. Beltway bubbly, he called it as he offered round the glasses.
“To Titan,” said Wolfe.
“To Titan,” the others chimed in.
Ian touched glasses with each man in turn and drank his cider.
—
Afterward Peter Briggs took Ian aside and offered a handshake. “The king is dead,” he whispered. “Long live the king.”
“You mean the Emperor,” said Ian.
35
Mary called Randy Bell at eight on the dot. He answered on the first ring, sounding chipper and alert. So much for her plan of catching him hungover and with his defenses down. Her career as an investigator was not off to a promising start.
“Randy,” she said. “It’s Mary Grant.”
“Gee, Mary, I’m so sorry about Joe. Did you get my message?” Bell had a high, youthful voice. He was in his midfifties, with hair white as snow, but on the phone he sounded like a twenty-year-old.
“E-mail? I haven’t had time to look through them all, but thanks all the same. Sorry if I woke you.”
“It’s nine o’clock,” said Bell. “I’ve been up two hours.”
“In Sacramento?”
“I’m in D.C.” Bell paused, then added, “Just visiting the old crew. Gosh, Mary, I don’t know what to say. I’m crushed. I can’t believe what happened. None of us can. How you holding up?”
She told him that she was fine and that the kids were going to make it through. She took a breath, suddenly nervous, not sure how to begin. “Randy, I know you and Joe were buddies,” she said. “When was the last time you talked?”
“June. Right after the playoffs.”
“How’d he sound?”
“Like Joe. A little crazy ’cause the Celtics lost. But he sounded good.”
“And work? You guys talk shop?”
“I’m retired six months now,” said Bell. “I’m out of the loop.”
“Still, Joe thought a lot of you.”
“He was a good kid.”
That’s twice he’s avoided the question, thought Mary. She walked into Joe’s office. The yellow legal pad was on the desk where she’d left it. She stared at her husband’s writing, at the funny little flags all over the page, wondering how she was supposed to lead Randy Bell subtly to the question of Joe’s trips to San Jose.
“What was that case you two were working—the one he was always going on about, about the Asian syndicate pirating those jet designs?”
“Pricks were hacking into Boeing’s mainframe, downloading designs for the new wing it’s building, and selling them to China.”
“And the other case,” she went on. “You know, the one where you guys were always flying down to San Jose. I forget who Joe said you were seeing.”
Randy Bell didn’t answer.
“Randy…you there?”
“Why are you asking about this?”
“Just trying to tie up some loose ends.”
“What kind of loose ends?”
The cat was officially out of the bag. Mary gave up all effort at pretense. She was no investigator. She was just a wife who wanted to know the true circumstances surrounding her husband’s murder. “Sixteen trips. That’s how many times Joe went to San Jose without telling me. You guys were partners for at least eight of those. He kept flying out there even after we moved. I’m guessing that’s why we came to Austin, so he could continue to work that case, only from out here. I’m guessing that’s what got him killed.”
“I can’t talk about this, Mary.”
“There’s something fishy about the explanation of Joe’s death. It isn’t right.”
“Did you hear me? I can’t discuss this.”
“Come on, Randy. We’re talking about Joe. You were like an older brother. Can you see him getting into a car with an armed informant? Can you?”
“Mary, please—”
“They’re painting it like it was his fault. But it wasn’t. Joe knew he was in trouble. He was scared. A scared man doesn’t get into a car with someone whom he believes might want to hurt him.”
“Mary, stop. How do you know he was scared?”
“He called me before he was killed. I didn’t speak with him, but he left me a message. He knew something was wrong. He told me to find someone named Sid. Do you know who that is?”
“No. Can’t say I do.”
“What about a Judge Angelo Caruso? Travis County Superior Court?”
“Where are you getting this stuff? Last I looked, Joe’s casework was confidential.”
Mary shook her head, staring at the notepad, running a pen over the silly blue flags. One more stonewall. She wondered if Don Bennett had gotten to Randy, too. “Sure you don’t know someone named Sid?” she asked again. “Joe said he was one of the good guys.”
“Please, Mary. Stop asking these questions.”
Mary stared at the little flags that Joe had drawn all over the page. It dawned on her what they were. Of course. It was obvious.
“Semaphore,” she blurted.
“What did you say?”
“Semaphore. Why?”
“Shut up, Mary.”
“Excuse me? Did you tell me to shut up? Randy…are you there?”
“I’m here. Whatever you do, don’t say that word again.”
“What word?”
“Never. Do you hear me? Goodbye now.”
“Randy?” she said, but the connection had ended.
She called back and the phone went to message. “Randy. What did you mean about not saying that word? What word? Semaphore?”
36
“She’s in danger,” said Randy Bell. “We need to pull her in.”
“And do what with her?” said Dylan Walsh, chief of the FBI’s Cyber Investigations Division. “Shall I put her up at my place? And the girls, too?”
“Maybe Keefe can help.”
“He’s on the bricks for three days. Can’t come near the office until he visits the company shrink.”
“We’ve got to do something,” Bell argued. “Between Mason and Prince, she won’t last a minute.”
“Calm down,” said Walsh sternly. He was tall and handsome and sturdy, forty-two years of age, a graduate of Carnegie Mellon with an advanced degree in computer science. Dressed in a dapper blue suit, his brown hair combed perfectly, he was an exemplar of the new FBI. “I understand your concern, and I appreciate your loyalty to Joe’s family. I don’t want anything to happen to Mary any more than you do. But we need to look at all the pieces here.”
Bell nodded a grudging agreement. “You’re the boss.”
Walsh patted Bell on the shoulder. “All right, then. Run this by me one more time.”
“She said it: ‘Semaphore.’ Just like that—out of the blue. It’s not exactly a word used in everyday conversation.”
“You have a point there.”
Dylan Walsh ran a hand across the back of his neck as he paced his office on the fifth floor of FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C. Semaphore had been a small operation to begin with. Just four fulltime agents, including himself. The number was limited by necessity. You didn’t raise a red flag when you wanted to investigate the man who had hacked into the Bureau’s mainframe. Not when that man was Ian Prince. That went double when your biggest rival in the organization was in Prince’s back pocket.
The Cyber Investigations Division had been formed five years earlier to help combat threats to national security through computer strikes, namely illegal attempts at intrusions—hacks—into mainframes belonging to the government and private enterprise. To that end, Walsh oversaw his team’s cooperation with all members of the U.S. intelligence community (CIA, NSA, Homeland Security, and so on), as well as state and local law enforcement agencies. In those five years, a ten-man “fire team” had grown into one hundred dedicated agents, nearly all with master’s degrees in computer science, tasked with stopping computer and network intrusions, identity theft, and Internet crime.
Inside the Bureau, the Cyber Investigations Division went by the moniker CID, pronounced “Sid,” to differentiate it from the standard CID, the Criminal Investigative Division.
“Still,” Walsh went on. “Her saying it doesn’t mean anything of itself.”
“She knows Don Bennett is covering something up. That’s enough. I know her, Dylan. She won’t give up until she finds out the truth about her husband’s death.”
“I wouldn’t either.”
Bell sipped from a mug of coffee. “Any word from Mason?”
“Flew down there yesterday to oversee matters. A show of the Bureau’s concern for one of our own.”
“As if.”
“Ed Mason keeps peddling the same moonshine. He believes that if anything bad happens to ONE, or to Ian Prince and that supercomputer of his, it’ll jeopardize the NSA’s ability to do their job. Our job isn’t to stop the bad guys from snooping on our computers only to let Mason and the Emperor do it at their will.”
“Don’t know about that,” said Bell. “I do know that if we believe Mary Grant’s going to keep looking, then so does Ian Prince.”
“Exactly,” said Walsh, walking to the window and looking out across the Mall at the Washington Monument and the Smithsonian Building. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
37
“I can’t just stay here,” said Jessie, standing with her mother in the kitchen. “It’s depressing. I missed class yesterday. I can’t miss again today.”
“You need to be here with your sister.”
“Grace is fine. She can go over to the Kramers’ and play.”
“Jess, please.” Her mother’s face hardened, her lips tightening over her teeth. “Not today.”
“But…” Jessie tried to act like Grace. She held her arms at her side and didn’t slouch. It was harder keeping her voice all upbeat and chirpy. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll stay if you need me.”
“Thanks, sweetie. That’s nice of you. I appreciate it.” Mary tilted her head. Her mouth softened, and a weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. “Come to think of it, Grace will be fine.”
“Sure? I don’t have to go.”
Mary smiled and checked her watch. “Class starts at eleven, right?”
“Eleven to one. But I can hang around afterward.” Jessie winced at her choice of words. Parents thought “hanging around” meant looking to score weed or commit a jailable offense. “I mean, I can stay and talk to the teacher. He’s wicked smart.”
“Professor Gritsch?”
“No, the TA, Linus. He teaches the class.”
“Linus? Don’t hear that one much. Like Linus and Charlie Brown.”
“Yeah,” said Jessie agreeably, all singsongy like Grace. “Like that.” Her mom looked at her, and she thought she’d gone too far. But then her mom picked up her car keys.
“You ready?”
Jessie nodded, trying hard not to appear too excited. “Good to go,” she said. It was one of her dad’s expressions from when he was in the army or Marine Corps or whatever.
“I’ll tell Grace.” Mary stopped when she was nearly out of the kitchen. “Jess?”
“Yeah, Mom?” Here it comes, thought Jessie, her heart sinking. She’s going to change her mind.
“Do you think you could stay at school until two? It’s pretty far for me to drive there and back, and I have some errands.”
Jessie forced herself to count to three before answering. “I guess that might work.”
“Good. I won’t be a minute later than that.”
—
The classroom was full when Jessie arrived. She slid her pack off her shoulder and scooted through the aisle to her seat. She felt all eyes on her. She wasn’t just the youngest st
udent in the class, but also the only girl. Most of the others were a bunch of rejects or kissy-ups headed straight for Redmond. Except for Garrett. She saw him out of the corner of her eye. He was almost cute, if you liked the Abercrombie type—straight blond hair hanging in his eyes, tall, always smiling and talking to everyone. She noted that he was wearing a Mumford & Sons shirt. Dork.
Linus, the TA, walked into the room, carrying a coffee. Technically he was Dr. Jankowski, but he told everyone to call him by his first name. He was short and had a beard and wasn’t cool at all. Still, the class shut up the second he walked in.
“So, you guys,” said Linus, dumping his satchel onto the table. “Before we get started, Mr. Clark wanted to say something. Go ahead, Garrett.”
Jessie kept her eyes on her desk, only partially seeing him stand out of the corner of her eye.
“Umm…yeah,” said Garrett. “Jessie, we know this is a hard time for you. We all wanted to say we’re really sorry about your dad. We think you’re pretty awesome just for being in here in the first place. You’re, like, fourteen. It’s amazing. And you’re really brave to come back to school so fast. So, anyway, um…hang in there. It’ll get better.”
Jessie tried to say thanks, and that actually she was fifteen, but the words caught in her throat. She didn’t dare look at the others. She couldn’t or she’d cry. A few people offered condolences. She nodded and kept her eyes on the desk. Mostly she could feel Garrett staring at her. He probably hated her Zeppelin T-shirt as much as she hated his Mumford & Sons.
Linus announced that the topic for today was breaking encryption algorithms. He lectured for ninety minutes, filling up all the whiteboards with code. At 12:45 he dropped his marker on the desk. “For the last fifteen minutes we’re going to have a test. No, not a test—let’s call it a race. We’re going to see who can figure out a cool hack the fastest. Or, I should probably say, whether anyone can figure it out at all.”
Linus explained the rules as he wrote the challenge on the whiteboard. “Root the box with admin privileges and capture the flag. Simple enough. Winner gets a Heineken. You guys have fifteen minutes. Go.”
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