by Leslie Wolfe
“Since my last report, the count of incidents climbed to sixty-two total,” she finally heard herself say, in a relatively confident voice.
“Since when?”
“I’ve gone back eighteen months, but their frequency has increased over time.”
“What do you mean?”
“There were only seven incidents in the first six months I looked at. Then in the following six months, the count jumped to nineteen. And the most recent six months had forty-three incidents, more unevenly distributed from a geographical perspective, and more aggressive each month.”
“Any geographical prevalence?”
“N–no, not really, not overall, anyway. While the incidents remain relatively evenly distributed on the map over the entire eighteen months, the past six months showed more North American occurrences, and their severity has increased on average.”
“How do you measure that?” Seiden asked.
“I classified all incidents in one of three categories. They can be near-routine incidents, such as flight intercepts, interference with normal civilian operations, or incursions into our Air Defense Identification Zone. Then they could be serious incidents with escalation risk, such as the Russian aircraft that approached the Danish island of Bornholm in what appeared to be an attack, then broke off at the last minute. Finally, they could be high-risk incidents, such as the Russian submarine incursion into Swedish territorial waters, or the Alaska missile lock incident last month.”
“And how do they break out by severity, the incident counts?”
She opened the brief to make sure her memory didn’t fail her at the wrong moment.
“Umm . . . there were fourteen high-risk incidents, twenty-one serious with escalation risk, and twenty-seven near-routine incidents.” She pushed the brief over the desk, so the director could read the numbers from the table.
He looked at the page for a few seconds, then deepened his frown.
“But that’s not it, sir,” she added, pulling the brief from under his hand. “This is what’s more interesting,” she said, flipping a couple of pages and showing Seiden an image of the world map with colorful pins on it. “I’ve colored the oldest incidents blue, the six-to-twelve months old in purple, and the most recent ones in red. What do you see?”
Seiden looked at her for a second, surprised by her unusual question. She wanted to kick herself . . . it was unprofessional, rude even to question a high-ranking executive as if he was a child.
Before she could figure out if she should apologize or just fix her blunder, he answered.
“Yes, that is interesting. The red dots are mostly near our borders, with just a couple elsewhere, just enough to keep things confusing. So what are you saying?”
“I am saying things are definitely escalating. The same worrisome distribution remains true from the incident severity point of view, where we see the high-risk incidents clustering more and more near our borders, near NORAD space.”
Seiden remained silent for a minute, staring pensively at the colorful map that spelled trouble.
“We need to inform USNORTHCOM about this. Let’s talk threat scenarios,” he said, rubbing his forehead forcefully.
“In my previous report, I was listing three possible threat scenarios. The most plausible at first sight is that they’re testing our response. The second one is that they’re keeping the world busy while they’re preparing a nuclear strike and the commencement of World War III. Finally, the third, and least plausible considering President Abramovich’s psychology, is that they’re provoking us, our allies, so we end up being the ones who push one button or another and start World War III.”
“Why do you think the third scenario is not that plausible?” Seiden asked.
“Abramovich, well, he’s a pure sociopath on a mission of revenge over Crimea and what he perceives as a colossal offense brought to Russia by the West, by America. This particular psychology is incompatible with caring what the world has to say about who started the war. He wouldn’t care . . . he doesn’t.” Henri stopped for a few seconds, collecting her thoughts, to make sure she wasn’t omitting anything. “He is actively working to restore Russia to its pre-glasnost position of power,” she continued. “But I don’t think that his strategy is contradicting either of the first two scenarios.”
Seiden took a sip from a bottle of sparkling water, then took his time to screw the cap back on.
“If you were to pick one of these scenarios to prepare response strategies for, which one would you choose?” Seiden asked, suddenly looking at her with focused, intent eyes. “Do you maintain your former assessment, does the nuclear scenario still seem more plausible to you?”
“Y–yes,” she responded, not blinking under the director’s scrutinizing gaze, just letting a split moment of hesitation show.
“Why hesitate? What’s on your mind?”
“Well, sir, you might think I’m crazy,” she blurted out, “but even the nuclear scenario seems too clean, too easy for Abramovich at this time.”
“Too easy? How the hell can nuclear war be too easy?” Seiden said, letting his voice reflect his frustration. He stood and started pacing the room.
A little flustered by his unusually emotional response, Henri tried to formulate an answer that could make sense to other people, not just in her own mind.
“You assigned a task force under my command, sir,” she explained. “I’ve engaged the team in several areas. I had an analyst focus on Russian uranium ore extraction and potential arsenal build-ups. Another one was tasked to monitor Russian ICBM sites and any related activities. The field operative you deployed came back with preliminary findings into the research facility being built near Moscow—it’s gonna be a huge data processing center, storing massive amounts of data and a basement full of computing capabilities, 350,000 square feet. Finally, I had a senior analyst look into the military training, simulation exercises, and readiness.”
“And?” Seiden asked impatiently.
“Well, their activities sort of line up, more like they line up with two different strategies. One,” she held up one finger, “they are most definitely getting ready to engage data in a new, unprecedented way. That could mean cyber warfare or increased foreign intelligence activities. Two,” Henri’s second finger went up, “if they’re looking at more traditional warfare, including nuclear, they are definitely getting ready, but not in a massive way.”
“What are you trying to say, Henri?” Seiden made a visible effort to calm down and took a seat back in his leather chair.
“We need to get back to Abramovich’s psychology and state of mind to understand this,” Henri said almost apologetically. He nodded, and she continued, “OK, we’ve established Abramovich is a pure narcissistic sociopath who will stop at nothing. Correct?”
Seiden nodded again.
“But what does that mean? What does it feel like to be Abramovich and to have the world tell you what you can and cannot do and insult you all over the news channels for Crimea, for the ethics of your policy, and so on?”
Seiden silently encouraged her to continue, intrigued by her approach to the point where his frown almost disappeared.
“He’s in pain, sir, that’s what that means,” she said, gesturing with her hands to underline the simplicity of this fact. “He’s in immense, excruciating psychological pain, and has been ever since Crimea. He’s lost so much because of what the world thought of his actions in Crimea—cash flow, the respect of other world leaders, the intoxicating devotion of his oligarchs. He’s hurting so badly he can’t think of anything else but how to make us all pay for it, painfully, slowly, indefinitely, and beyond repair. From his perspective, we are torturing him and he’s dying to get even and then some. In his mind, he’s screaming, How could you do this to me?”
“What are you trying to tell me, Henri?” Seiden asked again, his voice only slightly stronger than a whisper.
She hesitated a little, then said, “Dropping a few nukes on us would be
too easy in his mind. We’d just retaliate; millions would die on both sides of this war. He needs much more than that . . . he needs us helpless at his mercy, begging for his help. This is the only scenario that would heal Abramovich’s pain and restore his blemished image of greatness, as he perceives it.”
“What would do that?” Seiden asked quietly.
“I don’t know . . . not yet.”
“So all this is just a hunch?” Seiden’s irritation was seeping back in his voice.
“No, sir, this is the result of my analysis. I still think the Russians are preparing for some kind of a nuclear attack. I just don’t think it will be anything like a traditional war. I’m not seeing them pick an American city or a military target and just strike. It would be too clean, too easy and painless by his standards. I strongly believe they’re trying to keep us busy while they’re prepping some terrorist-type incursion in our space, with a nuclear threat on the agenda.”
Seiden loosened his tie a little more, while his deep frown reappeared.
“Find out what that is, Henri, find out now. Get all your people on it, and get more people if you need them.” Seiden stood and looked outside at the sun-lit cityscape. “This incredible scenario of yours makes sense; it fits. We need to brief the president.”
...39
...Thursday, May 12, 9:18AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Walcott Global Technologies Headquarters
...Norfolk, Virginia
After shaking Mason’s hand warmly, Sam Russell sat quietly for a few seconds, and Mason didn’t disrupt the silence either.
Sam absorbed the visual details in Mason’s office. The office had stayed the same, unchanged, over the entire time he’d been consulting for Mason. It had barren walls, no artwork, no plants, and no décor whatsoever. It was a practical, cold, impersonal, almost monastic space, furnished with efficiency in mind.
He looked at Mason and had to repress a smile. They must look really funny, the two of them. Both had shaved heads, wrinkled foreheads, and had preserved their athletic builds. Both were wounded warriors of a bygone era. Sam’s CIA days were just fond memories now, and so were Mason’s Secret Service days. Oh well. . . time does fly. Yet both of them still had a lot of fight in them, still had a lot to offer.
They went back a long way, the two of them. Sam always chuckled when he remembered how the two of them had met. Sam had been invited to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner in reward for forging one of the most enduring alliances between the CIA and MOSSAD. The alliance between the two agencies, initially based on the friendship between two intelligence field agents, had evolved beyond Sam’s wildest dreams when his old MOSSAD friend took the reins of the Israeli government as prime minister. That course of events had brought him the invitation to attend the correspondents’ dinner.
Sam had never been a guest at the White House before and was a little uneasy about the whole thing, not really knowing anyone there, not sure where he could and couldn’t go. No wonder he took the wrong turn at some point and entered the wrong men’s room, one that was not open for guest access. Oblivious to his error, he had proceeded to the nearest urinal, pressed by an urgent need to relieve the pressure on his bladder.
In that very personal moment, he had felt a firm hand on his shoulder. A Secret Service agent escorted him out, barely giving him the time to zip his pants, and pointed him in the direction of the guest men’s room. That agent was Mason Armstrong, and, over the years, their unusual encounter led to a strong friendship. After Sam had retired from the CIA, Mason had extended him a consulting contract with Walcott, engaging him whenever the business needs required it.
Sam decided to open the conversation.
“This can’t be easy, Mason; how are you holding up?” Sam asked.
“I’m fine, it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s everything else. Our CEO and SecNav want this entire issue contained and the case closed ASAP.”
Mason stretched his left leg to the side of his desk.
“That’s tight,” Sam said. “In all the years we’ve been working together I haven’t seen such an ugly one. What does SecNav say?”
“He’s livid, and that was to be expected. He calls me three times a day, and I’m sure he’s calling the directors of the FBI and NCIS just as often. It’s our best weapons technology, so new we haven’t even deployed it on our fleet yet, and it could have been compromised already. He’s pressing us for a sitrep within forty-eight hours, and twenty-four are already gone.”
“What does the FBI say, or NCIS?” Sam asked quietly.
Mason rubbed his forehead for a few seconds before answering.
“You’re not gonna believe this, Sam. The federal agents deployed on this case were involved in a traffic collision with a tractor-trailer, and now they’re both in the hospital, fighting for their lives. They’re deploying someone else now.”
“Coincidence? Or not?” Sam probed.
“I think it’s too early to be anything else but a coincidence. But we’ve lost a day, nevertheless. And a day can make or break a case like this, you know that.”
Sam nodded, regretting he couldn’t light up in that office. Smoking cleared his mind, and somehow increased his perceptive skills. He’d just have to wait.
“Let’s go through the facts, Mason. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Mason picked up a document enclosed in a transparent envelope, and pushed it toward Sam.
“Our fleet guy found this when he detailed the corporate van.”
Sam whistled in amazement. “Unauthorized copy, huh?”
Mason nodded, while his eyebrows came together in a frown.
“You know,” Sam said, “there’s no logical reason to assume that this document was the entire breach. You know that, right?”
Mason nodded again.
“Most likely they copied the entire file, and only lost the first page, the cover page,” Sam continued.
“The entire file, or more files,” Mason added grimly.
“Yes, there could be more.”
Sam examined the document through the transparent envelope in detail.
“How or where the hell did they make the copy?”
“IT is looking into the usage logs for all the copiers in the building, and cross-referencing those logs with all authorized copies that were made in the past two weeks. We have an internal team on that. But it will take a while. We have seventy-eight copiers and forty-three fax machines, all digital and requiring access codes.”
“OK. Let’s change direction, then. Who used the van, do we know? Any video?”
“No, no video, but we do know who used the van between the previous detailing and the moment the document was found.”
“OK, let’s work that list,” Sam said, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Go,” he invited Mason.
“There was one senior executive returning from a business trip, it was an airport pickup,” Mason said, looking at his notes.
“I think we could safely eliminate any inbound pickups, don’t you agree? Anyone stealing secrets from Walcott wouldn’t bring them inside the company once they were out, right?”
“Right . . . yes,” Mason confirmed. “It makes sense. Then that eliminates the delegation from South Korea, also an airport pickup.”
“Yes, scratch them off the list too. Who else?”
“I’m sure we can eliminate the CEO’s wife going on a shopping trip to France, don’t you agree?” Mason asked.
“Well, maybe not entirely.”
“The van picked her up at her house, not here. And she doesn’t have any access, obviously.”
“It was just a courtesy pickup and drop off? Then yes, she’s off the list too. I’m guessing you’re happy about that one, aren’t you?” Sam smiled.
Mason looked in Sam’s eyes and relaxed a little. “You have no idea,” he confirmed, a faint smile showing on his list for a split second.
“OK, then, who’s left?”
“Two engineering teams. They
both left Walcott to go to two different engagements on a Navy vessel in Norfolk Harbor and their return trips. But that’s not all.”
“Oh?” Sam said.
“Both teams were deployed to work on the USS Fletcher. And the technology that was leaked is being installed on the Fletcher. That makes these people our most likely suspects.”
“I see. How big were the teams?”
“One was five people, one was six,” Mason said, after consulting his notes briefly.
“Any disgruntled employees on those teams, any motive, any issues we know about?”
“No, none whatsoever. That’s the first thing I checked.”
“All of them have clearance? What levels?”
“Yes, all were top secret clearance; very few Walcott employees are not cleared at that level.”
“Have you interviewed them?”
“Not yet. The feds made it very clear we’re not to engage the eleven employees in any way. They want to handle it themselves, have the first stab at it.”
Sam frowned a little, thinking. “Then why am I here, Mason? How can I help? You seem to have it all covered really well.”
“To some extent, Sam, to some extent. Yes, the feds are on it, and NCIS is partnering with them all the way, but they represent larger interests than Walcott Global. No one is looking after Walcott’s reputation during this investigation, and we need to have someone to represent and safeguard our interests. Not at the expense of, or against national security, of course, but just be there, keep us informed with potential pitfalls or media disasters.” He paused for a second, collecting his thoughts. “If we lose the Navy as a client, we are done, out of government business permanently. We can’t afford any screw-ups. You do understand what I’m trying to say?”
“Perfectly,” Sam confirmed, deep in thought.
That was one tall order. It wasn’t that obvious how to get someone to tag-team with not one, but two law enforcement agencies conducting a counterintelligence investigation, on what could easily prove to be the biggest espionage scandal in recent history.