by Leslie Wolfe
“Yes,” Alex replied, while Sam and Jeremy nodded.
“So it’s safe to assume that our leak had access to the repository, otherwise he couldn’t have gained access to the source document in the first place,” Mason continued.
“Does this CDR keep track of who accessed what documents? Is there a log?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes, absolutely,” Mason confirmed. “We have checked the CDR logs for anyone accessing the file in question and there are several names. Sixteen to be exact, who have gained access to that file in the past two weeks.”
“Did you cross-reference those names with the van travelers?” Alex said.
“Yes, just did that this morning, and I think we caught a break,” Mason said, “our first break since this whole mess started. There wasn’t a single name on the first team, the team of six engineers who used the van in the morning, who had accessed any laser cannon documents. That team worked on ballistic systems, not on the laser weapons. That tells me we’re down to one team, the five engineers who used the van right after lunch.”
“Yes, that is a safe assumption to make and one big break,” Alex said smiling, visibly relieved. “I was having serious concerns about my ability to infiltrate two teams.”
“How about sharing?” Jeremy asked. “Can you pull a file, for example, and share the use of it with me, since we’re colleagues on the same floor?”
“N–no,” Mason replied. “Technically, no. It’s against procedure and there isn’t a single reason why someone would risk that type of breach just to save a colleague a trip to the CDR.”
“All right, I think I got it,” Alex said cheerfully, taking another sip of coffee. “Let’s talk copier procedures next. Who gets to copy documents and how’s that controlled?”
“A few years ago we replaced all our copiers with modern equipment that only works if you enter your personal code,” Mason started to explain.
“All copiers?” Jeremy probed, looking up from his notepad where he was jotting notes.
“Yes, all of them. It was a company-wide measure we took to increase the control over the duplication of our secret documents. Before we rolled out the coded copiers, documents were copied freely, sometimes even recklessly, and the risk of leaks was significant. So we controlled the risk with the coded copiers, or at least we thought we did,” Mason summarized, a trace of frustration showing on his immobile face.
“How about faxes?” Alex probed.
“We don’t have traditional faxes anymore, haven’t had them in the building since 2006. These coded copiers handle everything: copying, scanning, faxing—both inbound and outbound.”
“Do you keep a log of users and what they do with the copy machines?” Jeremy wanted to know.
“Yes, there’s a procedure everyone must follow to duplicate or scan any restricted document. Before copying, any restricted document duplication request must be entered in a database, complete with document name, restriction class, number of pages, and reason for duplication. Then an approval is issued. This approval is a numeric code. Then the user goes to the copier and enters his personal access code to unlock the copier, followed by the approval code. Only then, can the user actually copy the document. Once the copy job is finished, the code is invalidated.”
“Are your copiers integrated on your network? Do they communicate with the database of approvals?” Alex asked.
“Yes, precisely so,” Mason confirmed.
“I’m assuming all documents, faxed or copied, are stored in the machine’s memory?”
“Yes, they are. We have a special document security team who pulls random copy and fax jobs and checks the restrictions, access codes, everything.”
“What if someone wants to copy an unrestricted document?” Alex asked.
“Then they only use their personal code.”
“So what keeps the user from copying restricted documents without approvals?” she probed on.
“We have several layers of security to ensure that doesn’t happen. First, the copiers have an OCR system—that’s optical character recognition—that scans each page searching for the classification stamps,” Mason replied.
“Classification stamps, as in TOP SECRET?” Alex asked.
“Yes,” Mason replied. “If the OCR recognizes a classification mark in the absence of an approval code, it will stop the machine and page systems security with the personal access code of the offender who started the copier in the first place.”
“Hmm . . .” Alex muttered, at a loss for questions. “So, there’s really no way anyone could have copied the damned thing, is there?”
Mason frowned a little, surprised by her choice of words. He was probably not used to anyone swearing in his office. He seemed so proper, so perfect, Alex thought. They all did—all the employees she had encountered, all of them seemed perfectly contained, procedural, almost robotic in their restraint and perfection. Hotheaded and many times slipping an oath here and there, especially when frustrated, she wished she could be more like them. But only on the outside, she thought. I’d suffocate if I had to live like this, think like this, act like this all the time. Brrr . . . She almost shuddered. I wonder if there’s something brewing under these perfect images of professionalism.
“No, there’s not,” he said quietly.
“Huh?”
“Just responding to your comment,” Mason said politely, “there’s no way that document could have been copied without us knowing about it.”
“And yet it was,” Sam said his first words that morning. “How else could that have happened?”
Silence took over the small office; no one had an answer to that.
“Before we attempt to answer that million-dollar question, here’s another one, much easier,” Alex said. “When the fleet manager found the document, everyone knew instantly it wasn’t an authorized copy. How did they all know that?”
“Oh, that’s simple,” Mason replied. “When the copier duplicates a restricted document under an approval code, it automatically prints the word ‘copy’ faded in the background of the document—a watermark—and the approval code at the bottom of each page. So if we see a document that has a classification in black and white, without being marked as an approved, registered copy, we know immediately that stamp was run through a copier without proper authorization. That’s how we knew.”
“Ingenious,” she said. “Pretty thorough and very secure, I’ll give you that.”
“Then what scenarios make sense for unauthorized copies? How could someone copy a file in this building?” Sam asked.
“No one enters the premises with any cameras or personal phones. We have lockers on the main floor where employees have to leave their personal gadgets during the day. Then they are screened, just like in an airport. Nothing makes it in.”
“Maybe you have a hacker in your midst, someone who could have overridden the copier’s configuration; that’s one scenario,” Alex offered. “I’ll ask Louie how hard that would be.”
Sam nodded. “That’s a good idea,” he confirmed.
“Who’s Louie?” Jeremy asked.
“He works with me, at The Agency,” Alex replied. “I’ll also ask him if it could have been done remotely.”
“I’ve also tasked a security team to inspect every office, closet, restroom, and conference room in this building,” Mason said.
“Looking for what?” Alex said.
“Not sure, some forgotten piece of equipment, maybe. I might be overreaching, but it’s a big building,” Mason said apologetically, seeing the reaction on their faces. “We have more than 6,000 employees; we have a lot of offices.”
“That could spook your spook, pardon the pun,” she said.
“True,” Mason agreed. “I’ll instruct them to go easy and be careful.”
“No,” Alex said abruptly. “Ask them to wear insignia and protective wear with your pest control vendor’s markings, and leave some spider traps here and there.”
Jeremy chuckled. �
��Sneaky,” he said.
“Pest control people are just like the leaf-blower man; they’re sacred. No one ever questions them. Ever,” she smiled. “We all hate bugs more than we fear anything else.”
“I’ll do that,” Mason said, after a little hesitation.
Alex stood and stretched a little, relieving some of the tension she’d been accumulating in her muscles. She didn’t have much to go on for now; she had to get near the team that used the van. One of the members of that team was the leak, regardless how he managed to copy the file. She felt a wave of anxiety mixed with excitement, the type of excitement one feels before running a race. She needed to catch this mole fast; there was a lot at stake, and she was running against the clock. She might already be too late.
“Jeremy,” she said, “I’m turning this over to you. Let’s talk people. What, or who do we have?”
“We have a few things,” Jeremy said. “Before we proceed, let me clarify something. Team One, let’s call it that, the team of six who used the van in the morning, you’re saying they should be off the hook, ’cause they didn’t have access to the documents?”
“Yes, that is correct,” Mason replied.
“Every one of these eleven people are under round-the-clock surveillance. I feel inclined to play it safe and keep these six people under surveillance for a little while longer. Just to be thorough. I can think of a few scenarios in which one of them could be involved even without having direct access to the document. Any objections?”
“None,” Mason said.
“But you’re saying you want to infiltrate Team Two first?” Jeremy turned toward Alex.
“Yes, can’t do both at the same time and I want to start with the most likely ones.”
“Makes sense,” Jeremy confirmed. He took some of the folders stacked in front of him and pushed them aside, then focused on the remaining five folders. “These are our guys—well, four guys and one gal.”
Alex pulled her tablet and got ready to take notes.
“I’ve run full background on all of them. Financials, credit cards, and phone records will take a little longer ’cause we need to wait for the warrants to come in, and then execute them.”
“OK, shoot,” Alex said impatiently. Everything took forever with the government.
“All right, the first one is Robert McLeod, forty-two years old. He’s the team lead for this project. He’s Walcott’s technical director for Navy systems. Single. He’s an electrical engineering graduate from MIT, finished second in his class. He specializes in electronics,
and . . .” Jeremy hesitated, flipping through the pages of his file, “yes, has been with Walcott for eight years. This is his picture,” he added, pushing the file toward Alex.
“I’ll need their pics sent to my phone,” she said.
“I’ll arrange that to be done,” Jeremy said.
“Ahh . . . don’t bother,” she replied, taking a quick picture of Bob McLeod’s personnel headshot with her phone.
“Or that can work too,” Jeremy said, almost laughing. “OK, what else do we know about him, Mason? What makes Bob McLeod tick?”
“It’s really hard to say, Agent Weber. As I was saying, we have thousands of employees; I don’t have this kind of information readily available for any of them. But I will talk to human resources, see what they have.”
“Please do. Move on, then?”
“Yes,” Alex replied.
“Quentin Hadden, forty-seven, weapons systems engineer. Masters of science in electrical engineering, cum laude. Nothing much else in here. Single. Been with the company for twelve years.
Alex snapped another picture, then gestured for Jeremy to move on to the next suspect.
“Sylvia Copperwaite, thirty-three. She’s the youngest of this elite crowd. She’s an electromechanical engineer and holds a PhD in computational modeling for mobile platform installations and use of remote-sensing technologies—wow, that was a mouthful. At that age, very impressive, I’d say. Single, attractive.”
Alex snapped another picture, then said, “It’s amazing how you didn’t mention the attractiveness factor about the two men.”
Sam chuckled.
“Touché,” Jeremy responded. “OK, next one is . . . Faisal Kundi.”
“Whoa . . .” Sam interjected. “They have a Middle Eastern on the team? Where from?”
“I can assure you all Walcott employees undergo thorough background checks in addition to the clearance investigation they have to pass,” Mason offered, sounding almost defensive.
“OK, so . . . Faisal Kundi, twenty-nine,” Jeremy continued, “he’s an embedded software engineer, whatever that means.”
“I can explain,” Alex offered.
“Umm . . . maybe later,” Jeremy replied. “Faisal is a Muslim. He was born in Pakistan, and emigrated at age three with his family. Married, two children. American citizen, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t have had any clearance.”
Jeremy stopped talking, waiting for any comments. No one said anything. Could it be that easy? Alex thought. It could, but that shouldn’t cloud their judgment. Shouldn’t cloud hers, anyway. She needed to remain cool-headed and not jump to any conclusions. She suddenly realized she felt sorry for how hard life must be for Faisal Kundi, if people instantly suspected him of treason by just hearing his name.
She snapped her picture, then said, “Next!”
“The last one is Vernon Blackburn, forty-four. Married, no children. He’s a . . . here comes another mouthful, a laser electro-optics engineer, with a PhD in laser applications.”
Alex took her last picture, then asked, “Is this it? Is this all we have?”
“Afraid so,” Jeremy replied.
“Let me see what I can get from human resources,” Mason offered.
“What are you planning to do, kiddo?” Sam asked.
“Well, tomorrow I have the f—” she stopped abruptly, refraining from dropping an f-bomb in front of the composed and ultra-professional Mason Armstrong. “I have the polygraph test,” she continued, “without which I can’t enter the premises beyond this point, or board the vessels, right?”
“That is correct,” Mason confirmed.
“Any exceptions we could pull off?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Mason replied.
“OK, just thought I’d ask. We’ll work on my cover story and run that by you, Mason. Then, assuming everything goes well and I pass, Friday I can deploy with this team.”
“Sounds good,” Sam said. “You’ll pass the test, don’t worry. We’ll work on that later today.”
Mason’s surprised gaze moved from Sam to Alex and back. Neither of them flinched.
“Until then, Jeremy, I’ll need as much background info as you can get me for all five suspects. I can’t go in like this, with nothing but their names, and expect to pull it off.”
“Understood. What will you do in the meantime?”
“Who, me? I need to prepare, to be able to sustain a conversation with these people. I guess I’ll have to learn a little about . . . what was it?” Alex consulted her notes briefly. “Yeah, electro-optics, laser technologies, embedded software, remote sensing, and all that kind of fun stuff. I have forty-eight hours. Wish me luck!”
...45
...Wednesday, May 18, 7:49PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Sam Russell’s Residence
...Timberlake, Virginia
Alex lounged on Sam’s deck furniture, engulfed in how beautiful the rural Virginia landscape could be on a May evening. The sun was getting ready to set, a pleasant heat still lingered in the air, carrying the smells of spring blooms. Cottonwood, insects, and birds randomly passed through the sweet sunset light, occasionally disrupting the perfect stillness of sound and air. Sam’s deck and yard backed toward a farm’s countless acres, spread on mild sloping hills and green pastures. It was a peaceful, scented paradise.
“Sam,” she called, “your view here is worth more than your house!”
“I agree,
” he said with a chuckle. His voice sounded distant coming from the kitchen, where he was fixing them both some coffee. “Be right with you.”
He came through the screen door carrying steaming cups of cappuccino.
“Yum,” Alex said, grabbing one of the cups with both her hands and inhaling the aroma.
“Glad you like it,” Sam said. “On the rare occasion when I have guests here I like to show off my new cappuccino maker.”
“Sam, you are the king of caffeinated delights,” Alex remarked after tasting her brew.
She sensed she wore a milk-foam mustache, which made her look childish, and licked it quickly. That brought back memories that had been locked away for years, memories of a time when she had been a happy, worry-free little girl growing up with hot-cocoa whiskers and laughter on her face. Life changes fast on you, she thought. It can take you by surprise and throw you on a different continent. How those times have gone!
“What’s on your mind, kiddo?” Sam asked. “You’re frowning at the cappuccino and that can’t be good.”
“Ah . . . it’s just the polygraph, Sam. Scares me to death.”
“All right, let’s attack that beast,” he said, fidgeting a little to find a more comfortable position on the wicker armchair. “First of all, remember, you have nothing to lose.”
“But, if I fail the test, I won’t be able to work this case,” she protested. “I do have access to the case documents now, but I won’t be able to roam the building freely, or board the damn ship.”
“True, but in the grand scheme of things that doesn’t mean much. You just go home, and work on another case, that’s all. Don’t work yourself up for nothing.”
“Huh . . .” she replied thoughtfully. “But maybe it’s not nothing, you know. Maybe the cases are related somehow.”
“Which cases? This one and the elections case?”
“Yup. That’s what I’m hoping. I’m hoping for another lead. I’m hoping somehow this time we’ll be able to find who V is.”