The Patriot Attack

by Robert Ludlum

  “I don’t think it’s technically paranoia if someone just blew the top off the mountain you were standing on and killed your informant.”

  “You make a valid point,” she said, stopping in front of a space with a red cone emblazoned with the words “No Parking.” She hopped out of the car and gave the cone a firm downward shove, collapsing it into a disk about the size of a Frisbee. When she got back in and pulled forward, Smith was already wiping down the interior to eradicate any fingerprints.

  Randi retrieved a small backpack from the floor behind the seats and dug through its contents until she was able to release a hidden panel at the bottom. She handed Smith a wallet filled with well-worn IDs and credit cards, taking another for herself. “I assume you agree we should split up and buy return tickets under different names?”

  “Hell yes,” he replied, replacing the wallet in his pocket with the new one. “I’m having a hard time believing where this is leading, but for now we assume the worst.”

  “That the Japanese have spent the last thirty years quietly building a bunch of futuristic weapons that are now aimed directly at us?”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds kind of bad, doesn’t it?” Smith said with a weak smile.

  Randi mumbled something under her breath and stepped out into the bright sunlight, turning slowly as she took in everything around her. There were a few widely scattered people pulling suitcases to and from the terminal, but no one closer than fifty yards. Beyond that, there was a couple in a BMW paying at the kiosk and a woman in a Prius driving slowly up their aisle looking for a space.

  “I say we skip the airport transportation and walk,” she said, slipping the backpack on. “We’ll get our phones out of storage and head back on different airlines.”

  “Sounds about right,” Smith said, getting out and slamming the door. “The Gremlin’s not getting a detail and a full tank, huh?”

  “First time ever,” Randi said. “I must be slipping.”

  She started across the road toward the terminal and the moment she did, a high-pitched engine whine started to their right. Smith watched her spin, pulling a Beretta from beneath her jacket and bringing it level with the windshield of the Prius suddenly bearing down on them.

  Randi had a gift for that kind of reaction. There was no time lag at all between her mind perceiving danger and her body dealing with that danger in the most efficient—and final—way possible. It was undoubtedly why she was still alive, but sometimes the speed of her instinct caused her to miss details.

  Smith darted into the road, ignoring the pain in his back as he launched himself at her. He knew that her mind had transformed the human outline in the driver’s seat into nothing more than a target and that she was thinking only about how to hit that target in the most effective way possible. What he saw, though, was a terrified woman jerking desperately on an unresponsive steering wheel.

  It was over in less than two seconds. He hit Randi broadside and they both toppled toward the row of cars parked behind her. Smith got clipped by the Prius’s front quarter panel, but the metal was so thin that it did little more than send him sprawling awkwardly onto the pavement.

  Randi managed not to fall, instead slamming into the back of a Nissan Pathfinder just as the Prius jumped a sidewalk and rolled onto its top. She recovered quickly, turning a full 360 with her pistol held out in front of her, searching for a secondary attack. Around them, pedestrians were dropping their luggage and running in every direction, undoubtedly thinking this was the beginning of some kind of terrorist attack or mass shooting.

  “What the hell, Jon!” Randi said, finally daring to glance down at him as he struggled to get back to his feet. “You could have—”

  The empty Nissan she was standing behind suddenly started up and Smith saw the reverse lights flash on. This time her reactions were dulled by confusion and she was a split second too slow. The engine gunned and she went down, disappearing beneath the vehicle.

  “Randi!” Smith shouted as the Nissan slammed into a Volkswagen in the next row. He bolted toward her, hearing the Pathfinder shift into drive for another try.

  She was dazed and bleeding badly from one arm, but her thin frame combined with the Nissan’s enhanced ground clearance had kept her from being killed. He grabbed her by the front of her jacket, not bothering to look back at the vehicle bearing down on them from behind.

  Thank God she was light. He threw her across the hood of a low-slung Mazda and leaped after her just as the Nissan collided with its rear bumper. They both tumbled over the side and landed in the narrow gap between the Mazda and the minivan next to it.

  Randi had managed to shake off the impact and aim over the hood, putting two rounds neatly into the windshield of the Nissan. Predictably, both were dead center on the driver’s-seat headrest. Unfortunately, it was empty.

  Smith grabbed her by the collar and yanked her back, pointing at the terminal building. “We’ve got to get out of here! Now!”

  She took point and he realized he was coughing up blood again as he fought to keep up. Randi started to cut right in front of a brand-new Mercedes and he warned her off.

  “No! Go left!”

  She hesitated but then did as she was told, breaking into a sprint when the Mercedes started up and turned hard toward her. She barely managed to get in front of the old pickup Smith had been trying to direct her toward when the Mercedes rammed it. He dodged around the car and leaped into the truck’s bed, throwing himself over the top of the cab and coming down next to her.

  “Stay behind me!”

  Smith crouched, running what must have seemed like a random pattern as he went for intermittent cover between older vehicles. She shadowed him with her pistol still at the ready but unsure what to shoot at.

  “Go!” he shouted when they reached the road that ran directly in front of the terminal. It was clogged with cars and hotel shuttles, most stopped because of the panicked people fleeing in every direction.

  A cab suddenly accelerated toward them, but it was too low-slung to chase them up onto the sidewalk. Instead it slammed into the curb and ripped off a good chunk of its front end in a shower of sparks. Smith went for the doors, fighting against the people flowing out of them.

  Inside the terminal, armed guards had their weapons out but, like everyone else, had no idea what the threat was or where it was coming from. Most people were going for the doors out of instinct but others were running deeper into the building, spreading the hysteria.

  Randi let the gun slide from her hand and took off her jacket, keeping her head down as they passed the security cameras that so were ubiquitous in modern airports. Smith stripped off his coat too, letting it fall to the floor amid the travelers darting around them. He threw an arm around Randi and pulled her close, partially in an effort not to get separated but mostly to try to camouflage her blood-soaked sleeve.

  With nowhere to go, they stayed in the densest part of the crowd, mimicking their movements and trying to blend in. With a little luck, whoever was watching would lose them in the chaos.

  39

  Northeastern Japan

  Doctor? The general is on a secure line for you. He says it’s urgent.”

  Hideki Ito looked up from the computer terminal and saw the guard standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry. Did you say the general?”

  The man nodded. “If you could follow me, please.”

  Ito stood and walked nervously down the corridor behind the man. Takahashi was a fanatic about security, particularly when it came to their primary research facility. He rarely came to the retasked nuclear waste dump and he never called there. The vulnerability of electronic communications had been made crystal clear to the old soldier.

  What could have happened that would prompt Takahashi to ignore his own security protocols? Had the Chinese retreated in the face of world pressure? Ito began to sweat despite the cold emanating from the earthen walls. Had they attacked?

  There were almost no connections to the o
utside world in this place—a lack of distraction that he normally appreciated. But he was beginning to ask himself if the general was taking advantage of his propensity to submerge himself in his work. Ito had always known he was a pawn in Takahashi’s grand plans. An important one, of course, but a pawn nonetheless. Now, though, he was wondering if he had allowed himself to become a prisoner.

  “Through here, please, sir,” the guard leading him said, indicating a door cut into the wall.

  The communications room was understandably small and sparse. In his entire time working at the facility, this was the first time Ito had ever seen it open.

  A lone computer screen was flashing a message requesting his password. He typed it in and slid a headset over the damaged skin stretched across his scalp.

  “Hello? General?”

  “We need to access the Fujiyama files,” Takahashi said by way of greeting. The normally disciplined voice had an angry timbre that caused Ito’s stomach to clench.

  Eric Fujiyama had stored a series of paper files in an extremely clever lockbox that he’d buried in the American West. Takahashi had discovered its location and transported the box there, but accessing it had proved far more difficult than anyone would have expected. A careful examination using various advanced imaging systems had revealed a complex series of interlaced mechanisms measuring such things as vibration, changes in air pressure, and temperature fluctuation. Inside was a vial that spectrum analysis suggested was full of acid that would destroy the fragile paper the moment anyone attempted to breach the box.

  “I’m not certain that they’re accessible, General. One error and—”

  “Just get them! You said you could use the nanotech.”

  “I said it was possible that the bots could weaken the structure sufficiently to safely open it, but there’s no way to guarantee that it won’t trigger—”

  “Fujiyama talked with Smith and Russell. We don’t know what he said, but it’s likely that he gave them information that’s in those files. We need to find out what he suspects so that we can anticipate their next move.”

  “Smith and Russell survived? How?”

  While he had never been told directly, Ito had inferred that Takahashi had replaced the strongbox with a powerful mine.

  “That’s not your concern, Doctor. Your only concern is to retrieve those files without damaging them. I want to be clear that you’re not to work on anything else until you’ve succeeded. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ito said reluctantly. What choice did he have?

  The line went dead and he removed the headset before lowering himself unsteadily into the only chair in the room.

  What if he failed? What if the files were destroyed in the process of trying to access them? Even isolated for so long, Ito could feel the change in Takahashi and the security men who prowled the facility. A storm was coming—one he himself had been unknowingly instrumental in creating. And when that tempest finally made landfall, it would consume them all.

  40

  Over Norfolk, Virginia

  USA

  Jon Smith eased into the thick leather seat and looked out the window as Covert-One’s G5 climbed out of the Norfolk airport. He and Randi had rendezvoused there in order to pick up the jet Fred Klein had sent for them. It seemed that the fake IDs, baseball hats, new clothes, and sunglasses had thrown off whoever had been tracking them. Most likely, General Masao Takahashi.

  Randi fell into the facing seat, sliding a bottle of Tylenol and a can of Budweiser across the narrow table between them. “No microbrews in the fridge, but I thought Bud would still be better than water.”

  He used the beer to wash down a few pills before reclining and closing his eyes. The episode in the parking lot combined with hours of crisscrossing the country in the relative anonymity of economy class hadn’t done his back any good. At least he’d stopped coughing up blood.

  “Get some sleep, Jon. It’s a long flight to Okinawa. Fred’s cleared us for a nice quiet landing at our Kadena Air Base there, and then we can make our way to mainland Japan. I need you firing on all cylinders. Right now you look about a hundred years old.”

  “It’s not the years,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes. “It’s the mileage.”

  She didn’t respond immediately, but when she did she sounded unusually contrite. “Thanks back there. If it weren’t for you, I’d have shot an innocent woman and gotten crushed by a jacked-up Nissan. Not the way I want to go out.”

  He smiled thinly. “I remembered what Fujiyama said about cars. He insisted we drive an old one.”

  “Sure, but I thought that was because modern ones can be tracked by satellite. I still don’t understand what happened back there, Jon. How were those cars being controlled? It seems—”

  The sound of insane laughter cut her off and forced Smith to look down at his phone. The extremely appropriate ringtone belonged to Marty Zellerbach, a high school friend of his who’d grown up to be a technological wizard and one of the world’s top hackers. Occasionally very useful, he could also be incredibly exhausting. Zellerbach suffered from Asperger’s syndrome and had a love-hate relationship with his medications that created wild pendulums in his mood.

  “Are you going to pick up?” Randi asked.

  “No.”

  “You know what he’s calling about, Jon. And you know we’re going to need to talk to him eventually.”

  “Eventually sounds good.”

  She flicked a hand out, putting his phone on speaker before he could intercept. “Marty. Sweetheart. How are you?”

  “Randi? The question is, how are you?”

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  “I noticed you’re as gorgeous as ever. I’m glad to hear the arm wasn’t serious.”

  Smith frowned. By the time he’d made it to Chicago, CNN was already running shaky cell phone footage of what had happened in Portland. He and Randi had both been vaguely recognizable, but in the chaos it was doubtful that anyone would come to the conclusion that they were the target of the attack. Or even that it was an attack at all.

  “Jon? Are you there? Are you all right? You looked a little slow out there.”

  “I’m fine, Marty.”

  “Can I assume those cars were after the two of you and not the woman with the Baby Jogger?”

  Randi looked down at the phone’s screen and confirmed that the call was encrypted. Not that Marty was in the habit of talking on open lines. He was extremely suspicious of the NSA and lately had become concerned about space aliens.

  “I think that’s safe to say,” she responded. “What the hell happened out there, Marty? How were those cars being controlled?”

  “It’s really not all that hard. Modern cars don’t have mechanical linkages anymore. They’re computer controlled. All you have to do is get into the onboard system. You know that asshole neighbor I have who keeps calling the cops on me? I got into his Lexus through the tire pressure sensor. Now his heat is on full blast all summer and his AC runs all winter. If I wanted to, I could take control and make him drive through his garage door. In fact, that’s not a bad idea…”

  “Okay,” Smith said before Zellerbach could embark on one of his legendary tangents. “But you had physical access to the car. You plugged your laptop into it and if you wanted to drive it remotely you’d have to have either a cable connected or some kind of a radio controller, right?”

  There was a long pause. “That’s true. Yes.”

  “There’s no way someone could have gotten to all those cars to hack them, Marty. And I’d be willing to bet there was no one within radio controller distance either. Explain that.”

  Silence. Clearly, this was a problem he couldn’t entirely figure out. And if there was one thing that Zellerbach couldn’t stand, it was a technological issue on which he couldn’t pontificate endlessly.

  “Maybe someone got access during the manufacturing process. Radio control could be handled by hijacking cell towers or even satellites. The airp
ort would be an ideal location—lots of security cameras to tie in to so you could see what you were doing.”

  “They were different makes and models,” Randi said.

  “Yeah, but parts for those cars are built all over the world. It doesn’t matter who upholstered the seats and made the shift knob. What you need to know is who made the engine control unit.”

  “So how hard would this be, Marty?”

  “That’s kind of a vague question. It would depend on—”

  “Okay, let me rephrase. How much would it cost me to hire you to do it?”

  “I’d probably ask for a fifty-million-dollar retainer and five years. No guarantees, though. I mean, I’d have to infiltrate the manufacturing and design companies that make the ECUs and figure out how to hide some very sophisticated software in their systems. Then I’d have to figure out a way to communicate with it…” His voice faded as he became lost in thought.

  “You know all these guys,” Smith said. “Who do you think did it? Give me some names.”

  “I doubt we’re talking about an individual hacker,” Zellerbach admitted. “Or even a group like Anonymous. I think we’re talking about a government.”

  Smith and Randi looked at each other, clearly thinking the same thing: The Japanese did a lot of design and manufacture work for the auto industry. And they’d have the technological ability to hijack cell towers and satellite networks.

  “Okay,” Smith said. “Thanks, Marty.”

  “Do you want me to dig into this?”

  “Absolutely not,” Randi said. “We don’t know what we’re into here, but whatever it is, it’s dangerous. We can’t scrape up enough of the last guy who helped us to fill a shoe box.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “We know,” Smith said. “But you’ve already given us what we were looking for. We’ll call you if we need more. Talk later…”

  He reached over and cut off the phone, then closed his eyes again to the sound of Randi tapping on her laptop. He was just about to drift off when she spoke.