“That would require mailing and counting on the order of 200 million ballots. The Americans don’t have the capacity to move 200 million extra pieces of mail, and they don’t have the discipline and the patience to put up with what manual optical scanning and counting would entail. If they succumb to computerized counting and communication, which is likely, Gradsky’s software would work on mail-in voting just as well as electronic voting machines.”
Turgenev was impressed, but had more questions. “Today, Gradsky said what he can do and how he can do it, but he didn’t demonstrate what he said,” Turgenev pointed out. “No proof that I could see with my own eyes, that I could touch and feel. Can the two of you provide me with such a demonstration?”
“We can’t. At least, not readily,” Ivanov said, “but we believe Gradsky can.”
“If we have his software, can you learn to implement it independently of him?”
“Given enough time, yes, but not likely in time for the 2020 U.S. elections with the limited information we have. However, with Gradsky’s cooperation—and his software code, as well as the software itself—we could master his technology more quickly. Perhaps, even quickly enough for the upcoming U.S. elections.”
“What is the difference between software and software code?” Turgenev asked.
“Think of the engine in your car as your software and the detailed plans of how to build, operate, and occasionally repair your engine as your software code.”
Turgenev nodded. “Got it. Up to me to see that we have both Gradsky’s software and software code within our time constraints. Count on me to assure Gradsky’s cooperation. That’s all, for now. I trust I don’t need to explain to the two of you the importance, and the confidentiality, of these matters.”
The uncomfortable looks on the faces of Ivanov and Melchenko told Turgenev all he needed to know—that his priorities were their priorities. Nevertheless, they redundantly nodded affirmatively and left the room.
Turgenev thought about what he had assimilated. He jotted down a few private notes on the pad in front of him.
NO MATTER HOW BRILLIANT Gradsky might be, he struck Turgenev as untrustworthy. My instincts tell me the man’s more taken by his own agenda than mine. Turgenev believed his plan was far too important to have its success riding solely on the likes of this common cybercriminal. Well, maybe not so common.
That was why Yvgeny Barovsky, the present head of the GRU and Turgenev’s protégé, was seated across from Turgenev in one of the sitting rooms in Turgenev’s official Moscow residence. The small table in between the two men held a tray of Russia’s finest Beluga Caviar, a bottle of Russo-Baltique Vodka, a bucket of ice, and two glasses.
“Nazdarovya,” to your health, each man said to the other, throwing back their heads and draining their glasses. Turgenev consumed the clear fluid in his glass without ice. Two ice cubes clinked in Barovsky’s glass.
Turgenev looked at Barovsky. “It is said that iced vodka is bad for one’s kidneys,” Turgenev said.
“Perhaps so, Mr. President,” replied Barovsky, “but the ice allows me to consume our drinks more judiciously, a wise precaution when in the company of one’s superior.”
“Touché, a very good comeback, which does not surprise me. I have great confidence in your abilities. Otherwise, I would not have entrusted you with such an important position.” Never hurts to remind Barovsky who gave him his status, and who can remove it, and worse, just as quickly. Turgenev then directed the conversation to the subject matter of Barovsky’s new duties.
Turgenev listened with satisfaction as Barovsky rattled off what Turgenev already knew, but did not mind hearing again.
Leading up to the 2016 U.S. election, Russian technocrats had hacked into a number of Democratic websites, capturing and revealing their confidential strategic bounty to the Republican party. They also used thousands of human bots to run a dezinformatsiya crusade in Baker’s favor. In 2016, these social media campaigns were limited by the need to physically infuse our human agents into U.S. territory. Today, while a smaller complement of elite human bots was still being maintained on American soil, the focus had shifted to digital agents not required to leave Russian space. For much less cost and deployment of human resources, and at less risk of discovery, Russia was generating much more “fake news” on behalf of the Baker campaign than ever before.
Turgenev smiled. “Wouldn’t U.S. progressives generally be less accommodating of our international interests than Baker? They would be shocked to know how many of Baker’s core constituency are in fact not Americans at all, and not eligible to vote in U.S. elections—at least, not without a digital assist from us.”
“But fully able to influence those who are legally registered and able to vote,” Barovsky quickly added.
“Precisely,” Turgenev said. He went on to recount his meetings earlier that day with Gradsky and his own engineers. “Our cyber capabilities have been greatly enhanced over what they were in 2016. I am very much encouraged by our pending two-pronged attack: your bot program that will convince tens of millions of Americans to vote as we wish before they cast their votes, and our digital programs that will alter the results of tens of millions of voters who your bots are unable to persuade in advance.”
Barovsky nodded affirmatively. “Good news indeed, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Yvgeny. That’s all, for now.” He may be ready to handle more for me.
CHAPTER 4
September 2019, Slightly Over Two Months Later
JAKE SAT IN HIS co-ed dormitory, sipping on a Coke with Kelly Moore, his … girlfriend? Well, that was part of the problem. Kelly was a girl and she was a friend, but Jake didn’t genuinely think of her as his girlfriend. He knew Kelly had a different take on the subject.
It wasn’t that Kelly wasn’t nice, smart, or good looking. She was all three of those. While she was all girl and a great friend—one who came with benefits—Jake just didn’t want to be tied down to anyone. That sounds so cliché, but it nails it. However, Kelly was only part of the problem.
Somewhere along the way, before he was ten, Jake had learned that his existence wasn’t planned. His mom and dad had tried for a second child for a number of years, but had no luck. They gave up. And then, of course, along came Jake. Cancer took Mom shortly after Jake was born, and Dad was never the same. He didn’t take well to being a single parent with two kids to raise. His heart finally gave out when Jake was barely eight and still in need of a parent, if not two. So, Sis became Mom, as well as Sis.
Jake knew Leah believed he got the short end of that stick, but he never felt that way. It was her problem, not his, but he was the one who caught the brunt of the backlash. Leah constantly tried to make it up to him, to overcompensate for what he hadn’t received as a child, but Leah thought he should have. The result was that Leah smothered Jake, made him feel inadequate.
All of this was complicated. As a youngster, Jake felt he had been an unwanted burden on his parents and his sister, and he felt guilty for resenting Leah’s intrusion into his life. The result was that Jake tended to push others away.
He was now beginning his sophomore year at Southern Connecticut State University, not because he wanted to be in college, but because college was what Leah wanted for him. And expected of him.
Why? Because he was “smart”, which meant he could pull the grades without having to work at it. It was that attitude, and his mediocre high school grade point average, that explained why he was at SCSU instead of Harvard or Yale, given that his SAT scores were in the 99th percentile.
Simply put, Jake resented those who tried to impose their expectations on him. Leah wanted Jake to behave like her kid, and to do what she wanted him to do—go to college, like all kids should do. Kelly wanted Jake to be her boyfriend.
But it wasn’t just Leah and Kelly. It wasn’t just feeling suffocated. Perhaps even worse, Jake was bored. He was facing another three years of school just to get his bachelor’s degree. And then, Leah w
ould no doubt be harping on him to go on to graduate school for two or three years more. And for what? To end up as a subordinate in some large corporate enterprise that didn’t at all appeal to him?
Jake was in SCSU’s engineering school, majoring in computer science. That did make sense—sort of—because he was good at it. It was the way Jake was wired, the way he thought. He liked making up problems and then solving them. If 1, 1, 1 was 6 and 2, 2, 2 was 18, then what was 3, 3, 3? Thirty-six of course. Simple. He also liked tinkering with machines and technology.
But Jake wanted in on the real action, and the money that was there to be made. And he wanted it now. He couldn’t see putting it off for another three years—or longer. He wanted to get out in the world and make his way—and his fortune—in cybersecurity.
He thought he had some really good ideas he could use to distinguish himself from everyone else, ideas he could promote and market. He didn’t want to be just another employee statistic in some large corporation.
So, no, it wasn’t really the fault of those in his life that he felt this way. Not Leah, who had it all planned out. Not Kelly, who also had it all planned out. And not Mom and Dad, before Leah and Kelly, who hadn’t planned for him at all.
What Jake thought he was after proved to be the beginning of his troubles. He just didn’t know it—yet.
CHAPTER 5
September 2019, Two Days Later
GRADSKY’S MOTIVES WERE THREE-FOLD: develop the technology because it was self-gratifying to prove he could do it, and advance his reputation and standing; to make a lot of money by selling it to the highest bidder; and to live long enough to enjoy the resulting spoils. That Turgenev chose to personally meet with him validated his first two goals, but perhaps not the third.
He knew the minute Turgenev’s two minions asked him to share his software code with them that he was in a terribly dangerous situation. However, it was by no means anything he had failed to anticipate.
If he capitulated, and provided Turgenev with what he wanted, then Turgenev would no longer be dependent on him to influence the 2020 U.S. elections. Moreover, his knowledge of Turgenev’s personal involvement would likely make Turgenev uncomfortable. He was aware that former associates of Turgenev had a habit of disappearing—permanently—once they were no longer needed.
Gradsky had to assure that he remained indispensable to Turgenev. But he had to do it in a way that Turgenev would accept. If he offended Turgenev, the dictator’s famous temper would take over and prove destructive—to both of them. Turgenev had been known to cut his nose off to spite his face.
If Gradsky was not careful, Turgenev would very possibly lose sight of the bigger picture, his 2020 U.S. election goals. He was used to having his own way, and not being pushed around. Gradsky knew he was walking a very fine line.
He could hack into one of Turgenev’s bank accounts and block, say, a billion dollars of his money. Impossible for most, it wouldn’t be for Gradsky—if he set his mind to it. He could then explain to Turgenev that the money was locked away to assure Gradsky’s safety and would be freed up at some unspecified future date, so long as nothing untoward happened to him.
Such a personal slight—messing around with Turgenev’s finances—would be too much to expect Turgenev to abide. He would undoubtedly explode, imprison Gradsky in one of GRU’s notorious prisons, torture Gradsky until he released the money, and then kill him. He would give up his 2020 U.S. election objectives before he would allow anyone to extort him in such a personally obnoxious and invasive manner.
Even if Turgenev initially went along with such a personal intrusion, he wouldn’t do so indefinitely. After the 2020 election, Gradsky’s pending assignment would be concluded, and he would have no continuing basis to hold on to the money. He would have to return it and, surely, Turgenev would then kill him.
Gradsky had been working on a more plausible way out. It was somewhat intricate, but he believed he could sell it to the omnipotent Turgenev.
Gradsky would deliver one encrypted copy of his 2020 software and one encrypted copy of his 2020 software code to Turgenev’s designee. Even with the most sophisticated artificial intelligence capabilities presently known or foreseeable to man, no one would be able to crack these encrypted copies of the software and the software code in time to manipulate the 2020 U.S. elections without a software digital key and a software code digital key that Gradsky would withhold. The digital keys would randomly reset every 24 hours, and would be housed in an impenetrable electronic vault. Access to the vault would require an electronic digital key that would also be randomly reset every 24 hours.
The encrypted software and the encrypted software code that Turgenev’s designee would have would only be functional if the three digital keys were successfully updated without interruption or interference every 24 hours. The only information Gradsky himself would have regarding these arrangements would be the name of the architect of the digital key system, who went by the name Cipher. He would not have the ability to influence or alter the system. It would therefore be pointless for Turgenev to torture Gradsky in an attempt to gain any additional information beyond the description of the arrangements he would voluntarily share with Turgenev, including Cipher’s name.
Cipher was well known and respected in dark web circles. The dark web was generally thought to be potentially hazardous to your health, digitally if not physically, and was not trusted by most “ordinary” people. The majority who participated in the dark web did so unlawfully, violating the laws of one or more jurisdictions around the globe, which was to say that many of the underlying dark web activities were themselves unlawful.
For that reason, many dark web activists were commonly described as “ghosts.” Not only did they not ever use their real names, but they never physically surfaced at dark web or other events using even their fictitious names, let alone their real names. The explanation for this was simple. Authorities could show up at an event seeking to arrest a well-known alleged criminal, but they would have no idea who their target really was, what the target looked like, or whether the target was actually at the event.
Cipher was unique in that respect. He meticulously complied with all applicable laws of all jurisdictions in which he conducted any business from anywhere in the world. For that reason, regardless of what his true name was, he did not have to be a ghost, and he wasn’t. He showed up wherever he chose, and readily identified himself—by the name Cipher, but not by his real name, whatever that might be. For example, Cipher, in person, founded and visibly hosted a highly popular international hacker’s convention every year in Kazakhstan.
People knew who Cipher was and what he looked like. They might not know his legal name, but he had no need to be a ghost or to hide his true identity. Cipher was simply part of his brand. That Cipher could uniquely operate in the open as he did helped to explain why his brand was as well known as it was, and why his earnings were as significant as they were.
Gradsky was one who also was comfortable trolling and doing business openly on the dark web—under the alias Leonid Gradsky. He also did not operate as a ghost, at least not in any technical sense of the word. People knew what Gradsky looked like. For someone in Gradsky’s frequently unlawful business, the dark web provided a reasonably safe platform for him, particularly given that he didn’t advertise his physical whereabouts or calendar.
That Gradsky did not hide certain aspects of his activities on the dark web did not mean that people knew his true identity, or any of the aliases under which he did business, from time to time. Even Cipher—who generally knew how to contact Gradsky—did not know all of his aliases, or his true identity. This made it difficult for the authorities to attribute any of Gradsky’s unlawful activities to Cipher.
For a six-figure, one-time fee that discouraged all but the most serious players, Cipher offered his digital key encrypted security services. Nothing about that required Cipher to know anything about what business his encryption clients were engaged in, o
r who they actually were, or where they physically were. Turgenev could “encourage” Gradsky to identify and provide access to Cipher, but that would do Turgenev no good because Cipher also had no more access to Gradsky’s digitally revolving encrypted keys than Gradsky did.
Central to the encrypted security services that Cipher offered—and of crucial importance to the health and well-being of Cipher and his clients—Cipher posted compelling documentation on his website, demonstrating that there was nothing to be gained by pressuring Cipher or his clients to reveal what they did not know, and could not find out.
In furtherance of Gradsky’s personal safety, he had to personally log in every day to Cipher’s online platform in order to preserve the integrity of Cipher’s encryption system on Gradsky’s behalf. If he failed to do so, the digital keys self-destructed, without the necessity of any further action, and the encrypted software and software code in Turgenev’s possession would no longer function. Ever. There was no safety valve and no backdoor.
Gradsky might be forced to share his login credentials, but the login system was tied to an unidentified series of intricate biological and biometric characteristics unique to Gradsky that would not work if anyone else sought to use them. Such characteristics included fingerprints, retinal blood vessel size and shapes, breathing patterns, speech habits and affectations, and keyboard typing pressure and cadence. It might be possible to track one or more of these biometric characteristics, but certainly not all of them.
As part of Cipher’s website documentation, he invited his clients to share their unique login user name and password credentials, one time only, so third parties could verify that the login process was part of Cipher’s encryption system personal to one of his clients, but would not work when used by anyone other than the client.
If anyone attempted to use the logins after the one-time demonstration, the digital keys permanently deactivated. A second demonstration could be arranged, but it would require the payment of a second fee. Cipher offered no volume discounts.
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