by Jack Bowie
A broad smile filled the DDI’s normally somber face. “Not the Chip, Roger. The Gambit. What was the most advanced encryption technique in the early nineties?”
“The RSA stuff I guess.”
“Right. Well, NSA found a backdoor to break RSA, and eventually its follow-on, IDEA. So what did NSA have to do?”
“Keep it secret I guess.”
“Sure, but what else? This was a time of extensive work on coding and security. Every university and private research lab was working on algorithms. NSA couldn’t let something stronger get discovered.”
Surprise flashed on the agent’s face. “Jesus! You’re telling me Clipper was a decoy? Something to keep the security community busy while NSA kept snooping around?”
“Glad to see you’re not slipping in your advanced age, Roger. Robinson positioned Clipper as a way to direct security research toward a common enemy, the government. Everybody jumped on the bandwagon. Everybody started analyzing Clipper. That left RSA as the alternate encryption technique of choice. And something NSA could break. Most of the agency didn’t even know the truth until the project was closed. Not a bad return for a few millions of dollars investment. Sorry we didn’t think of it.”
Slattery shook his head. How much longer could he put up with these games?
“Then this should be a very interesting meeting.”
The pair stopped in front of a door marked only as “131.” Markovsky knocked and the door opened onto a small, crowded office. Standing inside was a very trim man, early-to-mid-fifties, dressed casually in dark pants and a light blue polo shirt. His brown hair was slicked back and he assessed his visitors through deep green eyes. Slattery recognized him as Stroller’s subordinate at the advisory group meeting.
“Peter, good to see you,” Robinson said as he extended his hand. “I was hoping you would come along when Claude arranged the meeting.”
“Good to see you too. Garrett, this is Roger Slattery. Roger’s one of our counterterrorism specialists.”
“I’ve heard about your work, Roger. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Mr. Robinson,” Slattery said as he took the agent’s hand.
“Garrett, please. Thank you for coming.” He gestured to a small table and chairs in the corner of the room and the trio sat down.
“I’ve briefed Roger about IMAGER, Garrett. How can we help?”
Robinson’s bonhomie disappeared, replaced by an oppressive gravity. “The traffic accident was very unfortunate. Kam Yang discovered the decryption algorithm and, for reasons known only to him, he chose to keep its details secret from the rest of the Agency. Normally, this would be unacceptable and met with, well, certain sanctions, but the discovery was quite important, as you can imagine. We tolerated his eccentricity on the belief we would eventually be able to understand the algorithm. He had been exposing some parts over the past few months but never enough to let us implement it completely.”
Robinson paused and folded his hands on the tabletop. It seemed like he was still considering how much to tell his new colleagues.
“You must understand that this is still not a real-time operation,” he continued. “The decryption process can take hours for a single message. Yang had been testing the algorithm on a random sample of messages from the inbound stream and we stumbled across the militia transmission.”
Slattery knew that Robinson’s “inbound stream” was nothing less than all the signals intelligence, or SIGINT, available to NSA. And that was a good portion of all the electronic information in the world: military satellite signals, cellular telephone, packet radio, messages on the Internet, and electronic graffiti secretly collected by hundreds of covert intelligence operations. They had caverns of computers collecting, sorting and analyzing that information. Or at least as much of it as they could decode. An increasing percentage of these signals were being encrypted by any of a number of powerful techniques.
“We called the militia file QUARTERBACK, and Yang’s focus went to keeping the decryption pipeline filled with its feed. We were getting close to understanding the level of the threat when Yang died.”
“Why not just tell the advisory group what happened?” Slattery asked.
“That would have been rather difficult, don’t you think?” Robinson replied. “We had already told them IMAGER was HUMINT, human intelligence. Revealing the truth would have compromised Yang’s discovery. Something that we are unwilling to do.”
And would have exposed your little deceit, Slattery thought.
“How can we help, Garrett?” Markovsky asked.
“We have to discover the rest of the algorithm. Yang has a brother in China, another cryptologist. Kam may have shared the secret with him. We have to contact him and try to get the missing pieces. NSA doesn’t have the infrastructure to reach him. You do.” The agent fidgeted in his chair before continuing. “We need your help.”
The last words were obviously difficult for Robinson. He wasn’t used to asking for assistance. Markovsky, of course, took his time responding, enjoying the discomfort of his colleague.
“I brought Roger because of his background in terrorist groups. He’s also run a number of covert ops. What do you think, Roger?”
“China is a difficult place. It would be easier to approach him on neutral territory. How receptive will he be?”
“We’re not sure,” Robinson answered. “Yang’s family requested his body be sent back to China. We haven’t had any contact with the brother.”
“Then why do you even think he knows the algorithm?” Slattery asked.
“We’ve monitored Yang’s personal email back to China. It’s encrypted. We can’t break it.”
Robinson got up and walked back to his desk. He opened a drawer, pulled out a heavy folder, and dropped it in front of the DDI. A thick black stripe ran diagonally across the cover. Printed neatly on a label was “Top Secret – Eyes Only – QUARTERBACK.”
“Here’s Yang’s file. It’s everything we have.” Robinson’s voice dropped; its edge fell away. “We have to get that algorithm.”
Markovsky calmly picked up the file and dropped it unopened into his briefcase. He glanced over to Slattery, nodded, and got up from his chair.
“We’ll review this and get back to you with an analysis. I can’t make any recommendations without clearing it with the Director.”
“Of course,” Robinson replied. “But it’s got to be done quietly, Peter. The FBI will have our hides if this is revealed.”
“Understood, Garrett.” Markovsky turned for the door. “You’ll clear our exit?”
“Already done. Good to meet you, Roger.”
The pair of CIA agents headed back down the hall to the checkpoint.
“You really want me to help him, Peter?” Slattery asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not excited about saving NSA’s ass, but I believe the militia threat is real. Which means IMAGER is important. And now we’re tied to the charade. By the way, did you make any progress on Flynn’s file?”
Slattery saw the opening and jumped through.
“Not much. She’s on real thin ice. I’ll give you my preliminary evaluation when we get back to Langley. If you want any real analysis I’ll need some help. I’d like Ikedo from European Ops.”
“Why him?”
“He’s got the best background to psych out these groups. Trust me.”
“Okay,” Markovsky said, “but only for the militia analysis. Keep him out of this Yang thing.”
“Done. Thanks. So what do you want me to do about Robinson?”
Markovsky reached into his briefcase, pulled out the file and handed it to Slattery. “All yours. Review it and see what you can come up with. Get back to me tomorrow. I’m not taking this anywhere else for now.”
Chapter 15
Alexandria, Virginia
Thursday, 6:30 p.m.
This week Slattery made it out of the Giant Supermarket in Falls Church with only a single bag. Between his overtime in Langley,
and Beth’s class schedule at George Mason, there hadn’t been much time for home cooked meals. He would be on his own again tonight, so he had picked a few frozen dinners and a half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream.
Without a few small pleasures what was life worth?
He popped the locks on his Chevy Blazer and was reaching for the door handle when he heard the voice.
“Excuse me, Mr. Slattery.”
A statement, not a question, from an unrecognized voice. Slattery dropped the plastic grocery sack to the ground and spun to face the voice. His hands went automatically to guard.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the voice. It came from a small, emaciated-looking, man. Perhaps ten years Slattery’s junior, he was dressed in khakis and a windbreaker. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The agent stood his ground.
“My name is Taylor Luckett,” the man continued. “I’m a reporter for the Washington Post. I wanted to talk with you about the militia incident at Tyler, Georgia.”
Slattery went on full alert. “I’m sorry, mister . . . Luckett was it? I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps you’re confusing me with someone else.”
“No, Mr. Slattery, I’m not confused. Roger Edward Slattery, counter-terrorism, Central Intelligence Agency, on assignment to Peter Markovsky. Currently investigating militia activity for DNI Carlson’s own private advisory group; probably circumventing most every statute of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. Did I miss anything?”
Slattery remembered the name Luckett from a couple news stories he had read. Why the hell would the reporter accost him on the street? If this really was Luckett. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you just go . . . ”
“Goddammit, Slattery. Those bastards killed my best friend, George Brown. I don’t have time for your too-cool spook routine. I have information on the Tyler cell. Can we compare notes?”
“I don’t think we have anything to discuss, Mr. Luckett. I suggest you get out of my way, before I call the police.”
“Screw you, Slattery!” The man turned and stomped back toward the grocery store.
Jesus Christ, thought Slattery. What else is going to happen on this assignment?
* * *
“Did you make a killing on the IPO?” he asked.
The tiramisu had just arrived and Braxton decided he would try to chip away at a bit more of the nearly impenetrable wall that still separated them. So far, the dinner with his ex-wife had been a stiff and uncomfortable experience. He had taken her to a small Italian restaurant in Georgetown. They had always loved trying new places when they were married. He had hoped the atmosphere at Venetti’s—the aromas of garlic and oil, the romantic Italian accents, the colorful tablecloths and decorations—would make for easier conversation.
It hadn’t.
He had been surprised at her call, and honestly shocked when she asked him to dinner. To be fair, they had not parted amicably. After he had been laid off he had wallowed in self-pity for months, alienating friends and family alike. Megan had tried her best to help him, but he had fought her off at every attempt. She had finally given up, moved to the other end of the country, and taken a job at a Silicon Valley start-up. From what he had read about their recent Initial Public Offering, it had been a very profitable decision.
“Adam, it’s not polite to discuss money.” Connelly gave him a solemn stare. “But if you must know . . .” Now she managed a slight smile with that crazy crooked turn of her mouth. It brought back memories of happier times. “We were all really surprised. Going public had always been our dream, of course. I took a big salary hit in exchange for equity. We didn’t think we were big enough yet, but Paul Venton, our CEO, just kept pushing. The valuation was a dream come true. I didn’t do as well as the Founders, of course, but let’s just say it did pay off.”
“That’s great. I have to confess I followed the negotiations on the Net. I was hoping you had done well.”
From what Braxton had read, Vision One had developed the first true 3D holographic display. Holograms had been standard fare in TV programs and movies for years, but Vision One had figured out how to make it real. The technology was revolutionary and enabled deep-pocket customers to “see” information that otherwise was just a list of numbers or flat pictures on a monitor. Meteorologists used it to plot pressures and winds in the atmosphere. Aircraft engineers could see stresses and airflows. Their potential market was huge.
“You’re sweet,” Connelly replied. “Thank you. But look at you: suit and tie, your own company, and you read the business news. What do your research friends think?”
“They all want me to consult for them, at reduced rates of course. I guess I’ve been pretty lucky too.” He returned the smile.
“Lucky is right. You nearly got yourself killed!” Braxton’s eyebrows jumped. “Okay, don’t look at me like that. My turn to confess. I tried to find out more about you and that Incident. I didn’t have very much luck; mostly just rumors. How did you ever get so involved with those people?”
He shrugged. “It just kinda happened. The more I looked into the problem, the deeper I got. Then when Paul, my friend, was killed, . . . well, I just couldn’t let go.”
“And how is Ms. Goddard? Are you still seeing her?”
He felt his face flush. “Susan? How do you know about her?” All he received was a wry grin in return. “She’s fine. She took a PR job for the new Virginia Senator and I’ve been trying to build the consulting business. We got too busy. I still haven’t figured out this relationship thing.”
“I’m sorry, Adam. But you do seem to be happier. I’m glad for you.”
Her voice turned soft and the smile disappeared. She looked tired, gray arcs hanging deeply under her beautiful blue eyes. Had work been that difficult?
“So what’s life like working for Vision One these days? Any calmer?”
“Oh, not all that different. Now we just have to keep all the industry analysts happy. We go from one quarter to the next trying to meet their expectations. But we have doubled our installed base in the past six months.”
“Super. I did hear you opened a new office in Europe. Are you going to stay in Palo Alto?”
“I guess for now. I actually don’t know that much about the European operation. Our CEO has been building that himself.” She started to twist the hair behind her ear with her fingers. It had always meant something was bothering her.
“What’s going on over there?”
“Just getting the new office set up. European distributors and partnerships. The usual stuff.”
“Have there been many personnel changes?”
“Well, some of our key people are being called onto special projects. Getting sent to Holland. It’s really disruptive, but there’s not much we can do.”
He couldn’t help but feel she was holding something back. He didn’t want to pry, but she had asked him out hadn’t she?
“Is anything wrong, Megan? You look really stressed.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“I know. It’s okay. Everybody says I’ve been kinda uptight lately. I’m probably just being silly.”
“Tell me about it. I promise not to repeat any corporate secrets.”
She returned his smile. “Oh, it’s nothing like that. It’s just, well . . . I had a friend. Ben Lawson. He was one of our Founders and our best researcher. We started dating. A few months ago he was pulled over to help set up the Utrecht office.”
“That doesn’t sound so unusual.”
“No, but then last week I got a strange letter from him. Not email; handwritten. He said he had a funny feeling about the project. He didn’t explain, but said he’d tell me when he came back.”
“When is he due back?”
Her head fell. “He won’t be coming back. He was killed in a traffic accident.”
Her eyes turned red and teary, despite an obvious attempt to hold back t
he emotion.
“I’m sorry, Megan. Is there anything I can do?”
“Oh, no. Thank you. Vision One is taking care of everything. I just couldn’t help but wonder. Could his death have anything to do with the note I received?”
“That’s all you have? Just his letter?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t think you should let it worry you. He was probably working too hard, and got depressed. It happens to a lot of us.”
“But Ben was always so grounded; so analytic. It wasn’t like him to imagine things.”
“I think you’re the one letting your imagination go. There’s nothing you can do. It was just an unfortunate coincidence.”
“You don’t think I should try to find out more?”
He didn’t want to be too hard on her, but he knew what happened when you began to see conspiracies around every corner. He couldn’t stand to see that happen to her.
He reached out and took her hand.
“Megan. It was an accident. You obviously cared about him a lot. But don’t let that cloud your judgment. Accidents happen. There’s nothing more you can do.”
She started to say something then stopped. A look of resignation came over her face.
“You’re right. I’m sorry I bothered you.” She blotted her tears with the napkin, then set it on the table. “I must look a mess. I’ll be right back.”
He watched as she walked through the maze of tables. Petite, with short dark hair, a beautiful face and striking figure, heads still turned when she passed.
How could he have treated her so badly? And what could he do to help her now?
Chapter 16
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia
Friday, 8:45 a.m.
“You look like crap, Roger. Bad night?”