Rules of Engagement

by Ken Fite

  EIGHTEEN

  DIMITRI AND HIS men waited on reports to come in on the bombing of the Washington DDC field office, located just three miles southeast of their current location. Makar continued scanning various news websites as Andrei discussed next steps with Dimitri, who had taken a seat at the table across from him.

  Andrei rummaged through a backpack and found a notepad and pencil. He leaned forward on the desk as Dimitri watched him outline the situation so he could offer a recommendation. “Dimitri,” began Andrei, still maintaining his gaze on the notepad, “we do not yet have a report from inside DDC, but we can safely assume that the explosives were detonated as planned here,” he said, sketching out the DDC floor plan. “The ransomware continues to spread, with two instances deployed, one in Chicago and the other here.”

  Dimitri remained expressionless, eyeing Andrei as he asked, “And our two assets? Where are they now?”

  Before Andrei could respond, Makar turned his laptop around to show his screen to the two men sitting at the other end of the table. “We have confirmation, Dimitri. The Washington Post is reporting activity on D Street, just outside the Hoover Building.” Makar turned the laptop back around and scrolled through the story before he continued. “Pedestrians reported hearing a loud explosion from the building directly across from the Navy Memorial Plaza,” he said and glanced up at Dimitri. “No word on casualties yet.”

  “What else does it say?” asked Dimitri as he stood and walked behind Makar to read over his shoulder.

  “Police and unmarked vehicles arrived immediately,” replied Makar, still scrolling through the story. “Federal agents rushed the parking garage on the lower floor of the building that serves as the Washington field office of the Department of Domestic Counterterrorism.” Scanning further, he added, “Plainclothes men and women, directed by Bureau agents, emerged and then proceeded to walk across Ninth Street, carrying computer equipment, then proceeded to enter the J. Edgar Hoover Building across the street.”

  “Why have we not heard from our asset on the ground? We should not have to rely on the media, Makar.”

  The man shook his head. “Something must be wrong. Or maybe—”

  Andrei’s cell phone rang from across the table, and the man answered immediately. “Yes?” he asked and listened carefully as Dimitri stepped away from Makar and rounded the table, staring intensely at Andrei, who pulled the phone down, away from his face. “Our man is now inside the Hoover Building.”

  “Let me speak with him,” demanded Dimitri as Andrei held a hand up to caution the young man.

  “Remember, Dimitri—the plan was for him to only speak with me. You and I both know how this works.”

  Dimitri nodded, remembering the conversation on the drive back to DC, when Andrei had advised that voice signature technology could help the Americans figure out what was going on if they were not careful. “Ask him about the explosives,” Dimitri said softly so his voice would not get picked up in the background.

  Andrei brought the phone back up and asked, “Is everything in place for the delivery?” trying to conceal the actual question due to the keyword triggers that he knew were monitored by agencies such as the NSA.

  A smile grew on Andrei’s face as he nodded his acknowledgement to Dimitri. “Excellent,” he said, keeping his eyes set on the young man. “The transport is ready. Delivery is expected to take place within the hour.”

  But the smile was short-lived. A concerned look appeared on his face and Andrei shook his head quickly. “What kind of problem? What happened?”

  He pushed himself away from the table and stood, pressing the burner phone harder against his ear. Andrei turned and looked over his shoulder at Dimitri and Makar as he started walking around the large room before saying something into the phone out of earshot of the other men. Dimitri stepped closer and watched as the man finished his conversation with the caller and returned to his partners a minute later.

  Disconnecting the call, Andrei threw the phone on the table and said, “Jordan and the woman are safe. There were two casualties. I was unable to infer who they were, but I trust that it does not matter to us.”

  “What else?” asked Dimitri.

  Andrei remained standing and placed both hands on the back of his chair. “He also confirmed the report that Makar read to us. It seems that the two agencies have their people together. The plan is on track.”

  “So they are now one team working jointly from the Hoover Building?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent,” said Dimitri. “What about Mr. Jordan and the woman? Are they together?”

  Andrei nodded that they were.

  “Good. It will be more meaningful if he is present. We need to find them now.”

  “He said that they were sent to the address to meet with Bureau agents and help with the investigation. They’re either there now or will be arriving shortly.” Andrei paused for several seconds before adding, “Dimitri, he said he will not call us again and asked me not to make any further contact at this time. He is worried about our communications being intercepted. But he will continue to do his part as we do ours.”

  Dimitri nodded to himself. He picked up the phone from the table and tossed it to Andrei. “He has done us a great service, Andrei. Quick—contact our men. Send them to go find Jordan and the girl right away.”

  “How?” asked Makar, still seated at the end of the table as he lowered the lid to his laptop again.

  “There is no doubt that they are looking for our man on the bike,” replied Dimitri. “So let them find him.”

  “And then what?” pressed Makar.

  “They will go after him. Have our other asset ready to take out their vehicle from behind. Surprise them.”

  Andrei held onto his phone, thinking through the plan that Dimitri was suggesting to them. Looking up, he asked, “How do you want us to play this, Dimitri? Capture them and take them both to the safe house?”

  “Is that what you suggest?” he asked as Andrei’s eyes darted to Makar, then back to Dimitri.

  Andrei nodded, and the younger man shook his head slowly, disappointed with the response that Andrei had given him.

  “That is not how you convince a man to do something for you, my brother.” Dimitri let his words hang in the air before he continued. “Bring Jordan to the safe house. I will visit him and tell him what I want.”

  “And the woman? What do you want to do with her once Jordan is taken?” asked Andrei.

  Dimitri thought about it. He brought his hands behind his back and began pacing the room again.

  Andrei kept his eyes on the young man pacing the floor, deciding the fate of the woman. “Dimitri?” repeated Andrei, becoming impatient. “Tell me what it is that you want our man to do with Agent Davis.”

  Dimitri turned back. “Have him wait until Jordan has been taken away first.” He paused. “Then kill her.”

  NINETEEN

  I CLIMBED THE steps outside the home, stepped up to the open doorway, and showed my credentials to the men who were posted just outside the door as I approached. Inside, I saw a frenzy of ATF and Bureau agents from the Explosives Unit loading up boxes. Two of them walked past me. I turned and watched them place the boxes into a large truck parked at the curb as another set of agents oversaw the process.

  The guys at the door let me inside, and I scanned the home as I entered. It was small and unoccupied. There was no furniture in the main room, and the kitchen was empty. The air conditioner was blowing hard, keeping the place cool from the extreme summertime Washington heat, and the lights were on.

  Standing in the foyer, I saw Jami near the kitchen, talking with Mark Reynolds, Chris Reed’s partner at the FBI. From a room to my right, I recognized Chris’s voice. I stepped through the doorway as Reed looked over, nodded to me, wrapped up his conversation with an ATF agent, and walked over to talk with me.

  “Hey, man,” said Reed as he extended his hand. “Landry called about the DDC bombing. What happened?”


  I shook my head. “DDC’s looking into it. They evacuated the building, and Landry suggested that Lynne May move her people over to the Hoover Building.” I paused for a moment and added, “It went off right as I stepped into the field office, Chris. Knocked Jami and me over. If it had gone off a few seconds earlier…”

  I didn’t finish my sentence. I didn’t have to. Looking past Chris, I saw a small stack of C-4 explosives in the corner of the room. The ATF agent along with a Bureau counterpart stepped back into the room with a few more boxes and carefully lifted the explosives, one brick at a time, until a box was filled and taken out.

  “What are we dealing with here, Chris?” I asked, and he nodded to the doorway.

  “Let’s get out of their way and I’ll fill you in.”

  I followed Chris into the kitchen. We joined Jami and Mark, and I shook the man’s hand and crossed my arms as the four of us huddled together for Reed to bring Jami and me up to speed on the situation.

  “Ninety minutes ago, DC Metro Police received an anonymous tip. An intruder was apparently breaking into homes throughout the neighborhood, looking to make a quick buck.” Reed paused before continuing. “Apparently, he broke into this one sometime this morning. Said he noticed it was empty, but when he checked that room—” Reed pointed to the room we had just exited from “—he found the explosives.”

  “An honest criminal,” said Jami with a tone of voice that said she was skeptical. “So the place is vacant?”

  “Yeah,” replied Reed.

  “Then why’s the power on?” I asked. “We have lights and air-conditioning.”

  Reynolds cleared his throat and said, “We looked into that. The house is owned by an older couple living in Florida. They’ve been trying to sell the place and had to keep the power on for showings. We contacted them, and they said they recently fired their realtor and were planning on coming back next month.” He turned to look behind him briefly before adding, “My guess is someone’s been watching the place and saw it’s been empty for a while. It had air-conditioning to keep the explosives cool, so they decided to use it.”

  “But why store it here?” I asked as the ATF and Bureau agents walked outside to transfer more explosives into the vehicle out at the curb while another pair of agents stepped inside with more boxes and entered the room to collect the remaining explosives. “Chris, how much are you guys seizing here?”

  “Hard to say,” replied Reed. “We also found bomb-making equipment, weapons, clothing, wigs, and photographs of DC buildings along with maps of the city. Somebody was planning something big.”

  I looked past Jami, out the open front door, and fixed my eyes on the men carefully loading the boxes inside the large truck, and turned back to Reed. I nodded to the truck. “Where are you guys taking it?”

  “Hoover Building before we send it off to TEDAC,” he replied, referring to the Terrorist Explosive Device Analytical Center, an interagency organization located in Huntsville, responsible for assisting with acquiring, analyzing, and linking explosives to the terrorists that made them. “Landry’s having our Explosives Unit document whatever we were able to secure here and make it safe for transport—”

  Before Reed could continue, I heard the sound of my cell ringing in my back pocket. At the same time, Jami’s cell rang, and she moved toward the front door to take the call. I checked the screen and saw that it was Morgan. “Go ahead, Morgan. I’m here with Chris Reed and Mark Reynolds. You’re on speakerphone.”

  “Glad to hear that you and Jami are okay,” said Lennox before sharing the reason behind his call. “Blake, I think I may have figured out how to stop the ransomware attack from spreading. I’m still validating, but from what I can tell, the rate of its spread seems to have decreased dramatically over the last ten minutes.”

  I looked up at Chris and Mark and saw that we all shared the same relieved expression. “How’d you do it?”

  “When I finally got Simon out of my hair, I started looking at the code a little more closely, and I think I found a way to slow it down. And I may have even stopped it—not sure yet. And all it took was ten bucks.”

  “Explain,” I said.

  Morgan paused before continuing. “I was reverse-engineering the code and noticed that the ransomware’s programmers had added a module to check whether a certain gibberish URL led to a live website or not. I stared at the thing for twenty minutes, curious about why that piece of code was there. I copied the URL and plugged it into my web browser to see what was there. The URL wouldn’t resolve, the site wasn’t live.”

  Trying to understand, I asked, “So what did you do?”

  “I registered the bloody domain, went back into the code, and executed it in our sandbox environment. The thing wouldn’t work anymore. It seems that the people who stole this from the NSA had added a kill switch and embedded it into the code in a way that wasn’t easy to spot at first. I’m guessing it was there so they could rein in the monster that they had created if they ever needed to after deploying the thing. As long as the domain wasn’t active, the module had no effect on the ransomware’s spread.” Morgan paused. “Actually, mate, I’m surprised that Simon didn’t notice it. It was hard to miss once you found the module.”

  “So then we’re good?” asked Chris Reed, taking a step closer to me. “The threat is over now, Morgan?”

  “No,” replied Lennox. “Activating the kill switch seems to have stopped the spread. But the damage has already been done. Computer systems already infected with the malware are still rendered useless. The ransomware is still demanding money, which still isn’t working, even if you pay it. I tried paying the ransom in our sandbox environment after I registered the domain, and that had no effect, it seems.”

  I looked up and noticed Jami across the room. She had a concerned look to her. I thanked Morgan and told him I’d call him later. Jami ended her call and stepped closer to me. “Blake, we need to go right now.”

  “You got something?” I asked as I walked around the kitchen counter and approached the door.

  “Simon thinks he’s found the biker.”

  TWENTY

  MEG TAYLOR SAT quietly as the taxi driver headed northwest into the Washington suburbs. Prior to leaving the White House Press Corps offices, Meg had taken her time to write a story that would capture New York Times readers’ attention—really the attention of half the nation who wanted President Keller out—making sure that she had accounted for all of the talking points her informant had given her earlier.

  She knew that the story would rock the nation and damage the president’s image as a by-the-book leader.

  Before leaving the White House, Meg saved the story to a thumb drive, printed a hard copy, and started to email a copy to her boss, Robert King. But before sending the file, Taylor began to have second thoughts.

  If what her informant had told her was true, the ramifications for the sitting president would be explosive. There would be an investigation. If the report gained enough traction and media attention, a special prosecutor might be appointed. And like Woodward and Bernstein, she would be at the center of the investigation. For better or worse, if King ran with the story, she knew her life would be changed forever.

  Meg’s cell phone rang as the cab entered the residential neighborhood of Crestwood. Glancing at the number, Meg sent the caller to voicemail to avoid discussing what she was about to do and risk being overheard by the taxi driver. Besides, she figured she could just call the man back as soon as she was done. She had enough to worry about and was trying to convince herself that she was doing the right thing.

  One thought remained constant in Taylor’s mind that she could not let go: she was at the New York Times. And she was young. The men and women she rubbed shoulders with every day had worked for twenty, even thirty years to get a position with the Times, and she couldn’t imagine having to go back to her hometown or, worse, a paper in a small town and try working her way back up. She had to save her career.

 
Taylor reached out and placed a hand on the back of the seat in front of her to steady herself as the taxi driver brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop at Varnum Street and turned around. “Is this it?” he asked.

  Meg checked the address on her phone, turned to her right to confirm the house number, and nodded. After paying the fare, Taylor climbed out and began to walk up the steps rising from the sidewalk and stopped at the door. Turning back, she saw the red glow of the taxi’s brake lights as it navigated a dip in the road and disappeared beyond the trees that lined the street as the late afternoon sun started to set.

  She knocked three times and waited, but there was no answer at the door. She knocked three more times. There was still no response. Meg heard the sound of a car approaching from down the street and turned to look at it. The vehicle turned into the alleyway that ran to the right of the house. Taylor caught a glimpse of the driver’s face as he pulled into the driveway and slowed long enough to acknowledge Meg’s presence.

  It was Robert King.

  Taylor descended the stairs, clutching a manila folder, and folded her arms across her chest as she stepped onto the sidewalk and curiously followed the vehicle into the alleyway to catch up with her boss.

  “What are you doing here?” asked King as he stepped out of the driver’s seat and closed his car door.

  Looking sideways, still trying to convince herself that she was doing the right thing—and likely the only thing that she could do right now to get back into her boss’s good graces—Meg stepped forward and stretched out her hand. “Mr. King, I’m sorry to bother you at your home, but I need you to read this.”

  King cocked his head to one side and furrowed his brow as his eyes ran up and down Taylor’s body.

  “Please,” added Taylor, taking another step closer. “Just read it and then I’ll leave you alone, Mr. King.”

  King reached out and took the folder, opened it, and stared at the headline that Meg had come up with. “President Keller’s black ops team,” he said sarcastically as his eyes flicked across the top of the first page. He continued to read through the story that she had written, licked a thumb to wet it, and turned the page. “What is this, Megan?” the man asked, keeping his gaze downward as he scanned the report.