by Jack Bowie
Terrel headed for the door. “Works for me. I’ll check everyone’s schedules. See you later.” He slammed the door as he left.
“Bye, Paul,” Braxton commented to the empty room.
He picked up his notes and went back into the study. When they had turned the living room into a library, the second bedroom became his study. It was a small interior space, probably meant as a nursery, but they had been too busy to put the room to its intended use. There would always be time later, wouldn’t there?
The room was a clutter of filing cabinets surrounding a battered wooden desk he had rescued from a Harvard dormitory sale. Two large monitors sat on the desktop behind a spot cleared by Terrel. Braxton’s laptop lay to the side and an aging Unix server rested in a corner. Wires were strung in a maze underneath the desk, most by his own hands, a result of his impatience with Verizon’s support team.
Flanagan had said that she would forward the suspicious message to his email account on the CERT/CC server. They had been unable to contact the sender directly and wanted him to try to track down the researcher and check out his claim.
Braxton connected to CERT’s VPN, then logged into his email account. There were only two messages in his in-folder, an announcement for a CMU Blood Drive, and the note from Flanagan. He scanned the forwarded message quickly on the screen, then printed it out.
There didn’t appear to be anything too extraordinary about the email, but the author sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. Also, Flanagan was very insistent about the incident. She had claimed that this was just a routine follow-up, but he had the sense that there was more to it. He’d worry about that later; for now he just needed to locate this Saracen and verify his claim.
He next checked the archive of security advisories on www.cert.org. He was fairly sure that Flanagan and her team would have cross-referenced the claim against known problems but there was no harm in doing his own checking. There were a couple of advisories that appeared related but nothing that met all of his criteria. He extracted the possibles and added them to his project file.
A check of the on-line network map showed there were two gateways into GW, gw-gate and gw-gw. He ran a quick scan of the gateways and found nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t really expect to find anything that quickly. Whatever it was would take some doing to track down.
The best approach would be to try to replicate Saracen’s work. Going back to his notes, he started coding a custom monitor for the gateway. It only took a half hour to lay out the basics and paste together existing code from his archive to get it programmed and tested.
He loaded the GW gateway names into his program and started the monitor using the security codes CERT had given him. The monitor would periodically check the internal status of the gateway and send him a mail message with the results. He hoped to catch some evidence of the network problem while he was tracking down this Saracen.
Finally, he checked the status of Saracen’s account on his home system at GW, rdvax. The account appeared to be real but the owner wasn’t on-line. Any other time, he would simply call the school, but he had a trip scheduled to D.C. anyway and he could check in person. Some things were better done that way.
Braxton glanced at his watch and realized he only had a half hour to pack and catch the T to Logan. The T, the venerable Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority, or MBTA, which, among other less-positive milestones, boasted the oldest subway in the United States and the only system immortalized by its own folk song. It was old, dirty, crowded, and usually late, but still took half the time to get to Logan Airport compared to Boston’s atrocious traffic. Traffic not the least bit improved by the obscenely expensive, and now leaking, Big Dig, and a tunnel named after Ted Williams. God, he loved this city.
The Red Line to South Station, then the new Silver Line to Logan. From there, the shuttle to D.C., another classic, if overly pretentious, American city. If he ever had to leave Boston, he actually might be able to live at the other end of the eastern megapolis. D.C. was like a big architect’s model, carved out of a single piece of massive limestone. Classic design, straight streets, and logical names, it appealed to the left half of his brain. On the right side, it didn’t have quite the richness of Boston’s ethnic neighborhoods or the golden dome of the State House, but it was uniquely international and the aura of power was addictive. All told, not an unacceptable place to live.
He had scheduled a meeting with a friend at NASDAQ’s D.C.-based IT group last week. They certainly had enough security worries to keep him gainfully employed. And now he would get the prospecting trip paid by CERT.
Feeling optimistic, he headed to his bedroom to grab his bag.
* * *
A small icon began blinking in the corner of the executive’s monitor. He abruptly finished his telephone call and closed the door to his office.
Having safely isolated himself, he expanded the icon and read the status message.
Warning: Unexpected management queries
Node=gw-gate.gw.edu
Probably just a new SysOp, but the coincidence was troublesome. Shutting off the scanner might miss some important messages. He would just keep a closer watch on the traffic for the next few days.
Chapter 6
Theater Electronics, Reston, Virginia
Monday, 2:00 p.m.
“DON”T ANY OF you have anything positive to contribute to this company?” the man screamed. “What the hell do you spend your time doing?”
Robert Greystone, Senior Vice President of Sales and Marketing for Theater Electronics stalked the conference room like a starving lion. More precisely, the location was the company’s “Board Room”, a spotless, completely antiseptic chamber of glistening steel and polished woods. A room ideally suitable for boring financial presentations and subtle corporate executions.
A blazing afternoon Virginia sun had made the already humid and stifling habitat completely unbearable. And the mood of the Senior Vice President wasn’t making it any easier on anyone.
Greystone was frustrated. Frustrated and angry over the incompetence of his subordinates seated around the table. In his view, nobody in the damn company seemed to care anything about the business.
And his business was command and control. As he always explained to new acquaintances, the “theater” in Theater Electronics didn’t mean the sites of Broadway plays, but of battlefields. Outside of the big guys like Boeing and McDonnell Douglas, his company was the largest supplier of military communications systems in the world. In addition to the U.S. DoD, Theater had a major presence in NATO and Canada, and a growing business with our Middle East allies.
But the past few years had seen their market wither, as they missed opportunities in new encryption technologies, battlefield visualization and even remote drone control. They were behind and nobody seemed to give a damn, from Charles Keane, CEO and Greystone’s boss, through product development and even his own sales staff. Well, that was about to change, despite his boss’s incompetence.
Last month, Keane had actually told him he was too hard on people. As if that was going to fix the company. An employee relations consultant had even been hired to “soften” Greystone’s behavior. The consultant had told the SVP he would be much more effective if he used consensus rather than autocratic techniques. Didn’t pace in front of his staff. Spoke more softly. Valued the differences in people.
Bull shit! What the hell did that over-educated, over-paid do-nothing know? When was the last time he had tried to keep a business afloat? Greystone had lasted almost twenty minutes into the meeting before he got up. That had to be a record.
He stopped behind a balding, middle-aged man with a painful-looking stoop to his shoulders. “Kern. How do you explain the drop in West Coast sales?”
Quentin Kern was a long-time Theater employee who had been a star sales executive for NATO before being moved up to manage all of Theater’s civilian business: the non-military alphabet agencies like the CIA and NSA. Greystone’s prede
cessor had had nothing but glowing praise for the man.
Well, the predecessor was gone and this over-the-hill parts pusher would soon be as well. With three kids in expensive private colleges, you’d think that he would want to keep his job. The sooner Greystone could get rid of these good ‘ole boys the better.
“We’ve gone over this before, Robert,” Kern pleaded. “Engineering just isn’t giving us the right product. We’re in all the key programs. I personally make sixty calls a month. We’re not keeping up with the features the Navy needs. They want S8 encryption, integrated with their existing infrastructure and the new GPS algorithm. And when we loan them a beta product, the damn things break.”
“Munson made his budget,” Greystone barked back. “Just barely, but he made it. Maybe we ought to replace your folks with his?” The Senior Vice President walked two seats to his left. “How about it Guy? You want to move?”
A distinguished black man raised his eyes to his inquisitor. “Come on, Robert. We’re all working as hard as we can. Business is just tough right now.”
“What about that new Delta Force mission comm program you’ve been promising. COGNOS wasn’t it? That still on track?”
Munson swallowed hard, but kept his eyes fixed on his boss. “Ah, they’ve put it on hold, Robert. Pending resolution of that new Bill in the Senate. They won’t go ahead until there’s proof of an escalation of the war effort. It’ll turn around this summer.”
Greystone put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples until his eyes watered. It was a good thing someone was watching this store; it certainly wasn’t his staff.
“And maybe some of us will be around to see it, too,” he growled. “Does anyone have any ideas to get us out of this mess?”
The heads around the table looked sheepishly at each other, each trying to think of any way to salve their boss. They shuffled papers, gulped bottles of water and twisted in their chairs, anything to avoid Greystone’s toxic glare.
Then, incongruously, a “cocktail party moment” occurred. All the sounds in the room went silent at precisely the same moment; all except one.
“Well, a new Middle East war would be nice.”
Fred Jamison, Sales Operations Manager, turned from what he had thought had been a private whisper to Jacqueline Garret, a singularly attractive, and available, manager to his left, and saw every eye in the room staring at him. His mouth gaped open and his face went ashen.
Greystone paused, letting the terror level rise, then calmly said, “At least Fred is trying. A bit overly optimistic, but a good suggestion. Since the rest of you don’t seem to have any better ideas, why don’t you all just think real hard about what you’d do if you lost your jobs.
“Now get out! You can call me when you think you have something of value to add to this company.” Greystone strode back to his place at the head of the cherry conference table. His staff rapidly gathered up their papers and fled for the door.
“Lombard! You stay.”
A short, well-dressed young man froze at the sound of his name. He turned and faced the executive.
“I just received this from Keane.” Greystone tossed a half-inch stack of papers down the polished table. Lombard grabbed the package before they tumbled over the edge. “I don’t have time to review another of his goddamn research reports. Go over this and give me an analysis.”
Ted Lombard glanced down at the cover letter clipped to the report. “Uh, it says for your personal response, Robert.”
“I don’t care what it says. He’s just trying to keep me busy while he runs the company into the ground. Find out what you can and write up a response. I need it for the Board meeting tomorrow.”
“Yes sir,” Lombard quickly responded. “Everything ready for your Congressional testimony?”
“I think so. Dumbing down the issues was harder than I had thought. But you can’t present anything too complicated at these hearings. Not a bunch of insightful visionaries up there on the Hill.”
“Just watch out for Senator Hastings. Somebody on his staff is giving him pretty good data.”
Greystone squinted and shook his head. “He’s a goddamn obstructionist if you ask me. A throwback to the twentieth century. Thinks diplomacy is going to save us from the terrorists. We can handle him. Potterfield’s the key.”
“The chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee? Can you get any time with him?”
“Of course,” Greystone responded, as if the answer to the question was patently obvious. “I’m meeting with him over the luncheon break. Potterfield’s definitely the key to getting our changes in the Bill. I think he’ll play ball.” Greystone carefully stacked up his papers and closed them in his folio.
“But that’s not until Wednesday. First I have to get through the Board meeting. See what you can do with that damn report, then get the draft of the Board presentation together. I’ll send you my notes tonight.” He twisted his head toward the door. “Now get out of here.”
Greystone watched as Lombard left the room, then slowly walked over to the room’s panoramic windows overlooking the Virginia countryside. To any visitor, he seemed a man completely at peace with himself.
He was in his late fifties, but had neither the thinning hair nor the bulging paunch of most of his colleagues. His tanned face highlighted deep blue eyes, prominent cheekbones and a wide square chin. Thick dark hair was meticulously slicked back on his head and a custom Hong Kong silk suit wrapped his trim body. A starched white shirt and red paisley tie completed his official business attire. A persona carefully planned to project success and authority.
The tranquil setting outside Theater’s offices sharply contrasted with the battle of wills waging within the executive suite. The next few days were critical to his plan and he needed to work through every detail. He could only push his efforts so far before they would become public. Exposed too early, they would cost him his job and his legacy.
He had gone much farther than his authority permitted, but someone had to do something. He would not let the doddering old fool destroy what Greystone had worked so hard to build. His plan was on track. There were a few legal obstacles, but his meeting with the Senator would hopefully put them to rest. The biggest problem was with Keane and the Board. He had to make sure they saw the inevitability of his plan.
His fingers dug into the soft leather of the folio. So much had led to this. He couldn’t let it fail.
* * *
Theodore Lombard, Executive Assistant to Robert Greystone, took his time walking back through the maze of cubicles and secretarial areas. He wanted to make sure that everyone noticed that he was the one left discussing business with the Senior Vice President of Sales and Marketing.
Lombard was a small man, with a very boyish face, but he stood straight as a rod, stretching his five foot five inch frame to its maximum height. Moving through the office, he looked like a drill sergeant in a pin-stripe suit. He had been with Theater for five years, the last three as Greystone’s assistant. It was a position of power and influence that he had long coveted. Unmarried, his reputation was as a hard-working, committed employee, but his first priority was always to himself.
When he finally settled down at his desk he reviewed the morning’s activities. The most significant event was his boss’s surprising behavior. Emotional outbursts were completely out of character. Sarcasm, yes. Even anger. But he had never lost his temper. If anything, he was a control freak. Seeing him blow up was about as likely as Lombard’s ex-fiancé passing up a diamond sale at Bailey, Banks, and Biddle. The situation at Theater must be a lot more serious than he had thought.
Charles Keane, the founder of Theater Electronics, had been a retired Motorola executive who just couldn’t stay out of the game. He and some of his cronies had formed Theater to provide advanced, secure communication systems to the military. For many years, Theater had been a small, cliquish business, catering to highly classified black programs and Special Forces ops.
That business changed
dramatically with the first Gulf War. Theater had expanded its products to cover standard squad operations and advanced intelligence data aggregation. The generals had only been too happy to outfit their troops with sophisticated equipment, including gear that would help connect them with their families on the other side of the world. It had been a different kind of a war with different rules and different objectives. Morale was a challenge, you never knew who was a friend and who was a suicide bomber, and if video chat and computer games helped with the long deployments, then that’s what Theater supplied.
Then the engagement wound down, troops returned home, and equipment acquisitions were cancelled or postponed. Theater saw its growth stop, and its market share slowly dwindle. Lombard could see the pressure on the company’s executives. He didn’t understand all the issues, but it was common knowledge that his boss and Keane didn’t agree on either the process or the strategy to get the business going again.
Greystone had the support of enough of Theater’s directors so Keane couldn’t simply fire him, but their animosity and divisiveness were strangling the life out of the company. Decisions dragged on indefinitely as study after study was consumed.
Lombard spread the papers his boss had given him over the desk. This report was another example of the stupidity. He sat down to work on the report from Greystone, but knew that the effort was wasted. He had to find out what was really going on.
He hoped tonight would get him the answers he needed.
Chapter 7
Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 4:00 p.m.
“HOW’S IT GOING Detective?”
Fowler looked up from the report and saw his boss, Captain Frank Rodgers, standing next to his desk.
“Ah, just fine, Captain,” Fowler replied. “Reviewing forensics’ analysis of the Grady Avenue bombing.”