The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  “At least. Let’s keep it simple. If we assume Century has a third of the market and the average lifespan of a router or gateway is 6 years, then their installed base is twice the yearly market. That’s at least twenty million units in the field. More than enough to crack any commercial encryption technique. And they wouldn’t have to crack all the messages; just the ones with the right metadata. Messages going from or to a specific target.”

  Terrel still wasn’t convinced. “Okay, it’s possible. But what about the analysis software? You said the developers were supposed to delete it. How would it get on these machines? It would never get past Century’s QA group.”

  Braxton smiled and shook his head. “You’re kidding, right? I was there. I know what goes on in these Quality Assurance groups. They’re under intense pressure to complete the checklists. From their immediate managers all the way up the chain. Every extra day they take is a day the machines aren’t available to sell. It’s all about the money.

  “And the damned software is so complex, they only have time to test what the machines are supposed to do. It’s hard enough to test all the documented features of a computer product. No one can test for what could be present.

  “Customers would never see the extra features. As long as the gateway does everything it’s supposed to do, no one looks for it to do other things. It’s a classic trapdoor. A hidden feature that only a few people know.”

  He paused, not wanting to voice the thought that had been screaming in his brain. “The routines could be found in a code-review, but all it takes is one manager somewhere along the chain to bury the discovery. Which is exactly what would happen if that manager is involved.”

  “Okay, but one step at a time.” Terrel slouched back in his chair. “It’s a great conspiracy theory but how do you prove it? Is there any way to tell if the routines are still there?”

  “One way would be to look at the programs running on the system. The tools leave a distinct pattern in the map of processes on the computer. Like running Windows Task Manager. But I’d have to be back at GW to do that.”

  Braxton took a deep breath and tried to relax. His heart was racing. He had to calm down.

  “There is another possibility. We implemented a special interface for remote testing of the software using a special port. It was like talking directly to the heart of the gateway.”

  “Great. Let’s try it! Do you have any documentation?”

  Braxton hesitated. “No. They didn’t let me take very much when I left,” he said with a frown. “But we can try this.” He handed Terrel the book he had taken from his shelves.

  Terrel sat up and read the cover of the book. “A History of Concord Massachusetts? What good is this?”

  “Look up the date of incorporation of Concord.”

  Terrel gave him an odd stare, then flipped a few pages. “1635.”

  “That’s it.” Braxton logged onto his main account at CERT, then tried a telnet connection to the GW gateway, giving the specific port number. He should have gotten an invalid request response. Instead he saw:

  Century Diagnostic Port

  Password:

  “Goddamn it! They didn’t even change the log-in banner, the arrogant sons-of-bitches.” Braxton’s hands were clenched and his face glowed with a scarlet flush. “It was my work, Paul. And I’ll bet someone is using it to pull data out of the gateway.”

  “Okay, but you still don’t have any proof this is what Ramal found. You’ve got to find out what’s going on inside the gateway. Do you have the password too?”

  Terrel was right. They didn’t have any real proof, as Detective Fowler would call it, that this had any bearing on the investigation. He had to get into the gateway. “I can try the ones we used before. Maybe they’ll still work.”

  They spent the next hour trying to break the password. Braxton tried all the old diagnostic keys he could remember, then various common Century phrases and colloquialisms. He even resorted to a few cracking programs he had taken off the Internet. Nothing worked. Whoever had left the tools in the production release did it deliberately; they had changed the access passwords.

  Terrel finally broke the silence. “Time for a break, Adam. It’s hard enough to break a personal password, much less a corporate one. It could be anything. It’s time to tell CERT. They need to know what you’ve found.”

  Braxton turned to face his friend. “But I don’t know what I found. An old message on an output port? Who knows whether it does anything?”

  He sat back in his chair and dropped his head in his hands. “Let me work on it some more. Maybe I’ll get in. Or Century will get back to me with an explanation.”

  He thought back to Chamberlain’s threat. “I can’t afford to make a false accusation.

  * * *

  The man expanded the warning icon.

  Warning:

  Invalid login attempt; diagnostic port, GW-gate

  Damn. He’s discovered the port.

  Reaching for the phone, he hoped there was still time.

  Chapter 27

  The Kennedy Center, Washington, D.C.

  Friday, 9:00 p.m.

  THE TOWERING CRYSTAL chandeliers of the Grand Foyer sent flashes of sparkling multi-colored light over the intermission crowd, reflecting off glamorous sequined gowns and shiny bald pates on the floor below. An opening night at The Kennedy Center was always a major social event, and tonight was no exception. The production company for “The King and I” revival had come directly from New York. It was an expansive and colorful production, very unlike the minimalist designs of the past season. The attendees were in good spirits, and were eager to begin the really important part of the evening, networking.

  Potterfield made his way down the stairs from his balcony seat with his wife and entourage in tow. He had invited three recent additions to his staff to join him at the opening. The occasional favor was an important part of his position. It solidified staff morale and insured their continued allegiance.

  Loyalty was the one thing that had been bothering him about Nicholson lately. He seemed to need Potterfield’s favors and assistance less and less. Last week he had told the Senator that he had made separate reservations for the performance. How had he managed that?

  “Have you seen Nick tonight, Mary Jane?” he asked his wife as they made their way to the lobby bar.

  Mary Jane Potterfield was a stately, if plump, elderly black woman. Her gray hair was pulled back from her face revealing a broad forehead, prominent cheekbones, and piercing brown eyes. About a head shorter than her husband, she carried herself with an aplomb suitable for the wife of one of Washington’s most powerful men. She saw to his wants, ran their home like a general, and had become a prominent participant in the Washington social scene. It had been a difficult road from the streets of Richmond, and she had weathered many crises along the way, most caused by her husband’s sometimes not so private indiscretions. But long ago they had decided that God had meant for them to travel this path together. Neither could imagine the trip alone.

  “No, dear. But I’m sure he’s here. He wouldn’t miss the opportunity to dig up some dirt on someone.” Potterfield glared at his wife. She held little respect for his Chief of Staff. For some reason, they had never gotten along. He had finally decided it was jealousy; he and Nick spent altogether too much time together.

  Potterfield ordered a whiskey on the rocks and craned his neck to see over the crowd.

  “Senator, I’ve been looking for you.” Potterfield turned and saw Nicholson approaching. An elegant, ravishing woman was draped regally on his arm. She was tall and slim, her curvaceous body wrapped in a traditional African dashiki.

  “Angelina, this is my famous employer, Senator David Potterfield and his lovely wife, Mary Jane. Senator, Mrs. Potterfield, this is Angelina Mowaru. Angelina is an attaché at the Rwandan Embassy.”

  “Senator, how very nice to meet you,” Mowaru said with an inviting smile. “I have followed your activities with much inte
rest. Your positions on increased aid to the developing countries of Africa are most progressive. I hope you will continue to pursue these policies.”

  “Why thank you, Miss Mowaru. I hope that my efforts have been of some small assistance to countries less fortunate than our own. How long have you been in Washington?”

  “Only about three months now. But Nick has been showing me many of your lovely sites. He has been so very kind.” She looked up at Nicholson and lightly squeezed his arm. He feigned embarrassment, but Potterfield noticed a satisfied smile cross his face.

  “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I must speak with my Chief of Staff on some business matters,” Potterfield abruptly interjected. “If you would excuse us for a moment, please.”

  “Come, my dear,” Mary Jane offered as she put out her arm. “Let these men solve the problems of State by themselves. I would really like to get your impressions of the production. I’m on the Board of Directors for the Center, you know.”

  Potterfield, drink in hand, led Nicholson out the doors and onto the River Terrace. It was a brisk, clear Washington night. To their left, a procession of white and crimson lights floated across the Potomac over Francis Scott Key Bridge. To their right, Georgetown University and the National Cathedral warmed the black sky with an ethereal golden glow. There was no need to worry about anyone overhearing their conversation, the temperature on the terrace ensured they would be left alone.

  “What have you found out about the email, Nick? We can’t have this threat hanging over us any longer.”

  “I have some of the interns doing some research, I think . . .”

  “You what! I said I wanted this taken care of quietly. Now you’ve got some loose-mouthed college brats doing your work for you?”

  Nicholson raised his hands in defense. “David, calm down. They’re simply checking out the locations of some reporters. We’re getting closer every day to the identification. But we have to keep stringing the blackmailer along. If we lose contact we may never find out who he is. And he could reappear at any time.”

  “So I have to keep reading this crap?”

  “Yes. If anything new comes in tell me immediately. We need every hint he may give us. You can hang on a little longer.”

  “Easy for you to say. But when you find out who got that information, make sure it gets buried for good this time. I don’t want . . .”

  “Senator Potterfield. What a surprise to find you here.”

  Potterfield’s head spun toward the voice. Robert Greystone calmly appeared out of the darkness.

  “How good to see you both again,” Greystone said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

  Potterfield exchanged glances with his aide. His anger quickly disappeared replaced by a broad smile. “Not at all. Just getting some fresh air, Mr. Greystone.” He nodded at Nicholson. “You remember my Chief of Staff?”

  “Yes. Mr. Nicholson, isn’t it? Good to see you again.”

  “Mr. Greystone,” Nicholson replied coldly.

  “Have you and Barclay had an opportunity to follow-up on that matter we discussed in my office last week?” Potterfield said to the executive.

  “No we haven’t, Senator. Actually, I was hoping we might talk a little right now about how to proceed.”

  Potterfield looked over into the reception area. “An excellent idea, my boy. You must excuse me, however. I see my wife waving to me. Can’t leave her waiting you know. But please speak with Barclay. He can be of enormous assistance in helping me to understand your position.”

  Potterfield turned and slowly walked back inside the Center. Once hidden by the crowd, he looked back to see the two men engrossed in animated conversation.

  Good. At least something was going as planned. Hopefully, they can work out an agreement that will make us all very rich.

  * * *

  The two men stood uncomfortably in the bracing night air. When Potterfield had finally disappeared into the building Nicholson spoke. “Bob, what the hell are you doing? We can’t be seen meeting out here together!”

  Greystone smiled and threw his arm around the aide. “Of course we can, Nick. Your boss gave us the perfect alibi. We’re discussing the new Bill. We should have thought of this earlier.”

  “It still makes me nervous.”

  “I must say you do look somewhat stressed. I hadn’t heard anything from you in a week or so and wanted to check in. Is anything wrong?”

  Nicholson considered hiding the blackmail threat but knew better than to keep anything from Greystone. Somehow he always found out.

  “We received an anonymous email about the Lynch affair. It threatened to expose the Senator if he didn’t resign. The original message came through an anonymous remailer. I’m trying to track down anyone that might still remember what happened.”

  Greystone’s bonhomie immediately disappeared. “Christ. What next? Sorry I was so short with you. Need any help?”

  “No, Bob,” Nicholson said firmly. “I can take care of it. It’ll just take a few more days. What’s happening with the gateway intrusions?”

  “I need to talk to you about that. The intrusions are getting more serious. We may have to take additional action.”

  “I don’t like all this going on at the same time. Maybe we should . . .”

  “There you are, Nick. Senator Potterfield said I would find you hiding out here.” Mowaru came through the door and walked toward the pair.

  As she approached, Greystone leaned over to Nicholson and whispered, “Manassas, Sunday noon.”

  Before Nicholson could respond, Mowaru had come up to his side. He wrapped his arm around her waist.

  “Angelina. This is, ah, Robert Greystone. A very important industry constituent. Mr. Greystone, Angelina Mowaru from the Rwandan embassy.”

  “Mr. Greystone.” Mowaru smiled and extended her hand.

  Greystone paused and gave the attaché a prolonged look. Finally he took her hand.

  “Miss Mowaru, how very nice to meet such a lovely addition to our city. Are you enjoying the evening?”

  “Yes, Mr. Greystone, I am,” she said, smiling up at Nicholson.

  “I’m sure Mr. Nicholson is doing everything he can to keep you quite contented. I have a number of friends in Embassy Row myself. Perhaps we will meet again. I would certainly enjoy the pleasure of your company.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Greystone. But who knows what the future will bring?” she replied with a chill that matched the night air.

  The lights inside the Center dimmed, and the crowd in the lobby began making their way back to their seats.

  “Well, it looks like it’s time to return,” Greystone said. “Very nice meeting you, Miss Mowaru. Mr. Nicholson. Until next time.” Neither responded, and Greystone turned and went inside.

  Nicholson waited until the executive had joined the crowd, then lead Mowaru back to their box. As they made their way down the aisle, she leaned over and whispered, “Nick, that man is quite strange. He makes me very uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, darling, I know. He does that to everyone. He always has.”

  * * *

  Goddard dropped her Rollaboard onto the luggage rack and bounced down on the bed. Her hands were shaking. It was ridiculous to be so nervous.

  The idea had popped into her head during the flight from Reagan National. There was something about the consultant that intrigued her. Unlike most of the people she had met who were involved in the investigation, he seemed genuinely interested in finding the truth, not in automatically labeling Mohammed a terrorist. She had to help him if she could.

  And he was even quite pleasing to the eye.

  She called room service, then stepped into the shower to wash off the travel grime. By the time she finished drying her hair, her dinner had arrived. Her butterflies wouldn’t go away, so rather than ruining a perfectly good Caesar salad, she made the call.

  “Adam Braxton,” the voice said.

  “Mr. Braxton, this is Susan Goddard, we met at Georgetown Unive
rsity the other day. I didn’t wake you did I?” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the tremor in her voice.

  “Miss Goddard. This certainly is a surprise. And I am definitely awake; I was just working on a report to CERT.”

  “Ah, I’ve been thinking about Mohammed. About his work. I may have remembered some things he said about his project. If you’re still looking into that message, I was wondering if we could talk.”

  “Certainly. I can come down to D.C. next week and we can set up some time.”

  His positive response made the next step significantly easier. The worst he can do is refuse, right?

  “Actually, I’m here in Boston for an interview. If you’re not busy, ah, perhaps we could get together for dinner tomorrow night?”

  There was a pause on the phone and she held her breath. “Of course,” she finally heard. “That sounds great. Should I pick you up at your hotel? Say about seven?”

  “Can we make it earlier? About six? It’s going to be a long day and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to last.”

  “Six is fine. Where are you staying?”

  “I’m at the Parker House downtown.” Not having planned anything else to say, she concluded with a short, “See you later then.”

  “Right. Six o’clock at the Parker House. ‘Bye.”

  She set down the phone and released a nervous sigh. She had done it. No use in worrying about it any longer. Time to get back to her dinner.

  Chapter 28

  Century Computer, Concord, Massachusetts

  Saturday, 8:00 a.m.

  HOW DID I ever let it go this far?

  Chamberlain leaned back in his chair and let the warm morning sun streaming through his office windows bathe his beleaguered face. He had slept fitfully the night before, still disturbed by the meeting with his ex-employee. When the alarm had finally forced him out of bed, he elected to spend his Saturday in the office, hoping work would push the questions from his mind.

  He had arrived at Century at 7:30 and prepared for his morning regimen: a cup of fresh coffee and a review of the daily papers. His coffee machine now sat ready on the ledge by the windows and the Boston Globe was spread across the top of his desk.