DEAD BEEF (Our Cyber World Book 1) (24 page)

Chapter 33

The arrival of the VIPs at the Long Beach Airport had slipped another 3 hours, and by midnight all but one of the students, Saleh Fayez, had fallen asleep. He watched the wet tarmac as the VIP party finally arrived. Two tall, muscular men walked ahead in suits, followed by two men dressed in white suits, and a third wearing jeans and a hoody that concealed his head and most of his face, followed my two men in dark suits.

Seven, Fayez said to himself. Allah’s number, testimony to his power and his seven heavens.

Fayez loved numbers. He counted everything and then looked for significance in the resulting figure. For instance on reading a poster, he would count the letters. Within seconds, he knew whether the number was odd or even, or a prime number, or a square of another number, or one of the numbers in the Fibonacci sequence, or a multiple thereof. Then, he would work in his head the spiritual significance of the numbers he’d counted or identified. It was a game, but it was also a way for him to align the way his mind worked with his faith.

Fayez looked for numbers that the Koran favored. Once all the students had arrived, the count of ten bothered him. Muhammad killed ten people when he conquered Mecca, but perhaps now this number signified martyrdom. Or perhaps ten signified the pillars of Islam multiplied by 2, to re-emphasize them through repetition. He preferred that solution.

Steps at the front of the plane interrupted his thoughts. Voices came next. The students stirred and one by one they woke up. The two men in white suits came in first, followed by the hooded one.

“We apologize most deeply for keeping you waiting much longer than we would have ever desired it,” the stockier of the two men said. “However, we had some difficult business to conduct requiring a larger time investment than anticipated. We are excited to share the outcome of those efforts with you, and we will do so shortly, once we’re in the air.”

He placed his hand on the hooded man’s shoulder, and the American unveiled himself. He was clean-shaven, and his haircut looked no more than a few hours old. His hair was short and dark brown.

Besides noticing number patterns, Fayez liked to think of himself as very observant about all things, especially people and their demeanor. There was something odd about the American’s hair. The color seemed too perfect, artificial perhaps, and it didn’t seem to go with his face, which although very proper and trimmed at the moment, seemed to Fayez a bit on the crazy or unstable side.

The unveiling, Julian thought to himself when Davood signaled for him to pull off his hood. He looked at the left side of the plane, where faces peeked at him from five rows of two seats each. Kids, he thought to himself. Allah’s little hackers. He looked at them and mused that the new face of Jihad came with thick glasses and acne.

Behind him he heard the plane’s door shut with a thump. Outside, the engines were spinning up.

Beside him, Davood was saying, “I would like to introduce you to our new friend, someone you have probably heard about, a legend among computer scientists. For years he has labored for what he thought was a good cause, with good intentions and pure motives to protect his country. But recently he saw through it all. He saw the evil intentions of his superiors and of certain men in his government. And finally, he was betrayed. Tossed aside like yesterday’s trash while his creation and life’s work is turned into a dangerous tool by evil men to accomplish their criminal and unholy deeds.”

Davood paused for effect, as if to let them simmer in the gravity of the situation. Then, placing his arm around Julian’s shoulders, Davood added, “But now, our new friend and counselor has found a truer course, a purer purpose. Our cause, and Allah’s will. Our friend will join us, and his genius will guide us as we fight back against our enemies and unravel their satanic schemes. And you are most blessed to be here and join him, our friend and brother, Martin Spencer.”

This would be his new cover, Julian remembered Masoud saying. Upon looking at himself in the mirror, Julian had expressed surprised at how much the shave, the haircut and the change in hair color made him look like Martin. Their eye color was pretty much the same, and their faces not all that different, really. From afar, a crappy video security feed would not be able to tell the difference.

But Julian knew there was a more important point behind the ruse. If these snotty kids got caught, and looking around he figured a few of them probably would, they would tell the authorities that none other than Martin Spencer was their brother in Jihad.

Masoud clapped, and so did the students. Davood took one step away, rested his left hand on Julian’s shoulder and, smiling, he extended his right hand toward the students.

As he had been instructed, Julian said, “As-salam alaykum,” with a slight bow of the head. “Peace with you,” he said in English, in case his Arabic wasn’t good enough and they needed the translation. 

Chapter 34

Everyone stood when the announcement of his arrival came. The president walked in right on time, at the top of the hour. He had developed quite a reputation for running a tight ship and for not wasting, as he put it, tax-payer money by making people wait for him.

“Good evening, everyone,” he said. He stood at the head of the table, still dressed in his tuxedo shirt and pants, minus the bowtie and jacket. With hands at his hips he scanned the room and everyone there. His eyes came to rest on Robert Odehl, who stood nearly at the opposite end of the room.

“Hmm,” the president said, still looking at Odehl. He turned to his chief of staff and asked, “Dave would you be so kind as to trade places with Mr. Odehl?”

“No problem, Mr. President,” the chief of staff said, and started excusing himself as he made his way around the room.

“Come on, Mr. Odehl,” the president said. “Not quite sitting at my right, but tonight you get to be my left-hand man. Now be forewarned, I am left-handed,” he added, making a punching motion with his left fist.

Laughter erupted around the room while Odehl made his way to the head of the table. Along the way he passed several of the VIPs he had met prior to this meeting, and across the table he could see the secretary of Homeland Security smiling at him with eyes that seemed to say, “you lucky bastard.”

“Good, now everyone have a seat,” the president said. “We’ll get started and move this along.”

The president took his seat last. In front of him, a stack of files stood about 6 inches tall. From it he pulled the top file. Its cover displayed the special compartment plus TOP SECRET designation. The title read “Project OUROBOROS.”

While thumbing through the file, the president said, “This is your first briefing with me, Mr. Odehl?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Then we need to let you know how we brief the president these days,” the president said. “We give him materials ahead of time, and give him time to digest it in peace, without having ten people debate twenty opinions at once. Then we come in here and let him browse relevant information, see if there have been any last minute changes, maybe point them out to him if he misses them.”

The president kept browsing through the file and talking, “If our president has any questions, he asks them, and all discussion addresses his comments and questions only. If someone really, really believes that a critical point has been missed or ignored, he or she can raise it. But the president better agree it truly is critical, and if he does not, that point is tabled. Which pretty means it’s deep-sixed.”

A couple of people chuckled.

“Now, Mr. Odehl,” the president said raising his gaze to rest on Odehl. “Don’t you think that is a far more effective method of discussing important information than having some briefer wiz-wow you with text and graphics and video?”

“I’ve had a few of those briefings in my career, Mr. President,” Odehl said with a smile. “Maybe we should try your method back at my shop.”

“I strongly encourage you to,” the president said returning his attention to the Ouroboros file. “Now,” he added. “I see some late-breaking information here about testing the Iranian payload, the one that got stranded a few years ago, against Martin Spencer’s latest fix code, the one he deployed in Los Angeles.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Odehl said.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but saying ‘results favorable’ isn’t the same as saying the test passed. Am I missing something?”

Odehl paused. Everything he’d heard about the president suggested he didn’t miss much, and he’d just caught the spinster nuanced language the secretary of Homeland Security directed to describe the test results in the most positive light, even though Odehl had recommended clearer language.

“We ran a quick first-pass test,” Odehl explained. “The type we often run during ops when time is critical. That test showed no vulnerability.”

“I see that,” the president said, looking down at the file.

“Then we ran a more comprehensive one hour test,” Odehl added. “That test also showed no vulnerability, but some of the diagnostics were inconclusive, and as we speak we’re doing a full analysis and further testing as required to ensure we didn’t miss anything. Then we will be able to say the test passed 100%. We’re about 99.9% sure, we just want to make sure the other 0.1% is also on our side.”

“OK, I see it now. Results are favorable, but we just need to do our homework.”

“And we are, Mr. President,” Odehl replied. “A full suite of tests and analyses will be run all night. We should have a definitive answer by morning. Now, as I’m sure you appreciate, our technology is probabilistic in its behavior. Though this last version Martin Spencer deployed is less probabilistic, when I say one hundred percent, I really mean ninety-nine with a string of nines after the decimal place.”

“I understand that, Mr. Odehl. Complete absolutes are a divine privilege. Us mortals have to do with less, don’t we?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Now, on that topic, our intelligence has never been able to tell us with complete certainty whether the Iranians scooped up the stranded payload. In fact, they tell me it’s 50/50, much worse odds than you just gave me for your test. Setting that question aside, because really, we’re just flipping a coin, if they did capture our payload, where would you estimate the chances of them being able to (a) reverse-engineer it, and (b) make modifications that would be unexpected or harmful to us?”

“I have a very distinct opinion on that, Mr. President, and I’ll give it to you. But I’m not going to BS you, it’s not based on incontrovertible fact.”

“I appreciate it when people don’t BS me. Go ahead.”

“My opinion is that without our expertise, our brain power, our internal knowledge, that version of the code was so complex and so unobservable—by which I mean that like an electron, the minute you try to look at it, it moves or changes—I just don’t see anyone without the inside knowledge being able to reverse-engineer it, much less re-engineer it. I’d put the odds at 99% in our favor.” Odehl resisted the urge to eye the CIA representative. “I know others disagree, but I’ve never heard a technical argument as to why or how they come up with worse odds.”

The president nodded repeatedly as he returned his attention to the file. During the long silence that followed, Odehl reflected on the fact that he had been the only one speaking to the president. No one else had interjected or offered alternative information, and the president had directed all comments and questions to him. It was almost as if the two of them could have had a one-on-one meeting and called it done. Considering the salaries the folks around the table collected, so much for saving tax-payer money.

The president pushed the first file aside and said, “Mr. Odehl, during my campaign you may have heard that I have an engineering background.”

“Yes, maybe once or twice.”

“I know you’re a busy man with little time to watch TV or read newspapers, Mr. Odehl, but once or twice?”

Odehl smiled. “Maybe a few more times, Mr. President.”

“OK, then. I’m just bringing this up to let you know I have some appreciation for the technical work you and your team are doing. I appreciate the technical complexities of the problems you are trying to solve. Now, I’m not an expert by any means, and I’ve been out of industry for a few years. But I get it. You’re doing critical and valuable work that is essential to our national security at the very core of its infrastructure.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Now, during my campaign, I beat that engineering drumbeat a lot. I’m an engineer, not a lawyer unlike most of the folks in Washington. Even around this table we have some lawyers.”

A few uncomfortable smiles and chuckles broke around the room.

“As an engineer I’m here to solve problems,” the president added. “And so are you, I believe. I read your file a couple of nights ago, too. Strong and solid career solving problems.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I’m sure the American people also appreciate your work to solve their problems.”

A pause ensued, during which Odehl wondered if he’d come across as a kiss-up. The president finally broke the silence with, “Now, technology is one thing. But as we solve this problem, any problem, it comes down to the quality of the team you have. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Odehl?.”

“Exactly right, Mr. President.”

“They don’t tell you that in engineering school,” the president said, “but you learn it quickly within one week in industry when you’re stuck with incompetent co-workers that make your life miserable, or a super star that gets you home from first base on every at bat. So as I see it, we need to talk about the team. Martin Spencer’s team, that is. Starting with Spencer.”

Odehl felt himself stiffen a bit. Here it came, the Martin-Spencer-is-a-loose-cannon talk.

The president opened Martin Spencer’s file, skimmed the first two pages, and said, “I see. No changes since I last saw it.” He looked up and took the time to meet eyes with every person in the room. “I have gotten a reputation for giving off the cuff speeches to my staff, and here’s warning of another one, incoming.”

More nervous laughter rippled throughout the room.

“From what I see, Martin Spencer is not some clever contractor claiming to serve his country when it’s convenient for him and when it makes him a lot of money. When his country asked him to give up the love of his life to keep serving, he did it. When his country asked him to go on a dangerous mission that could have cost him his life — and it almost did — he went along though he had no real military training and just a crash course on undercover craft. When his country asked him to abort that mission, he begged to stay back then refused to come back until he finished his work. And when his country neglected him, ignored him, allowing him to be tossed aside like yesterday’s paper, he left all his money, went up some forsaken mountain and single-handedly stopped one of the most serious terrorist attacks we have suffered to date. That doesn’t seem to me like a man I can’t trust.”

He turned to Odehl, “Is that how you see it?”

“Pretty much, Mr. President. You have expressed my sentiments far more eloquently that I ever could.”

“Well thank you, but that eloquence isn’t mine,” the president said. Pulling out a piece of paper from his jacket, he unfolded it and brought it down on the table with a loud slap. “Those words, minus the God forsaken mountain part, came from a blog posting detailing leaked information about Mr. Spencer and his exploits. Linked to Facebook and Twitter, it thankfully leaves out sensitive names and places. Judging by the number of responses on the blog, the stratospheric number of likes on Facebook, and all the tweets, Mr. Spencer is becoming a cult hero.”

He paused then added, “So our problem, aside from the fact that this town leaks like a drunken sailor, is not only the technology, but a PR tsunami that sort of ties our hands in some respects, doesn’t it?”

“We have good reason to believe Spencer and/or his associates leaked that information,” the CIA deputy director put in. “Our analysis is that they did it to tie our hands. By making Spencer shine in the eyes of the public, they hope we won’t take drastic action against him.”

“I’m not sure we can really pin the leak on Spencer,” the president said. “But I don’t want to waste our time on a leaker hunt here. Leak or not, I’m inclined to say that the blog posting aligns with Martin’s file.”

Odehl looked across the table at his boss, the secretary of Homeland Security, then at the deputy director of the CIA, before saying, “Some share concerns about who Spencer has surrounded himself with. I have faith in Martin, but we must protect him from those who might derail him or lead him astray.”