Zero Day: A Novel (11 page)

Dredging up a vague memory of Al Qaeda, Jeff remembered it was one of a number of terrorist groups on the radar screen of the Company, though it held no significance to him. He checked the terrorist database to which he routinely contributed and was brought up cold. Led by an enormously rich and shadowy figure, Osama bin Laden, Al Qaeda might not be the biggest or best-known terrorist group, but it tended to target Americans with deadly results.

For the next three days Jeff gleaned information from the disk, then carefully analyzed its contents, a role beyond his purview. Checking the master database several times, he found a dozen recent entries that seemed connected.

Next, he drafted a time line. On one side of the program he listed information by date, to analyze the data flow. On the other, he listed events in the order they were to occur. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. He printed the program, sketched an analysis, then buzzed his boss’s secretary and asked for a meeting as soon as possible.

For the next two hours Jeff reviewed his information, tearing it apart as a critic might. The stark facts remained. Only an idiot, someone too blind to see the obvious, could fail to see what he’d uncovered. With dismay, he realized that was a good description of his boss.

George Carlton was a burly man of average height, turned soft by two decades in government bureaucracy. His sallow skin had become excessively sensitive to daylight over the years and he now burned quite easily. When he came into the office after a weekend in the country or at sea, his face would shine a bright red.

Carlton had begun his career as an FBI desk agent, moving into middle management from there. Then, for reasons never fully explained, he took a position with the CIA as manager of the Cyberterrorism–Computer Forensics Department. The move was unusual, but on paper, at least, it seemed a good fit. At that time computers and their use for terrorism was not a high priority, since there’d been no documented case of a foreign terrorist act within the continental United States, either against the supporting computers of the Internet or by using its resources. With the additions of other functions, including the Computer Science Group and its obscure Cyberterrorism Unit, Carlton’s area of power and presumed expertise steadily grew.

He was a born bureaucrat, adept at evading responsibility for errors while garnering praise for work he’d not performed. He made few enemies over the years, which served him well. But the lack of attention his department received was the greatest boon to his career. Prior to 2001, little was expected of him in the twilight world of counterterrorism in which he’d found a niche. Though he would have preferred an airy corner office on the second or third floor, he was content with his location, far from any window and deep within the center of the ground floor.

Shortly after 4:00 that afternoon Jeff was ushered in, carrying with him the proof he hoped his supervisor would find persuasive. Carlton didn’t rise as he gestured for Jeff to take a seat in front of his desk. “What have you got?” A bad boss is typically characterized as hostile, rude, and dim. Carlton was never, or at least rarely, rude; he’d been in government service too many years to be overtly hostile; and he was not stupid. For the next ten minutes Jeff laid out what he believed was going to take place on September 11, less than two weeks away.

Carlton listened with diminishing enthusiasm, then asked to see the time line. He spent a full minute examining it before commenting, “I’m confused about something. Just where do these supposed targets come from? The Statue of Liberty, the Pentagon, the World Trade Center, the White House, the Capitol, the Sears Tower, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Washington Monument.” He looked up. “Mount Rushmore? I suppose I can see the logic of the Pentagon, the other government buildings even, but Mount Rushmore? I don’t get it.”

“I admit listing all of them as possible targets is speculative, but it’s speculation based on text,” Jeff said. “Those names came from various communiqués. They’re not only after what could be called hard targets, structures connected to our government and military, but also after our economic infrastructure and landmarks.” Jeff’s mouth was dry and he found the words difficult to form. “They’re very into symbolism. And Al Qaeda’s targeted the World Trade Center previously. Their purpose with those truck explosives was to topple one of the buildings into the other, taking them both down like dominoes.”

Carlton snickered. “They were wrong, weren’t they? In fact, Al Qaeda isn’t all that effective, if you look at their track record. And they certainly seem to prefer the Horn of Africa. It’s difficult to see them posing a genuine threat to us from … where are they? Afghanistan, of all places.”

“It’s all there,” Jeff insisted, pointing at the documents he’d assembled. “Most of it, at least. Enough.” Though he was struggling to contain himself his voice rose a bit as he said, “We need to do something.”

Carlton looked at him sharply. “Have you any idea how many threats a day are processed by the Company? Each one is given a score. If I pass this one higher up, it will receive, I’m telling you categorically, the lowest-priority score that exists.”

Jeff’s heart sank. “You can’t just sit on it,” he said in near desperation.

Carlton paused. “I’m not going to sit on it, as you put it. But we need more information or no one will act. I’m going to hold on to this for a few days. Don’t be concerned. There’s plenty of time yet. In the meanwhile, see if you can get me something with meat on the bones. But be assured that either way I’ll pass it along in time.”

Driven by a mix of frustration and fear, Jeff skipped his trip to New York City that weekend, and the one after, each time telling Cynthia that as much as he wanted to see her, he was buried by a pile of work and wouldn’t be able to relax even if he did come. With a passion born of desperation he worked eighteen hours a day, every day, pulling his two assistants from their IT assignments and instilling in them his own sense of urgency as he put them to work on the project. Accessing real-time chat rooms and other sources previously identified as Al Qaeda communication channels, what emerged was a terrorist plan on the fast track. Collecting intelligence wasn’t his job and shouldn’t be necessary: what he’d already done should have unleashed the enormous resources of the Company.

By Tuesday, September 4, after preparing a far more comprehensive presentation of what he considered to be a highly credible threat to America, Jeff went directly to Carlton’s secretary. “This is urgent. Will you see to it George gets this at once? He’s expecting it.” She’d smiled stiffly and taken the file.

He didn’t like leaving it that way, but given the nature of his relationship with his boss and the bureaucracy of the Company, his hands were tied. It wasn’t how he wanted to handle it; it was how he had to handle it if he wanted anything positive to happen.

Back in his office Jeff continued with his relentless schedule, sleeping on his couch, washing up and shaving in the restroom. Carlton e-mailed him that he’d forwarded the file to the appropriate teams, but despite his effort and long hours, nothing more of consequence emerged. Beside himself with anger and frustration, he called Cynthia in Manhattan on Friday, September 7. ARM’s offices were at the World Financial Center, just across the street from the World Trade Center.

“I need you to do something for me without my going into detail,” he said, knowing Cynthia would instantly grasp the time for questions was later. “I want you not to go into work next week. Stay home, or better yet, leave the city.” The target date might get moved a day or two, so he didn’t specify Tuesday. “Can you work from home or, better yet, visit your folks?”

“Wow. Pretty short notice.” Her voice was steady and he felt reassured she’d do as he asked.

“It’s not just important. It’s vital.”

“Vital, huh?” From the beginning Cynthia had been impressed with Jeff’s serious and sober nature. Only when she finally grasped the full extent of it had she seriously begun to consider him for a husband. Her confidence in him and his judgment had continued to grow as they’d dated. “As in ‘life and death’?”

“You could say that.” Jeff fought off the sudden urge to tell her everything. He’d kept it inside for so long he was about to burst. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. It wasn’t so much that he was worried that he was wrong, but scared of the panic he could set off. She had to act on his warning and he was considering what he’d do next if she didn’t, but his serious answer seemed to sober her. “Okay. I’ll visit my folks. Won’t they be surprised?”

Jeff breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Thank you. Make it all week, please. I want your promise that you’re leaving the city tomorrow morning. And no matter what, you won’t go to work next week.”

“Okay, I promise. Cross my heart, hope to die.” Cynthia was perplexed by the entire exchange. Was there a threat he couldn’t mention? Clearly that was his message. It couldn’t have been at her personally or he’d have said so. Given what he did for a living, that meant the threat was of a broader nature. The only thing that came to mind was a terrorist attack. Jeff was in a position to know about such things. And she also knew, from what little he’d told her over their time together, that most threats came to nothing. She had confidence in her country. Jeff was just being cautious and she loved him all the more for it. The worst part was, she could say nothing to her coworkers, not without getting Jeff fired or even indicted.

Jeff was a sober man, not given to extremes. If he told her that she needed to leave town, she was prepared to take his word for it. She considered her alternatives. None were appealing. She wasn’t about to drive to Albany and check into a motel for the week. Still, she’d promised, and a promise made was one to be kept. She decided to work from her home all week and arranged to have what she needed brought to her, claiming she was deathly ill and highly contagious.

Shortly after speaking with her, Jeff made a mental note to call Cynthia on Sunday, then attempted to meet with Carlton again, but was told he had no opening until the following week. Frantically, Jeff took to prowling the hallways near Carlton’s office and intercepted him on his way to a meeting. “Do you have any word yet on my report?” Jeff asked, keeping pace with his superior.

“Yes,” Carlton said, giving him a pointed look. “They’re giving it due consideration.”

“There’s more information that seems to nail next Tuesday down as a date and confirms a number of the targets including the Capitol, the White House, and the Pentagon.”

“I told you, I passed it along.” Carlton all but rolled his eyes. “Now I’ve got a meeting, Jeff. It’s been taken care of. Move on. You know these Arabs. They couldn’t organize a conga line.” With that, Carlton ducked into a conference room.

Jeff knew it was pointless going over Carlton’s head but he tried anyway. He knew he was making enemies, understood that he was effectively ending his government career, but he didn’t care. This was too important.

When everyone of consequence had gone home on Friday, he was left with nothing else to do but continue working throughout the weekend and into Monday with his team. Following a thirty-six-hour stretch, vainly searching for another bit of concrete proof, totally consumed by his work, Jeff lost track of time and never called Cynthia.

*   *   *

And so it went uneventfully all day Monday when, out of the blue, one of Cynthia’s college roommates called and suggested breakfast at Windows on the World at the World Trade Center the next morning. She knew Cynthia was about to become engaged and wanted to hear all the details. Cynthia left her apartment that morning to meet her, excited at the prospect of sharing her private hopes and dreams with the woman who had once been her best friend.

In Langley, Jeff was distracted by his cell phone, which rang, rang, rang. Digging around in his clothing, he pressed a button.

“Something terrible’s happened.” Cynthia’s voice was strained, as if she was about to cry. “I stayed home, like I promised. I did. Then Karen came to town and we went to breakfast then … then…”

In the background Jeff could hear pandemonium. “Where are you?”

“Windows on the World, the restaurant at the top of one of the Towers.”

For a moment Jeff heard and felt nothing. His body turned numb. When her voice returned, it was from far away.

“… felt something a little bit ago. The whole building just shuddered, and I thought we were going to fall over.” Her voice was quivering. He could tell she was struggling for control.

“Get out, Cynthia. Get out now!”

“I already tried!” Now she sounded panicked. “Everyone says a plane hit us! I can’t get out, Jeff. There’s fire all below us. There’s no way out. No way. I’m really scared.” She paused. When she resumed, her voice was strangely calm. “I called to tell you that I love you, just in case.”

“Go to the roof!” Jeff insisted. “They’ll bring helicopters to evacuate you.” He gripped the telephone fiercely in his sweaty hand, trying with his voice to will her into action.

“It’s jammed up there. You can’t get on top. We tried earlier.” Her voice was desperate. “Oh, Jeff. This is what you mea—”

They were cut off. Jeff tried to call back, but her cell phone had no service. He snapped on the television set in his office and saw the burning Towers. His team crept in a few minutes later. “We didn’t want to disturb you. You’d know soon enough,” one said.

The other stared at the screen, transfixed. “Nobody listened to us.”

Jeff kept calling Cynthia without connecting. The three were watching as each Tower in turn fell in a great white, billowing cloud of pulverized concrete. There had been no helicopter evacuation.

Jeff sat motionless. The cell phone snapped in his hand, the battery flying out and clattering onto the floor. His rage was almost more than he could stand. He wanted to kill Carlton and, in a flash, saw himself killing the director and all of senior CIA management too.

He shot to his feet and glared at his team, wanting with all his power to strike at them, as if they were the cause. Managing to control himself, he slumped back into his seat, the rage turning on himself, for not calling Cynthia, for not saving her, for not doing enough to save anyone. He should have made someone pay attention.