Zero Day: A Novel (20 page)

During his time Carlton had played a small role in catching a Soviet operator working under embassy cover who’d returned to the same drop box too often. He’d been so predictable that the Bureau had set the location under surveillance, no longer bothering to follow him to the site. They’d had no trouble catching the American traitor who provided the Soviet operator with information, visiting the same drop box. From what Carlton knew, they’d turned the traitor into a double agent for a good two years, during which time he gave false information to the Soviets, before deciding his usefulness was gone and they had arrested the Russian, rolling up a spy ring.

So when Carlton had initially set up his locations with Fajer al Dawar, he’d insisted they be employed in an unpredictable rotation. It had gone as smoothly as he’d hoped, and Carlton intended for it to stay that way. Still, during the years of their association, as he preferred to think of it, he always experienced a bit of angst whenever he dropped off a disk on the way home from work.

At their first meeting in Riyadh years ago, Carlton had given Fajer a Hotmail address for contacting him. “Only use it once,” Carlton had cautioned. “When we meet next, I’ll have a more secure system for communication worked out,” certain that Fajer was impressed with his caution and expertise.

They’d met for the second time in New York City four months later. Fajer was attending various business meetings on behalf of the Saudi government, as Carlton understood it, and requested that they meet, bringing along his first contribution of information. Carlton had stayed at a cheap hotel on Broadway where they’d allowed him just to flash his driver’s license so he could register under a false name and pay in cash for two nights. He’d told Emily he was away on business, and though such trips for him were rare, she’d not so much as lifted her nose from her Sidney Sheldon novel.

In the end, Carlton had left it to Fajer to come to his small room. Better to risk that then to travel about the city, have the bad luck of someone spotting him, then have to answer questions.

Fajer had arrived on time, dressed in a Western suit and unaccompanied, as Carlton had requested. They’d shaken hands, and as they sat facing one another, Carlton said, “Forgive the hotel. I was able to use cash and a false name.”

“A wise precaution.” Then came a round of courtesies that Carlton bore patiently. Finally Fajer asked, “Do you have something for me?”

“Yes,” Carlton said, patting his jacket pocket, “but I want to go over some of the terms again.”

“Of course. You’ve had some months to reconsider my proposal. It is only natural that you would have questions.” Fajer smiled, a man accustomed to being in complete command of every situation.

“The use of this material is entirely commercial, as you said?”

“Absolutely. And you control what it is you give me. If you are concerned the information could have any other use, withhold it. I will never know.”

“I ask because I am not a traitor.”

“Of course not,” Fajer assured him. “We are both honorable men. There is no question of that.” Fajer pulled a cigarette from a packet and held it up in question. Carlton nodded agreement, though he was in a nonsmoking room.

After returning from his junket, Carlton had scoured the Internet for everything he could find about the Franco-Arab Chemical Company—Franco-Arabe Chimique Compagnie, or FACC, as it was better known. Fajer was all but impossible to find, identified only as the company’s Saudi owner. The name of the company, Carlton discovered, was a bit of a misnomer. While at one time it had apparently been the primary importer of various chemicals into the Saudi kingdom, it was now primarily an importer of oil-production equipment, computer-related electronics, and electronics in general.

Carlton had applied himself in determining just what kind of information would be of use to such a company, while being the most profitable for him. At home, he’d conducted extensive Internet research on Saudi Arabia and oil to learn what was in the public domain, then at the office he’d accessed databases available to him and compared the two. He’d found several strategic reports prepared by the CIA he thought Fajer would want and downloaded them. Using a laptop he bought just for this purpose, he vetted the material at home, reducing it to bullet points with short generic summaries, which he printed on standard stock paper he was careful never to touch. That way, should the information get beyond Fajer, its original source could not be identified. Between reports to the Saudi, Carlton planned to keep the laptop in his bank deposit box.

That winter Carlton had surprised Emily with a week’s vacation in Aruba. They’d never taken a holiday in the winter before, and she’d been thrilled. While she lost money at one of the casinos, he’d established a numbered offshore bank account for himself, one he could access and control via the Internet. Since returning home he’d been cautious never to access it with one of his own computers or those of the CIA or Homeland Security. As an added level of security, all payments from Fajer were wired to a GoldMoney account he’d established. From there it went to Aruba. The money was as untraceable as twenty-first-century technology made possible.

During that hotel room meeting Carlton had said, “In case I didn’t make it clear when we first met at your lovely home, I have no interest in this unless it is very profitable.” Fajer had nodded his head. “Here is the information from two Company reports you might find of interest.” Carlton handed him a manila folder.

“And here,” he continued, giving Fajer a printed sheet of paper, “is the account into which you are to wire the money. If it is enough, we will meet again.” He’d then briefed Fajer on the various drop boxes he intended to use. “Our personal meetings must be infrequent. None is even better. I mean no disrespect, but each time I see you increases the likelihood I’ll be detected.”

Fajer nodded as if impressed. “I understand and agree, though from time to time a personal meeting may be necessary.”

“The American government views the release of commercial data the same way it would if I were behaving as a spy.”

Fajer pursed his lips. “I wasn’t aware of that. We must be very careful, in that case. There is much more at risk here than your career. Why not simply e-mail the material to me?”

Carlton had considered that very idea. He’d checked with Jeff Aiken of his Cyberterrorism Unit on Internet security, someone whose expertise in this regard he trusted, and though he’d understood e-mail was usually easy to trace, efforts could be made to conceal it. He decided that was too complicated for him and not worth bothering with. Besides, he understood that the NSA programs monitoring e-mail were highly sophisticated, and he was certain his messages would be spotted. No, the old proven methods were best—except hereafter he’d leave the material on the less bulky disks.

“The drops are safer,” he’d answered. Fajer had not pursued the matter.

Those two initial reports had garnered Carlton $50,000. Over the years, Carlton had taken in half a million dollars from Fajer, transferring data to him on average just twice a year. The money had made possible his new car and better vacations. He’d also paid off his personal debt, being careful to do so slowly. Only now was he in a position to start piling up the money. With a bit of luck, Carlton was of the opinion he’d be retiring early from DHS. And since most of his assets didn’t legally exist, a divorce was likely in the cards.

He’d only met with Fajer twice since that 2000 meeting in New York City. The last had been in Arlington, Virginia, the previous June. This time Fajer had taken a modest hotel room, and as before, they met indoors.

Following the exchange of the usual pleasantries and the information Carlton had brought, Fajer had crossed his legs, taken a long moment to light an elegantly thin cigarette, then said, “I have an associate in Paris. The relationship between us is very complicated, and you’d have to be an Arab to understand it. The bottom line, as you Americans so delightfully say, is that I have a family obligation with this person I must fulfill. I don’t like it, but I have no alternative. I hope you understand.”

Carlton felt a tingle along his spine. He’d been trained in the art of espionage, what was then called tradecraft, and could not view his relationship with Fajer without considerable suspicion. Their arrangement had gone on much longer than he’d initially thought it would, so long he’d become accustomed to the idea that it would continue unchanged for another few years. Now he wondered if it had all been a setup, aimed for this very moment.

“This associate is engaged in the use of computer viruses to obtain financial information. He then draws money from those accounts.”

“Theft.”

Fajer looked in pain at the word. “I assure you this is as unpleasant for me as for you. What I require is quite simple. I must know if the government is alerted to an extensive network engaged in planting code on a large number of computers. That is all.”

“The government is a big place.”

“Of course. I mean within your province. No more.”

“For how long?”

Fajer shrugged. “I’m not an expert on these things, but as I understand it, the worms, if that’s the right word, are being quietly planted now. Once enough are in place, then at a predetermined point they will all be activated at once. I have explained that I can only assist this one time.”

“Does anyone know about me?”

Fajer looked horrified. “Of course not! My word of honor! It is assumed that someone in my position has contacts. I was just asked to use them. This unpleasantness repays an obligation, and I will be considerably in your debt. You’ve been very helpful to me these last years, and I’ve come to regard us as friends. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that. If there was any other way, you can be assured I’d do it.”

Carlton took time to retrieve a bottle of water from the minibar and open it. He took a sip, then said, “I don’t know…”

“My personal guarantee to you will be one million dollars, half to be paid now, half when the operation is finished, sometime before the end of the year.” Carlton was motionless. “In addition, you will be paid five percent of what is collected.”

“How much will that be?”

Fajer smiled. “I have no faith in such a figure. It seems too ridiculous. I asked the same question and was told your share would be no less than fifty million dollars.” Fajer stopped, stubbed one cigarette out, then elegantly lit another.

Fifty million dollars!
Carlton’s mind raced at the possibility. He could retire at the end of the year, begin his new life. But did he trust Fajer? Was he hearing the truth? An Internet financial scam seemed plausible enough, but it was very different from what they’d been doing. It was outright theft, and if a den of thieves fell apart, who knew how it would end?

“Are you quite certain I’ll be kept out of it?” he asked. Risk, his broker often said, was directly associated with return.

The Arab placed his hand to his heart. “On my honor.”

Carlton willed himself to slow down, to think this through, but he found his mind a fog.
Fifty million dollars!
He couldn’t get past the number. “I can do this.”

“Excellent,” Fajer said, smiling. “We will continue with the drops as before, and I still desire the kind of information you’ve been providing. There is no change in that, but I ask you to set up an electronic mail system for contacting me in the event you learn something definitive on this other business. I will leave it to you.”

That had been just over two months ago. The first half million was safely in his Aruba account, invested in a balanced portfolio. Carlton stepped from the car and walked to a picnic table where he sat, as if lost in thought. Instead, he surreptitiously scanned the area to be certain he was not being observed. Satisfied, he walked to a tree as if to urinate. As he stood there, he slipped the disk into a hole. A few minutes later he was on the highway, expecting to be home within the half hour.

31

LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

SOUTH LAUREL ROAD

THURSDAY, AUGUST 24

7:09 A.M.

Brian Manfield awoke with a start.

He’d slept with his window undraped so that the first rays of the rising sun flooded the small room with light. He hated alarm clocks, though one was set on the stand beside his bed. He reached across the naked back of the young woman and switched it off.

In the bathroom Manfield turned on the shower and, as he waited for the water to warm, urinated at great length in the toilet. Finished, he climbed into the shower, where he washed and shaved. Six feet two inches tall, weighing 185 pounds, Manfield was fit and worked to stay that way. With thick dark hair and deep blue eyes inherited from his mother, he was exceptionally handsome. After toweling off, he slipped on a robe he’d acquired at the Carlyle in Manhattan, then went to the kitchen for his usual breakfast of fruit, toast, marmalade, and tea.

Outside was one of those sparkling days London sees too rarely. He carried his breakfast onto his balcony and ate standing up, taking in the expanse of the old city. He loved London. He’d spent most of his adult life here and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

In the kitchen he carefully washed the dishes in the sink, then set them to drain. Back in the bedroom he meticulously dressed in a startling white broadcloth shirt with striped tie and a nearly black Anderson & Sheppard suit from Savile Row. Finally, he slipped on the black banker’s shoes he preferred.

Caroline Bynum stirred in the bed as he slipped on his gold Rolex. Not yet twenty years old, born with more money than God, she was crazy about him, still in the early bloom of the relationship.

“Caro,” he said quietly. “I have to leave now. Take your time. Lock up when you go, there’s a dear. I’ll call later today when I’m free.” The young woman gave a grunt, then lapsed into deep sleep. Manfield smiled, took his cell phone from on top of the dresser, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

It was just a ten-minute walk to his office. On such a beautiful day, he never considered driving or taking a taxi. Arriving five minutes early, he greeted the receptionist, then went straight to his office, where he perused the
Financial Times
as he had another cup of tea. Then he checked his e-mail, dashed off four replies, and settled in with the newspaper.