The Absolution (21 page)

DANIELE HAD SPENT
many hours examining the worm he'd found in Domino9859. Because it was written in Carnivia's site-specific programming language, any information that might have enabled him to trace its creator was encrypted. There was one part, though, that was in clear text. When he'd designed the encryption, Daniele had deliberately excluded numerals. In any code, numbers written as numerals were easy to crack, since there was no disguising that they continued to behave according to the immutable rules of mathematics. For that reason, most cryptographic systems required the sender to write out numbers as words: five, twenty-five and so on.

Deep within the Carnivia worm was the number 10-12-1437.

In some way, he believed, this had to be significant. The Stuxnet worm, for example, had contained the number 06-24-2012. It was part of an instruction to the virus to start deleting itself on the twenty-fourth of June, 2012.

It seemed likely to Daniele that 10-12-1437 was also part of an instruction – in this case, for the virus to activate. But even though it wasn't encoded, the hacker had somehow managed to disguise it.

Unless . . .

Daniele turned to the internet and did a little research. The
one thing he knew about the hacker was that he was a radicalised Muslim.

He soon discovered that whereas each new year in the Western calendar began on the solar anniversary of Christ's birth, the Muslim calendar was a lunar one. In that calendar, the current year was 1437. And the current month was Dhu al-Hijjah, the twelfth month of the year. It was the most blessed and propitious time in the calendar, the time of
haj
. It also signalled the end of Dhu al-Qa'ada, the Month of Truce.

If the last six digits indicated the month and year, did “10” indicate the day?

The tenth day of Dhu al-Hijjah, he discovered, was an especially significant day in the Muslim calendar, because it marked the celebration of Eid al-Adha. The words meant “The Day of Sacrifice”.

This year, Eid fell on the eleventh of September. Or, written another way, 9/11, the anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Centre.

That had to be the worm's zero-date. Exactly seven days away. And, coincidentally, just a few hours before the elections within Carnivia were due to take place.

The Fréjus attack, Daniele was sure, had been nothing more than a trial run. But in one week's time, any of Carnivia's users who were infected with the worm would become a zombie army, their computers under the hacker's control.

He was still considering the implications when Max popped up on his screen.

How's it going?
Max asked.

Gnarly. You?

I've been counting worms.
They were pretty sure Domino9859 wasn't the only user to be infected, but they had no way of knowing how widespread the problem was.
Daniele had asked Max to take a random sample of three hundred avatars and examine them, to see if any of those were infected too.

And?

In my sample of 300, I found 52 nasties.

Daniele stared at the screen. Over seventeen per cent! It barely seemed possible. If you scaled up from Max's sample to the number of registered users, it meant that even on a conservative estimate, around half a million Carnivians had been infected.

How could that happen and us not know about it?

That's what I thought. So I did a recount.

And?

And by the time I'd finished, there were 58. It's growing all the time, Daniele. In some way we haven't yet worked out, the virus is jumping between our users' computers.

It must be spreading socially, inside Carnivia.
Every interaction, however brief, between Carnivians involved a small exchange of code. The worm must have a tiny self-replicating payload that attached itself to an infected user's keystrokes. Essentially, the hacker was using each Carnivian he compromised to recruit others. A part of Daniele couldn't help but admire the neatness of it.

This was no ordinary denial-of-service attack the hacker was planning, he realised. When you put all the parts together – the attack on Fréjus, the jihadist slogans, the sophistication of the worm, the date – there could be only one conclusion.

This was cyberwarfare, and his website – Carnivia – was where the battle lines were being drawn.

FLAVIO HAD BEEN
working late, and Kat was making
risotto alla sbirraglia
, risotto with diced chicken and carrots, which had to be stirred with every ladleful of hot stock or it would not become creamy, and then they were in a hurry to get into bed and enjoy each other before it was time for the bodyguards to come back. Only after their lovemaking was over and they lay tangled in each other's limbs, the backs of his fingers lightly stroking her shoulder, did she tell him what she'd learnt – that Count Tignelli's goal appeared to be independence for the Veneto, and as much for personal gain as political belief.

“Vivaldo says there must be more to it than just a referendum that's proposed and then denied, though. That might make people in the Veneto angry, but it wouldn't be enough to make them break with Rome. He thinks Tignelli will do something to provoke a state of emergency.” She hesitated. “Avvocato Marcello mentioned that AISI's interest in Cassandre was linked to terrorism. Could
that
be the pretext – some kind of terror attack?”

“I thought you were insisting that AISI were part of the Masonic conspiracy themselves.”

“Yes, well maybe I was wrong about that,” she admitted. “The more we find out about Tignelli, the more it looks as if he's trying to break away from Rome, not cosy up with them.”

“We still don't have any evidence of that,” he warned. “On the other hand, there probably is enough now to question Tignelli in connection with Cassandre's murder. He had a clear motive to make that deal with the Banca Cattolica, and thus to get rid of anyone who got in the way.” He glanced at her. “It's difficult. Not least because I have to be absolutely sure that personal feelings have played no part in my decision.”

“I understand.” Aroused by the absent-minded touch of his hand on her arm, she reached around and started rubbing his stomach, feeling the lattice of muscles beneath the skin.

“I'll sleep on it,” he decided. “And let you know first thing in the morning.”

By way of answer, she kissed his chin, working up the line of his jaw to his earlobe. She could sense him becoming aroused, and moved her hand lower. On the bedside table his phone buzzed and flashed, as if in protest. Groaning, he reached for it.

“They're here,” he said, looking at the screen. “Damn.”

She didn't need to ask who. The bodyguards were like the wife in this relationship: duty and security, calling him away from her.

He swung his feet onto the floor. As he reached for his shirt, she stroked his back, for the simple pleasure of touching his skin for a few seconds longer.

He said quietly, “When I said I had to be sure that personal feelings weren't a factor . . .”

“Yes?”

“It works two ways, you know. That is, I obviously feel a certain pressure to see things from your point of view. But I also feel the exact opposite, a need to keep our heads below the parapet. To keep you safe. If we were simply to ignore what Vivaldo Moretti told you . . . No one would ever blame us for not pursuing it.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“We could be in Amsterdam within a couple of months.”

She said nothing. She didn't tell him that she wouldn't respect him if he dropped the investigation now, because it wasn't true. She trusted him to do the right thing, and who was to say, in a situation like this one, what that might be?

“The point is, I mustn't be influenced either way.” He stood up, then leant down again to kiss her goodbye. “I'll let you know first thing.”

HOLLY
'
S SPIDERGRAM WAS
begetting a whole family of baby spiders now.

Something Carole Tataro had said to her in the prison interview room came back to her. She added:

“But please don't tell me I'm any worse than those on the other side of the political spectrum.”

And then:

Was he doing the same thing on the right, with Gladio? Proost refused to answer that.

DEAD END?

But it wasn't a dead end, she realised; not quite. The regular internet might not have been much use, but she had access to something many times more powerful.

She went to Camp Ederle late that night. But even after midnight, a US base is rarely quiet. The MP on the gate told her it was good to see her back, ma'am; and just walking from the parking lot to the building where her own section, Civilian Liaison, was based, she encountered several other people who recognised her.

The main thing, though, was that her boss, Mike Breedon, wasn't around. Her desk was much as she'd left it months before, bare and neat, apart from a pile of accumulated mail.

She slid her Common Access Card into the card reader by her computer and booted it up. After entering a clearance code, she was able to access NIPRNet, the Department of Defense's own intranet, and CREST, the CIA's Records Search Tool. Because the information she was looking for was more than twenty-five years old, she was hoping it would be readily accessible.

She typed in “Gilroy, Ian”.

For a moment, nothing but the response

Searching.

Then:

ERROR. No records relating to that term.

Frowning, she tried SIPRNet, the NSA's secure equivalent. Nothing there either.

As a last resort, she logged into JWICS, the Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communications System. Where SIPRNet was
cleared for material up to “Secret”, and could be accessed by up to four million trusted allies around the world, JWICS was FAEO, For American Eyes Only.

Gilroy, Ian. 798 records. Refine your search?

She typed “operations”. That got it down to seventy-four documents. She clicked on the first one.

ERROR. You do not have clearance to access this material. Please contact your network administrator or chain of command.

Going back, she typed “personnel, location, based at”.

54 records.

Opening the first document, she found that it was a simple note of which CIA office Gilroy had been working out of in 1974. She clicked the next one. That gave her the same information for 1979.

A thought occurred to her. Using the regular internet, she made a timeline of all the atrocities and assassinations that had characterised the Years of Lead. Then she highlighted the locations.

19 November 1969.
Antonio Annarumma, a policeman, was assassinated during a riot by far-left demonstrators in
Milan
. There was immediate public revulsion, with many commentators denouncing the left.

12 December 1969.
Four separate bombs were planted in
Milan and Rome
, killing 16 and injuring 90. The Red
Brigades were initially accused of what became known as the Piazza Fontana massacre. Later, officials admitted that there was no evidence for this.

In 1969 the young Ian Gilroy, newly arrived in Italy, had been based at the Milan Section, where – according to JWICS – he was assigned to something called Operation Amethyst. By the end of the year, however, the same records showed he'd been travelling regularly to Rome, for something called Operation Beachcomber. The dates corresponded to the period immediately preceding the Piazza Fontana bombing.

31 May 1972.
Massacre of three policemen at
Peteano
, north of
Venice
. Although the Red Brigades were accused of the killings, over a decade later a right-wing activist admitted having planted the explosives.

By 1972 Gilroy was stationed at Venice, where he was running an operation codenamed Clockhouse. All records for Clockhouse ceased abruptly at the end of May.

28 May 1974.
Bombing at Piazza dell Loggia,
Brescia
, west of
Venice
. Killed 8 and wounded 100.

Again, May 1974 saw a flurry of activity in the Venice Section for something called Operation Emerald.

Gilroy had continued to be stationed at Venice during the summer of 1977, when Daniele Barbo had been kidnapped by the Red Brigades. Then, in 1978, he'd moved to Rome.

March 16, 1978.
Christian Democrat leader Aldo Moro kidnapped by the Red Brigades in
Rome
.

Coincidence? Or an indication of something more sinister?

After the end of the Cold War, and the enforced termination of the Gladio network, the Red Brigades had also fallen silent. Until, that is, almost a decade later, when they'd made a sudden resurgence. The last assassination they carried out was as recent as 2003. Shortly afterwards, Ian Gilroy retired from the CIA's payroll.

Again, was it a coincidence that terrorists were killing people on Italian soil just as America was calling for its allies to join a global war on terror?

Excitement prickled her skin.
I may not have the evidence yet. But I'm building a picture.

She sat back, thinking. Then she pulled a memory stick out of her pocket and downloaded everything.

A message flashed up.

SECURITY WARNING. Downloading classified material may only be carried out with the express permission of your Command. In no circumstances may such material be removed from NSA-approved facilities.

She clicked “Continue”.

Was it just the insubstantial weight of the memory stick in her pocket making her jumpy as she walked back to her car? Every shadow seemed to hide a figure, watching her; every surveillance camera seemed to swivel in her direction. She jumped when a horn blared behind her, but it was only a group of men heading out of the base at high speed and in high spirits for some late-night R&R.

She took a right out of the camp and drove slowly along Viale della Pace, scrutinising her rear-view mirror. There was
no one coming after her. But she found those words of her father's favourite poem echoing in her head, all the same:

                   
This season's Daffodil,

                   
She never hears,

                   
What change, what chance, what chill,

                   
Cut down last year's;

                   
But with bold countenance,

                   
And knowledge small,

                   
Esteems her seven days' continuance

                   
To be perpetual.

Had it been a warning? A prophecy? Or just a statement of the obvious:
with knowledge comes fear
?

Back in the centre of Vicenza, she parked her car in the usual place, an underground multi-storey. As she got out, she heard footsteps coming up behind her, rubber soles scuffing on rough concrete. She turned, panicking, her hand reaching automatically for the can of pepper spray that, ever since the events in the caves of Longare, she'd carried everywhere she went.

“
Hai qualche monetina?
”

It was just a young beggar, a junkie, asking for money. She shook her head. He started to push forward into her personal space, still muttering demands, then backed off rapidly when she showed him the spray. Even so, the adrenalin was pumping as she walked to her building.

She let herself in. The hallway was quiet, but the door to the ground-floor apartment where Alberto, the handyman, lived was open. She heard voices. As she pressed the button for the tiny lift, Alberto hurried out, beaming. In his hand was a glass of grappa.

“
Ah, Signorina Boland! C'è qualcuno che aspetta di vederla.
”

She'd never had anyone wait to see her here, let alone at this time of night. She was about to tell Alberto he must be mistaken when a tall, lean figure stepped into the hallway behind him.

“Good evening, Holly,” Ian Gilroy said. “I hope you don't mind. It seemed like the easiest way to get hold of you.”

Sharing the tiny lift as it lurched upwards to the fifth floor, she looked at the wall rather than meet his eye. She could feel him examining her thoughtfully, but he chose not to say anything until they were inside her apartment. She saw his eyes flick over to the spidergram, and his eyebrows raised briefly, but he turned to face her without comment.

“Why are you here?” she said without preamble.

“Holly,” he said gently, “I understand why you're suspicious of me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You've been checking up on me. Perhaps you're wondering if
I
had anything to do with what happened to your father.” His candid blue eyes met hers, unflinching. “Indeed, I can see why you might think I did.”

He placed the bottle of grappa on the table. “It's time I told you the truth, Holly. Hear me out, and then decide whether I'm the monster you think I am.”

Eventually she consented to have a drink with him. They sat on her tiny terrace with its views over the Berici Hills, the lights of Vicenza twinkling in the foreground.

“What I'm about to tell you is highly secret,” he began. “In 1968, I was sent to this country for the first time. My orders
were simple: to stop the communists from getting into power. Langley felt that there were new challenges in Italy that required a new approach . . . I was told I would even have political cover to overrule the Section Head, Bob Garland, should it become necessary.”

“You came in with orders to kick ass, in other words.”

He nodded. “The strange thing, though, was that I didn't have to. Instead, it was as if my arrival had galvanised Bob. He responded with a flurry of initiatives, new operations, special-access projects . . . I had my hands full just deterring him from the most extreme. Frankly, it would have taken very little for our work in Italy to go down the same path we had already taken in Greece and South America. Certainly there was no one back in Washington trying to rein us in.”

He was silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Quite early on, it became clear to me that the Red Brigades were going to be a particular problem. They were vicious, well organised and highly disciplined. I was determined to undermine their influence . . . and that was when an asset by the name of Mariano Cardillo fell into my lap.

“Cardillo was a natural – he took to a life in the shadows like a duck to water: one might almost say he was addicted to it. He was also a dangerous right-wing extremist who worshipped power and violence – those were his only true gods, I think, although he liked to talk about restoring the honour and prestige of the Catholic Church as well. He had been recruited to Gladio in the usual way, by NATO, and given paramilitary training, but he was never going to have the patience to wait until the communists' tanks were rolling across the Dolomites before he got involved in the action.

“He had decided, in fact, to infiltrate the enemy, on his own initiative. When I came across him, it was in the guise of
a low-level Red Brigades fellow-traveller, a part-time anarchist who helped them out with bomb-making, gun-running, that kind of thing. I thought I was turning him, but to my surprise, during that initial, wary conversation, it became clear that he was interested in using
me
.

“Working entirely on his own, he had succeeded in gaining the trust of the Red Brigades' leadership. Now he wanted my help in getting right to the heart of the organisation, from which position he could, he assured me, help me to destroy it completely.

“It was almost too good to be true. For several months I remained suspicious, looking for a trap. But he proved himself again and again. He had acquired the
nom de guerre
of Paolo by then.” He looked at her to see if she had remembered that was the name of one of Daniele's kidnappers. Satisfied, he continued, “And in that guise, with a little help from us, he rose rapidly through the terrorists' ranks. The only difficulty was the perennial one with all double agents: to what extent do you use the information they give you, when doing so may blow their cover? It's an irony of these situations that the more valuable the asset's information, the less one is inclined to risk acting on it.”

“So you did nothing?”

“Oh, we did what we could. This isn't some elaborate mea culpa for standing on the sidelines, Holly. But it was clear that we were going to have to be smart, if we wanted to both disrupt the Red Brigades and protect Paolo's identity.

“Above all, though, we had to stop Moro's Historic Compromise, his plan to bring the communists into a coalition government.” He grimaced. “The strategy we hit on was a beautiful one, though I say so myself – beautiful but terrible. We realised that, if we could only persuade Moscow that the
Historic Compromise would take the Italian Communist Party out of Moscow's control and into that of the Christian Democrats, they themselves would order the Red Brigades to undermine it in any way they could. And in Paolo, we believed, we had the means to make that happen.