The Backup Asset (19 page)

Vitaliy Myatlev and Defense Minister Dimitrov lit their cigars, waiting impatiently for the aide to finish his work. The two of them stood by the open window overlooking Moscow’s cityscape under a rare and wonderful blue sky.

The young aide set up a tray of hors d’oeuvres on the small coffee table. Small saltine crackers in a silver bowl. Beluga caviar in another bowl, this one sitting on a bed of ice. Pate de foie gras on a crystal tray, set on bite-sized pieces of toast. An unopened bottle of vodka, Myatlev’s favorite brand, Stolichnaya, ready to serve in an ice bucket.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the aide asked. Myatlev just waved him away and the young man disappeared.

“What are we celebrating, Vitya?”

“How can you ask that?” Myatlev responded, feigning offense. “Only the first successful recruitment in our new network of agents. And what a first!”

“Smolin’s asset?”

“Da,” Myatlev replied, engulfed in thick cigar smoke. “Smolin said the first set of documents is impressive.”

“Tell me already, I’m growing older by the minute,” Dimitrov said humorously.

“Smolin’s asset confirmed that the Americans have the laser cannon weapon ready to deploy.”

“Fuck it . . . Petya’s going to be mad, so mad. He’ll say we were asleep at the wheel again. You know how much he hates any news that anyone’s ahead in anything.”

“Smolin’s source is very close to the project; he’ll give us more intel. Then we’ll know more.”

Dimitrov reached for the bottle and poured vodka in two glasses, then threw some ice cubes in them. He handed one to Myatlev and raised his in a joyless cheer.

“Ura,” he said, then gulped the liquid.

“Ura,” Myatlev said in unison, then continued, “You keep forgetting something, Mishka. You keep forgetting we should celebrate.

“Hard for me to think of celebrating, when the news is so bad.”

“Yes, but think of the big picture,” Myatlev insisted. “You, more than anyone else in this government, should be able to see the big picture. We have a new network in place. We have new handlers in the field, recruiting and getting us results. We have intel, good intel, and we’ll have better intel soon. And we have channels that we’ve tested now and we know they work. We’re back in business, Mishka, like in the old days.”

“Good,” Dimitrov cheered up a little, “I can drink to that!”

Myatlev quickly obliged and refilled their glasses with generous amounts of vodka.

“It only took Smolin a couple of weeks to hook his first asset, just a couple of weeks. Do you know how rare this kind of talent is? Even for us?”

Dimitrov nodded appreciatively.

“And I have found more like him. We can deploy all the good ones, to consolidate our network of assets.”

“What are you going after, Vitya?”

“Big data, Mishka, I am going after big data.”

Dimitrov rubbed his forehead thoughtfully.

“Do you want to hear me say I’m too old for this game? I won’t say it. Maybe I’m too old for your methods, but not for the game.”

“We’re both old fucks, Mishka, don’t kid yourself. But we can still get it up, we can get the job done like never before. That’s why we have hordes of young people in our organizations, da?”

Both men laughed hard, clicked their glasses, and drank their vodka.

Myatlev invited Dimitrov to approach the coffee table and try an appetizer.

“Now tell me,” Dimitrov asked, “what’s with this big data you’re talking about?”

“There isn’t anything you can’t find out when you’re willing to grab data in a massive way. The Americans are joining all their databases now, associating what people do with where they work and what they spend money on. Such incredible power.”

“And you want us to do the same?”

“Umm . . . yes, but in a different way. I want us to create backup plans to our backup plans, to grab any amount of intel there’s to be had out there.”

“On what?” Dimitrov asked, his eyebrows at an angle, conveying his confusion.

Myatlev stuck two of his right-hand fingers in the caviar and licked them, letting out a groan of satisfaction.

“On anything,” Myatlev replied. “Even if we don’t know on what, they will.”

Dimitrov swallowed a cracker dipped in Beluga, then said, “Now I am convinced you lost it. You’re not making any sense, my friend. I think the stress of life and of working with Abramovich has caused you some permanent brain damage,” he ended, half-jokingly, patting Myatlev on his shoulder.

“Nah . . . nothing like that,” Myatlev reassured him between bites of pate de foie gras washed down with another sip of vodka, “nothing like this, you’ll see. I’ll explain.”

“Huh . . . I’m curious to hear it,” Dimitrov said, then sat in a large leather armchair, stretching his legs, unbuttoning his jacket, and choosing a cigar.

“Just imagine we deploy a hundred assets, managed by ten handlers, on the American East Coast. We don’t know what to look for, but
they
don’t know that. So the handlers simply tell them to bring valuable information—the latest research, new technologies, and so on. We grab all that, we decrypt it, we study it.”

“Nah . . . that is ridiculous, Vitya.”

“I agree, some of the intel will be unusable crap, but some of it will be good. Good enough to let us know at least what’s out there worth looking for. Then we target our intelligence-gathering efforts, once we know what they’re doing.”

“So, you’re saying . . .”

“I’m saying Russia hasn’t conducted any decent intelligence work in the past two decades, Mishka, no offense intended. The Chinese are ahead of us in intelligence work, Mishka, the fucking Chinese! We have a huge gap. We don’t know who the players are any more and what they’re doing. This laser cannon thing caught us by complete surprise. And it was a pure shot in the dark.”

“Don’t tell me we don’t have lasers . . .” Dimitrov said, a hint of irritation coloring his voice.

“We do, but ours can’t be installed on battleships. First, we never thought of that, then second, we seem to be unable to make them smaller than a house.”

“Fuck . . .” Dimitrov took another drag from his cigar and blew the smoke out in small circles toward the open window.

“You see my point? The laser cannon intel was a shot in the dark. Smolin had no idea he had to ask for it. He just put the bait out for the asset, and the asset delivered one big motherfucking surprise.”

“How did he even find this asset?”

“He started from a list of interesting companies, from information that’s publicly available on the Internet. Now you see?”

“What?”

“What we could do with this type of approach, if we go after data and intelligence in a big way.”

Dimitrov nodded almost imperceptibly, then whistled quietly in admiration.

“You’re not crazy, my dear friend, not at all. Your diabolical genius still inhabits your attic,” Dimitrov said, tapping his own head with his finger. “But how are you planning to work through that massive amount of data?”

Myatlev smiled cryptically.

“How’s the construction going at your new military data center?”

“Almost done. They’re scheduled to bring in the equip—oh, no,” he stopped mid-sentence, “oh no, the Army needs that center, Vitya.”

“So you’ll build another one, Mishka, what’s the big deal? We need that center to build the biggest intelligence and security center in the world—the ISC. Ours. Just think what we can do with all that computing power.”

“We need that center, Vitya, for satellite operations, for military research, for new weapons.”

“And it will do all that, indirectly. Well, maybe not satellite operations, but everything else I think we can do.”

Dimitrov scratched his head, a doubtful look shading his eyes and wrinkling his forehead.

Myatlev didn’t let him think it for too long; he put a glass filled with vodka on ice in his hand, and toasted enthusiastically,

“To the ISC, ura! To Operation Leapfrog!” Myatlev cheered, baring his teeth in a wide smile filled with contagious confidence.

“To the ISC, to Leapfrog,
na zdorovie
!” Dimitrov replied, a little hesitant at first, then wholeheartedly.

The two men drank, then sighed loudly in the typical manner Russians express satisfaction when drinking to their hearts’ desire.

“How are you going to pay for this intelligence gathering, Vitya? It will cost a fortune. Intel is expensive, especially in America. People won’t betray their country for five bucks. You’ll need billions for such a bold plan.”

“I’m not going to spend a lot of money,” he said and winked. “I’m going to spend fear. And a little money too, but mostly fear. Just a little bit of carrot for our future assets, but mostly stick.”

Dimitrov looked him in the eye, surprised.

“That’s the value of big data,” Myatlev replied, but Dimitrov’s gaze remained puzzled.

Myatlev smiled a little arrogantly and whispered, “Trust me, everyone can be turned, everyone is gettable.”

The four of them huddled closely together around Mason’s desk, a desk covered in paper and file folders unlike the typical organized workspace Mason liked to keep. Alex pushed the stack of files away from her a little, making room for the steaming cup of coffee she had brought in. Sam sat quietly, watching her get ready with a faint smile on his lips.

“Thank you for accommodating us this morning,” Alex said, “we appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do,” Mason replied. “Wouldn’t a conference room work better, considering the size of my office?”

“For now, I think we’re good,” Jeremy replied.

“Great, let’s get started,” she said.

“I’ll start,” Jeremy said, “by giving you your temporary FBI credentials,” he said, handing Alex a badge. “Welcome to the FBI.”

“Thank you,” she replied, studying it on both sides. “I understand contractor, but why temporary?”

“You haven’t passed your polygraph yet. You’re scheduled for tomorrow morning; that was the earliest I could arrange.”

“All right,” she replied with a little hesitation and a frown. Sam smiled encouragingly, and she nodded an unspoken
thank you
to him.

“This credential clears you to gain access to all information regarding this case,” Jeremy continued, “so if you have questions, now’s the time to ask them.”

“I have plenty,” she said. “Mason, can you please walk me through the procedure one needs to follow to make a photocopy of a document—any document—inside Walcott corporate offices?”

Mason ran his hand over his shiny, clean-shaven scalp and thought for a second before answering.

“The protocol differs significantly between any document and a TOP SECRET file,” he said.

“Let’s focus on the TOP SECRET files, then,” Alex asked.

“Let’s start with gaining access to TOP SECRET files. One can only do that if one has access to the CDR, our Centralized Documents Repository. Even if someone has clearance to enter the CDR, they can only access or remove files they are cleared to work on. We have an internal system that keeps track of everyone’s projects, tasks, and workloads, and matches those with document inventory numbers. With me so far?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” Alex replied, while Sam and Jeremy nodded.

“So it’s safe to assume that our leak had access to the repository, otherwise he couldn’t have gained access to the source document in the first place,” Mason continued.

“Does this CDR keep track of who accessed what documents? Is there a log?” Jeremy asked.

“Yes, absolutely,” Mason confirmed. “We have checked the CDR logs for anyone accessing the file in question and there are several names. Sixteen to be exact, who have gained access to that file in the past two weeks.”

“Did you cross-reference those names with the van travelers?” Alex said.

“Yes, just did that this morning, and I think we caught a break,” Mason said, “our first break since this whole mess started. There wasn’t a single name on the first team, the team of six engineers who used the van in the morning, who had accessed any laser cannon documents. That team worked on ballistic systems, not on the laser weapons. That tells me we’re down to one team, the five engineers who used the van right after lunch.”

“Yes, that is a safe assumption to make and one big break,” Alex said smiling, visibly relieved. “I was having serious concerns about my ability to infiltrate two teams.”

“How about sharing?” Jeremy asked. “Can you pull a file, for example, and share the use of it with me, since we’re colleagues on the same floor?”

“N–no,” Mason replied. “Technically, no. It’s against procedure and there isn’t a single reason why someone would risk that type of breach just to save a colleague a trip to the CDR.”

“All right, I think I got it,” Alex said cheerfully, taking another sip of coffee. “Let’s talk copier procedures next. Who gets to copy documents and how’s that controlled?”

“A few years ago we replaced all our copiers with modern equipment that only works if you enter your personal code,” Mason started to explain.

“All copiers?” Jeremy probed, looking up from his notepad where he was jotting notes.

“Yes, all of them. It was a company-wide measure we took to increase the control over the duplication of our secret documents. Before we rolled out the coded copiers, documents were copied freely, sometimes even recklessly, and the risk of leaks was significant. So we controlled the risk with the coded copiers, or at least we thought we did,” Mason summarized, a trace of frustration showing on his immobile face.

“How about faxes?” Alex probed.

“We don’t have traditional faxes anymore, haven’t had them in the building since 2006. These coded copiers handle everything: copying, scanning, faxing—both inbound and outbound.”

“Do you keep a log of users and what they do with the copy machines?” Jeremy wanted to know.

“Yes, there’s a procedure everyone must follow to duplicate or scan any restricted document. Before copying, any restricted document duplication request must be entered in a database, complete with document name, restriction class, number of pages, and reason for duplication. Then an approval is issued. This approval is a numeric code. Then the user goes to the copier and enters his personal access code to unlock the copier, followed by the approval code. Only then, can the user actually copy the document. Once the copy job is finished, the code is invalidated.”

“Are your copiers integrated on your network? Do they communicate with the database of approvals?” Alex asked.

“Yes, precisely so,” Mason confirmed.

“I’m assuming all documents, faxed or copied, are stored in the machine’s memory?”

“Yes, they are. We have a special document security team who pulls random copy and fax jobs and checks the restrictions, access codes, everything.”

“What if someone wants to copy an unrestricted document?” Alex asked.

“Then they only use their personal code.”

“So what keeps the user from copying restricted documents without approvals?” she probed on.

“We have several layers of security to ensure that doesn’t happen. First, the copiers have an OCR system—that’s optical character recognition—that scans each page searching for the classification stamps,” Mason replied.

“Classification stamps, as in TOP SECRET?” Alex asked.

“Yes,” Mason replied. “If the OCR recognizes a classification mark in the absence of an approval code, it will stop the machine and page systems security with the personal access code of the offender who started the copier in the first place.”

“Hmm . . .” Alex muttered, at a loss for questions. “So, there’s really no way anyone could have copied the damned thing, is there?”

Mason frowned a little, surprised by her choice of words. He was probably not used to anyone swearing in his office. He seemed so proper, so perfect, Alex thought. They all did—all the employees she had encountered, all of them seemed perfectly contained, procedural, almost robotic in their restraint and perfection. Hotheaded and many times slipping an oath here and there, especially when frustrated, she wished she could be more like them.
But only on the outside
, she thought.
I’d suffocate if I had to live like this, think like this, act like this all the time. Brrr . . .
She almost shuddered.
I wonder if there’s something brewing under these perfect images of professionalism.

“No, there’s not,” he said quietly.

“Huh?”

“Just responding to your comment,” Mason said politely, “there’s no way that document could have been copied without us knowing about it.”

“And yet it was,” Sam said his first words that morning. “How else could that have happened?”

Silence took over the small office; no one had an answer to that.

“Before we attempt to answer that million-dollar question, here’s another one, much easier,” Alex said. “When the fleet manager found the document, everyone knew instantly it wasn’t an authorized copy. How did they all know that?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Mason replied. “When the copier duplicates a restricted document under an approval code, it automatically prints the word ‘copy’ faded in the background of the document—a watermark—and the approval code at the bottom of each page. So if we see a document that has a classification in black and white, without being marked as an approved, registered copy, we know immediately that stamp was run through a copier without proper authorization. That’s how we knew.”

“Ingenious,” she said. “Pretty thorough and very secure, I’ll give you that.”

“Then what scenarios make sense for unauthorized copies? How could someone copy a file in this building?” Sam asked.

“No one enters the premises with any cameras or personal phones. We have lockers on the main floor where employees have to leave their personal gadgets during the day. Then they are screened, just like in an airport. Nothing makes it in.”

“Maybe you have a hacker in your midst, someone who could have overridden the copier’s configuration; that’s one scenario,” Alex offered. “I’ll ask Louie how hard that would be.”

Sam nodded. “That’s a good idea,” he confirmed.

“Who’s Louie?” Jeremy asked.

“He works with me, at The Agency,” Alex replied. “I’ll also ask him if it could have been done remotely.”

“I’ve also tasked a security team to inspect every office, closet, restroom, and conference room in this building,” Mason said.

“Looking for what?” Alex said.

“Not sure, some forgotten piece of equipment, maybe. I might be overreaching, but it’s a big building,” Mason said apologetically, seeing the reaction on their faces. “We have more than 6,000 employees; we have a lot of offices.”

“That could spook your spook, pardon the pun,” she said.

“True,” Mason agreed. “I’ll instruct them to go easy and be careful.”

“No,” Alex said abruptly. “Ask them to wear insignia and protective wear with your pest control vendor’s markings, and leave some spider traps here and there.”

Jeremy chuckled. “Sneaky,” he said.

“Pest control people are just like the leaf-blower man; they’re sacred. No one ever questions them. Ever,” she smiled. “We all hate bugs more than we fear anything else.”

“I’ll do that,” Mason said, after a little hesitation.

Alex stood and stretched a little, relieving some of the tension she’d been accumulating in her muscles. She didn’t have much to go on for now; she had to get near the team that used the van. One of the members of that team was the leak, regardless how he managed to copy the file. She felt a wave of anxiety mixed with excitement, the type of excitement one feels before running a race. She needed to catch this mole fast; there was a lot at stake, and she was running against the clock. She might already be too late.

“Jeremy,” she said, “I’m turning this over to you. Let’s talk people. What, or who do we have?”

“We have a few things,” Jeremy said. “Before we proceed, let me clarify something. Team One, let’s call it that, the team of six who used the van in the morning, you’re saying they should be off the hook, ’cause they didn’t have access to the documents?”

“Yes, that is correct,” Mason replied.

“Every one of these eleven people are under round-the-clock surveillance. I feel inclined to play it safe and keep these six people under surveillance for a little while longer. Just to be thorough. I can think of a few scenarios in which one of them could be involved even without having direct access to the document. Any objections?”

“None,” Mason said.

“But you’re saying you want to infiltrate Team Two first?” Jeremy turned toward Alex.

“Yes, can’t do both at the same time and I want to start with the most likely ones.”

“Makes sense,” Jeremy confirmed. He took some of the folders stacked in front of him and pushed them aside, then focused on the remaining five folders. “These are our guys—well, four guys and one gal.”

Alex pulled her tablet and got ready to take notes.

“I’ve run full background on all of them. Financials, credit cards, and phone records will take a little longer ’cause we need to wait for the warrants to come in, and then execute them.”

“OK, shoot,” Alex said impatiently. Everything took forever with the government.

“All right, the first one is Robert McLeod, forty-two years old. He’s the team lead for this project. He’s Walcott’s technical director for Navy systems. Single. He’s an electrical engineering graduate from MIT, finished second in his class. He specializes in electronics,
and . . .” Jeremy hesitated, flipping through the pages of his file, “yes, has been with Walcott for eight years. This is his picture,” he added, pushing the file toward Alex.

“I’ll need their pics sent to my phone,” she said.

“I’ll arrange that to be done,” Jeremy said.

“Ahh . . . don’t bother,” she replied, taking a quick picture of Bob McLeod’s personnel headshot with her phone.