Zero Day: A Novel (24 page)

They were so high in the stark mountains he lost his appetite and from time to time experienced nausea. Omar pressed him to eat the rice and goat meat that constituted their basic meal, but he could not. When Yousef believed he could go no farther, Omar took him aside. “You’ve done well. This is difficult even for me and I spend most of my time in these mountains. Just one more day. We will cross over the pass in the morning, then descend all day. Before nightfall, God willing, we will have reached our destination. So rest, my brother, you have earned it.”

Yousef was too tired to take it in. He lay on his side, his nearby meal untouched, and was at once in a deep sleep. The next morning they left while it was still dark. They had come so far, they were in the clouds, and the cloying mist turned his clothes wet and heavy, drawing the heat from his body. But the pass was less than two hours away, and as they descended, the clouds seemed to disperse and the sky overhead was that azure he’d become accustomed to in Peshawar.

They joined three others, young men who laughed uneasily and scanned the sky incessantly. Before noon the trail led them downward. With each passing hour, Yousef felt better. When they stopped for a midday meal and heated tea, he ate with vigor. Omar smiled.

It was nearly dark when they finally entered a narrow canyon. The three fighters who had come with them smiled warmly at seeing old comrades, exchanging embraces and news. Omar led Yousef to a fire set at the mouth of a nondescript cave, one like thousands they’d passed on his journey. Here, about the fire, were several women, the first Yousef had seen in two weeks, and two men, both a bit plump from lack of exercise and too much food. Omar squatted and spoke to one, gesturing toward Yousef. The man nodded and gave instructions.

When Omar returned, he said, “You will eat and rest tonight. Tomorrow you will bathe and prepare yourself.”

Yousef nodded. At last.

Following afternoon prayer the next day, Yousef was finally escorted deep within the largest cave he had seen since entering Tora Bora. He’d been bathed, then dressed entirely in clean clothes provided to him. His hair and beard had been barbered.

Outside he’d heard a generator running, and inside he spotted cables laid along the floor. Omar had explained that all of the fuel had to be carried in so the generator was only run an hour or so a day as needed.

Some two hundred feet into the cave, after several turns, they were stopped by two armed guards. Omar explained that he would leave now but would see Yousef outside afterward. A few minutes later, Yousef was led into the presence of Osama bin Laden.

The room was located at the far reaches of the cave and had been made larger over time. It was lit by bare bulbs, with a number of unlit lamps for when the power was off. There was a desk, carpets, and pillows. The room was heavy with the smell of incense and kerosene.

Bin Laden was reclining on pillows, his lanky body stretched out like that of a snake warming itself in the sun. Unlike the others outside, his clothes were immaculately clean. His beard was whiter than in photographs, and his eyes were deeply sunk within his skull. He looked tired but otherwise quite fit.

Bin Laden extended his hand and Yousef kissed it. “Sit,” bin Laden said, gesturing at a pillow.

Behind him Yousef sensed rather than saw the presence of the guards. “Fajer al Dawar, your history is not unlike my own,” bin Laden said. “Why have you come so far and at such risk to see me?”

“I wish to serve Allah. I wish to destroy the Americans, to rid our people of their corrupt king, to free us of the yoke of oil. I seek the restored caliphate, to see us once again the people Allah wishes us to be!”

“So. We have even more in common. Will you have tea?”

The men were served hot tea and spoke for nearly two hours. Most of the time bin Laden did the talking, explaining his long-range plan to continue striking at the economic foundations of the West. “Their great weakness is a love of money,” he said. “Because of that we will bring them to their knees.”

For Fajer it was as if he were visiting the Prophet Himself. He had never been more deeply moved by any experience. The time passed as if it had been but minutes. Before he realized it, he was again kissing bin Laden’s hand and bidding him Allah’s blessing.

Back outside it was already dark. In the distance he heard thunder. Omar approached. “The Americans. They are trying to hit the last camp at which we stayed.”

“Did they succeed?”

“We will know tomorrow. We leave at dawn. How was your meeting?”

Fajer, now once again Yousef, clutched the names and e-mail addresses he’d been given in his hand. He needed to find a safe place for them. “Good, Allah be praised. I am truly ready now for jihad.”

Away from the fire, Fajer raised his eyes to the stars overhead. How long would it take to establish the caliphate? A decade? Five decades?

Fajer did not know but believed that he had this day taken an enormous first step to achieve it. The time of the West was coming to an end, and with it a Muslim rebirth such as had not been seen since the days of the Prophet.

The very thought brought tears to his eyes.

36

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

US-CERT SECURITY OPERATIONS

MONDAY, AUGUST 28

10:11 A.M.

Daryl’s team-leader meeting was well under way. Her coffee was cold and her bear claw lay all but untouched in its napkin. Almost nothing she’d heard from the start sat right with her.

“You’re telling me the scope of this thing is growing daily?” she said to Michelle.

“Hourly, boss.” Michelle Gritter’s team was working on determining the extent of the virus. “And the more we learn about Superphreak, the more variants we locate, the more we understand how much we underestimated it. It’s been out there for months.”

“Tom,” Daryl said, turning to look at the man whose team was charged with developing a solution, “what have you come up with? No more depressing news,” she said, holding up a warning hand. “I need some answers.”

“The closest thing to good news I’ve got is that nearly all the Superphreak variants are tied to September eleventh as the trigger,” Tom said, sounding anxious. “The ones that aren’t, at least so far, are event triggered, but not until
after
September eleventh.”

“So we’re relatively secure for two more weeks?”

Tom hesitated. “Except for computers with the wrong date in the internal clock like you had at that law firm, the New York hospitals, and the Ford plant. I read that the Skunk River Nuclear plant emergency shutdown was caused by a computer glitch. A blogger who says he’s an employee there claims it was caused by a date-related virus.”

Tom glanced at his notes, then cleared his throat before continuing, “There’s some indication that the virus itself is causing these date changes. A couple of the samples we’ve obtained trip over their own cloaking mechanisms and alter the system’s clock.

“And, of course, we’re not secure from those viruses triggered by non-date-related events. Our concern is that we’re missing something. We’re depending on the date and the cyber handle of
Superphreak
to identify these viruses. We have no way of knowing if these are just a part of an overall effort. We’re assuming they identify everything this group is doing, but we don’t know that. We could very well be concentrating on something that turns out to be the tip of an enormous iceberg.”

Daryl’s mind raced. “Oscar, does CSCIA think this is a cyber-attack being launched by a group?”

Oscar Lee, responsible for coordinating CISU/DHS’s effort with the various cyber-security vendors, was usually great at his job, but like the other team leaders, this time he was coming up short. “Boss, I can’t really say they’re on board with this thing. It’s like I told you, Superphreak’s not showing up in their honeypots. They think we’re overreacting. Besides, they’re dealing with fresh waves of variants of old viruses. It’s overwhelming them. They’ve got a nasty virus that’s blocking automatic update systems in computers, and they’re giving it priority.”

Daryl realized she’d heard this before but it hadn’t really registered. “You’re saying this virus is avoiding honeypots?”

“It looks that way.”

Daryl gritted her teeth. “Okay. I’ll call the director again and see if I can’t get DHS more active. At our last meeting, Oscar, I had you put people on chat rooms. Anything there?”

“Some, not enough. I was planning to e-mail you a status report after lunch.”

“I’ll look for it.”

Tom cleared his throat.

“Yes?” Daryl said impatiently.

“Boss, I think I have an explanation for Oscar’s problem with the vendors’ honeypots.”

“What’s that?”

“We’ve taken several of the Superphreak viruses apart. Pretty crude in some places, really slick in others. Anyway, they’re set up to avoid the IPs of the security vendors, including IPs of many of their stealth honeypots.”

The table sat in stunned silence for a long moment.

Daryl leaned forward. “You’re telling me this virus actively
avoids
the honeypots?”

“It sure does. Like I said, slick.”

A sound like a moan came from around the table. It was going to be hell getting anyone really interested in this. Daryl closed her eyes for a long moment.
This is so very, very bad,
she thought.

37

PARIS, FRANCE

5ÈME ARRONDISSEMENT

GRAPHISME COURAGEUX

TUESDAY, AUGUST 29

4:48 P.M.

European headquarters for the Franco-Arabe Chimique Compagnie occupied the upper floors of an enormous glass tower in La Défense, a contemporary business district on the outskirts of Paris composed of a cluster of towers more than thirty stories high. Considered ultramodern architectural gems by many and eyesores by others, they could be seen from central Paris on clear days. Sculptures and fountains abounded in the plazas, and entryways were decorated in colorful mosaics. There, in a corner office with a southern exposure, Labib al Dawar spent most of each workday.

But increasingly he left early and drove to the discreet offices of Graphisme Courageux across town. With just eight employees, it was located in a converted residence that legend said had been built for the mistress of King Louis XVI’s finance minister. Labib believed he could not have found a better location for this particular office, situated three short blocks from the busy rue Mouffetard. His young employees mixed freely with the many students of the Latin Quarter, and by design nothing about the company drew attention. Six of the employees actually performed graphics work. Only Labib and Michel Dufour, from their single office facing the alley and separated from the front staff by a locked door, were engaged in the work of Allah.

Grandson of a
pied-noir
and an Algerian woman, Dufour had thrown himself into the jihad with total commitment. His assignment had been to recruit and coordinate the various worldwide hacker networks they were employing. It was important that the viruses they distributed not be traced to this office, or to Paris for that matter. Dufour pulled together the three components for each virus package they unleashed. These he first placed into Labib’s computer, for the Arab had given himself the honor of actually assembling each virus before passing them back to Dufour for distribution. Never before in his life had Labib found such satisfaction in his work.

When he was not in contact with his hundred-odd hackers, Dufour was transferring payments and monitoring various Web sites and chat rooms for signs the cyber jihad had been detected. It was he who’d spotted the posting by Dragon Lady searching for Superphreak.

“Bonjour,”
Dufour said, as Labib entered the office from the rear. So separated were the two functions of the office that Labib was certain the other employees had never seen him. As an increased security measure, his strict rule was that he and Dufour speak only French. Besides, the man’s Arabic was so heavily accented Labib could hardly understand him.

“How many today?” Labib asked, as he sat at his workstation.

“You have two new
noirs
.” They never used hacker language in the office, even though Labib was certain they could not be overheard.
Noir,
or “black,” meant a rootkit.
Rouge
, or “red,” was the trigger, while
blanc,
“white,” stood for the portion that wreaked the destruction. A
boîtier,
or “package,” referred to the entire device, as Labib had come to consider the malware he had had Dufour unleash.

“Excellent.” The Russian did superior work. Not like a lot of the crap the others often tried to pawn off on them.

“And there are fifteen new
rouges
that look okay. You should see the ones I refused.”

When his brother Fajer had expressed displeasure with the Russian, Labib had been both defensive and guilty. He knew that Dufour had made it clear to the man that they only wanted clean code, and he’d not delivered it. But Labib had been careless as well and not checked the product as carefully as he should have, Dufour only stumbling across
Superphreak
in a code the previous week. Until then he’d thought the code was free of such clues.

At the time it had seemed a crushing reversal, but Dufour had persuaded him it likely meant nothing. “It will probably not be detected, and if it is, how will it get to anyone? Certainly not in time to stop
le déluge,
” as he called the looming attack.

Labib had agreed, and as they’d employed an ever growing number of crackers from whom they acquired bits of malware, other security problems had come up, which lessened the impact of this first one. Still, he’d instructed that the Russian not provide any code other than his
noirs
. In fact, Labib regretted that they had ever released any virus without the cloaking rootkits, but he’d not known they existed until Vladimir had asked if they were interested.

The problem only emphasized their dependence and vulnerability. For their long-term goals they must find a way to do all of this alone. Only then would they be truly secure.