The Geneva Strategy

  “So how long will it take to re-create the entire password?”

  Yang pondered a moment. “Each password allows us access to a portion of the dashboard controls. From there we write code that can install a key-stroke reader and replicate virus into that small section of the program. As the virus expands and spreads it obtains more information and breaks through into other protected areas. Of course, getting all the passwords accelerates the hack, but even without them all each one that we do receive gets us deeper into the software and closer to the others. But doing it with only partial passwords takes time. Several more days at least.”

  “Make it two. That’s all I have.”

  “And then? What will you do with it?”

  Darkanin dumped the cognac into a small cup of Turkish coffee and took a sip while he thought about how to respond. His plan was simple and designed to reap the most benefits for his company that he could manage.

  “That information is mine alone.”

  Now Yang looked annoyed, and in a perverse way Darkanin liked the man better. At least when he showed some emotion he seemed more real, less like a shell of a human being.

  “I’m doing all the work and you’re keeping the final results from me. That hardly seems right.”

  Darkanin had no intention of taking the conversation down that path. Instead, he changed the subject.

  “When you hack the drone dashboard, will you be able to show me how to maneuver them to shoot? Will I see a live feed like you showed me earlier?”

  “What I showed you was live footage from a Predator drone on surveillance duty. They fly low and slow, and can be taken out by a missile or even a high-powered rifle. Predators are worthless in a contested environment, and once we launch the hacked drones they will be in an extremely contested environment,” Yang said.

  Darkanin nodded. “I expect the full force and military might of several countries to be involved in stopping it.”

  “And so we need to think of a plan that would allow the drone to continue flying without interference.”

  Darkanin took another sip of his spiked coffee. He didn’t want to reveal his entire plan to Yang. “I think I have that covered. Just stay on task and call me the minute you gain access to the main drone dashboard.”

  Darkanin rang off and clicked on the next in his contact list. A swarthy man dressed in the traditional Arab garb of a long white thobe with a red-and-white ghutra on his head came into view.

  “Ali Awahil, how are things proceeding?” Darkanin asked.

  The man grimaced. “We had to move matters to the embassy to avoid the NSA’s eyes, which are everywhere.”

  Darkanin didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean? Were they closing in on the first location?”

  “Yes. Your Chinese friend intercepted some intelligence that a group is out hunting for the other missing Americans.”

  Darkanin sat up straighter. “Yang discovered this? I was just on the phone with him and he said nothing. What group?”

  “I don’t know. Stories are swirling that it is a shadow group of experts accountable to no particular regime.”

  Darkanin relaxed. This sounded like pure rumor.

  “Who told you about this?”

  “One of your crew. His name is Denon. He claimed that someone named Smith was able to activate contacts well beyond his usual role. Said the FBI and CIA came swarming out of their holes within minutes of an attempt to collect the man. Are you aware of this Smith?”

  “Ahh, now I understand. Smith was one of the first subjects our Chinese friends tried to neutralize with the test drug. He’s a microbiologist at USAMRIID. He got away, which has Denon angry, but I don’t think Smith is anything special. He just had the good luck to have left a cocktail party that was crawling with various undercover agency types and they were nearby when the kidnap attempt went down.”

  “Why did you try to abduct Smith?”

  Darkanin shrugged. “I didn’t. My Chinese partners wanted the drug tested and to obtain some leverage over the United States. They were considering trying to grab Chang, but he was so heavily guarded that night they went for Smith instead. Was a good choice, because as a USAMRIID researcher he has knowledge about the U.S. chemical warfare program that could have been beaten out of him.”

  “Did it work?”

  “The drug or the test drone?”

  “Both.”

  “Yes and no. The drone operated well within its limited capabilities and the drug missed Smith and paralyzed the one it hit and he later died.”

  “That’s a win, yes?”

  “No. It was yet another uncontrolled reaction. We need the drug to work consistently so that Bancor’s antidote can be tailored to reverse it, but individual reactions vary so widely that we can’t be sure what to expect once it’s disseminated. Added to that is the problem with efficacy. We spray it in a room or area and some people react and others don’t. Most batches become ineffective within minutes of release, while a few others last longer. The only consistent result is that if an active lot is inhaled there will be a reaction.”

  Darkanin returned to sipping his coffee while Awahil pondered the information.

  “I still don’t like the rumors about the shadow team. My country can’t be implicated in this matter. We need to appear completely innocent when the drug is released against our enemies. We want all suspicion to fall on others while we join them in our outrage at the use of a chemical weapon.”

  “Then you’d better not let anyone know what you’re doing at the embassy. Be sure that the NSA can’t reach you.”

  Awahil nodded. “The embassy is impenetrable. Whoever attempts to enter it without permission will die.”

  Darkanin certainly hoped so.

  25

  Smith, Beckmann, and Howell strolled down a street in Mayfair. Beckmann wore a baseball cap but Howell and Smith were hatless. They stopped at a busy intersection and Smith pointed to a large, rotating camera placed on a pole above the streetlamps.

  “How many of those in the target area?” Smith asked. The camera swiveled on its base and the lens tracked around in a 360-degree rotation. Howell grimaced.

  “There are six million cameras in the UK and thirteen thousand in the London Tube alone.”

  Beckmann gave a low whistle. “How many is that per person?”

  “In the UK? One for every eleven citizens,” Howell replied. “So you can be sure that when we go in, someone, somewhere, will be watching us.”

  “We can’t have that,” Smith said. “We’ll have to disable them all.”

  “Or at least those around the embassy,” Beckmann said.

  Howell nodded. “I agree, but it’s a dicey proposition. We need someone who can not only access the public network but also access, or at least minimize the impact of, the private cameras. Because, frankly, your friendly neighbor’s security camera can be just as dangerous.”

  “Think Marty can do it?” Beckmann asked.

  Martin Zellerbach was Smith’s childhood friend and a computer genius. Zellerbach had Asperger’s, and he had few friends growing up. Smith had protected him from the worst of the bullies; Zellerbach returned the favor by assisting Smith whenever he called.

  “I can certainly ask. I have confidence in his ability to access a known, public network, like a government system, but I don’t think he’ll have the time or the resources to shut down every private camera.”

  Their stroll ended on another intersection and they turned left, headed to Hyde Park. On their right they came upon a high wrought-iron fence painted green with insets of gold-leaf palm trees. Beyond the fence a curved driveway intersected a rolling lawn, and beyond that sat a beautiful white two-story building. Two dark sedans, one a Bentley and the other a Maybach, were parked to the side. At the lot’s front and at either corner stood two security guards in black cargo pants and polo shirts. Each carried a semiautomatic weapon, a pistol on his belt, and radio equipment strapped to his shoulder. Smith glanced up a
nd saw the two closed-circuit television cameras mounted on each corner.

  “CCTVs at every corner,” Smith said.

  “And probably more that we can’t see from here,” Howell said.

  “Definitely one monitoring the front door,” Beckmann said.

  “Do you have a schematic of the house?” Smith asked.

  Howell shook his head. “When the Saudis bought it they flew in their own construction crew to renovate the building from top to bottom. The renovation was unnecessary, so my sources told me that we can presume they swept the building for listening devices and installed their own state-of-the-art security. They were able to give me the broad outlines of what type of security is likely installed, but not the nuances.”

  They continued their stroll, walking past the structure and up a gentle incline until they reached the top of the hill. On the other side of a gently curving street was Hyde Park.

  “Nice area,” Beckmann said.

  Howell nodded. “One of the finest in London.”

  “Are we sure he’s in there?” Smith asked.

  Howell looked thoughtful. “Our source isn’t the best, you understand, but it has been explained to me that the facility contains a newly partitioned basement room where he might be housed.”

  “Who’s the source?” Smith asked.

  The light turned green and they walked across and into the park, dodging the bike riders and one lone runner. Howell waved them toward a small building.

  “Ice cream is sold there, if anyone’s interested.” He looked at Smith. “I can’t tell you the source, but I’ve heard that it’s a reliable one. Someone who has weekly access to the facility and noticed that the basement room was occupied.”

  “I don’t get it. What do the Saudis have to gain?”

  Howell shrugged. “We’re not sure. We think he may be a pawn in a larger game, or that they’ve been coerced into cooperating. Unlike Pakistan, they’ve generally been helpful to the United States, but they were angry at your president when he flew to Geneva and signed the interim nuclear abatement accord with Iran. They would have liked the U.S. to continue its hard line against that country.”

  Smith frowned. “The accord was one of the first signs of thawing of relations between Iran and the U.S., but that doesn’t explain an attack against U.S. citizens and interests.”

  “I think they’re simply stockpiling information and intelligence for the day that they might need it. They never expected us to learn that Rendel’s been kept there,” Howell said. “And if we do get him out we’re supposed to be sure the world is kept unaware that he was there in the first place. Only the Saudis will know that we’ve taken him, and we’ll hold that marker for the day that we need it.”

  “So how are we going to do this?” Beckmann said.

  “I think our first call is to Marty. See if he can disable the cameras and learn anything more specific about the security system in place,” Howell said.

  Smith nodded, checked his watch, and pulled out his cell. “No time like the present.” He dialed the number and Marty answered on the third ring.

  “Jon! Hello! What do you want me to do for you?”

  Smith smiled. The one good thing about Marty’s Asperger’s was that, being unable to understand the etiquette of polite conversation, he usually dispensed with the preliminaries and got right to the point.

  “Is this line secure?”

  “You mean is the NSA listening? No. I blocked them a long time ago. I don’t understand the outrage over the spying thing. It’s not like it wasn’t apparent.”

  “Maybe to you, but not to the general population.”

  “It’s safe to speak freely. What do you need?”

  “I need to shut down the security system of a government building.”

  He heard Marty chuckle. “Like the courthouse in DC? Piece of cake.” Smith turned off the main path and strolled across the grass to avoid having anyone overhear him.

  “Like the Saudi embassy in London.”

  A long, low whistle came over the line. “That is big. And complex.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Yes, but it will take a while. Maybe as long as a week or two, and you’ll need to get me some preliminary information to work with before I can start. Like which company handles their Internet and phone lines.”

  “Time is not on our side. How much can you do in twenty-four hours?”

  The line remained quiet. Smith continued strolling and held his tongue, giving Marty a chance to mull the problem.

  “How much information can you give me?”

  Smith smiled. “Hold tight. I’ll call you right back.” He hit the speed dial for Randi Russell. To his great surprise, she picked up. “I thought you went dark,” he said.

  “Not anymore, but I’m almost done here. What do you need?”

  “All the information that the NSA has from their wiretaps of the Saudi embassy in London.”

  “No problem, but you don’t need me for that since that government contractor dumped it all on the Internet. Just go and plug it in. I think by now the Guardian has released everything they’ve been given.”

  “I need it sorted, though. I don’t have the time to read it all.”

  He heard Russell snort over the line. “Neither does the NSA, believe me. But I’ll make a call and have a tech send what we’ve been able to catalog to you in a searchable format. And Smith?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Whatever you’re planning, I want in.”

  “Absolutely.”

  She hung up and Smith called Marty back. “I’ll get you preliminary information in a couple of hours.”

  Two hours later Smith sat on a sofa in his hotel suite and sipped on a shot of whiskey as he stared at a laptop placed on the cocktail table. The screen displayed Google Earth views of the Saudi embassy from every possible angle. He clicked through the various elevations and overhead shots, searching for any wires, cameras, or antennas that would give a clue as to the technology being used inside. He cataloged the locations of any electrical generators, satellite dishes, and ductwork large enough for a man to crawl through. When he heard a knock on his door he stood and rolled his shoulders to release the tension there. After a quick glance through the peephole he opened the door and waved Beckmann in.

  “Any luck?” Beckmann asked. He tossed a copy of the International New York Times onto the cocktail table. Smith sighed.

  “None. The generators on the roof look to be standard electrical backups, the satellite dishes receive only television signals, and Marty told me that their Internet provider was a common company used by half of London.”

  Beckmann’s face lit up. “That’s good news, isn’t it? Should be a breeze for Marty to hack.”

  Smith reached down for his glass and took another sip. “That’s just it. He was into their system in no time, and what he found was absolutely innocuous. Seems nothing of any real consequence goes over the wireless lines. They must have a second secure system elsewhere.”

  Beckmann headed to the wet bar and scanned the assorted alcohol on offer. He chose a scotch and cracked the top.

  “I took another stroll to the embassy. They change guards completely every four hours, and each set takes alternating fifteen-minute breaks every hour. Honestly, I think they’re mostly for show. All it would take is one suicide bomber to toss a grenade over that fancy fence and there would be nothing those guys could do about it.”

  Smith settled back onto the couch, placing his feet on the cocktail table. The Times crackled when he plopped his heels on it, and he reached down and pulled it out from under his foot. The headline gave him pause. It showed a picture of Katherine Arden stepping onto the stairs of a private jet. She held her phone to her ear and a briefcase in her hand. The headline read HUMAN RIGHTS ATTORNEY ARRIVES FOR CONFERENCE. Smith sat up and read the short article that accompanied the headline. Beckmann lowered himself into a nearby chair and took a sip of his drink.

  “Don’t you
find that scotch always tastes better when the agency is buying?” he said.

  “Listen to this,” Smith said. “‘Katherine Arden, the attorney for several human rights watchdog groups and famous for her filing of a human rights case against the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, arrived in London today to take part in the second Global Conference for the Advancement of Human Rights. This will mark the first time that she has agreed to attend the conference, which, in an ironic twist, will kick off with a reception at the Saudi embassy. A representative for the embassy confirmed that an invitation was issued to Arden in the hope that “conversation in a setting less adversarial than a courtroom will lead to a clearer understanding of the cultural differences between the Saudis and other countries.”’” Smith snorted. “Good luck with that. She’ll never agree to go.”

  “You know her?” Beckmann asked. He slid down in his chair, put his feet on the cocktail table, crossed his ankles, and rested his glass on his stomach.

  Smith nodded. “I do. She runs around quoting from the classics while she hits you with subpoenas and threatens legal action if you don’t comply.”

  “Which classics?”

  “The Art of War,” Smith said.

  Beckmann tipped his glass in a toast. “My kind of woman. When’s the party?”

  “Tomorrow evening.” Smith settled back against the couch. “I’m surprised the Saudis even bother with her. It’s not as though they’ll comply with any judgment against them.” Smith sipped his drink while he stared at the photo. An idea started forming. He gave a short laugh and pointed a finger at the paper. “That’s it.”

  “That’s what?” Beckmann asked.

  “That’s how we infiltrate the embassy. We attend the reception. Once inside we conduct a reconnaissance operation to find Rendel.” Smith stood and began pacing across the small suite.

  Beckmann removed his feet from the table and leaned forward to pull the paper toward him. Smith watched him scan it.

  “It seems as though the invitations were sent a while ago. How will you crash it?” he asked.