Tom Clancy Enemy Contact - Mike Maden Page 4

  No one in the room doubted Watson’s skill sets, intelligence, or patriotism, least of all Foley. But it wasn’t Watson that Foley was worried about.

  A few years ago, China’s premier cyberwarfare unit, Ghost Ship, had been destroyed in a heroic bombing run by Marine Corps fighter pilots on the Chinese mainland. But China’s electronic warfare and cyberespionage cadres, including the infamous People’s Liberation Army Unit 61398, had only expanded in numbers and capabilities in recent years. It wasn’t a surprise. China produced more than four million STEM graduates every year on the mainland, and many thousands of STEM students in the United States were actually Chinese nationals, some of whom were guilty of spying on the U.S. corporations and research institutions that hired them.

  American corporations lost an estimated $300 billion of intellectual property to China’s cyberespionage programs, which had also successfully stolen plans related to advanced American weapons systems, including the F-35 Lightning II.

  “Chinese army’s APT”—advanced persistent threat—“units have upped their game recently, investing heavily in AI-assisted hacking attacks that are escalating exponentially in frequency and scope. Tell me, Ms. Watson, doesn’t that concern you?”

  “Yes, of course it does. China is, without a doubt, the single greatest cybersecurity threat we face. But right behind them are the Russians, the North Koreans, the Iranians—the list is endless. The IC Cloud’s standardized, automated, and air-gapped cloud computing system has proven to be impervious to their attacks, as I know you’re well aware, Madame Director.”

  “But here’s what’s keeping me up at night, Amanda,” Foley began. “All U.S. intelligence is stored and analyzed on the IC Cloud. But the U.S. IC is intimately connected to the Five Eyes program, the Club de Berne, and EU INTCEN, among others. In short, the entire Western intelligence apparatus would be exposed if the IC Cloud was ever compromised. I can’t shake the feeling that having put all of our eggs in this one basket has created an awfully tempting target. The math isn’t on our side. The IC is currently defeating tens of millions of attacks every year—and I congratulate all of you around this table for that—but if just one of them succeeds, just one, we could suffer the most catastrophic intelligence failure in the history of the world.”

  Watson nodded patiently. “Forgive me, but I think the math actually is on our side. I would suggest that the failure of tens of millions of these attacks so far this year is evidence that the IC Cloud is doing its job perfectly, and there is every reason to believe it will continue to do so.”

  Watson leaned back in her chair, tenting her fingers. “Believe me, Madame Director, you’re not the only one who wakes up with panic attacks in the middle of the night. That’s why my Red Team hackers work so hard to find any potential vulnerabilities. My department is constantly updating your hardware and software, and there isn’t a line of code or a single circuit diagram upgrade that doesn’t land on my desk. I check and double-check everything after it’s all been thoroughly tested by my team—the best in the world, I might add. To borrow a quote, you have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

  “You sound pretty confident.”

  “I can’t guarantee the sun will rise tomorrow morning, either, but I believe the IC Cloud is just as reliable.” Watson leaned forward on the table. “I love this country too much to put it at risk. If there is ever a whiff of a potential problem, you will be the first to know, Madame Director. You have my word on that.” Watson smiled warmly. “Until then, leave the worrying to me.”

  Foley offered a tired nod. She came in wanting assurances. Watson gave her at least a few.

  “I’ll do my best. I suppose I have enough on my plate as it is.” Foley addressed the room. “Again, thank you all for your time and attention.” She stood. “Especially to you, Ms. Watson. And please give my regards to Elias. Meeting adjourned.”

  As the others began filing out, Watson asked, “A private word, if I may?”

  Foley smiled. “Of course.”

  * * *

  —

  The room emptied. Amanda Watson approached Foley. Both remained standing after hours of sitting through the long session.

  Foley admired the younger woman. She’d studied her security audit files closely.

  Watson was recruited heavily by Silicon Valley firms out of grad school at UC Berkeley, where she earned her master’s degree in computer engineering, graduating at the top of her class at the tender age of eighteen. The head of the NSA had personally flown out to the West Coast to invite her into the fold after Watson passed a secret FBI vetting with flying colors. But she turned him down cold for the far more lucrative offer made by Elias Dahm, seduced by both the cash and the playboy’s well-known sexual charisma.

  The two lovers went on to build the world’s largest and most trusted cloud computing company over the course of the next decade. A brilliant engineer in his own right, Dahm was the headline-grabbing salesman and Watson the quiet technical genius, an updated version of Apple’s Jobs–Wozniak dynamic.

  After Elias Dahm had moved on to other romantic and business interests—particularly SpaceServe, his rocket subsidiary—Watson kept a steady hand on the tiller at CloudServe’s engineering department. Watson wasn’t on the CloudServe board, but she was number four in the company’s organizational chart after Dahm, the COO, and CFO, respectively, and she owned approximately $240 million worth of CloudServe stock. It was as much her company as his, at least in intellectual pedigree, though not in legal reality.

  “How may I help you, Amanda?”

  “Just a quick word. Elias asked me to inquire about where we stood on the JEDI War Cloud project?”

  Watson was referring to the Joint Enterprise Defense Infrastructure program the DoD was seeking to implement. The JEDI War Cloud would consolidate the DoD’s four hundred data centers to just one integrated cloud-based system with real-time monitoring of all activities. The biggest tech names—Google, Amazon, Microsoft—were also bidding for the contract, but CloudServe had the inside track, thanks to its successful implementation of the IC Cloud. Watson wasn’t a saleswoman, but she knew that part of her job today was to wax the skis for CloudServe’s JEDI bid.

  “I’m sorry Elias couldn’t be with us today,” Foley said, hiding her annoyance. The federal government was CloudServe’s biggest client and they stood to gain even more business if the War Cloud project moved forward.

  “I apologize, Madame Director. The next SpaceServe launch is less than two weeks away and it has his full attention. Besides”—she grinned—“I’m a much better engineer than he is, anyway. It made more sense for me to be at this meeting today.”

  “You and your team are doing a fantastic job, and I really do want you to know how much I appreciate all that you’ve accomplished despite the hand-wringing you witnessed today.”

  “The entire IC is to be commended. You have some really top-drawer people running the show. But I promise you, we won’t relax. You’re absolutely right to worry about the Chinese and the rest of the bad guys out there. They’re relentless, but so are we.”

  “Please convey my best wishes to Elias. I hope the launch goes well.”

  “And what may I tell him regarding our War Cloud bid?”

  “Tell him that all bids have been submitted and are being reviewed, just as the law requires.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll do that.”

  They shook hands. “Have a safe trip home, Amanda.”

  Foley resisted the temptation to play mother and advise her that a schoolgirl crush on the high school quarterback was no way to organize one’s life.

  6

  BERLIN, GERMANY

  Dieter Hansemann exited the Blissestrasse U-Bahn station, the last train of the night. He jammed his hands into his coat pockets against the slight chill breeze and headed south until he reached the Mexican restaurant on the corner and turned left onto
his street.

  The late-night auditing marathons over the last month had become a predictable thing, and had taken their toll on the thirty-five-year-old banker. But it was worth it. He was close to finally nailing down the project he’d been assigned.

  Very close.

  Mature elm trees lined both sides of the narrow street, spreading their branches high over the asphalt, bent over and nearly touching like the angels’ wings on the Ark of the Covenant.

  A small fenced park stood on his side of the street, a pleasant place to jog when he actually had the time to do it. He looked forward to the day he’d be there again. He hoped before it began snowing in the next month or two.

  Passing by a park entrance gate, he heard a commotion. A woman’s plaintive cry against a man’s harsh, accented voice. Dieter stopped in his tracks and squinted through the gloom. The couple were little more than shadows in the distance, partially hidden from the street. The tall man raised an arm high before swinging it down with a curse in Arabic.

  Dieter hesitated. Nothing could put his work at risk. But honor won out in the space of a single breath, and the athletic German dashed toward the fighting couple.

  When he got close he shouted “Halt!” but kept at a dead run straight for the bigger man’s broad torso. The woman, a redhead, cried out, “Hilf mir!” just as the bearded Araber backhanded her across the jaw. She tumbled to the ground in a whimper as the man whipped around, facing Dieter down with a crooked smile and a sharp blade.

  The banker didn’t slow. He juked left, then right, forcing the other man—an Egyptian—to shift his weight. Dieter juked left again, and just at the moment when the bearded man transferred his weight between his feet, Dieter lunged forward with speed, blocking a weak strike by the other man with his left forearm and smashing his right elbow into the side of his skull.

  Dieter’s strength and momentum put the man on his back, scattering the blade. The German’s CQB training took over. Straddling the Egyptian between his thighs, Dieter pinned his neck to the ground with his left forearm as he launched right-elbow strikes at his face, partially blocked by the bigger man’s counterpunches.

  The German’s furious attack ended with the explosion of white-hot pain in his back. Instinctively, he rose up and reached for the wound, only to feel the heavy knife blade plunge again between his shoulders, this time severing his spinal cord. He was dead before his face smashed into the pavement.

  “About fucking time,” the Egyptian said. He rubbed his swelling face.

  The redhead reached a hand down and helped him to his feet.

  “I’ll grab his shit,” she said, wiping the bloody blade on the back of Dieter’s tweed coat.

  She robbed him of his wallet, iWatch, iPhone, and a gold crucifix hanging around his neck.

  “Too bad,” the woman said. “He is a beautiful man. Sehr schön.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” The man held one hand to his aching face.

  “Wait.” She rolled Dieter onto his back with her booted foot and snapped photos of his lifeless face with her Galaxy phone.

  “Now we leave.”

  The two of them sped quickly across the park, but not at a run, lest they draw attention to themselves. They climbed into a 2018 silver BMW 5 series sedan and drove away, careful to obey the laws.

  The couple knew the Berlin Polizei would no doubt conclude that banker Dieter Hansemann had been killed during a robbery, far from any surveillance cameras and witnesses. When the police detectives learned he was actually a deep-cover agent for the BKA, or Bundeskriminalamt—the German version of the FBI—they would know he was murdered, but not the reason why.

  Dieter Hansemann’s corpse was proof of concept number two.

  7

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE OVAL OFFICE

  President Ryan sat in one of the new tufted leather chairs, his back to the Resolute desk, his suit coat on the rack, tie loosened, and an iced coffee in hand. It had been a helluva long day, and the news Arnie van Damm was bringing was making it even longer.

  SecDef Burgess and SecState Adler sat on opposite Chesterfield couches while Arnie took the other chair across from the President. The rich, caramel leather didn’t swallow them up like the old sofas had. The round silver carpet with the bold presidential seal lay between them.

  “You can’t blame her. The Senate is just a hundred little Presidents waiting to run,” Adler said.

  “I don’t fault her for her ambition, per se,” Ryan said. He was still smarting from Senator Chadwick’s unwarranted and vicious partisan attacks in the past few months. Vain and unscrupulous, Chadwick at least was a member of the opposing party. “But ambition needs to have its limits.”

  Everybody in the room knew that Ryan never asked for the presidency. A suicidal Japanese airline pilot was the reason he was first thrust into the Oval Office. “But she isn’t President yet,” Ryan said, “and I don’t like the way she’s trying to hijack my foreign policy agenda.”

  “I just don’t get why she did it,” Burgess said. “We kept her in the loop the whole time.”

  “Maybe we should’ve put her out front and center. She likes her picture in the papers,” Adler said. “And Instagram Live.”

  “We offered her the opportunity to run point on this. She said she had other legislative priorities,” Ryan said. “I took that to mean she wasn’t interested—not hostile. Maybe she was telegraphing and we missed it.”

  “No way. I kept in touch with her office all the way through. Never a peep of concern,” Arnie said. “And frankly, it’s damn disloyal.”

  Ryan couldn’t help but smile. His chief of staff was as loyal as they came, a virtue he greatly appreciated, along with the fierce intelligence lingering behind his pale blue eyes.

  “Loyalty? That’s becoming as rare as honor in this town—and shame took the five-thirty Greyhound out of here a long time ago,” Adler said.

  “Something happened,” Arnie said.

  “Like what?” Burgess asked.

  “Somebody yanked Dixon’s leash.” Arnie pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his wire-framed glasses.

  “Meaning?”

  Arnie fogged one of his lenses with his breath. “I think she’s dirty.”

  “Whoa, hold on there. That’s quite a charge,” Ryan said.

  Arnie tapped the side of his nose. “I’m telling you, I can smell it.”

  “As beautiful as it is, I don’t think we can call on your honker to testify in open court,” Ryan said. “You have any proof?”

  “None. But common sense and thirty years up to my neck in this filthy swamp of a town has taught me a few things. She T-boned the shit out of us—the political equivalent of a hit-and-run. Why? What does she get out of it? Especially knowing what she’s risking by crossing you.”

  Ryan shook his head. “I’m not a Mafia boss, Arnie. I’m the chief executive and I’m just trying to do what’s right for this country and our national security. It’s not like I’m going to put a hit out on her.” He took a sip of his iced coffee. “But I will promise you this: If she’s committed any kind of crime or done anything to harm this nation, she’ll answer for it.”

  Arnie fought back a smile. He knew his boss and his friend as well as any man in Washington. There wasn’t a vengeful bone in his body—for him, politics wasn’t personal. But he had a profound sense of justice, and when anything threatened the things he loved most, he was ready to fight. President Ryan wouldn’t sucker-punch anyone, but he was one hell of a counterstriker.

  The SecDef shifted his weight on the leather sofa. “I’m with Arnie. I can’t for the life of me figure out what she gets out of killing this bill. The Poles are paying for the base and its maintenance, NATO gets a forward defense, and the Russians are kept back on their heels—a tangible, kinetic deterrent to further aggression.”

  “Cui bono,
gentlemen,” Ryan offered. The Georgetown Jesuit profs had drilled that into his skull early on. “It always comes back to that. If we can’t figure out what she gets out of it, let’s figure out who else might benefit from her decision.”

  “Well, the Russians, certainly,” Burgess said. “They sure as hell don’t want a U.S. armored division on their doorstep.”

  “I don’t think the Russians are behind this play,” Ryan said. “No one has been more vocal in the Senate calling for stiffer Russian sanctions than Dixon. Who else?”

  “Come to think of it, the Germans didn’t exactly come running to the table on this—we had to drag them by the elbows to get them to sign off,” Burgess said.

  “Nor the French,” Adler added.

  “If this makes NATO stronger, why would the French and Germans not want this?” Arnie asked. He was focused on domestic issues and legislative affairs. He left the foreign policy heavy lifting to Ryan’s cabinet.

  “Because they don’t want to piss Moscow off—the Germans especially are dependent on Russian natural gas,” Adler said. “But in truth, the total volume of trade between Russia, Germany, and France isn’t significant.”

  “But it is there,” Burgess said. “Despite all of the recent troubles with Russia.”

  “Nothing new on that account,” Adler said. “All through the Cold War, the Europeans were more than happy to have us spend billions running NATO while they traded heavily with the Soviets. I don’t know if that made them hypocrites or us just plain fools.”

  “Why not both?” Ryan offered with a mocking smile.

  “And if, in the spirit of full disclosure, we use Russian RD-180 engines on our Atlas V heavy rocket,” the SecDef said. One of the many infuriating, ironic compromises of the modern world.

  Ryan scowled. Signing the bill that exempted Russian rocket motors from the sanctions list had left a bad taste in his mouth, even though it was necessary at the time. “We need to fix that, Arnie. Let’s put that at the top of the Security Council agenda tomorrow.”