Freedom (TM)

Philips still eyed Johnston. She figured acquiescing too quickly would seem suspect. “What about The Major?”

“He’s no longer on the project.”

“But neither is he in Leavenworth.”

“The Major needs to be kept on a short leash, but we need all hands right now, Doctor.”

“He murdered special agent Roy Merritt.”

“Understood, but nothing about this situation is personal. This is national security, and Deputy Director Fulbright assures me that you’re familiar with making leadership decisions. We think you have a bright future in the private sector, Dr. Philips. We see leadership potential in you.”

She paused as long as she thought necessary to make it appear that she was wrestling with her conscience. In actuality she was wrestling against the desire to spit into his face. “Who’s calling the shots?”

“Joint public-private advisory committee. Sounds bad, I know. But doesn’t matter—they’re back in Washington and we’re all out here. I want to hear your thoughts.”

“Who came up with the Daemon-blocker?”

“Weyburn Labs folks. Some Chinese fella.”

“The code sample in the report—it bears a disturbing similarity to some of the API calls I discovered in the IP beacon. Those API calls are not safe.”

Elsberg responded. “You needn’t worry, Doctor—”

“Don’t tell me what to worry about.”

Johnston motioned for her to calm down.

Elsberg continued. “They didn’t use the Daemon’s API. We all know it’s a trap, Doctor. Weyburn reverse-engineered the Destroy function. They found that it’s susceptible to what I believe is called a . . . a buffer overrun, and they developed a countermeasure. A ‘vaccine, ’ if you will, against the Daemon’s data-destruct command.”

“And this works?”

“It’s still in testing, but the tests were very encouraging.”

“How do you know your test case is realistic?”

“We didn’t use a test case.”

“You mean you tested on real companies?”

Johnston nodded. “Owner’s prerogative, Doctor. Sever a gangrenous limb to save the patient.”

Lawson put his two cents in. “We were hoping to have you perform a review of the Weyburn Labs code, Dr. Philips. To ensure that only code in line with the spec is present.”

“You mean you don’t trust them?”

“This is mission-critical, Doctor. There can’t be any slipups. The more trusted, expert eyes that see it, the better. We were hoping you’d be willing to help.”

“Why wasn’t I briefed and then asked to come on board—instead of being packed off on a plane with almost no warning?”

He grimaced. “I know you must feel poorly used, but again, it’s national security and couldn’t be helped.”

“And my lab facilities?”

“We’ve got everything you need. You’ve got a blank check, Doctor. Any expert in the world—you need ’em, we’ll find ’em. Any resource, we’ll get it for you. Just ask.”

“I’ll have access to all the data this time? For real?”

“You’ll have full access to our research, and vice versa. We won’t micromanage you. We’ve got some sharp people, though, Doctor: Litka Stupovich, Inra Singh . . .” Looking to Lawson. “What’s that other gal’s name?”

“Xu Li?”

“Right, Dr. Li—a Taiwanese, I believe.”

Philips nodded appreciatively. Top private industry crypto folks—some previously with the Soviet government—but world-class experts nonetheless. Philips considered the chance to work with a truly international team. It was an unheard-of opportunity for someone who rarely got to leave Fort Meade. An NSA-lifer with umbra-level clearance. She almost wished it weren’t an evil plot.

“I’m surprised at the degree of government and private industry cooperation. It’s certainly a sign of how seriously this issue is being taken.”

Johnston laughed a booming laugh. “My gawd, Doctor, this Sobol fella’s got us over a barrel. That’s for sure. We’ve got a saying in South Texas: ‘Common enemies make for uncommon friends.’ ”

Philips sat back in the chair, thinking. “I’d like to discuss this with Deputy Director Fulbright.”

Johnston grimaced. “Well, Deputy Director Fulbright doesn’t report to me, Doctor, but we’ll request a conference call if it’ll put your mind at ease.”

“I’d like to make the call.”

Johnston appraised her for a moment then nodded. “I understand. You’re careful. I respect that more than you know—especially now. I’ll arrange with Fulbright’s office for them to expect your call, Doctor. And we’ll get you access to a secure line. Won’t be until tomorrow, I expect. I hope this won’t prevent you from commencing review of Weyburn’s code. Time is, as you say, of the essence.”

Philips considered this then nodded. “I see no problem with that.”

Johnston smiled and extended his hand. “Excellent, Dr. Philips. We’re glad to have your assistance. We’ll get you settled in your new quarters. I think you’ll like them very much, and I’ll have some Weyburn folks come by and collect you. Whatever you need, you just ask. Hell, don’t hold back. Give it to us straight. If we don’t already make it, we’ll buy it.”

Johnston and his colleagues stood, signaling the end of the meeting. Philips stood also, and Johnston once again grabbed her hand in a crushing handshake.

“Doctor, welcome aboard. We look forward to much success together.”

She nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

With that, they turned to meet their next appointment as they shunted Philips out a side door.

Chapter 29: // Scorched Earth

The Major stepped off the rear loading ramp of a C-130 transport plane and onto the tarmac of a deactivated U.S. Army airfield near the town of Rolla in northern Missouri. It was hot and humid. Three uniformed KMSI soldiers stood ready to greet him with sharp salutes—the center one stepping forward, extending his thick paw.

The Major knew him well—a towering, powerfully built South African, handpicked for this operation. They’d fought in more insurgency campaigns and covert wars in more countries than The Major cared to remember.

“Major. Everything is in order, sir.”

“Colonel Andriessen.” The Major shook his hand. To the uninitiated it no doubt seemed odd to hear a colonel giving deference to a major—but The Major’s nom de guerre was just that. He had long ago outstripped his last formal rank.

“Your undergarments are showing, sir.” He pointed.

The Major glanced back into the cargo hold at the closest of ten identical pallets covered in green canvas tarps. A corner clasp had broken during landing, revealing the bricks of twenty-dollar bills beneath, wrapped in cellophane. One hundred and eighty million dollars a pallet—one point eight billion dollars in all.

The Major nodded. “Get some forklifts out here.” He started them walking briskly toward a white Toyota Land Cruiser waiting nearby.

“Shall we cover it first, Major?”

“Don’t bother. It won’t be valuable for much longer.” He turned to the Colonel. “So get the payments out to the strike teams soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

A driver in KMSI BDUs was standing next to the Land Cruiser. He opened the rear door and saluted. “Welcome to Missouri, sir.”

The Major ignored him and got in, the Colonel right behind him.

As they drove across the airfield The Major could see three C-130 cargo aircraft parked near hangars, either loading or unloading equipment with forklifts. It was hard to tell the way logistics teams were milling about and pointing instead of actually doing something. Soldiers. Private or government issue, they were always bitching about something.

There were also scattered squads of heavily armed men in civilian clothes standing around near civilian vehicles. He’d much rather they stayed under cover, but it was tough to keep these guys in hangars on a hot summer day like this. It was probably over a hundred inside those metal buildings. With a seat-of-the-pants operation like this, best to let the mercs cool off.