Breakpoint (6 page)

“The internet address of an elevator is 18.280.090.113?” Jimmy asked.

“Could be, or an air conditioner. Everything that is remotely monitored or serviced or controlled has an IP address. So the manufacturer can see how it's doing, diagnostics, fix it, whatever. This one is something that was probably made in China,” Sanders said, hitting away at the console.

“Why do you say that?” Susan asked.

“Purple. On this program, traffic originating in China is shown in purple. And let's see here, I will switch into MIT's network…I can do that because I am faculty…so 090 was in fact the SCADA system and 113 was…a Siemens pump and a Westinghouse valve connected to the Boston Gas line…Oh, my God!” Sanders cried.

“Can you run a trace route, Dr. Sanders?” Susan asked.

“Ah yes. I can reverse the path that one of the packets took last Friday, check the Border Gateway Protocal updates…”

The world below them pulled back from the close-up on CAIN, showing what had happened five days earlier. The purple line ran from the MIT router to the Horizon Communications router in downtown Boston, across the United States paralleling Interstate 90, jumping through repeaters, to the Horizon Communications router in Seattle. Susan grabbed on to the railing, her head swimming at the speed of the changing landscapes below her. From Horizon Seattle, the packets ran across town to the PacWest Sytho router in a windowless telecoms hotel, out to the PacWest fiber beachhead repeater on the Washington coast that would later blow up, then under the Pacific, up onto a beach in Japan, through an internet peering point building in downtown Tokyo, through a Sprucenet router to a Chinatel owned router, back out underwater to China, up again to a beachhead, then through a Sytho router to Dilan city, to an internet peering point building, and on to the Dilan University system, and finally to an address on the university campus.

“We're gonna need to take that information with us, Dr. Sanders,” Jimmy said as he pulled out his PDA. “It's evidence, and I'll need to establish chain of custody.”

1600 EST
Twin Oaks Estate, Woodley Park
Washington, D.C.

“Ambassador Rubenstein, it is an honor to welcome you to the Residence,” Lee Wang enthused. “I don't believe you have been to this historic house before.”

“Thank you, Ambassador Wang for receiving me in your home on such short notice.” Sol Rubenstein gave his overcoat to the waiting butler. “And you're right, I haven't been here before. I had no idea there was a property with this much land in Woodley Park.”

“Over seventeen acres, originally owned by a general in your revolutionary war, General Uriah Forrest. My children have a lot of fun with that name. They say, ‘No, you are a forest.'” Wang led his guest out of the foyer. “The Republic of China's ambassador has lived here since 1937. Please come into the drawing room.”

Seated in the large and bright yellow-walled room, Sol Rubenstein began somewhat sheepishly: “Mr. Ambassador, as you know, under the terms of the Taiwan Relations Act, we recognize you as the head of the Taipei Economic and Cultural Representative Office in the United States and not as ambassador of Taiwan. I am compelled to say this so that my friends at the State Department will not get mad at me.”

“I understand. And yet you address me as Ambassador Wang?”

“I believe you were ambassador to Costa Rica, which recognized the Republic of China at the time. So I believe, sir, you are due that title on a personal basis,” Sol suggested.

“Very good. And you were formerly ambassador to Turkey and Thailand, so that is why I call you Ambassador Rubenstein. Once one, always one.” The butler reappeared with a tea service. “Please, would you like green tea or black?”

“Black. If I may, sir, dispense with the formalities, since I have never been very diplomatic. Most Americans aren't, as I'm sure you've noticed. We are, as you will have noticed in the media, in a tender period with Beijing and we cannot afford any mistakes right now.” Rubenstein raised the fine china tea cup.

“I understand. We do not want to be a problem,” Wang said emphatically.

“And we appreciate that very much,” Rubenstein said, sitting back in the chair. “Now, what I really came here for: I know your government has very good sources in Beijing and in the PLA. I don't. And right now my President needs to know what is going on in their heads, without any spin. I would hope we could count on you for that.”

Ambassador Wang seemed genuinely pleased. “Of course, Sol, of course. I will see what we can do. And you have my word it will be without spin, as you call it. ‘No political influence in intelligence reporting.' Isn't that what you promised the Senate in your confirmation hearings?”

“You are a careful follower of what's going on in Washington, Lee.” Rubenstein snickered.

“Before you go, I, too, have to say some formulaic diplomatic niceties. Please forgive me.” Ambassador Wang picked up a piece of paper to read from it. “‘It is the policy of the United States to make clear that the United States' decision to establish diplomatic relations with the People's Republic of China rests upon the expectation that the future of Taiwan will be determined by peaceful means; to consider any effort to determine the future of Taiwan by other than peaceful means, including by boycotts or embargoes, is a threat to the peace and security of the Western Pacific area and of grave concern to the United States; to provide Taiwan with arms of a defensive character; and…'”

Sol Rubenstein leaned forward and waved his hand toward his host. “May I? ‘And to maintain the capacity of the United States to resist any resort to force…that would jeopardize the security…of the people on Taiwan.' I am familiar with the Taiwan Relations Act. As a very young foreign service officer, I worked on the drafting group that agreed on the wording of our law.”

“I know, but I am required to remind our guests here at Twin Oaks,” Wang said, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket. “May I see you to your car, Sol?”

Back in the foyer, Wang opened a large, red-leather-covered volume on a side stand. “Will you be so kind as to sign our guest book?”

Rubenstein shot forth his hand to shake good-bye. “I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Ambassador. Since we do not formally recognize the Republic of China or your embassy, I was never here.”

2250 EST
Off Brattle Square, Cambridge, Massachusetts

“Can I get you another?” the bartender at Red House asked.

“Not yet,” Susan answered, and looked at her watch. Almost eleven. It had been a long day and she wanted nothing more than to walk down the alley and across the Square to her hotel room in the Charles. Rusty had been ecstatic with the results of their investigation so far. The indication that somebody in China had caused the gas leak in Cambridge had startled her, but Rusty seemed to accept right away that such an attack could occur.

Rusty had presented Jimmy's theory about the six earlier events at other research labs at the interagency wrap-up meeting that day. FBI and NSA were tasked to investigate whether there had been an unnoticed sabotage campaign by China against American high-tech facilities. We don't even get to follow up our own leads, Susan thought, sipping the chardonnay and staring across the room into the roaring fire. By the end of the week, the FBI would prove that China was behind the attacks that the FBI had not even noticed, and the President would have to act. Lovely.

“Did they tell you the foundation of this house dates back to the 1630s?”

Susan frowned at the barkeep.

He tried again. “You know that Dutton vineyard you have there is the best of Dumol's chardonnay, at least for me,” the bartender offered. “But then, I like my chardonnays a little malolactic.”

“What's that mean?” Susan asked.

“Buttery tasting. You ask me, Dumol is as good as Kistler, but about half the price.”

“Dumol and Kistler, are they from France?” Susan asked, really noticing the young bartender for the first time. He was thin, long haired, with thick glasses. Susan guessed he was a graduate student in literature or art.

“The part of France west of Napa. They're Californian. Sonoma Coast, Russian River.” He laughed. “Not big into wines, I see.”

“No. When I was a student here, I drank beer—Sam Adams mainly. Now that I've been working the last few years, I don't drink much anymore.” Susan smiled at the bartender and thought of one other alcoholic drink she had started drinking, “Except I was forced to acquire a taste for single-malt Scotch, the Balvenie,” Susan admitted.

“Forced? Pushy boyfriend?” the bartender suggested.

“No.” Susan laughed. “My boss. It's kind of a rite of passage with him.”

“Hope you don't mind me talkin',” he said. “Looks like you're getting stood up or something, although why anyone want to stand up such a—”

“Thanks.” She cut him off. “Yes, looks like I'm stood up. The guy was supposed to be here at ten and it's past ten thirty. So maybe I will take just a little taste of the Balvenie and go. By the way, my name is Susan,” she said extending her hand across the bar, “and I don't mind you talking at all. And I learned about a decent chardonnay.”

“Kistler is the best,” the bartender said, shaking her hand. “And they call me Soxster.”

“You son of a bitch!” Susan shot back. “What were you doing, checking me out before you'd introduce yourself? You bastard!” She quickly gathered up her coat and bag to leave.

“Hang on, please don't go,” Soxster said, backing away. “You're like a cop or something. 'Course I wanted to check out what was goin' on first.”

“I'm wasting my time. Maybe Margaret was wrong about you,” Susan said, moving toward the door.

“No, really. I'm sorry. Listen, let's just go up to one of the dining rooms upstairs. Here, we can bring the Balvenie,” he said, grabbing a bottle off the rack. “I'll tell you what Margaret wants me to explain.” He headed up to the second floor. Susan thought following this weird guy upstairs was not something she should do, but Red House was still filled with late diners and Megs was usually right about people. Besides, she thought, I did take all of that self-protection training; I could probably throw this guy right out a window if I had to.

They climbed up the rickety, narrow stair to the second floor. In one of the three small dining rooms graduate students were still drinking their professor's wine and arguing with him about Kant. The fireplace still burned in the next dining room, although all that was left of the dinners was their debris. Soxster pulled two chairs up near the fire.

“I just have to be careful, you know. There are all sorts of weirdos and spies and shit. Not that I don't trust Megs, and she did say I could trust you and all, but gotta be careful. She said you were with a government research thing. Sounded spooky.”

Susan calmed down and had to laugh at Soxster's attempt at security. “Fine, whatever. I work at the Analysis Center in Washington. We do research into things that the government needs to know about, threats mainly. I wanted some help. We're working on the internet attacks and wondering about the CAIN explosion, too. Margaret somehow thought that you would know something that—”

“Yeah, man, the internet attacks. Surprised me, too. Kinetic kills. I thought it was going to be cyber,” Soxster said nervously as he poured two shots of the Scotch.

“So you expected attacks on the beachhead routers and switches?” Susan asked, taking the glass.

“Expected something. Not that. The way they've been hiring black hats and gray hats the last year or so, something was up.” He sipped the whiskey and rasped, “Coulda made me some real money, but I don't break the law and I like to know who I'm working for, you know?”

“Somebody's been hiring hackers?”

“Yeah. Half a million bucks a year and more, plus five-star room and board somewheres nice. Problem is you don't know where,” Soxster said, parting the curtain and looking out on the cold night.

“How did you hear about this?” Susan pressed.

“IRC, hacker chat rooms, e-mails. At first just rumors from some of my more interesting contacts and friends. Then some other folks and I started to be approached over SILC, IRC, some closely guarded private mailing lists. You know, encrypted e-mails through anonymous relays. They seemed to know all the usual suspects, everybody that can get in places, slice and dice code.”

“You know anyone who joined up?” Susan asked.

“Hell yeah, one guy used to hang with us, but we didn't trust him. He was breaking the law. Haven't heard from him or seen any of those guys on the Net for months. It's getting a little lonely out there,” Soxster said, and laughed.

“Think you could help us find some of the hackers who've been hired?” Susan asked.

“Yeah. We could try, but what was it you said a little while ago about CAIN? Megs just mentioned you were working on the truck bombs, the beachheads. Sign me up if I can help you on CAIN—that was such a disaster. I'd love to get the guys did that.”

“Why? Was CAIN so much more of a loss than the beachheads?”