Rogue Element (12 page)

‘Careful,’ said Suryei softly, and too late. It was impossible to see it in the darkness, but the bush Suryei was suggesting they sleep under seemed to be nature’s answer to razor wire. It was tough and vine-like, with plenty of thick foliage, and lethal two-centimetre spikes protruding in every direction. The vine also bore some kind of bulb or fruit, and the spikes were obviously employed to protect it.

‘I am not a bloody swami, Suryei. This is a bloody pincushion.’ Joe stretched his hand into the dark again, more carefully this time. He isolated one of the barbs. It was a weapon, the kind of flora you gave a wide berth, not snuggled into. He’d been hoping for a pile of soft leaves at best, or maybe a fork in a tree at worst.

‘We need protection and this bush will provide it. Have you seen those little fish that swim between sea urchin spines?’ she asked condescendingly. ‘Well, think like a little fish.’

He wondered how the hell they were going to get on the other side of those barbs without being skewered.

‘Give me your shirt,’ said Suryei. Joe was too tired to say anything smart about her request. He just did as he was asked. He could dimly see her wrap it around her hands, grab a section of the vine and lift it up. ‘Come on,’ she said impatiently. Joe wriggled under the mass of vine Suryei was hoisting. Once inside, he had to agree it made sense. No light whatsoever made it into the centre of the bush, and as there was no fruit on the inside, there wasn’t a requirement to protect anything, which meant fewer thorns.

Once inside, Joe put his shirt back on and curled up on
the leaf litter. It was dry and soft and there weren’t too many mosquitoes. All in all, a good idea. He vaguely heard Suryei say, ‘You’ve got an hour, then it’s my turn,’ through the plunge into merciful sleep.

Jesus, ten past eight. It was too early for serious brain-work, especially given the late finish the previous evening. Indeed, it felt like he’d never even left the joint at all. Bob Gioco’s mind didn’t function until he’d had at least two double espressos. The real stuff, full strength and black as sump oil. He had them both poured into the one Styrofoam cup. He sipped the hot, bitter liquid and felt it going to work on his synapses. This group was something special, and worth missing a couple of hours of sleep for.

The expertise gathered in the lecture theatre represented a whole new ball game for the NSA. It was part of ELINT, the division once concerned only with the interception and analysis of radar signals and missile telemetry, largely from the Soviet Union. After the dissolution of the Eastern Bloc, there was a proliferation of nuclear materials and other weapons of mass destruction, and of their delivery systems. And now there was an insidious new threat to world peace: computer terrorism. It was now entirely possible to bring a country to its knees, and cause widespread death and mayhem, simply by tampering with the appropriate computer network. ELINT’s new role was to
provide early warning and counter-intelligence to prevent these dangerous new threats from ever coming to pass.

Gioco stifled a yawn while he settled into his chair and smoothed a hand across hair still wet from the shower, but an aberrant lock refused to obey the pressure and sprang up annoyingly.

Like all organisations, especially US government ones, the NSA had a passion for acronyms. The one for this gathering was COMPSTOMP: Computer Security, Tasking, Observation and Manipulation Protection. It was a fancy title for the NSA’s new anti-cyberterrorist node. The group had its problems – too much intelligence dedicated to information anarchy in the one place, Bob often thought.

A young mathematician, indeed the one giving this morning’s briefing, was the creator of COMPSTOMP, and a vindication of the NSA’s policy of poaching the finest math brains in the country. She had followed a hunch that hackers left individual and distinctive signatures – fingerprints – when they entered systems. She thought it doubtful that hackers would crack computer systems with a one-day pad mentality, never using the same logic process twice. It was more likely they would find a key that worked for them, then use it over and over because, she assumed, even people with above-average intelligence were lazy. If her theory checked out, then those fingerprints could be identified, catalogued and tracked. As it happened, she was right. Hackers used consistent processes, rarely changing them, and no two processes were the same.

The NSA supported the theory with a budget, and COMPSTOMP winked into existence. Within six months it had quite a comprehensive database containing over 4000 fingerprints. Each rap sheet detailed a hacker’s misdeeds,
call sign, off-line name, address, employment records, all of which were continuously being updated and checked. It was a massive job, but it was paying dividends.

The overwhelming success of COMPSTOMP made the theory’s author, the twenty-one year old woman sitting on the floor amongst her comrades, a hero within the NSA. But COMPSTOMP was super secret, so her fame was limited. Hackers weren’t stupid. If they knew Big Brother was watching their every move, they would start employing their own counter-measures, such as altering their signatures, and the group’s effectiveness would be drastically impaired.

As was normal practice with the NSA, COMPSTOMP had new detection software developed in-house to employ in the fight to keep information secure. The most successful of these was called Watchdog. Watchdog alerted COMPSTOMP of a computer break-in in progress. COMPSTOMP would then check the hacker’s signature and determine his or her identity against the register. If the system was part of the nation’s defence, or essential to its national security, the hacker would be tracked and arrested. If he or she was extremely good and managed to break through the internal firewalls that protected the core of these systems from outside interference, an ultimatum would be given – join the US government willingly or become a reluctant guest of it in a small, dark cell.

So far, no one had taken the latter option and COMPSTOMP was largely made up of people who had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Oddly, there seemed to be little resentment about being spirited out of their old life and given a new one. The pay was extremely good and the work immensely satisfying, not least because of the enormous resources at the NSA’s disposal. COMPSTOMP was even
encouraged to set up a dummy company, Fido Security, and lease the Watchdog database technology to other countries and large corporations. The income stream from this activity was now very healthy, which pleased the oversight committees on Capitol Hill no end. And, more importantly, it allowed the NSA to spread its information-gathering capabilities into unwitting rich new areas previously denied it.

Watchdogs were now patrolling the systems of companies as diverse as General Motors, IBM, Starbucks and Virgin. Quite a few countries had signed up – the Netherlands, Argentina, Indonesia and others. Not all these clients took the same level of protection. Watchdog could operate merely as an alarm system or a complete ‘back-to-base’ tracking system, although this latter option was extremely expensive because it made the NSA a de facto full-time employee. Of course, none of these customers had the slightest notion that, through Fido, the NSA was patrolling their hard-drives. Fido Security presented itself as a stand-alone high-end service company staffed by the best and brightest, one of the few Internet start-ups to survive the burst e-bubble because it had something unique and worthy to offer: total security.

Mostly the COMPSTOMP/Fido group discussed interesting ways to attack and defend systems, and the effects of any new technology coming on line. Gioco found these discussions exhilarating. Much of the talk was pure speculation but the air seemed to crackle when they were onto something new. Often, the consequences of their brainstorming brought real benefits to the NSA and its ability to meet its charter. They also discussed the fingerprints of the newcomers to cyberterrorism, most of whom had aggressive or obscure call signs like Howitzer and
Pukeboy.

Today’s COMPSTOMP gathering, though, was low key. The world’s computers were enjoying a period of relative safety and security. There’d been a bit of a discussion about whether information should be contained by fire-walls or set free to benefit mankind. Bob had heard it all before. There were good reasons to keep information free but, in his view, better reasons against it.

‘In conclusion, then, over the last week all we’ve had is a bit of activity from one “Cee Squared”,’ said the brilliant young mathematician sitting in the lotus position on the carpeted floor. ‘The system notified the client of the penetration – they have the full package – and action, if any, was theirs to take or not. It was a low-grade intrusion, a small server off the main system and hardly worth worrying about. Cee Squared hasn’t been active for a long time. Thought he’d given the game away.

‘Anyway, the details have gone to the South-East Asia section head – that’s you, isn’t it, Bob?’ Bob held his finger up and gave a casual salute from the darkness at the back of the theatre. ‘And that’s it, really,’ she said, snapping the folder closed.

The group broke up and the room cleared quickly, leaving Gioco alone with his thoughts. There was something troubling him, but he couldn’t nail it.

General Suluang found himself exercising considerably more care. He was just being prudent. Listening devices
guaranteed there were not many places, if any, that one’s conversation could be kept confidential. The places he listed as unsecured now included his home, his office, his car. Indeed, thinking about it, the general wondered whether he could speak with anyone anywhere and be assured of keeping the exchange private.

Suluang speculated whether his caution was an indication that he was losing control of the situation, but he dismissed the thought instantly. The feeling of disquiet, however, once imbedded, was difficult to shake.

Lanti Rajasa, the head of the security police, was in the driver’s seat of the battered old teal-coloured Toyota Kijang, one of many that rattled slowly up into the hills behind Jakarta. Motorcycles overtook them in a steady stream, blowing oily smoke that swirled in their headlights. The Kijang passed a poor village quietly announcing its existence to the world with a small soft-drinks stand and a pathetic stall that sold carved junk to tourists.

The location of the meeting place was Rajasa’s choice but the general agreed to it. They drove in silence. The vehicle was unsafe. Rajasa had ordered it ‘cleansed’ beforehand and no bug had been found, but neither man was confident that Indonesia possessed technology equal to identifying the latest in listening devices.

Rajasa glanced regularly at the mirrors for following lights but this was Java, the most densely populated island on earth, and there would always be lights bobbing in the rear-vision mirrors.

The Toyota slowed and pulled off the crudely sealed road into a clearing past the small village. Both men got out and walked to the road, where they joined a steady stream of locals going about their business in the early hours of
the evening. It was dark but for the constant glare from the lights of passing traffic and, with their heads lowered, it would be impossible for the casual passer-by to identify them, even though the general had one of the most recognised faces in Jakarta. ‘A seat number on the aircraft was identified as the location of the thief. It was in our power to kill the occupant and neutralise the threat. I don’t believe I had a choice,’ Suluang said, shaking his head slowly.

‘General, you did what was needed to protect Indonesia. We’re just lucky the means to maintain secrecy was in your power,’ said Rajasa.

Yes, but for how long? both men thought.

‘You’ve located the wreckage?’ Rajasa asked.

‘Yes, and the mopping up has begun. Any leaks from your end?’

‘No. Security has been tight. But for this one –’ he cleared his throat for dramatic effect ‘ – incident.’ Rajasa couldn’t help himself. ‘Incident’ was a hell of a euphemism for the shooting down of a jumbo jet. ‘How are you handling it with the government?’

‘The parliament knows only what we tell them, and that’s not very much. In fact, they’re unwitting accomplices, spreading disinformation. They’re telling the Australians that the 747 may or may not have come down in Indonesian airspace. Of course, the reasons for the crash are unknown. And we, Indonesia, are very sensitive about having foreigners telling us what to do. Etcetera, etcetera. You know, the usual line.

‘It has been easy to manipulate the search procedure to exclude all but hand-picked military personnel – our people. I think, actually, that the parliament is enjoying the game. Causing Australia anxiety and frustration is giving
them a secret pleasure, but they’d never admit it.’

A trike pulled off the road in front of them and three people jumped off to help right another trike that had broken an axle under a heavy load of chopped wood. The general waited until they’d walked past the noisy melee before continuing. ‘All games aside, Rajasa, as I see it, we have two alternatives. But only one real choice.’

Rajasa nodded.

‘One: we can clean up the site as best we can, then announce the aircraft has been located. The government can then graciously allow in an international investigation team. We hold our breath and maintain our original timetable.

‘Two: we can move our plans forward and let the incident with the plane be seen in the context of the broader picture.’

‘I see what you mean about only having one choice.’

‘I knew you’d agree.’

General Suluang considered whether or not he should let Rajasa in on the fact that things were not going to plan at the crash site. Unfortunately, he was not exactly sure what the problem was. The Kopassus sergeant had communicated that the site was not secured but gave no other details in order to maintain mission secrecy. He was in the dark himself now, and that, given his exposure, was not a comfortable place to be. A particularly noisy two-stroke bike rattled past, piston slapping in its barrel, carrying mother, father, two young children and a baby. Suluang decided at that moment that there was already too much uncertainty and he would not pass on vagaries. Uncertainty bred nervousness.

Rajasa’s mind was racing. If they weren’t bold, everything would be lost. Obviously, the events of the last twenty-four hours had forced them to play their hand.
They had to move, and fast.

‘I assume the 747 was shot down with some kind of missile.’

‘Heat-seekers.’

‘They leave distinctive results.’

The general frowned.

‘General, you did the right thing. The terrorist could easily have emailed the details around the world.’

That had occurred to the general too, and it had worried him considerably.

‘But I don’t think that happened,’ continued Rajasa. ‘We’d have all kinds of other pressures on us now if that were the case. We’re not ready yet though, are we?’

‘No, we need more time.’

‘How much?’

‘A month would be good, but three weeks minimum.’

‘Can we hold out that long?’

‘We’ll have to.’

‘What do you suggest, General?’

‘Continue to say that we’re searching thoroughly and that nothing has turned up. Aircraft from the Second World War are still being discovered after more than fifty years. It’s not beyond belief that finding a 747 in such a remote place as Sulawesi could prove difficult.’

‘How loyal are our troops at the scene?’

The general knew that the lives of his men would depend on his next words. ‘I can speak for Sergeant Marturak, but of the rest, I can’t be certain.’ After a moment’s pause, he continued. ‘As for the pilot who fired the missiles . . .’ He shrugged. The unfinished sentence, together with the questioning tilt of the general’s head, was a death sentence.

The police chief pulled a pad from his top pocket and made a notation on it. Suluang found Rajasa’s attention to detail reassuring. ‘We’ll need to keep security as tight as possible. I believe a certain Bali air traffic controller is no longer with us.’

‘We had to act fast,’ said the general.

‘I agree. Have you heard from your men at the crash site yet?’

Here it was, the question Suluang had been dreading. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘But they are due to report soon,’ he said after checking his watch. ‘I take your point about continuing the disinformation,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘But we can’t control the knowledge of the crash site for too much longer.’

‘Because?’

‘Sulawesi is rugged and largely uninhabited, but it’s not the moon. There are mining interests on the island – logging, tourists. But the main reason is spy satellites.’

‘Australia doesn’t have them.’

‘No, but its allies do and they’ll find the wreckage of a burning 747 in an instant. In the short term, though, we have a window,’ said the general, thinking aloud. ‘It is up to us to make the best use of that. But we’ll have to be careful, and stay on our toes. Events are going to be difficult to control when the truth is known.’

‘We should meet with our comrades,’ said Rajasa, his tone resolute.

‘Yes,’ said the general. ‘But if time allows, I would prefer to defer any debriefing until I have a report from the site. What about Mao? Is he committed?’

‘I believe so.’

‘That’s not the emphatic answer I was hoping for.’

‘General, you know Kukuh Masri better than me. He is always considered, rarely excited or excitable. I’m as sure as I can be that he is with us one hundred percent.’

‘Okay, Lanti, but do me a favour and keep an eye on him.’

‘His driver is one of my people.’

The general patted him on the shoulder. ‘As always, you’re ahead of me in many things.’

‘Doing my job, General.’ Lanti felt energised. His fingers tingled. They were poised on the very knife-edge of history. ‘So we go?’

‘Yes, old friend. There is now no turning back.’

‘God is great!’ said Suluang

‘Allah Akbar!’ agreed Rajasa.

The two men paused at a satay stall and bought some sticks from a young man fanning the coals with a scrap of cardboard. They turned and began the walk back to the car, both, for a time, lost in the minutiae of their own plans. A woman drifting by on a Yamaha scooter wearing Western clothes caught the general’s eye. She smiled at him, reminding him of Elizabeth, his mistress. There was something about her hair, or the dress she wore. He glanced at his Rolex. Plenty of time to make their rendezvous at the Hyatt. The other night she opened the door for him wearing something short and tight and vaguely transparent. Perhaps tonight she would greet him wearing nothing at all . . .