“It’s my pleasure,” said Ian. “Had to do something to earn my passport, didn’t I?”
Ian gazed at the four men and two women facing him on the elevated dais. He knew each of them personally-in fact, far better than any of them realized. Both Senator Fisk and Senator Bowden were ONE Mobile customers. As a matter of course, he recorded their every conversation and catalogued all photographs and texts made from their phones.
He knew, for example, that Senator Fisk was carrying on an affair with a twenty-one-year-old male staffer (sexts, photos) and that Senator Bowden had refused to seek treatment for alcohol and prescription drug addiction. He’d recently been privy to a conversation between the senator and her husband in which she’d drunkenly informed him that enjoying two bottles of cabernet a night was her right and that the “American people could screw themselves” if they thought she was a drunk.
Ian had no plans to use any of the material…for the moment. He considered it money put aside for a rainy day. It paid to be a saver.
“Our agenda today is composed of four items,” said Fisk. “Obelisk, Lynchpin, Rosetta, and Prime. We’ll start with Obelisk.”
Ian smiled benignly. There was public Washington and private Washington. The first acted for the benefit of the media and the unknowing citizenry. The second did what it deemed necessary, critics be damned.
Public Washington chastised the intelligence community for its overzealous nature and the infringements it made on the individual’s right to privacy in the name of policing international terrorism and transnational crime. At the same time it accused corporate America (Ian and his counterparts at the country’s largest technology companies) of acquiescing to the intelligence community’s demands too quickly and too willingly.
All the while, private Washington contrived greater and more sophisticated means to continue collecting any and all intelligence that might serve to protect its citizens, and got down on its bruised and bleeding knees to beg the private sector’s cooperation.
“If I may,” said Ian, “I would like to once again refuse the government’s generous offer to repay us for services rendered. As a global citizen, ONE is happy to absorb all legal and compliance costs stemming from our in-house attorneys and support staff who oversee Obelisk.” It was his turn to pat his attorney’s arm. “Thank goodness they’re not as pricey as my private counsel seated with me today.”
Senator Fisk barked out a laugh and threw a hand on the table. He and Ian were two good ol’ boys who understood each other just fine. The only thing missing was a bottle of sourmash from his home state (though of course Ian didn’t drink).
“Obelisk,” said Senator Fisk. “Where do we stand?”
Obelisk, formerly known as Prism, was a program permitting the government access to ONE’s central servers, and those of every other major Internet provider. The government placed filters on all Internet traffic, both domestic and foreign, to search for keywords that might indicate pending acts of terrorism or individuals and/or organizations unfriendly to the cause-“the cause” being anything remotely related to the national security of the United States of America.
Once a keyword was spotted, the government presented ONE with a warrant requesting copies of all e-mails and/or other communications linked to the offending account holder, including but not limited to Skype, Internet queries, wireless communications, and so on. A single red flag often triggered an avalanche of private information.
“Which brings us to Lynchpin,” said Fisk.
Lynchpin involved ONE’s software division. Ian’s engineers inserted a back door into all software for overseas sales and export-word processing, spreadsheet, presentation, database-allowing any party with a “skeleton key,” or password, full and unfettered access.
A recent example of Lynchpin dealt with ONEWord, a word-processing program licensed to the German Ministry of Defense. Upon signature of the contract, Ian had dutifully informed the Pentagon of the transaction, and the Pentagon in turn had requested that Ian insert code into the software that automatically copied every document written and saved by the German military establishment and sent it to Washington.
In the past twelve months, this type of custom tailoring had been done on software sold to institutions in India, Pakistan, Poland, the Netherlands, Indonesia, Singapore, France, and Japan. Only Ian Prince held the password to all.
“Rosetta,” said Fisk.
Rosetta trafficked in a similar concept, but for hardware: ONE’s servers, routers, switches, laptops, tablets, and the like. Every device-no matter its intent or end user-was manufactured with a back door somewhere in its DNA. When it was sold to a customer designated “of interest” to the government, Ian shared how to exploit it.
“…which brings us to the last item on our agenda,” said Fisk. “Prime.”
Ian sat up straighter. The last two hours had been strictly warmup. This was the main event.
Fisk looked at his colleagues on the dais. “Is the subcommittee prepared to offer its recommendation regarding the purchase of ONE hardware and software for the new intranet being developed for the Central Intelligence Agency?”
Prime was the name of the top-secret communications network (an intranet) being developed for the CIA to enable the agency to bypass the open-format Internet. Coupled with the NSA’s use of Titan in Utah, Prime would give Ian access to the entirety of the United States’ intelligence networks.
Peter Briggs placed a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Wrap this up, boss. We have a problem.”
Ian raised a concerned finger. “One minute, Senator Fisk.”
“Of course, Mr. Prince.”
“What is it?” Ian whispered through a clenched smile. “Not Gordon May, I hope.”
“No,” said Briggs. “The woman.”
There was no need to ask which woman. These days there was only one. “What now?”
“She’s asking about Semaphore.”
“How’s that?”
“It is. That’s all that matters.”
Ian turned back toward the dais. “Please go on, Senator.”
He answered the remaining questions as succinctly as he knew how. It was the longest hour of his life.
39
Tank Potter checked the address painted on the curb and killed the engine. Without thinking, he reached beneath the seat for his backstop. An exposed coil stabbed his finger. “Ouch!”
Old habits died hard.
Chastened, Tank walked to the door. A steady hand rang the bell. Though he had the Grants’ number, he hadn’t called in advance. The first rule of journalism: never let them see you coming.
A pallid girl dressed in leggings and a T-shirt opened the door. “Hello.”
“Hello,” said Tank. “Is your mom around?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Tank Potter. I’m a reporter. You guys get the Statesman?”
“What’s that?”
“A newspaper. Ever seen one?”
“My mom reads the New York Times. Online. We subscribe to People.” The girl extended her hand. “My name’s Grace. Nice to meet you.”
Tank’s hand swallowed hers. “Nice to meet you.”
“You’re big.”
“My mom wanted to make sure nobody missed me.”
“It worked. My mom’s not here right now. She’s taking my sister to summer school. Did you come to ask about my dad?”
“I did. I’m sorry about what happened.”
“We can’t understand how someone so smart could let a bad guy get close enough to shoot him.”
“Did your mom say that?”
“No. I did. She’s still upset about losing Dad’s voicemail. She’s blaming my sister, but Jessie swears she was only unlocking the phone and didn’t erase it.”