“It’s because everyone knew you were coming,” said Al Lara, standing as he extended his hand. “Al Lara.”
“Elfi Korhonen.”
“Have a seat, Elfi. We can squeeze you in.”
She hesitated, then, “Okay,” said Yulana/Elfi, sitting next to the female scientist.
As she sat down, Kit “accidentally” bumped into Lara, pretending to have been pushed by someone in the standing-room-only crowd.
“Excuse me. There are a few drunks in here, I think,” said Kit, having filched Lara’s BlackBerry during the physical contact.
“There are a few at this table,” joked Al.
Al sat back down so that Yulana was the meat in a sandwich. Kit remained standing. “I just flew in from D.C., and I hate flying. I need to relax and have a few drinks,” said Yulana. “That’s my cousin, Peter. He lives here.”
Yulana had indicated Kit, and he gave a wave and a nod to everyone.
“Sorry we don’t have a chair for you.”
“No problem. I’ve been sitting all day,” said Kit as he surreptitiously pushed the button in the handle of his briefcase. Electronics inside the case enabled him to “image” any magnetic keycards and magnetic strips used on many security badges. While he did this, Yulana/Elfi introduced herself to the others at the table.
“What were you doing in Washington?” asked Al. Al Lara was Kit’s main target. Divorced, forty-five, and always on the make, he was the head of Sandia’s nonlethal weapons R&D directorate. Kit learned years ago that Al was sloppy with security and often took his Sandia-issued laptop home with him.
“I’m posted to the Pentagon. I was born in Finland, but I’m a U.S. Army first lieutenant. I joined as a pathway to get my citizenship.”
Everyone congratulated her, but only Al touched her arm as he did so.
“So what do you do at the Pentagon?” asked Al, slurring his words slightly.
“I could tell you, but then I would have to kill… myself!”
Everyone laughed.
“To be honest, my job is boring.”
“Let’s see some ID,” said Al. He said it lightly, but even though he was drunk, a part of him was still being careful.
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” said Yulana, reaching into her purse.
“Promise?” Al practically shouted.
The female scientist shook her head in amused embarrassment.
Yulana/Elfi fished out some identification and handed Al an army ID that had just arrived an hour earlier in the black Pelican case.
“Damn, she really is a grunt. A ground pounder. A grunting pounder—”
“Al!” admonished one of the male scientists.
“I want to talk about cars!” Yulana/Elfi laughed. “I don’t have one yet.”
“Cars?” asked the female scientist.
“I love cars! Peter has a white SUV, but that’s boring, I think. What kind of cars do you guys have? And what color?”
“White Toyota.”
“Silver Honda.”
“Since you’re Swedish, I have to say Vulva,” joked Al.
“That’s Volvo, Al, and she’s Finnish.”
“Then I’d like to start her engine and cross the finish line,” cracked Al.
“Stop joking! What kind of car?” asked Yulana/Elfi.
“Black Beaver,” said Al, looking at Yulana’s hair.
“He means black Beamer—a BMW, and I have a boring white SUV,” said the female scientist, a bit exasperated with Al’s behavior.
Yulana pointed out the window at a passing car. “What is that one?”
As they all looked out the window, Kit swiftly dropped a tiny tablet into Al’s drink. The scientist would sleep soundly tonight, unable to answer any late-night phone calls from Sandia’s security team if they should happen to call his home landline.
“Excuse me,” interrupted Kit. “Elfi, I’m just going to put my briefcase in the car. I’ll be back.” Kit left through the rear door.
He found all four vehicles in the parking lot and casually pointed his briefcase at them as he passed, constantly pushing the button recessed into the handle. And he stealthily took photos of the Sandia decals on a certain black BMW.
Kit unlocked the rented Pathfinder and sat behind the wheel. Seven minutes later, Yulana strode out of the front door and a group of guys yelled catcalls as she breezed past.
“I told them I was going to the toilet,” she said, getting into the SUV.
“And Al didn’t try to follow you?” Kit joked.
“He tried.”
“I don’t blame him.” Kit held her gaze. “You did great, by the way.”
Yulana smiled at him. For the first time. And for the first time, he smiled at her.
As Yulana kept her smile going, she thought, This man Bennings, he will save my daughter.
The technology to remotely capture all of the information on a target computer’s hard drive has been around for a long time. That’s why the infamous NSA whistleblower Edward Snowden didn’t have to personally hand over digital secrets to the Chinese or Russians after he fled America. Those foreign intelligence agencies simply had to use equipment to “image” his laptops from a distance; he was possibly completely unaware they were taking the information—every last 0 and 1—from his computers.
Bennings had “imaged” the contents of Al Lara’s Sandia laptop even though it was locked in his car, a car primarily made of plastic, not a medium that defeats electromagnetic function.
And while Kit Bennings wasn’t in Jen Huffman’s league, he still knew how to do a few things digitally. As he sat at the kitchen table of the vacation rental near Kirtland Air Force Base, he hacked away. Within an hour, Kit had sent “URGENT” messages using Al Lara’s e-mail box to the security post at Sandia and to a small detachment of the 898th Munitions Squadron of the Air Force Materiel Command, directing them to take certain actions concerning a Model RT-Seven EMP bomb, serial number 55327VL, that was securely stored at Sandia Labs.
E-mails from a honcho such as Al Lara tended not to be ignored, but security would confirm it with a phone call, which is why Kit had pickpocketed Lara’s BlackBerry. He expected a call to come anytime now.
To better sell the ruse, Kit had attached a fake but very authentic-looking e-mail from the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology asking Al Lara to grant all cooperation to its two scientists as part of a snap inspection of the bomb in the clean room of Building 27A.
Al’s e-mails to security and to the 898th apologized for having overlooked the CIA request and not scheduling it sooner.
With the e-mails sent, Kit reconsidered the plan. What the hell—it just might work. Since the directed-energy and EMP weapons at Sandia were now held in an underground bunker with the kind of state-of-the-art overkill security systems that truly kept the bad guys out, Bennings had decided to make the theft a little simpler and have the military deliver the e-bomb right to him. Sometimes audacious is the best way to go.
As he sat at the kitchen table trying to remember what he’d forgotten to do, Al Lara’s BlackBerry rang. Yulana silently watched as Kit quickly stuffed into his cheeks the cotton balls he’d earlier laid out on the table. He turned the volume up high on a digital music player, and with a gruff slur answered the phone. “Lara.”
“Sir, this is Lieutenant Saputo at—”
“You got my e-mail?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m calling. Sir, this is highly—”
“Complain to the CIA. Just make it happen.” Kit terminated the call. That should do it.
The irony, of course, was that Sandia National Labs, which was owned by Lockheed Martin and managed by them for the U.S. Department of Energy, had made running Red Teams something of a specialty for themselves, training other agencies or companies in how to do it right. And they maintained their own ongoing Red Team, constantly probing their own vulnerabilities. But politics, as it always does, trumps everything, even security. The egos and tempers of those at the top, upper management pukes who expect rules to be bent at their whims—people who can make or break the careers of those lower on the food chain—often had the effect of cowing subordinates into violating procedures, even inviolate ones.