Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Page 15

  Jessie looked around the room. Everyone was already hard at it, heads down, tapping away at their keyboards like mad. Garrett glanced up from under his brow and saw her looking at him. He raised his eyebrows and made a horrified face, as if this were the hardest problem in the world. Jessie looked away. She thought about the chunk of code she’d found on her mother’s phone. No one in the chat room had had any idea what it was or what it was supposed to do. They did say, however, that it wasn’t NITRON. Whatever it was, it was unique.

  After a minute Jessie turned her attention to the problem. She was good at rooting the box. She decided to give it a shot. What did she have to lose?

  —

  “Time’s up.”

  Linus Jankowski surveyed the room, chuckling to himself as if he knew no one had gotten it right. “Who’s got my answer?”

  Five students raised their hands, mostly the buttoned-up guys headed to Microsoft or Oracle. Linus called on them one at a time, displayed their answers on the whiteboard, and one at a time shot them down, sprinkling in comments like “Thanks, propeller-head, but no,” “Couldn’t be more wrong,” and “Seriously, that’s as good as you got?” When he’d finished tearing them apart, he took up position in the center of the classroom. “Anyone else?” he asked. “Don’t be shy. Abject humiliation and embarrassment await.”

  Jessie kept her head down, her hands covering her answer.

  “Garrett? Got something for me?”

  “I could only crack five of the six hashes.”

  “There are a dozen websites that could have gotten you the last one.”

  “Sorry, Linus, maybe next time.”

  Linus moved down the aisle. “Jessie? Anything? Anything at all?”

  Jessie winced at the sound of her name. She felt Linus’s eyes on her and shifted in her seat.

  “Nothing?” Linus prodded. “No one?” He chuckled some more, looking way too pleased with himself. “Okay, then.”

  “Umm,” said Jessie.

  “Miss Grant.”

  Jessie raised her head. All the other students were staring at her.

  “We’re waiting…”

  Jessie met their eyes, accepting the challenge from each, something inside her growing strong.

  “You’ve got our attention,” said Linus.

  “It’s easy.” Jessie flashed her answer onto the whiteboard and went to the front of the class to set forth her solution. “There,” she said when she’d finished. “Captured the flag.”

  Linus examined her work. “You’ve never seen this problem before, have you?” he whispered, his beard close enough to scratch her cheek.

  Jessie shook her head.

  “Swear?”

  “Swear.”

  “Okay, then. We’re done here.”

  Jessie returned to her seat, dejected. She’d been sure she had the right answer.

  Linus opened his satchel and took out a bottle of Heineken. He popped the cap with his teeth and guzzled the beer. He belched, then walked down the aisle and set the empty bottle on her desk. “Congratulations, Miss Grant. You nailed it.”

  The class broke into applause. Garrett hollered her name.

  Jessie kept her eyes straight ahead as her chest swelled with pride and her cheeks suddenly felt as hot as the sun.

  Linus leaned down and whispered, “I didn’t say the beer would be full.”

  38

  “I hereby declare this closed hearing of the Senate Subcommittee on Intelligence in session.”

  Ian took his seat at the witness table and adjusted his necktie. His attorney sat beside him and patted his arm as if Ian were the accused and needed reassurance. Ian figured the arm patting was included in the attorney’s $700-an-hour fee. Peter Briggs sat behind him, along with three of the attorney’s assistants. The assistants billed at $400 an hour. Maybe for that much, they’d hold Briggs’s hand.

  “We are here to conduct our semiannual review of our cooperative assistance program with ONE Technologies,” said Senator Bailey Fisk of Tennessee, subcommittee chairman. He was old and vigorous and unrepentant about the steel-wool toupee he’d worn for the past twenty years. “Representing ONE Technologies is Ian Prince, founder and chairman. For the record, may I express our profound thanks for your presence here today and our recognition of your long-standing cooperation with the United States government. Welcome, Mr. Prince.”

  “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 o
verseas 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.”

  “I see.” Tank smiled as if he knew what she was talking about. “Do you know when your mom will be—” The squeal of an automobile turning tightly into the driveway cut short his words. He turned to see a late-model Nissan come to a halt at the head of the walkway.

  “There’s Mommy,” said Grace.

  Tank waved shyly. He didn’t want to appear menacing, but there was only so much you could do when you were his size.

  A trim, attractive woman got out of the car and rushed up the walk. “Can I help you?”

  “Mrs. Grant? Tank Potter. I’m with the Statesman.”

  “It’s a newspaper,” said Grace.

  Mary Grant stopped a foot away, checking over his shoulder that her daughter was fine before fixing him with a decidedly unhelpful look. “Why wasn’t there anything new in the paper today about Joe?”

  “I came here to talk to you about that. First, may I offer my condolences?”

  “Thank you.” She pointed a finger at him. “Potter? You didn’t write the article yesterday.”

  “I was on another story.”

  Mary stepped around him to address her daughter. “Grace, go inside. Give me and Mr. Potter a minute.”

  “His name is Tank,” said Grace, rolling her eyes.

  “Shut the door, sweetheart,” said Mary.

  “Bye, Tank,” said Grace as she closed the door.

  “And so,” asked Mary, “what took you so long?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “To figure out the FBI is lying. That’s why you’re here, right?”

  Tank nodded tentatively. It was his job to assume the FBI was lying. He wondered what had convinced Mary Grant of the fact. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?” She stepped forward. “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Potter?”

  “I’m fine.” Tank cleared his throat and stood taller. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, his tongue dry as felt. “Can we talk inside?”

  “After I see your press credential.”

  Tank flashed his Statesman ID. Mary Grant clutched his hand to bring the pass closer. “Henry Thaddeus Potter.”

  “Are you a football fan?” he asked as she compared his face to the picture on the pass. “I played at UT.”

  “I went to Georgetown. We prefer basketball. Come in.”

  —

  “She’s got a visitor,” said the Mole.

  Shanks kicked his feet off the control console and sat up to study the monitor. “Big fella, ain’t he?”

  “What do you think?” asked the Mole. “Family? Friend?”

  “Friend. Doesn’t look like any of them, that’s for sure. You get a read on his license plate?”

  “Forget the license. We have his face.” The Mole duplicated the last sixty seconds of images transmitted from the hidden camera and replayed the loop on a second monitor. He and Shanks watched as the Jeep pulled to the curb and the tall, florid man climbed out of the car. For an instant the visitor stared directly at the hidden camera. “Gotcha.”

  The Mole froze the image and uploaded it to PittPatt. “All right, baby,” he said. “Go to work.”

  Short for Pittsburgh Pattern Recognition, PittPatt was an advanced facial recognition software program developed at Carnegie Mellon University to help hunt terrorists in the days following 9/11. ONE had purchased PittPatt a year earlier and tweaked the technology for a different purpose. It planned on licensing the technology to merchants of every stripe, who would use it to identify their customers and, based on past purchases and publicly available personal information—age, sex, zip code, credit history—send news of sales, discount coupons, or the like directly to their smartphones. The only terrorists it was interested in finding were those with a credit score of 700 and an American Express Gold Card.

&n
bsp; “Image captured,” said an officious female voice. “Mapping completed.”

  Shanks and the Mole waited as PittPatt conducted a search of every public database on the Net for images that matched the visitor. It searched Facebook and Instagram and Google Images. It searched Tumblr, YouTube, Match.com, Picasa, and a thousand more like them.

  It also searched private databases. These included the National Crime Information Center; the Department of Public Safety and its equivalent in all fifty states; the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System; and Interpol.

  Images filled the screen, six to a line, the lines rapidly scrolling down the page. The first picture to appear was of a football player running down the field.

  “Tank Potter,” said the Mole, reading the caption. “Never heard of him.”

  “He was almost famous.”

  “Let’s go deeper.” The Mole requested that PittPatt search for more detailed and personal information. The name Henry Thaddeus Potter led to property records showing him to be the owner of a home in Tarrytown and the former owner of homes on Blanchard Drive and Red River Street. Mention of a Potter family trust was found in a bankruptcy filing for a Mrs. Josephine Willis Potter which listed a sole son, Henry Thaddeus, and gave his date and place of birth.

  PittPatt did all this in .0005 second.

  “Still waiting on the jackpot,” said the Mole. “Got it!”

  Potter’s name coupled with his place and date of birth helped the program find batches of Social Security numbers issued in Houston on or around his birthday. Time and again an algorithm paired Potter’s name with a probable Social Security number. Though the algorithm had a tiny chance of success on each try, it continued to run through all possible numbers until it found a match, in this case a credit report that listed the last four digits of his Social Security number.

  The Mole read to the bottom of the list. In ten seconds he had learned more about Henry Thaddeus “Tank” Potter—impoverished heir to a once-great fortune, All-State football star, washed-up college athlete, divorced father of two children who lived with their mother in Arkansas, and journalist—than Mr. Potter’s closest friends ever would.