Zero Day: A Novel Read online

  Most of the Arab men were wearing a thoub, the familiar flowing robes of the desert, with the red-and-white-checkered shumagg banded with a black ogal. Perhaps a third of them wore a formal, dark-colored, gold-edged bisht, a sort of cloak, over a dazzling white thoub. The few non-Western women were, he gathered, from India and Asia. He wondered which of the Arabs were in business.

  Shortly after eight o’clock Carlton was approached by a middle-aged Saudi of average height, with startling fair skin and jet-black hair. He’d noticed the man earlier, as he was perhaps the most elegantly dressed of the Arabs and moved with an almost catlike grace.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I make it a practice to meet everyone I do not know at these affairs. I am Fajer al Dawar.” Carlton took his hand and gave him his name, briefly mentioned his cover story. “Computers? You don’t look like a computer type to me.”

  Carlton smiled. “I’m management. I don’t know that much about them in detail. And what do you do?”

  “I’m president of the Franco-Arab Chemical Company.”

  The men visited for perhaps five minutes before Fajer moved on. Part of Carlton stirred. He felt instinctively that this was the sort of man he’d hoped to meet, someone in a position to make all his dreams come true. Carlton wanted desperately to talk to him longer, but there was no way to manage it in such a setting and Fajer certainly hadn’t seemed interested. So later that night, after Carlton had gone to his room at the hotel, he was surprised to see an envelope slipped under his door. Opening it he read:

  Mr. Carlton,

  Please join me tomorrow evening for a private dinner at my home. I will send my driver for you at eight. Tell no one.

  FAD

  Carlton was stunned. It was as if the man had read his mind. He breathed a sigh of satisfaction. His first impression had been correct. He considered going to the business room and searching the Internet for Fajer’s name and that of his company, but decided better. Saudi Arabia was a virtual police state, and he couldn’t expect that even a harmless Internet search would go undetected. Better not to take the risk.

  The next day he could scarcely keep his focus on the tour. More than once Houser commented on how distant Carlton seemed. They were taken to the Masmak Fortress, the citadel in Old Riyadh, and the National Museum that afternoon, which, as far as Carlton was concerned, was more than enough.

  That night Carlton dressed in his best suit and exited the main entrance shortly before 8:00. Standing immediately outside was too obvious, so he moved to his right and stood near a pillar perhaps fifty feet away. His first year with the Bureau, he’d been assigned to surveillance. He’d been one of a two-man team following members of foreign delegations. It had been boring in the extreme, but his partner had taught him every shadowing technique, every camouflage method known to man.

  “We look at motion, mostly,” he’d told Carlton through cheap cigarette smoke. “We’re conditioned to be hunters and react to moving prey. The best way to hide is to not move.”

  There were no shadows. Carlton didn’t want to appear obvious, so he stood motionless in demi-shadows between the pillar and the wall. Six minutes later a heavy, black Mercedes pulled up and stopped in front of him. The uniformed driver came to his side and said quietly, “Mr. Carlton?”

  “I am.”

  “Please?” The driver gestured to the now open rear door. Carlton entered to find himself alone. Unconcerned, he was carried across the largely darkened streets of Riyadh, but his curiosity was at fever pitch. Forty-five minutes later the car entered the gates of a vast compound on the outskirts of Riyadh. Carlton stepped from the car and found Fajer, dressed in a Western suit, waiting to greet him at what was the entrance to his home. “I’m so glad you could come. It will be just the two of us, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. I must say I was very surprised to receive your kind invitation.”

  “You told no one?” Fajer asked with mild concern.

  “I did not.”

  “Excellent. I knew I could count on your discretion. Please. This way.”

  The house reminded Carlton of the movie Casablanca. He sensed it was vast, but there was no one to see but his host. The architecture was Moorish, the rooms oversize with arched ceilings. The dining room into which he was led was large enough for a banquet, but the vast table had just two place settings, at an end. Fajer gestured to pillows and the men sat.

  “Red or white?” Fajer asked as dinner was served. A waiter hovered with a wine bottle wrapped in a brilliant white napkin.

  “White. Thank you.”

  “The rules against intoxicants are relaxed in my home.” Fajer held up his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” Carlton was a bit overwhelmed and willed himself to be cautious. This could turn out to be the most important meeting of his life, or not. He mustn’t let his expectations form his interpretation of what was about to take place. He must ground himself in reality.

  A succession of servants brought course after course of the most exquisite meal Carlton had ever enjoyed. A mix of French and Middle Eastern cuisine, it was done to perfection. Carlton kept the conversation carefully neutral and praised each course. Following a cloyingly sweet dessert, the only dish that disappointed Carlton, Fajer suggested port and cigars. “I want to show you my garden.”

  Outside was balmy, the sky overhead a velvet black. The men strolled slowly along a pathway that wove through the carefully manicured plants, subtly lit by lights rising no higher than their ankles. “Despite its name, my company is international in scope and not limited to chemicals, though we are one of the largest chemical importers into the kingdom. I’m assuming you’ve never heard of it?”

  When Carlton shook his head no, Fajer explained how he’d assumed command of his father’s company following Cambridge. “These are difficult times for any business,” he said, “as I’m sure you know. Key to the success of an international company is information. You understand?”

  “Of course. Knowing what is real and what is not, what is coming, is vital in most human endeavors.”

  “Please, let us sit.” They sat on a carved bench beside a gurgling fountain. “Mr. Carlton, I have great respect for America and for Americans, as I have for our British friends. Though I do business with the French, I must confess that I have never understood them. No one in the world, in my opinion, has better information than the CIA.” Carlton felt his heart jump. “Information, after all, is their business. You must learn all kinds of things not necessary to America’s national security, but information that could be of enormous help to someone in my position.”

  Carlton maintained a poker face as he said, “What are you saying? And what’s this about the CIA? Spies, aren’t they?”

  “Come, Mr. Carlton. We are both adults. I have my sources. You are the deputy director for—what do you call it?—the Company. A man in such a position is important, and very valuable to someone like me.”

  Carlton took a pull of his cigar, blew the smoke out, then had a sip of the port. He drew on the cigar again before speaking. “Actually, I’m a manager, hardly a deputy director, but you have the rest right.”

  Late the next morning, Carlton boarded his plane for the flight to Athens, sitting once again next to Houser. “Didn’t see you last night,” the man said.

  “Had a touch of the flu, or perhaps it was just fatigue from all the traveling.”

  “Well, you didn’t miss much. I can’t wait to get out of here.” Once the plane was well over the Mediterranean, Houser leaned close and in a conspiratorial voice said, “Did you get what you came for?”

  Carlton thought a moment before answering, “I’d say so, yes.”

  27

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  US-CERT SECURITY OPERATIONS

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 20

  8:01 A.M.

  Daryl Haugen entered the restored redbrick building through the side entrance, swiping her access card at the door. Inside, she stopped at the security desk, si
gned her name, logged the time, and presented her identification to one of the three uniformed DHS guards. She’d come straight from her morning workout, having only taken time to shower and change into casual clothes before coming to her office.

  “Thank you, Ms. Haugen,” a stone-faced guard said.

  Daryl smiled, passed through the security scan, and set off for the elevator. All three men watched her retreating figure with mute approval.

  The Lee Building had been constructed just before World War I. In its day it was state-of-the-art, featuring larger windows than previously used and massively thick brick walls since no steel support was used in the construction. Housing various private, state, and finally federal agencies of declining significance over the decades, it had undergone a major renovation in the 1980s and now was the location for her Computer Infrastructure Security Unit, or CISU.

  Since discovering Superphreak, Daryl’s staff of twenty-three variously skilled Internet and computer experts, most of whom she’d hired herself, had been on twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. All previous assignments and holidays were canceled. Priority one was to understand the Superphreak viruses, identify their variants, determine the scope of their contamination, and organize a defense. Six of her staff were assigned to work directly with the private CSIA, Cyber Security Industry Alliance. The objective was to get everyone involved on the same page.

  Since the CISU occupied the entire top floor of the Lee Building, someone could stand at one end and view every workstation and every member of the staff in a single glance. Daryl had seen the arrangement in a Tokyo office and grasped its improvement over individual offices and cubicles. She’d installed the new arrangement the first week after her promotion.

  “Team leader meeting in five minutes!” she shouted as she stepped off the elevator. In the break room she filled her cup with coffee, grabbed a cinnamon bun for breakfast, then went directly to the glass-enclosed conference room. Setting her laptop down, she plugged it in and booted as she ate her breakfast.

  Two team leaders entered over the next two minutes, each carrying a laptop and sheets of paper. Neither looked as if he or she had slept in the last three days. The third and final one to enter closed the door as Daryl began.

  “Mercy Hospital in Brooklyn has four deaths so far, perhaps more to follow. From what research I’ve been able to do, there have been other hospital deaths. There are many incidents out there that just may be a result of the virus we’re chasing. A British Airways flight all but crashed over the Atlantic, some passengers were killed. It’s being blamed on a virus in the plane’s computer. Now I don’t want to sound like one of those TV shows, but I need answers. If this virus is the cause of all this, and potentially more, there will be panic. We can’t afford that. The panic could end up killing more than the virus itself. We don’t have time for idle talk. What have you got?”

  The question was directed to Oscar Lee. Average height, lean with bright dark eyes, he jokingly claimed the building was owned by his father. From Berkeley, he’d followed the same employment path as Daryl and was recognized for his overarching grasp of viruses and his ability to coax outside agencies to help. She’d made him responsible for coordinating the effort with CSIA, since he already headed the team that liaisoned with them.

  “The vendors aren’t on board yet, but I’ve convinced a few people here and there to give this some time,” he said, sounding weary and nervous. “So far we’ve got three rootkits identified. The first appears to have been released back in June. They conceal at least twenty-seven viruses, with different functions. We haven’t determined what all of them are as of yet.

  “Many of the variants are either missing an exploit code or have one that we haven’t been able to identify. Those that do are mostly trying to use a variety of old exploits that work only against unpatched systems. The vendors report a surge in numbers of old viruses. We do have three that are exploiting a single zero-day vulnerability in Microsoft operating systems.” Zero day was a term used to identify software bugs for which no fix exists, that aren’t widely known, and that malware authors use to spread their viruses.

  “Jeez,” Michelle Gritter muttered quietly. At twenty-three, she was the youngest of the management team, and the only woman. Pudgy, though not unattractive, she was a chronic nail-biter. She moved her left hand to her lips.

  “Anything else?” Daryl asked.

  Oscar shook his head. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Michelle?”

  The young woman lowered her hand before speaking. “We’re attempting to establish the scope of the contamination. As of a few minutes ago we have 964 referrals of malware containing the word Superphreak from end users. We’re working on it and have managed to determine these referrals are primarily generated by six versions of the virus.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Oscar said, shaking his head. “How many are out there hidden by a rootkit nobody’s detected”

  Daryl said, “It’s our job to find out.” She could see the concern written on the faces of her team. She’d hoped for better progress but knew the reality would be like this. Turning to the remaining team leader, she said, “Tom?”

  Tom Gentry was the oldest of the group at thirty-one. Almost entirely self-taught, he lacked the academic degrees of the others but possessed a near genius understanding of computers. Daryl relied on him for his innovative thinking and his accumulated knowledge. His team was responsible for preparing the solution to the Superphreak virus. Tall and gawky, he was always uneasy in meetings, and today was no different. Shifting in his chair, he gulped down a big sip of coffee before speaking.

  “Obviously we need to have a way to identify the viruses so signatures can be prepared, then we need signatures that work for each of the variations. Superphreak is the recurring figure we are focusing on, but we can’t rule out that the word might not appear in some variations.”

  Michelle spoke. “You mean there could be Superphreak viruses without the name?”

  “Sure,” Tom said, reaching for his coffee cup again and nearly knocking it over. “Someone else certainly knows more than I do at this point, but from what I’ve seen, the only really sophisticated part of the viruses are the rootkits. The viruses in general are of mixed quality and from a number of sources, some old, some brand-new.”

  “How about distributing signatures?” Daryl asked.

  “Oscar’s companies are probably our best bet for that. I think we’re going to need a bunch of them.” Tom wrinkled his forehead and looked her directly in the eye. “I just don’t see how we can do all this, boss.”

  “The security vendors tell me they aren’t getting any of them in their honeypots,” Oscar said, seconding Tom’s concern. “They’re devoting their time to this wave of old viruses going around. We sitting at this table can see the train barreling down the hill, but we can’t get out of the way or even get the rest to pay attention.”

  The room was silent for a long moment. “Do we have a sense that these are all the result of a single hacker?” Daryl asked.

  Tom cleared his throat. “I’d say not. There’s more than one person involved, that’s for sure.”

  “Are these scattered hackers just jumping on a bandwagon? Or is this orchestrated?” Daryl asked.

  Oscar hesitated. “I don’t know if all of them are working together, but some of them must be. You know, boss, I have an idea. You can bet they use the Internet to communicate. They might even be in chat rooms.” Daryl nodded agreement, irritated she’d not already thought of that. “They’re sure to have left a trail.”

  “You’ve got a good point,” she said.

  Encouraged, Oscar said, “Maybe we can coax some of them out of their hole. You know how crackers like to brag. Maybe we can locate a few of these people and fool them into giving us some of the answers we’re working at finding the hard way.”

  Tom brightened. “I like that.”

  “So do I.” This just might be the shortcut Daryl had been
hoping for. “See to it, Oscar. Find me three or four people good in chat rooms and forums, and let’s see what they come up with. Let’s keep it up, folks. We’re not lying down for this thing.”

  28

  PARIS, FRANCE

  5ÈME ARRONDISSEMENT

  GRAPHISME COURAGEUX

  MONDAY, AUGUST 21

  7:44 P.M.

  Michel Dufour stared out the window and wondered once again why he was still in Paris. Every friend of his was either vacationing in the south or traveling abroad. Paris in August was dreadful. Hot, dirty, the streets filled with loud tourists, the waiters surly and sarcastic.

  He sighed. What was there to do? The deadline loomed and could not be moved.

  Pauvre Michel, he thought, poor Michael. Repeating the phrase his older sister had used to mock him as a child whenever he felt sorry for himself, he swiveled from the window and returned to his monitor.

  He typed for several moments, then confirmed he was into the Internet access at a cybercafé he knew, one of a dozen around Paris he used. He wasn’t about to leave any trails leading to the office. Next he opened a send box and typed:

  Date:

  Mon, 21 August 19:45 —0700

  To:

  RioStud

  From:

  Xhugo49

  Subject:

  $$$

  Money snt. Attached is doomer. Release, not from your home or work, ASAP. Confrm when done. More t cum.

  Xhugo

  Dufour glanced at his list, considered for an instant if it was worth his time to copy and paste, decided it was not. Instead, he opened another message box.