DEAD BEEF (Our Cyber World Book 1) (6 page)

“For how long?” Ochoa asked.

“Well, let’s see. Martin was with us for almost 5 years, then he and Cynthia grew InfoStream into a billion dollar company in another 5.”

“And then?” Ochoa pushed.

“Oh, who knows. We can all figure out politics, the economy and Quantum Physics really well, but who gets marriage?” Odehl flashed a pained smile. “My guess is that Cynthia got bored or that things got too tense at work or at home or all of the above. She remained co-owner, but stepped down as CEO. Martin got some external talent to come in, and invested some of his own money into a vineyard and winery business in Pleasanton, which he gave to Cynthia to run as she saw fit.”

“Wish I could solve marital discord that easily,” Thompson put in. Another tense chuckle floated around the room.

“Looks like Julian came into the picture somewhere around that time,” Ochoa noted. “About two years after Martin started InfoStream, right?”

“Yes. Martin needed a breakthrough, and he spotted this kid... this hacker, really, who was doing some interesting stuff. Until then Martin had been pioneering some terrific work in self-adapting software. His approach was one of pure combinational solutions, much like a computer uses to solve a chess problem. His software could anticipate and calculate through hundreds, thousands and millions of combinations to achieve a solution when fending a Cyberattack or when infecting a target system. But as systems became more complex, Martin found his approach wasn’t fast enough or sufficiently versatile to meet all possible conditions.”

“And that’s when Julian came in,” Ochoa interjected. “I see here that they ran into each other while Spencer was testing one of his unclassified prototypes. They met in a hacker duel, actually.” Ochoa had fixed his index finger on another portion of the thick personnel file.

“That’s right,” Odehl said. “It was a challenge of sorts. We gave Spencer approval to try out a modified and sanitized prototype of his logic to defend an unclassified firewall. Julian’s software punched through, and in the postmortem Martin figured out why and how. He saw a lot of potential for combining Julian’s approach with his to develop a more powerful and lightning speed decisional self-adaptive system.”

“Lots of words there for this med major,” Ochoa said with a grin. “But if I read the file right, in laymen’s terms, Julian used chaos theory to generate adaptive solutions, while Martin used pure combinational logic. Put the two together, and pow?”

“Yes, pow. Actually we colloquially called their joint solution Yin-yang. The symbiosis of determinism and chaos. The tense resolution of order and disorder. It gets really technical, and even I begin to over-extend my understanding. But I think in the simplest terms I can come up with, it comes down to how life works, doesn’t it? We think we can plan, anticipate detours and mishaps and what we would do to mitigate them, but when you throw chaos into the mix, you can’t possibly anticipate everything. But what if you harness chaos somehow, what if chaos could be predicted within certain parameter limits? What if you could then merge your straight logical problem solving method with the chaos-based possibilities you have predicted?”

“Think fractals,” Beloski offered, realizing as soon as he said it that unless one had some notion of how fractals worked mathematically, his remark would mean nothing.

“I get fractals,” Ochoa said with a smile. “You can repeat them, or change them just by changing one variable by a tiny amount. Sort of how snowflakes work.”

“Yes,” Odehl said. “Snowflakes and leaves are two common examples.”

“Yin-yang didn’t last long, though,” Ochoa noted.

“Long enough,” Odehl said. “Eventually Julian lost his usefulness.”

“Which happened to coincide with the time when he started doing drugs and having a gambling problem,” Ochoa said. “He lost his clearance, and by default, his job.”

“Right,” Odehl said. “He was out. That also ended somewhat well. Last we heard, Julian cleaned up his act, kicked the drug habit, stopped gambling, and started a fairly prosperous IT business as a one man shop in Los Angeles.”

“Pays him enough to have a condo and a boat,” Ochoa noted.

“I guess.”

“But not enough for all of Julian’s expenses,” Thompson threw in.

“Oh?” Odehl said. Beloski pricked his ears with curiosity as well, but Ochoa did not go there.

“Did Martin Spencer ever tell you or your niece if he stayed in touch with Julian, Mr. Odehl?” Ochoa asked.

“I never heard one way or another.”

“Cynthia Spencer says the same thing,” Ochoa said.

“You think Martin and Julian stayed in touch?” Odehl asked. “At least we can guess they’ve been together in the last 24 hours, seeing how Spencer’s car turned out a few miles from Julian’s place.”

“We’ve checked the security footage at Julian’s place and at the marina,” Thompson noted. “We found nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Do you have any guesses about where Martin might be headed, Mr. Odehl?” Ochoa asked.

“How would I know?”

Ochoa looked up from his folder. “You were his recruiter, his mentor, his family.”

Odehl nodded. “True enough. I do have one guess.”

“A very good guess, I’m sensing,” Ochoa said.

Odehl rearranged his wedding ring before adding, “If I were him, I’d be heading to meet up with Sasha Javan. But that’s not going to be a very helpful observation. Ms. Javan vanished two months after she lost her clearance, and one week after Martin broke up with her.”

“For all we know, she might have gone to Tehran and back,” Thompson said. “With emphasis on the back.”

A tap on the door interrupted their discussion. Marti from security stuck her head in. “Mr. Thompson, we have confirmation that your request to handle operational discussions in this facility has been granted.”

“I trust you have that in writing,” Thompson said.

“Yes, sir,” Marti said before she closed the door.

Thompson turned to Odehl and said, “OK, Robert. I think we can have our free flowing discussion about that anti-Iranian nuke op right about now.”

Chapter 8

After a full day of sailing, Julian anchored his boat off the western coast of Santa Barbara island. Uninhabited, the smallest of the Channel Islands and located approximately 40 miles due west from Marina del Rey, Julian assessed it as a good place to lay low for a day or two. Eventually he'd have to get food and water, but with enough to hold him for a few days he was in no hurry.

Depending on weather and wind he would decide whether to head north, west or south. It was just a matter of stochastic processes, as it always was. Keep it real and random, stay afloat, and he'd be OK.

For the last few hours he had kept all his equipment off in case anyone was sniffing for signals. Now, all the way out here, with the island between him and the mainland he figured he could check into a few things.

He brought his satellite phone and one of his laptops out on the deck, connected the equipment to the extra batteries he kept on board, and powered up. Tomorrow he'd have to make sure to set out his portable solar panels to recharge the batteries, he reminded himself as he waited for his laptop to boot up. Eventually the screen flashed the all clear signal, letting him know he'd acquired a spoofed server and that no one was actively trying to back-trace him.

Julian checked the CNN website first, followed by a quick scan on local Los Angeles news affiliate websites. So far, if they were coming after him and Martin, the Feds hadn't issued any wanted notices through local authorities. Well, he reminded himself, maybe the cops had been notified but it wasn't out in news reports yet. Either way the Feds seemed to be keeping things on the down low, which would help Martin some, though maybe not Julian so much.

Pushing aside thoughts that a Coast Guard cutter could come around the corner to grab him any time, he closed the Web browser and launched his own custom application. Time to see how things were flickering out there.

Though under lifetime probation after leaving InfoStream, Julian had not forsaken his hacker ways. They may have kept his code, but he'd walked away with his brain, hadn't he?

With his photographic memory he could have easily reproduced all the code he developed for InfoStream and most of Martin's. But he hadn't, had he? He had indulged just a little, but not having resurrected the majority of it, he liked to think he'd lived up to his end of the deal, the spirit of it, anyway. What was the harm in his little snippet? In fact, he'd just been keeping an eye on things, from a different perspective, just in case InfoStream and the Feds tripped over themselves.

After a quick first-pass scan, his software gave him a nominal indication. It also recommended a closer look at a few monitors in the Los Angeles area.

“Yes, I wish to evaluate further,” he said in response to a screen prompt and pressed the enter key. “Thanks for the helpful suggest—”

Julian leaned in when he saw that the scan returned an immediate off-nominal activity indication. He pressed another key. Scrolling text showed what looked like the onset of an induced power outage. It looked like one of the payloads was acting up or acting out.

He was starting to dig deeper into the data dump when he heard it, a faint sound that didn't belong there. He strained to see in the dark and picked up nothing.

Julian rushed to turn off all equipment and lights. Then he sat there, listening.

The sound disappeared before returning again from a different direction. Initially faint, then bouncing off the water and gaining strength, it sounded like a mechanical bee.

“A propeller,” he whispered in the dark. After a few seconds his eyes connected a flickering light with the high pitch whirr, just north of the boat, no more than 20 feet above water.

The sound was clear now, and Julian squinted in vain to use the flickering light to make out the outline of the object.

It stopped moving now. It just hovered there. It floated above the water for what seemed like a long time, as if taking full stock of him.

Then, with an agility that surprised him, both light and sound sped north and disappeared in the night.

Chapter 9

“We're talking about more than Plutonet, then,” Thompson said after listening to Odehl's opening remarks about the Iranian op.

“Plutonet was the chaff,” Beloski said.

“Chaff and entry way,” Odehl added.

As widely reported in news outlets, Plutonet was a computer worm discovered in 2010. Though never officially acknowledged, experts believed it had been created by the United States and Israel to attack Iran's nuclear facilities. Plutonet initially spread via Microsoft Windows, with the end goal of targeting Siemens industrial control systems that though embargoed had found their way into Iranian centrifuge installations. Plutonet's discovery signaled the first alleged instance of government sponsored malware that spied on and subverted industrial systems. Though speculation abounded, the full extent of its disruptive capabilities had never been fully divulged or confirmed by either the Iranians or those alleged to have committed the attack.

“There was a follow-up payload,” Ochoa said.

“Yes, the main payload,” Beloski confirmed.

“That was your op,” Ochoa said looking at Beloski.

“It was. Back when we could do ops.”

“Says here Spencer was deployed overseas. How much training did he receive?” Ochoa asked.

Beloski swallowed. He'd been anticipating this line of questioning. “Pretty extensive,” he said. “He didn't seem terribly interested at the time, but I'm sure he picked up a few things.”

“Super,” Thompson said. “We’re looking for a boy genius with enough on-the-field undercover ops training and experience to be dangerous.”

“When Plutonet was detected, how did it affect your op?” Ochoa asked.

“We were ordered to disengage,” Beloski said. “Martin disagreed. He wanted to salvage the op.”

Ochoa looked up from his notes. “I take it Mr. Spencer wasn't happy.”

“He wanted to finish what he started,” Odehl interjected. “We had to physically pull him.”

“A recovery op,” Ochoa said.

Odehl nodded. “Like I said, he wanted to finish what he started.”

“You mean he wanted to clean up the mess he created,” Thompson said.

Odehl shook his head and leaned forward. “The mess that someone else started. Plutonet was not his. He didn't want to use it. He was working on something better, but needed more time. He got overruled by some desk pusher with a tight budget and a make-it-happen yesterday schedule.”

Ochoa turned to Beloski. “Your decision?”

“Aim higher,” Beloski replied. “That call came from on high, with lots of pressure from the Israelis to move out ASAP sprinkled in.”

“I see,” Ochoa said.

“Martin said someone else's crappy hack job had left his code... the payload stranded,” Beloski added.

Thompson sighed. “First they didn't let him go in his way. Then you left his baby behind enemy lines. I think we're getting the picture.”

“And we never got a read on what happened to the payload,” Ochoa said.

“Correct,” Beloski replied. “It is a very sophisticated self-adaptive payload, designed to conceal itself, evade detection and self-destruct if necessary. We have good reason to believe the Iranians never found it.”

“Based on what?” Thompson asked. “Intelligence or brilliant design?”

Beloski paused before saying, “Like we said, we never got confirmation.”

“Which means you don't know,” Thompson said. “You basically just want to suppose the Iranians never detected or captured Spencer's baby. For all we know they could have not only captured it but have reversed engineered it.”

Thompson turned to Odehl. “And a few minutes ago you told us that Spencer is off to find his long-lost love, Sasha? Sasha Javan, who might just possibly have ties to Iranian intelligence?”

Odehl and Beloski remained silent. Beloski felt his heart rate going up. In his mind he had connected some of these dots hours ago. Maybe he should have raised the red flag sooner. Maybe he shouldn't have hoped for the best or relied so heavily on following process.

The phone rang, and Odehl answered it. “I see, yes, I’ve been expecting her. Escort her to my office, please.” Odehl took a deep breath and said, “There’s someone you should meet. She’s well connected, so you two should be forewarned to handle her gently. She called me earlier today and wants to share what she knows about Sasha.”

Moments later a knock at the door ushered the arrival of Chana Bauman, wife to the Israeli ambassador and former Israeli intelligence officer, though she had never felt as intelligent as the day she left all that mess behind her, as she put it in verbal barrage during introductions. A woman in her fifties, she still retained the beauty and confidence that went with it of the younger woman Stan Beloski had met years before. Her impeccable dress and stylish hair style said she still cared enough to make an attractive impression. Her dark brown eyes still glimmered with the mix of astute insight and playfulness Beloski remembered.

“Mrs. Bauman is also a very dear friend of the president,” Odehl added, as if to reinforce his earlier “handle her gently” admonition.

“Well, it’s certainly a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bauman,” Thompson said.

“Likewise,” Ochoa added.

“Well, thank you,” she said. Regarding Beloski flirtatiously, she added, “Stan, boy, you look the same as on the last day of that little Iranian tryst of ours. Been working out?” Then, eyeing Odehl, she said, “And you, well, you just look. Which is better than the alternative, as we all know.”

Odehl laughed hardily, and they all joined in the mirth. The laughter came to an abrupt end when she winced and bent over a bit in her seat.

“You OK, Chana?” Odehl asked.

“Just a bit of pain,” she replied, with eyes now closed. “Too many sit-ups, I’m afraid, trying to maintain this hard body of mine.” She kept her eyes closed and took long breaths until the pain seemed to subside. Then she said, “Pain is good. Remember that. If you feel pain, you are still alive. If don’t, you are probably six feet under.”

Odehl laughed hardily again, Beloski smiled, and the two Collections agents joined in what sounded like a puzzled chuckle. Beloski had heard rumors that Chana had recently undergone treatment and chemotherapy for Uterine cancer. He guessed an incision and not sit-ups had more to do with the sharp pain she’d just experienced.

“I don’t know how you managed it, but I hear you’ve misplaced a boy genius,” Chana said. “I called Robert earlier because since boy meets girl is a recurring theme in this world of ours, you will want to know about Martin’s girl.”

“You mean Ms. Sasha Javan,” Ochoa said.

Chana's head snapped as she regarded Ochoa. “You've done your research, I see. Good, but I mean
my
Sasha.” She paused to let that sink in. “I want you to understand why she’s mine, and why we share a mutual drive to find her, even if for different reasons, I must tell you her little known story. The one that won’t appear on any of your reports or files, even after I tell you.”

“Understood,” Ochoa said.

“I like you already,” she said. “A man of action that gets it straight away.” She turned to Odehl, and said, “Robert be a dear and hand me a bottled water, if you have one in that tiny fridge I hear humming behind you.”

Odehl complied, and by the time he handed her the bottle, she had tossed a pill in her mouth which she now chased down with a gulp of cold water.

“When Americans hear the word ‘Iran,’ they think of hostages. In Israel we think of a vibrant diaspora dating back to the time of Esther and decimated in the years leading up to the 1979 revolution and immediately thereafter. Many emigrated, many were killed or imprisoned, and of the few that remain—” She paused, melancholy flashing on her face. “The census counts are inconclusive because, as a matter of survival, many of the stranded do not acknowledge their ancestry nor practice their religion openly. You may call these the stranded, hidden diaspora. Sasha Javan, whose real name is Rachel Bauman, came from a family in this latter category.”

Chana took a sip of water and slowly swirled it in her mouth for a few seconds before she continued. “Sasha never knew this. Her parents died of causes unknown when she was still an infant. She never knew them, or has ever been told about them. Adopted by Iranian family friends, she grew up an Iranian girl through and through, though she never quite fit in. She was rebellious and quite modern, too modern for Iranian society. Her mother, a childless woman with only Sasha to fill the void, sent her away to England for her college studies.”

Chana took a slow sip of her water. Her eyes grew distant, as if her memories had transported away.

“It was there I met her. After discovering my family connection to her, that she was my niece, through means not relevant to your investigation, I sought to meet her and finally did. I never told her she was my niece, figuring that would ruin many things. By then she was nearing completion of her undergraduate work, as you call it here, and wanted to come to America, to Boston’s MIT.”

Chana Bauman shifted in her seat and took another sip of water. “This was quite expensive, and a visa would be required. So I put her in contact with a British-based Iranian charitable organization that quite enthusiastically agreed to send her to America, all expenses paid. I knew some friends that knew some friends, I told her, and that took care of the visa.”

“You paid for her education, too, I take it,” Ochoa said.

“Sharp,” she said. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“I didn’t. I just asked.”

She smiled. “You didn’t ask, and you know it.”

“You wanted her to work for the Mossad, for you,” Ochoa said. “That’s why you didn’t tell her how you were related, figuring she’d be far more effective if she thought she was full-on Iranian.”

“Sharper still,” Chana said. “But I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss any further details about her recruitment or her involvement with my prior employers. For that I refer you to my embassy and the prime minister himself.”

“Why then do you tell us this story, Mrs. Bauman?” Ochoa asked.

“To help you navigate the minefield, Agent Ochoa. Everyone with half a brain knows Martin Spencer is going to Sasha, my Sasha, like a heat-seeking missile honing in on a bonfire. When you find him, you’ll find her as well. Give her back to me, unharmed, and you’ll have my deepest appreciation.”

“My mission is to retrieve Martin Spencer. I cannot guarantee anything but that.”

“Not so sharp, Agent Ochoa. Not sharp at all. You’d be best advised not to stir Bauman blood.”

Beloski interjected, “We were talking about the Iranian op a few minutes ago. I don’t suppose you—.”

“Sshhh!” she hissed with a finger at her lips. “Our little conversation is about Sasha, and you well know she had nothing to do with that op.”

“But you did,” Beloski said.

Chana Bauman, wife to the Israeli ambassador, former Mossad spymaster and recent cancer patient stood up to shake Robert Odehl’s hand. “A pleasure as always, Robert. Thank you for letting me share with you and your colleagues.” Turning to Ochoa she added, “You don’t know what ride you’re in for. Buckle up for safety.”

She headed for the door, placed her hand on the door knob, and turned to face them. “This little situation, your misplacement of Mr. Spencer. It wouldn't be so severe had you listened to us and Mr. Spencer, would it?”