The Jason Betrayal Read online

  “Thank you,” Stroller said. “Continue, Roger.”

  Why the hell has Peter brought this guy into the sitrep? It’s none of his goddamn business.

  “We continue to try to find Singer. We believe he is still in Europe, perhaps Germany, but we have been unable to get a specific location. We have been working with our partners’ intelligence services and, of course, our colleagues in the NSA.”

  The barb at the NSA drew a scowl from Markovsky but he recovered quickly. “Thank you, Roger.” Then he turned to his NSA counterpart. “We certainly appreciate your continued assistance in this effort, Claude. Now Roger is also heading up the CIA’s investigation into the so-called sonic attacks on State Department employees in Havana and Guangzhou. We are treating this as an act of terrorism. Please tell Claude what we know so far, Roger.”

  Jesus Christ. How many swords does Peter want me to fall on? What is this really about?

  Slattery began his next sitrep. “Despite all the headlines and accusations, we still have not identified a cause of the purported neural damage.”

  Stroller cocked his head. “Purported?”

  “Yes. We believe that the attacks are real and the employees suffered physical harm. But there is no proof. Elite scientists, university researchers and expert psychologists have all offered their interpretation of what happened.

  “Many of the scientists believe the trauma was a result of something called the Frey Effect which postulates physical damage of neural pathways by microwave radiation. The university researchers have concluded that the symptoms are due to misuse of ultrasonic listening devices. And the psychologists believe it is just a case of mass hysteria.”

  He took a breath. “Then there are those who lay the blame at the sounds of massive swarms of crickets driven by global warming. All in all, a real mess.”

  “That’s fine, Roger,” Markovsky quickly said, shutting off further discussion. “Thank you.”

  Slattery knew his boss better than almost anyone at the Agency. After the past ten minutes of soul-wrenching confessions, he was much too calm. Something was about to happen.

  Markovsky turned to Stroller. “Claude, I think it’s time for your update.”

  The NSA Deputy Director took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “The NSA has ongoing programs to protect American citizens from surveillance by our enemies. State Department consulates and embassies present a unique challenge because in many cases they are located in preexisting structures that weren’t designed for maximum protection from electronic eavesdropping. Or from acoustic eavesdropping, as we have learned from laser-based monitoring of glass windows. One of our recent programs was showing significant potential for masking internal communications from external detection. Unfortunately, further study showed the technology had some negative side-effects.”

  Stroller paused, and Slattery tried to decrypt the spook’s bureaucratese. What was the point of telling him about a failed project? Then it hit him.

  Shit!

  “Your technology is causing the embassy neural damage?”

  “Absolutely not.” Stroller slammed his hands on the tabletop and nearly leaped from his chair. “The NSA would never put American citizens in danger. There is simply a strange coincidence between our research and the events you are investigating.”

  Slattery now understood what was going on. And he wasn’t going to let Stroller get away this easy. “Okay, but tell me what you found.”

  Stroller turned to Markovsky who grimaced and shook his head as if to say “I told you he’d ask”. Then the NSA spook continued. “You understand the concept of ‘beat’ frequencies?”

  Slattery wasn’t about to interrupt this odd confession with another question, so he nodded.

  “When you mix two frequencies of acoustic radiation, like two sound waves, the human ear perceives a new sound whose frequency is the difference between the two original frequencies. This is called the beat frequency. So while the original frequencies could be essentially inaudible, their beat frequency could be in the audible range. Or even sub-audible.

  “Now the signals that we were using for masking were inaudible, but there were multiple frequencies and the frequencies changed, or shifted, rapidly to avoid detection or counter-masking. We came to understand that some of the beat frequencies we were generating interfered with the internal alpha and beta waves generated in the brain. And prolonged exposure even created structural changes in the anatomy. We terminated further testing, of course.”

  Came to understand? There’s no way the nerds at the Puzzle Palace would have figured this out. They had help. From someone.

  And Stroller just realized the technology could be similar? He must have finally figured out he needed to cover his ass, so he came to Markovsky.

  “Why are we just learning about this now?” Slattery was about to blow.

  Stroller sat back silently. Markovsky finally spoke up.

  “Claude came to me when he realized the symptoms were similar. Since we don’t know who, or what, has been causing the attacks, or even if there were attacks, there is no way to show a connection between them and the NSA’s project. This information is not to become part of your investigation, Roger. It is deep background for you. Personally. I trust that is understood?”

  Slattery tried to control his anger. There was no question in his mind what had happened.

  “Yes, sir. Understood.”

  “Good,” Markovsky replied. “Now in case there is some relationship, however, Claude has initiated an internal investigation. If there is any evidence of a leak of this information, he will provide us the details.” Markovsky turned to Stroller who eventually nodded. This whole performance had obviously been the result of a previous negotiation between the two Deputy Directors.

  “Thank you, Roger. If there isn’t anything else, Claude and I have a few more things to discuss.”

  Slattery took the dismissal in stride. He nodded politely and headed toward the door. Before leaving the office, he looked back and saw the two men in animated discussion, each smiling broadly. It was a vivid reminder of why he never felt comfortable on the seventh floor.

  Still, he had learned something that deserved further investigation.

  Chapter 3

  Commonwealth Apartments, Falls Church, VA

  Wednesday, 7:30 a.m.

  Braxton had spent most of the previous evening working on his presentation. He had kept it short but filled with facts and statistics; something that would be appreciated by a bunch of academics. But then he had awakened in the middle of the night with some new ideas and climbed out of bed to integrate them into the PowerPoint. It had been after four when he had finally gotten back to bed.

  So now he had to rush to clean up, get dressed and drive to McLean. There was no reason to go to the office first. He showered, shaved and then stared into his closet for something appropriate to wear. He decided against a suit—too pretentious—and chose a pair of freshly pressed khaki pants, a light blue oxford shirt and blue blazer. Grabbing a conservative gray tie, he walked to the mirror to be sure he tied it straight.

  As he gazed at his image, Braxton mostly liked what he saw. He was a touch under six feet tall, with pale green eyes and short sandy brown hair. His eyes were a little bloodshot at the moment, but he figured they would recover in time for the meeting. His weight was still under one-seventy, despite increasingly infrequent trips to the gym in his office building. He had considered asking Chu to remind him, but knew she would drive him like a drill-sergeant if he did. He didn’t need any more stress.

  Satisfied with his appearance, he walked into the apartment’s second bedroom—he had outfitted it as an office—and checked his mail on the laptop. He had the usual amount of spam, even his hotshot IT contractor couldn’t eliminate all of it, but there was also a message from Chu, sent after he had returned to bed. He opened it and found an attached document with background on the secretive group called Jason. He sent it to his printer.

&nb
sp; The document was classic Chu. Five pages, single-spaced, with a complete history of Jason. It was clear, concise and packed with the information Braxton needed.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised. Karen Chu was Cerberus’ first employee. He had hired her a month after he had abandoned his home in Cambridge, Massachusetts and hung out his new shingle in Tysons Corner. She had been a sharp-tongued, Gen X wife and mother who had burned out teaching math in the Fairfax County school system and had wanted to apply her considerable analytic abilities to a new profession.

  She had attacked the mess Braxton had created like a commando, organizing every client engagement, learning more about the federal contracting system than any senior executive Braxton had ever known and putting him on a strict need-to-know basis. Chu had been invaluable in stabilizing, and growing, his nascent consulting business.

  Chu was, in a very real sense, the main reason his company was still in business. He had done his best to always let her know how much she was appreciated.

  He went through the backgrounder, fascinated, trying to take in as many details as he could. From what he read, this was going to be a very interesting meeting.

  * * *

  The weather outside Slattery’s office window matched his mood to a tee. Northern Virginia was cloudy, rainy and miserable.

  Ever since Markovsky had dropped the problem in Slattery’s lap, the sonic attacks, or what was now being called the Havana Syndrome, had been an albatross around his neck. The situation on the ground was at least as screwed up as he had reported to Stroller. Every intelligence agency in the country had their fingers in it, and once the press had heard, every conspiracy theorist and nutcase in the country—no, make that the world—had broadcast their explanations.

  Given Slattery had no idea what to look for, he had worked with his team to develop a checklist of possible symptoms. He had decided that the best offense was a good defense. The list had been forwarded to all the Station Chiefs with priority instructions to get back to Langley if any of the complaints were reported. No matter how minor.

  Now, over a year later, there was still no additional information. Slattery really couldn’t have expected an immediate response, but he had hoped for some whiff of continued attacks. Or had the actors already achieved what they wanted and gone to ground? Waiting to reappear in a month, a year, or even a decade later.

  That was what was eating at his gut. The idea that some group was sitting out there, just waiting to harm his country. He should have been able to set this one aside and move on. God knows there were enough other threats out there. But somehow he just couldn’t let go of this one. And the meeting with Stroller only reminded him of the danger.

  Well, there’s nothing more I can do now.

  He went back to the various dailies his group produced hoping for some new insights.

  “Roger, we caught a break.”

  Slattery looked up from his desk to see Aaron Temple standing in the doorway. Temple was leading the investigation into the Syndrome. The agent looked more haggard then Slattery had ever seen him, folds hung prominently below bloodshot eyes, but there was a spark in his voice that got Slattery’s attention. He waved Temple to a chair by his desk.

  “Jenkins in Islamabad reported some positives last night. A couple of analysts in commercial affairs complained of hearing strange sounds.”

  Slattery considered the news. The US relationship with Pakistan was precarious at best. He had to tread carefully. “Get our tech team from Chaklala to the embassy.” Chaklala was a Pakistan military base near Islamabad where the US still had a permanent, although contentious, presence. “I want to know if this syndrome is real or some psychological bullshit.”

  * * *

  It only took Braxton fifteen minutes to get from his apartment to MITRE’s headquarters on Colshire Drive in McLean. The building was a modern concrete and glass structure that looked like thousands of others housing the uncountable departments and agencies of the Federal government. He knew MITRE wasn’t really a government organization but you didn’t get much closer and he would bet that a significant number of MITRE employees were ex-feds.

  He grabbed the last available visitor’s parking space and dashed between raindrops toward the door. It appeared that the bad weather the forecasters had been predicting for days was finally arriving.

  Giving his name to the receptionist, she checked her log book and immediately called Nolan. A few minutes later, the gnome appeared and led Braxton through a gauntlet of security and up to the third floor.

  They entered through a nondescript door to an equally nondescript conference room. Windowless, the room’s walls were covered with whiteboards, still dripping from the required security erase and wash. An LCD projector hung from the ceiling and an aging video-conferencing system sat discarded in a back corner. A projection screen covered the whiteboard on Braxton’s left.

  In the middle of the room was an oval mahogany conference table with a dozen or so high-backed leather and chrome conference chairs scattered at the table and against the walls.

  Three men sat at the opposite end of the table from where Braxton and Nolan entered. All three were older, probably in their sixties, but sat with a palpable presence of authority. Each had an identification tent card and a bottle of water in front of him.

  On the left was Professor Victor Wallace, of Caltech. Wallace had a head covered in curly brown hair and a wide, almost circular face. His eyes were bright and alert. He was dressed in “academic informal”, a white shirt open at the collar and tweed sports coat. Braxton recognized Wallace’s name from articles he had read on quantum computing. He was an internationally-recognized physicist who was leading a team to develop a next-generation quantum computer.

  On the right was Michael Nichols, of Lawrence Livermore Laboratories. Nichols was thin with balding black hair, hollow cheeks and dark, brooding eyes. Braxton was not familiar with Nichols, but, given he looked like the Grim Reaper, guessed the man was involved in nuclear weapons.

  Between the two men, directly opposite Braxton, sat Professor Peter Hawthorne, of the University of Chicago. Hawthorne was dressed more formally in a gray pin-striped suit, white shirt and crimson tie. His hair was dark, carefully styled with a laser-straight part on the left side of his head. Despite his age, his face was square and tight and presented an air of self-importance that reminded Braxton of Charlton Heston. Hawthorne had recently received the Nobel Prize in Physics for his work discovering the Higgs boson. There was no doubt that Hawthorne was the leader of the group.

  Nolan motioned Braxton to a position at the near end of the table. Braxton took his seat and fumbled with the rat’s nest of cables emerging from a pocket in the polished tabletop, trying to attach them to his laptop. The more he worked to get them apart, the more frustrated he became, aware that all eyes were on him.

  Helluva way to start my briefing.

  He finally finished the connections and nodded to Nolan.

  “This briefing is being given by Mr. Adam Braxton of Cerberus Consulting,” Nolan recited for no one in particular. Braxton assumed some recording device was in place. “Present are Jason members Professor Peter Hawthorne, Professor Victor Wallace and Dr. Michael Nichols. This briefing is unclassified.”

  “Thank you, Jack,” Hawthorne said from the other end of the table. “You can leave us now.”

  Nolan cocked his head quizzically, then looked around the room as if for a reprieve from the dismissal. Hearing no contravening order, he turned and left like a school kid being sent to the principal’s office.

  “Mr. Braxton,” Hawthorne continued, giving him a nod.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Braxton clicked for the first slide in the presentation. “The history of cyberterrorism dates back to the creation of the Robert Morris Internet Worm in 1988.”

  Chapter 4

  MITRE Corporation, McLean, VA

  Wednesday, 9:10 a.m.

  Braxton had spent the last five minutes talking to the most d
isinterested audience he had ever been unlucky enough to address. Nichols had been doodling on a pad of paper, Wallace had been pecking furiously on his laptop, and Hawthorne had been sitting quietly while tapping the end of a pencil on the top of the table. It cut through the room like a metronome.

  Why the hell don’t they pay attention?

  As he felt the anger rise like an incoming tide, he focused on speaking to what looked like a closed-circuit camera hanging from the far corner of the room. Maybe someone somewhere was listening to his briefing.

  Then from the corner of his eye, Braxton saw Wallace turn to Hawthorne and nod.

  “Thank you, Mr. Braxton,” Hawthorne interrupted. “That will be quite enough.”

  Braxton stopped in mid-sentence. What the hell is this damn guy doing?

  “Professor Hawthorne. I was led to believe you had some questions on Internet security. I thought we would—”

  “Come now, Mr. Braxton. If we had any questions on cybersecurity, we would simply call our colleague, Professor Page at Berkeley.”

  Professor Dennis Page was arguably the leading expert on cybersecurity in the world. He had invented multiple breakthroughs in decryption techniques and his research on IP tracking was, according to Braxton’s friends in the black world, the basis on which the sources of multiple intrusion attacks on federal agencies had been unmasked.

  If Page is a Jason why do they want me?

  “Then why was I invited here?” Braxton said, a bit too stridently he realized after the fact. “I see no reason to stay and continue to be insulted.” Braxton unplugged his laptop and began gathering up his papers. Apparently, everything Chu had written about Jasons being arrogant sonsabitches was true. He didn’t intend to stay here any longer than necessary.

  “Please, Mr. Braxton,” Wallace interjected. Unlike Hawthorne’s, Wallace’s voice was conciliatory, almost pleading. “My colleague does have a somewhat brusque way of putting things, but I assure you, your presence here is very important to Jason. Please bear with us a bit longer.”