The Good Traitor Read online

  She went down to the West Village and sat alone in her favorite Italian restaurant. It was one she’d patronized almost weekly when she lived in the city. She always ordered the pepperoni pizza. It tasted as exquisite as she’d remembered, but inevitably the taste of the food, along with just being back in the neighborhood, triggered darker memories. For months, she’d attempted to suppress these, but this time she let them consume her. Maybe this had been the main reason she’d wanted out of the valley. She sensed it was time to make peace with the parts of her past that were good but were now gone forever, and to confront the parts that might always haunt her. That would be the only way to reclaim her life.

  Kera returned to her hotel room at six to find that all three of the WhisperLift employees she’d targeted had logged out of their computers and left the office for the evening. With a few keystrokes, she woke up their machines and began to explore. She was able to access the company’s main network and all the files related to the contract with the skyscraper on Pine Street. There were also records of the ensuing lawsuit, plus data for the company’s entire range of elevator software technologies and services.

  In a chain of e-mails between WhisperLift’s CEO, general counsel, and other executives, Kera learned that the company intended to offer a settlement to the families as soon as possible. Remarkably, the one thing that could limit their liability for the alleged software glitch had apparently not even occurred to them: that an outside party had breached their boilerplate security firewalls, disabled the elevator’s backup safety systems, and ordered the car to plunge seventy-two stories. It was both a failure of imagination and overconfidence in their software’s security. And it was about to cost them tens of millions of dollars.

  That was not Kera’s problem. She took the appropriate notes, then covered her tracks and exited the network. She was hardly any closer to a hypothesis about who might have been behind the elevator hack, but now at least she had confirmation that the WhisperLift software was indeed vulnerable to such an attack.

  Her computer was in the final stages of encrypting the e-mail report to Bolívar and Jones when the narration from the CNN broadcast captured her attention. She squinted at the headline beneath the newscaster and reached for the remote to turn up the volume:

  NEW LEAK HAS INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY ON EDGE

  CAPITOL HILL

  One by one, twenty men and four women checked their smartphones at a bank teller–like window outside of Hart Senate Office Building 219. They proceeded through soundproofed double doors that led to a bland room, which had been swept twenty minutes earlier for eavesdropping devices. Behind the beige walls, steel casing prevented electromagnetic transmissions from escaping, and special panels absorbed and retained sound vibrations generated within the chamber. These walls could not talk.

  Hart 219 was a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—a SCIF—and it was the primary venue for closed hearings of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Like most SCIFs, Hart 219 displayed no architectural flourishes, nothing to detract from the room’s main purpose: to keep secrets.

  This was the third time in a week that the members of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence had assembled for an emergency hearing with an all-too-familiar purpose: to evaluate the damage caused by a new intelligence leak. Overnight, Gnos.is had published a CIA report that cataloged, in devastating detail, the projected cyberespionage and cybersecurity capabilities of US intelligence agencies over the next five years.

  The committee members, led by Chairman Larry Wrightmont, the senior Republican from Montana, sat in a horseshoe formation on a platform overlooking a witness table. Today’s witnesses included CIA Director Tennison, bitter over another of his agency’s classified initiatives coming to light before it could yield any measure of success; the NSA director, furious that the new leak might leave key infrastructure and other targets more vulnerable to a major cyberattack; the deputy secretary of state, confused and defensive, if less brazen ever since Angela Vasser—one of their own—had been charged with espionage; and FBI Director Ellis, caught off guard by the occurrence of a new leak while their lead suspect for the first was in custody.

  “You’re claiming, Director Ellis, that this woman, Angela Vasser, may also be responsible for this new leak?” Wrightmont asked, addressing the FBI man. “That she’s, what, sending classified reports telepathically to journalists from her prison cell?” Closed hearings were often less scripted and more frank than the grandstanding on display at televised public hearings.

  “She could have had the foresight to put the new report in a time-release file. Or she might have given a journalist the password to access it. She also might have a confederate.”

  “In which case there could be still more leaks to come?”

  “That is our concern, Chairman.”

  “This woman was not cleared to Top Secret/SCI,” Wrightmont pressed. “She’s been on the ground in Beijing for two years. How did she get her hands on this intelligence she’s alleged to have leaked?”

  “Actually, today’s leak may have provided a clue about that,” Ellis said. “The main focus of the story published today by Gnos.is is the very sensitive IKE program, which you are all familiar with.” IKE was a massive classified program, headed by the Department of Homeland Security, which had been charged with modernizing the nation’s cyberinfrastructure, from water and power grids to fiber-optic Internet cables. IKE was still in its infancy—studies were being done, models were being tested on computers, bids from telecom and software companies were being evaluated. “The report that Gnos.is published includes the names of several private contractors hired to consult on IKE. One of them is Conrad Smith.”

  “This is the man Vasser was having an affair with?” Wrightmont asked. He’d grazed the Gnos.is story but hadn’t had time to digest the full leaked report.

  “Correct.”

  “But hold on. The e-mail exchange between Vasser and Smith discussed TERMITE, not IKE. How did they get access to TERMITE?”

  “We’re working on that,” Ellis said.

  Chairman Wrightmont shook his head. “What has she said about this?”

  “Vasser? She denies it, of course. But the evidence suggests otherwise,” Ellis said.

  “The evidence being the e-mails published last week?”

  “Yes, those. And now the affair has new significance. You’ve seen the transcripts. Our agents spent hours and hours questioning this woman. She’s hiding something. I’m confident the case we build against her will be quite devastating.”

  “OK, OK,” Wrightmont said. He sounded skeptical but wanted to get on with his day. “Before we excuse you, can you make a prediction about the ultimate scope of this intelligence breach? Have we seen the worst of these leaks, or is this only the beginning?” The senator had put this same question to each of the hearing’s witnesses, and, like the others, FBI Director Ellis confessed that he simply didn’t know. Wrightmont was one of the few people in the world who knew the combined budget of the US intelligence community, which was a figure that could only be discussed inside a SCIF like Hart 219. More mind-boggling than that multibillion-dollar figure was that none of these so-called intelligence agencies could provide even an educated guess about the extent of a leak supposedly caused by a junior diplomat.

  At the hearing’s conclusion, the senators collected their smartphones and returned to the outside world to find their secretaries’ phone lines jammed with calls from angry constituents—a harsh reminder that the world had carried on without them for the last few hours. Another, particularly stinging reminder of that was the breaking news that Senator Wrightmont discovered when he was reunited with his phone. A judge had ruled that, given the new leak, the evidence in support of detaining Angela Vasser was now insufficient. She would be released, though not permitted to leave the District of Columbia, pending the outcome of the FBI’s investigation.

  “Should I cancel your lunch?” Senator Wrightmont’s secretary aske
d.

  Wrightmont’s first instinct was to say yes; the hearing had already busted the day’s schedule. Lately, every trip he made into that vacuum chamber left him less certain that what the intelligence boys were telling him made sense. At the beginning of the week, he’d been assured that the first leak, while irritating, had been contained with the arrest of Angela Vasser. But now he got the sense that this scandal was far from over. It would be wise to play the long game.

  “No. Let’s not overreact. We’ll carry on as usual.”

  Senator Larry Wrightmont browsed no fewer than five of the major news sites daily, though he never admitted this to anyone. Outwardly he carried himself as though he was above the horse race, impervious to the Beltway’s chattering class, which manufactured, reported on, and talked about “news” in a wonderfully amusing—and profitable—closed system. For three terms the senator’s above-the-fray act had worked. As a reward, he was the horse his constituents bet on, and the Beltway press corps seemed an agreeable coconspirator, rarely calling to attention the fact that in a race of ruthless horses, the indifferent one never wins—certainly not three times in a row.

  This careful image crafting was an example of one of Washington’s open secrets, and trafficking in such secrets was a skill at which the senator excelled. In his freshman years in the Senate, his abilities on this front had blossomed in ways that surprised even him. Now, like any instinct, it was difficult for him not to take his political talents for granted. Washington was a game; secrets were the play money. Each secret gained or lost value like a stock depending on its moment-to-moment relevance. If one hoped to succeed at this game, reading the news was necessary due diligence.

  Wrightmont’s habit was to read on his tablet, which he scrolled through constantly in the car. It had been years since he’d actually sat idle and watched the capital’s streets roll by. This afternoon—it was just past noon—he told his driver the name of a familiar restaurant and began to read as the car picked its way up Massachusetts Avenue. The Post, the Times, the Journal, Politico—they all reported essentially what he’d spent all morning being told by the intelligence directors: that an anonymous leaker, leaving no clue as to his or her rank, location, or motive, had acquired and released in full a collection of detailed briefs about cyberespionage and cybersecurity programs in both operational and planning stages. The competing page-one story in all cases announced the abrupt release of Angela Vasser, who had as of yet made no statement to the press, a fact that only encouraged pundits to debate the plausibility of her innocence.

  The car was stopped at a light when a sudden, sharp rapping on Wrightmont’s window brought his head up with a snap. Before he could register the source of the sound, he confronted something even more alarming—a black handgun within the car, at eye level, a foot from his face. It took him a moment to comprehend that the hand gripping the gun belonged to his driver and that the weapon was pointed at a figure standing in the street outside his window. Wrightmont had known, intellectually, that his driver carried a firearm, but seeing it for the first time shook him more than he’d have anticipated it might. Keeping his eyes on the weapon, he managed a dismissive gesture at the beggar, forgetting that the window was heavily tinted. The figure did not move. Finally, Wrightmont got a real look at the man and saw what the driver had seen all along—that this was no beggar. The man was in his late fifties, five years younger than Wrightmont, but tours of duty in his youth had long ago collected debts beneath his eyes, around the corners of his mouth, and in rings on his thick neck. He wore a long jacket over a sharp suit.

  “It’s OK, Jordan,” the senator said to the driver. The gun finally vanished. Wrightmont rolled down his window. “Hi, Rick.” He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Rick Altman. There had been a black-tie event six months earlier, at which they’d spoken briefly. He couldn’t remember about what. They’d shared a couple of lunches over the past few years, and the senator had let Altman express his opinions on one bill or another. Altman was in defense, the private sector. The profit sector.

  “Mind if I get in?” Altman said.

  Wrightmont felt his driver tense again. The light changed and the car behind them honked. The driver was responsible for the senator’s physical safety. But what about his political well-being? Within a fraction of a second, the instinct that gave function to Wrightmont’s political organs weighed the risk of being caught with a defense contractor in an illicit conversation against the potential to gain an information advantage over his political adversaries. Calmly, he asked the driver to unlock the doors as he slid over to make room for Altman.

  “What’s this about?” Wrightmont asked when Altman had settled in beside him and shut the door.

  “Her,” said Altman. He thrust one thick finger at the tablet, which Wrightmont had forgotten since the firearm had made its appearance. The tablet was still illuminated, resting on the senator’s lap. The photo on the screen was of Angela Vasser.

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Using cash provided to her by Bolívar for expenses, Kera bought an Acela ticket from Penn Station to DC.

  She had intended for New York to be a forty-eight-hour working layover on her way to Paris, where she planned to examine the elevator software of that city’s most modern hotel. She hadn’t made plans beyond that. Perhaps a trip to South Africa would be advantageous if Conrad Smith, the contractor whose name had turned up in the FBI transcripts as well as in the latest leak of classified files, began to figure into her investigation.

  The trip to Washington had been an urgent, last-minute addition to her itinerary. Before leaving New York, she’d gone to the Midtown bank where, months earlier, she’d rented a safety deposit box. From the box, she retrieved documents that supported two of the three aliases Kera had established after it became clear that HAWK was going to implode and she better prepare for the worst. She chose the first alias, Nina Salazar, figuring that she’d need a valid credit card while in DC. She retrieved the driver’s license, passport, and credit card of the second alias, Abigail Dalton, as a safety net in case something went wrong. The documents for the third alias remained locked in the bank; she would need them when she was ready for international travel.

  Kera had deliberated with herself whether dipping into the aliases was a good idea. Her resources were finite. But once the opportunity presented itself and lodged in her head, she knew she had to give it a try.

  At first she did not tell Bolívar or Jones that her plans had changed. She didn’t need their input and didn’t want them to worry. But while reading Gnos.is on the train, she stumbled upon a new story related to Angela Vasser’s arrest and release. At first it appeared to be only a tangential thread. But then she read more, and before long it consumed her.

  By the time the train glided to rest at Union Station, she had messaged Jones with a request. It took him twenty minutes—the time it took her to check into a hotel—to pack a zip drive full of background material on Vasser’s partner Ben Welk and her apparent lover Conrad Smith and encrypt it in a message back to her. If Jones was curious about her motive for the request, he didn’t say so, and she didn’t ask him how he’d acquired all the files. It was almost like old times, Kera thought, remembering the months they’d shared working together on HAWK.

  Seated at the small hotel-room table in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood where she’d lived when she worked at Langley, she plowed through the files from Jones. After three hours of searching, she identified her opening.

  At dusk two evenings later, a car driven by Ben Welk came out of the subterranean parking garage of a residential building near the Georgetown University Medical Center. Angela Vasser was in the passenger seat. Though Kera had had no one to wager against, she would have bet that Vasser would be with Welk tonight. She’d prepared for either eventuality—that Vasser would accompany her partner to the keynote gala of a conference on neurology and ethics, at which Welk was being honored for research he’d recently published, or that Vasser would stay
home and continue to avoid the media and other inquisitors. The latter option presented a more difficult approach for Kera; surely the agency and the bureau had redundant teams watching the condo, which would make knocking on the embattled diplomat’s door risky. But after reading the transcripts from Vasser’s FBI interrogation at SFO, Kera was beginning to understand that Angela Vasser was not the kind of woman who liked to be confined to house arrest, not by members of the press or the Justice Department or anyone else.

  In anticipation, Kera had used the Nina Salazar credit card to purchase tickets to the gala—two, as Salazar would need a husband for the evening, at least on paper—an outfit for the black-tie affair, and a hotel room just one floor above the relevant ballroom. A good cover wasn’t cheap. At $1,000 a plate, this one was getting absurd. As a result, a disconcerting feeling had begun to taint all of her preparations: doubt. Was this diversion a mistake? The decision to come to DC seemed more and more like one she would have vetoed had she thought it through more carefully. But now she was here. The money was spent. The Nina Salazar alias was activated. Walking away would only guarantee that all of it had been a waste.

  She entered the hotel a few minutes before the Welk-Vasser couple, dressed in an elegant but conservative navy-blue dress that she’d chosen because it was plain and would not stand out. Kera pulled up short at the sign in the lobby directing gala attendees to a ninth-floor ballroom. A few smartly dressed couples had gathered at a bank of elevator doors, waiting. She looked back. Still no sign of Vasser or Welk. When Kera had entered the lobby, the couple’s car had been fifth in line for the hotel’s valet. Kera had beaten the crowd by leaving her rental car with the valet at an Italian restaurant across the street.