Price of Duty

NINE

Warsaw’s rush-hour commute was in full swing, with cars, buses, and trams choking the major streets. Sidewalks teemed with people streaming to work in office buildings, corporate headquarters, banks, and other businesses. Though temperatures hovered just above freezing, several days of intermittent rain had at last given way to a bright, sunny morning.

Strolling arm in arm, Brad McLanahan and Nadia Rozek joined the hurrying crowds, moving just fast enough to avoid being jostled. They were out of uniform, dressed in civilian clothing — warm winter coats, sweaters, and jeans. Martindale’s message summoning them from Powidz the night before had stressed that they should be ready to travel “inconspicuously” and at short notice.

This morning, faced with an overseas trip of indeterminate length, Nadia had decided to clear away some of the chores that had been piling up in her absence. Her service as one of President Wilk’s military aides and as his personal go-between with the Iron Wolf Squadron left almost no time for everyday routines like paying bills, laundry, and shopping.

Brad’s smartphone buzzed. He took it out and looked at the text message displayed on its screen: Helo@Belweder. 1030. Flt out MinMaz 1100. No bags. M.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered, quickly entering an acknowledgment.

“Martindale?” Nadia asked quietly.

He nodded. “We’ve got a chopper flight out from the Belweder Palace in ninety minutes.” The palace was the site of Piotr Wilk’s working office. Given the Polish president’s preference for fast travel, helicopter landings and takeoffs from its forecourt were fairly routine — not something that should draw a lot of attention.

“A helicopter flight to where?” Nadia asked.

“The air base at Minsk Mazowiecki, where we catch a plane to… well, who knows? But our final destination should be Battle Mountain in Nevada,” Brad told her. He grinned uncertainly. “That’s my old hometown, you know.”

“So there go most of my errands,” Nadia said, frowning in mild irritation. “Straight into the dumpster.”

“I’m afraid so,” Brad said. He showed her the text. “But, hey, at least we don’t have to waste time packing. No luggage allowed, see?”

Nadia raised an eyebrow. “I’m being asked to fly to a foreign country without fresh clothes or even toiletries, and this is supposed to console me?” Her eyes flashed. “You have much to learn about women, Brad McLanahan!”

He winced. “Oh yeah… I guess that’s true.”

Laughing, she took pity on him. “Never mind. I am glad to be your instructor.” She checked her watch. “If we hurry, perhaps I can unscramble the mess my bank has made of my direct deposits. There’s an ATM just off Aleje Jerozomliskie.”

Brad nodded. Jerusalem Avenue was one of the main east-west streets in Warsaw and they’d have to cross it on their way to the palace anyway. He shoved the smartphone back into his coat pocket and contritely offered her his arm again. “I’m entirely at your service, Major Rozek.”

“Apology accepted, Captain McLanahan,” she said with a warm smile.

Nadia’s good humor lasted up to the moment they dashed between a stream of slow-moving yellow-and-red buses and saw the line of five people already waiting to use the automated teller machine. She slowed up. “No, to pięknie. Just great,” she murmured. “If this day gets any worse, I may have to kill Martindale myself. Just to even the score.”

Brad decided the better part of valor was keeping his mouth shut.

The elderly man at the front of the line shuffled forward, fumbling in his pocket for a wallet. Peering through thick reading glasses, he fumbled out his bank card and then gingerly inserted it into the ATM, almost as though he expected the machine to bite off his fingers. With that much accomplished, he slowly and with painstaking care punched in his four-digit PIN.

Impatiently tapping her foot at the back of the line, Nadia briefly closed her eyes in exasperation. “Boże, daj mi cierpliwość.” She sighed. “God give me patience.”

But before the old man could even select an option from the ATM’s menu, brightly colored zlotys, Polish bank notes, started popping out of its cash dispenser. They dropped out in ones and twos at first, and then faster and faster, and in larger denominations.

For a moment, he stared in disbelief. “What the devil? What is this?” Then, frantically, he started grabbing at the bills as they emerged. “This machine has gone mad! It’s throwing away my money! All of my money!”

More zlotys spewed out. Caught up in the brisk cold breeze, bank notes whirled away down the sidewalk. At first, only a few startled passersby snatched at them. Then as the haywire ATM kept disgorging cash, others joined in, scooping up bills as they slid along the paving and snagging them out of the air. More and more people turned to watch in astonishment.

“Is this some kind of crazy promotional stunt?” someone asked.

“Who gives a shit?” A younger man with a shaved head and multiple piercings laughed, holding up a fistful of zlotys. “It’s real cash, see!”

Red-faced and shaking with rage, the old man tried to tear the notes out of his hand. “That’s mine,” he yelled. “Give it back, you thieving skinhead!”

“Fuck off, Grandpa,” the younger man said coldly, holding the zlotys high out of his reach with one hand and roughly shoving him away with the other. “I don’t see your name anywhere on these bills.”

“But they’re coming from my account,” the old man shrieked.

“Then go complain to your goddamned Jew bank.” The skinhead laughed again. “Those Żyd moneylenders are your real problem, not me.”

Several others in the gathering crowd nodded, though most looked disgusted.

That’s enough, Brad thought grimly. He stepped forward. “I suggest you give this man his money back,” he said, in halting Polish.

The skinhead laughed contemptuously. “Or what, dickhead?”

“Or I’ll have to kick your ass,” Brad said softly.

“Screw you, foreigner,” the other man retorted. He tugged a switchblade out of his pocket and flicked it open. The long, thin blade glinted in the sun. “Maybe I should carve you up a little, to teach you some manners, eh?”

The crowd went very quiet.

Okay, Brad thought, this just got real. He rolled his shoulders and neck unobtrusively, loosening up. When the guy made his move, he’d have to slide to the right fast, deflect the knife with a rising left-hand block, and then…

“Please move aside, Brad,” he heard Nadia say calmly. He glanced backward, not wanting to take his eyes off the skinhead, now fearful about the sudden distraction… but moments later he obeyed. Nadia had drawn her concealed 9mm Walther P99 pistol. Smiling coldly, she stepped gracefully into a two-handed shooter’s stance — aiming right at the skinhead’s center of mass. “Drop the knife, dupek.”

The other man’s eyes widened in fear. His gaze flicked nervously from side to side, looking for support that wasn’t there. He licked his lips. “Jesus, lady. Are you totally fucking nuts?”

“One,” Nadia said. “Two—”

One of the skinhead’s friends grabbed his arm. “For Christ’s sake, Jerzy. Let it go. Dump the knife!” He waved his cell phone. “I just heard from Eryk. Every damned ATM in the city is going nuts. Zlotys are flying everywhere, man. It’s like manna from heaven. So who needs this shit?”

Blank-faced now, the other man let the switchblade fall out of his hand and slowly backed away. The crowd parted to let him through.

Satisfied, Nadia holstered her pistol, then knelt quickly, and scooped the knife off the sidewalk. She glanced at Brad. “Do you think that other little piece of scum was telling the truth? About all the ATMs running amok?”

Police sirens were wailing now, rising and falling in what seemed like all directions throughout Warsaw’s city center. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I think he might have been.”

She looked worried. “If so, that would be bad. Very bad.”

Brad’s smartphone buzzed again. He checked the text and looked up. “Yes, it sure would. And you’re not the only one who’s worried. Our flight time just got bumped up. Apparently, all hell is breaking loose, and Martindale and the president want us back at the palace right away.”

Jarosław Rogoski stared at the computer screen with unconcealed bewilderment. In thirty-two years of service with the bank, including five as the senior vice president for retail banking, he had never encountered anything like this. Right now the monitor was displaying the details of just one of the millions of individual accounts owned by the bank’s customers. But what is showed was, well, impossible.

Net Account Balance: 10,521.25 zł

The display flickered briefly.

Net Account Balance: 1,320,499.11 zł

Again, the monitor refreshed.

Net Account Balance: -10.05 zł

He looked up at the bank’s chief technology officer, Marta Stachowska. “Something like this craziness is happening to every account?”

She nodded grimly. “Every single one that we’ve pulled up so far.” She bit her lip. “The numbers jump wildly every second and, as far as we can tell, with total randomness. No matter what we try, we can’t seem to freeze any of them.”

“Oh my God,” Rogoski muttered. He tapped the screen. “Is this problem connected to what’s going on with our ATMs?”

“Probably.” Stachowska looked sick. “I think all of our computer systems have been hacked, Jarosław.” She lowered her voice. “Our phone and computer help lines are jammed with customers who want to know why their checking and savings and investment and retirement-account balances are going nuts. People are starting to panic.”

Rogoski felt the blood drain from his face.

Every banking executive dreaded the possibility of a panic-driven run on his or her institution as more and more customers pulled their money out in a frenzy. To help avert that, it was standard finance-industry practice to maintain cash reserves large enough to deal with any sudden rush of withdrawals. But now, with every automated record-keeping system in chaos, how could the bank let anyone withdraw anything from any account?

Suddenly another horrifying possibility occurred to him. “Christ, what about all the credit cards we’ve issued? Are those records affected too?”

Stachowska pulled up another screen and scanned the rapidly changing numbers. “Yes, they are,” she admitted in a low, quivering voice.

Rogoski swallowed hard. “Which means that everyone who tries to use one of our cards—”

“Is being automatically declined,” she confirmed somberly. “At the moment, every line of business we have — from individual banking and home mortgages to investment banking and commercial lending — is effectively dead.”

He sat down hard, burying his head in his hands. “My God,” he muttered. “We’re ruined.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Marta Stachowska said quietly, “it’s not just us.”

“What?”

“If what the news reports we’re hearing are accurate, every financial institution in Poland has been hacked,” she told him bluntly. “What’s happening here in Warsaw is going on across the whole country.”

In a whirlwind of rotor-blown dried leaves, the Sokoł helicopter lifted off the forecourt. Narrowly clearing the trees and wrought-iron fence separating the Belweder Palace from the city, it began circling, steadily gaining altitude.

Brad McLanahan peered down at the Polish capital’s mosaic of elegant classical architecture and gleaming, modern skyscrapers, of broad, tree-lined avenues and narrow alleys. From what he could see, traffic was at a total standstill. Crowds of people were pouring out into the streets, converging in agitated masses on a number of different buildings scattered throughout Warsaw’s center. Flashing blue and red lights marked dozens of police cars trying to force their way along jammed thoroughfares.

“Those mobs are gathering outside every branch of every bank and financial institution,” Martindale said grimly over the intercom.

Brad looked across the passenger cabin. The other man had his own face pressed to the nearest window. “Sir?”

“The banks have closed up tight,” Martindale told him. “What choice do they have? With what appears to be some really nasty malware running wild through all of their computers, they can’t make any transactions.”

“Which means our whole economy is going to be grinding to a halt,” Nadia realized.

“That’s about the size of it,” Martindale said gloomily. “Without operating banks, who can conduct business? Sure, there may be a few mom-and-pop stores that still deal mostly in cash, but everyone else relies on electronic transfers. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a worker bee using an ATM card or a credit card or a big corporation relying on a line of credit to fund some new enterprise.” He frowned. “It’s a damnably simple equation: without access to capital or credit, there’s no real commerce. Not above a primitive, barter-style economy, anyway.”

“So very soon no one will be able to buy food. Or pay for gasoline. Or anything else,” Nadia said, looking deeply worried. “Not once they’ve used up any cash they have left in their wallets and purses.”

Brad looked down at Warsaw’s streets. The crowds were growing fast. He could see thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of people, more streaming in from every direction. He glanced back at Martindale. “You think people down there are going to turn violent, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” the other man said flatly. “At least enough of them to make real trouble.”

Thinking about the skinhead he’d confronted, Brad nodded. There were always fringe groups in any society, ready and eager to snatch any chance to raise hell. And as panic spread through Poland, with more and more of its citizens discovering they could no longer access their savings or use credit cards to buy necessities, it would take just a single small spark to set off an epidemic of looting, arson, and mayhem.

Something caught his eye just as their helicopter swung east, heading for Minsk Mazowiecki at 130 knots. White puffs suddenly blossomed in the air, right above a huge mass of people thronging a wide avenue lined by several major banks.

“The police are firing tear gas,” Martindale said somberly. “It’s begun.”

Polish president Piotr Wilk sat huddled with the two most important and influential members of his government — Prime Minister Klaudia Rybak and Janusz Gierek, his minister of defense. They were gathered around a conference table equipped with a computer and a flat-screen display.

Slightly muffled by distance and the stout walls of the palace, the constant wail of police, ambulance, and fire-engine sirens served as a backdrop to their tense discussion. Riot police were in action at multiple points across Warsaw, fending off the massive, panic-stricken crowds still trying to break into bank buildings. Other police units had their hands full cracking down on criminals who were setting fires and looting stores across the city.

Kevin Martindale looked out at them from the computer screen. His image was grainy. The American was flying west somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean aboard one of his private executive jets. Bouncing encrypted signals through multiple communications satellites made this secure two-way video link possible, though only by the narrowest of margins.

“I’ve spoken to the heads of every major bank personally,” Klaudia Rybak said crisply. Before she became prime minister, her work as an economist had helped Poland transition from a failed Marxist state to a vibrant, increasingly prosperous nation. Most of the men and women who ran their nation’s financial institutions were former colleagues or subordinates. “The situation is extremely grave. There is no doubt that all of their current account records are corrupted beyond any hope of salvage.”

“Can they reboot their computer systems using stored backups?” Martindale asked.

The prime minister nodded. “They can. In fact, they must.” Her expression was bleak. “But to do any good, each bank’s IT specialists will have to systematically analyze each separate backup with enormous care. Only those made before these hackers inserted their malware will be safe to use.”

“All of which means more delay before the wheels of commerce begin turning again,” Wilk said sourly.

“Yes, Mr. President,” she agreed. “But that is not all. Rebooting from earlier backups means that the digital records of millions and perhaps tens of millions of separate financial transactions will be effectively erased forever. Over time, paper receipts and records can be used to help fill in some of the resulting gaps, but not all.” She sighed. “No matter how you look at it, the costs and economic disruption will be enormous.”

“How much?” Wilk asked.

The prime minister shrugged. “It is impossible as yet to tell. But I suspect it will be somewhere on the order of eight to ten billion zlotys. And those figures may go much higher. The costs to our economy and people will certainly rise steeply for every day the banks remain closed.”

Martindale whistled softly under his breath. Ten billion zlotys was close to three billion dollars at current exchange rates. It also represented close to 2 percent of Poland’s annual gross domestic product. Taking that kind of financial hit once wouldn’t tip the country’s growing economy into a full-blown recession, but it was close. And it was all too likely that more hits were on the way.

“Can we prove the Russians did this?” Janusz Gierek asked. The white-haired defense minister’s voice trembled with anger. “What is being done to track down those responsible?”

“Computer emergency response teams, CERTs, from our Internal Security Agency are examining copies of the corrupted software with all possible speed,” Wilk told him. “And Mr. Martindale’s experts from Scion are conducting their own independent analysis.”

“To what result?” Gierek pressed.

“We have not yet uncovered any definitive evidence, Janusz,” Wilk admitted reluctantly. “As was the case with the malware found inside the Cernavodă reactor, there are some elements in the code which suggest involvement by Russian hackers — but nothing more concrete.”

“Who else besides the Russians would conduct an attack of such scope and severity?” Gierek snapped. “The Americans may have the ability to engage in cyberwarfare on this scale, but I do not believe that even their president, Barbeau, would act so malevolently.”

“At least not without a little more provocation than we’ve given her,” Martindale agreed wryly. “As a matter of purely personal revenge, Stacy Anne might be willing to see my corporate or personal accounts wiped out, but I doubt she’d risk the political and diplomatic fallout involved in taking out your whole banking system.”

“If Moscow is responsible, then what is our response?” Prime Minister Rybak asked. “Can we take our case to the United Nations? Or press for compensation through the World Trade Organization?”

“I’m afraid going down either of those two roads right now would only play into Gryzlov’s hands,” Martindale said quietly.

Wilk nodded his understanding. They were faced with the same dilemma they’d confronted after the cyberwar attack in Romania. Without solid evidence directly tying Moscow to the malware-caused collapse of Poland’s banking system, lashing out against Russia would only lend credence to claims that the Poles were paranoid.

Gryzlov could easily blame the catastrophe on criminals. For years now, gangs of hackers based in Romania and Russia and elsewhere had been stealing millions from banks and retailers and other corporations. Any claim that this most recent hacking incident was just more of the same would be readily accepted by those eager to stay out of any conflict between Moscow and Warsaw.

“If protesting to the international community would be a wasted effort, what exactly do you propose that we do?” the defense minister asked.

“I’ve ordered our computer response teams to help our banks and other businesses tighten their security,” Wilk said, already knowing how inadequate his words sounded. “They will also apply special scrutiny to Internet portals and sites we suspect are vulnerable to Russian infiltration.”

Gierek snorted. “Wasted time. And wasted effort. It’s too late to lock the barn door now. The horse has already bolted.”

Martindale looked apologetic. “Janusz is probably right, Piotr,” he said. “If I were Gryzlov, I wouldn’t have kicked this war off until I had more of my cyber bombs safely ticking away inside other targets.”

“Then why not launch retaliatory cyberwar strikes of our own?” Klaudia Rybak asked. “Perhaps we could show Moscow this is a dangerous game by knocking out Russian government websites — or better yet, those important to industries and corporations controlled by President Gryzlov and the oligarchs who are his allies.”

Piotr Wilk wished that he could do as she urged. Every bone in his body cried out for vengeance. His instincts as both a patriotic Pole and a former officer in its air force all told him that taking the fight to the enemy was the only way to win. Gallant defensive struggles waged against enormous odds might be the stuff of legends, but offensive action was the path to victory.

Sadly, in this case, wishes could not change realities.

Poland did not have either the resources or the time needed to develop the kinds of sophisticated cyberwar weapons Gennadiy Gryzlov was now using against her. And since the Russians had been systematically “hardening” their own computer networks against hacking, limited Polish cyberspace counterattacks were unlikely to penetrate their security. At best, any damage they could inflict would be minimal. At worst, a failed Polish cyberattack might leave traces that would allow Moscow to brand Poland as an aggressor state.

“Perhaps that is true,” Gierek agreed after listening to his president’s reasoning. He scowled. “We have spent the last year and billions of zlotys building up our conventional air and ground forces. Sadly, it now appears that we were only preparing to fight the last war instead of the one we now face, just like every other fool in history. We are no different from the French who wasted their resources on the Maginot Line or the Americans who thought they could refight World War Two in Vietnam.”

The defense minister’s bitter gaze turned toward Martindale. “But what of our allies in Scion? Are you equally unprepared?” His eyes narrowed. “Or do you have such weapons of your own you might share?”

“If we had cyberweapons that would help, I’d employ them in a heartbeat,” the American assured them. He smiled ruefully. “Remember, we’ve tied our fortunes closely to yours. If Poland prospers, my people and I prosper. If you fall, we’re going down with you.”

“But your company’s hacking operations are extraordinarily sophisticated,” Gierek pointed out. “During our last conflict with Russia, my intelligence analysts were amazed by the information your ‘tech wizards’ pried out of the enemy’s computer networks.”

“True enough,” Martindale said quietly. “But Scion’s computer operations are primarily focused on intelligence gathering, not direct action on a strategic scale. Going off half-cocked now only risks exposing sources and methods my people need to penetrate the security screen Moscow has thrown around this covert war.”

“Then why not modify this netrusion capability your Iron Wolf fighting machines and aircraft employ to blind enemy radars in combat?” the Polish defense minister asked stubbornly. “That is a form of weaponized computer hacking, is it not?”

“Because netrusion is a tactical option, Janusz, and a significantly limited option at that,” Martindale replied. “Yes, we can hack into enemy radars — but only for a few minutes and only at relatively close range. That’s a far cry from being able to pull off the same kinds of stunts Gryzlov and his guys are managing.” His mouth turned down. “Look, I don’t like this any better than the rest of you folks. But all I can suggest for now is that we’d all better buckle up. Because I’m damned sure this ride is going to get a lot bumpier real soon.”