The Ajax Protocol

CHAPTER 5

Phil Abingdon was bored. He reached into a large jar of jelly beans he kept on his desk and chose a green one, popped it in his mouth and chewed. Abingdon was the chief programmer at the underground command center that controlled Ajax. Part of his job was maintaining computer security. The system of firewalls and hacker traps he'd created on the Ajax computers was as good as it got, better than Langley's. Phil knew that was true because he was able to hack into the CIA servers with relative ease.

Hackers across the world formed a loosely knit internet community, the members known only by their screen names. Abingdon was one of the elite, a recognized master of the art.

He'd discovered his gift for programming as a teenager. He loved the challenge of hacking into places he wasn't supposed to go. One of those places had been the Pentagon and when the military cops showed up at his door seven years ago, he'd thought he was headed for Guantanamo. Instead, General Westlake had offered him a job.

Abingdon's screen handle was Apocalypse. He thought it had a nice ring to it. It conveyed his message: You have no future. I bring the end of your world.

When the computers signaled an intruder on the system, his first thought was that it was a false alarm. Someone would have to get through the outer rings of his defenses for the alert to go off. It had never happened. Routine probes were dismissed and answered with a malicious worm that corrupted the hacker's files. No one ever tried more than once.

The hacker had gotten past the automatic blocking programs, past the anti-virus and spyware programs, past the secondary defenses.

Phil smiled to himself in silent admiration of the skill of the attacker. You're good, whoever you are. Of course, it couldn't be tolerated. He activated a program that diverted the incoming code to a meaningless file that appeared important but contained nothing. He entered another command and the screen filled with lines of code the intruder was using to gain access. There was something familiar about it. He'd seen this style before, he was sure of it.

There were very few hackers at Phil's level. Each had a distinctive touch, what the old radio code operators had called a "fist", an identifying pattern as unique as a fingerprint. Then it clicked.

Butterfly.

It had been at least two years since he'd seen that signature style. He thought it was probably a woman, but he didn't know for sure. It was only a hunch, a feeling. He thought of Butterfly as her, not him.

Well, hello, Butterfly. I'm about to ruin your day.

Phil entered a new string of commands. The incoming code flickered, paused, then resumed.

Son of a bitch. She must be on something with a lot of horsepower. Maybe a Cray. She picked it up and countered.

He sent a vicious virus that would wipe out everything in her files. She went offline. Phil stared at the empty screen. That ought to do it, he thought. I'd like to meet her someday.

Where had the attack come from? He pulled up another program designed to trace unauthorized attempts to access the Ajax files. The screen showed that the attack had come from the Ukraine, after bouncing around the globe to various IP servers. Phil didn't believe that for a moment. Butterfly had been clever, but Phil had written a program that reverse engineered attempts to conceal the source by diverting the servers. In less than a minute, he had it. The server was in Virginia, outside of Washington.

This isn't good, he thought. The General isn't going to like this.

He picked up the secured line and called Westlake.

In his home outside Washington, Westlake had just poured himself a large measure of single malt whiskey. The blinking light on his secured phone told him the call was coming from the command center.

He picked up the phone.

"Yes."

"General, this is Phil Abingdon. We have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"We've been probed. I've identified the source and was able to trace it."

"Yes?"

"I wouldn't bother you with this but the attack came from a computer assigned to one of the intelligence agencies."

"Which one?"

"I've never heard of it. Something called the Presidential Official Joint Exercise in Counter Terrorism."

The Project, Westlake thought..

"I know who they are," he said. "Were they successful?"

"No, sir. I blocked them from getting anything important."

"How did they find us?"

"I don't know. They might have tracked us by the satellite transmission over Russia."

"You're sure they didn't get into the database?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good work, Abingdon. I'll take care of it. Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir." Abingdon put down the phone.

Westlake sipped from his drink and considered his options. He knew about the Project and he knew about Elizabeth Harker. She had a reputation for being relentless. Once she fastened onto something, she was like a dog that wouldn't let go. She'd probed his command server, it was possible she could discover the location of the bunker. He couldn't let that happen.

He'd have to do something about her and her group. Action against her was necessary.

How much did she know? Who had she told? The only way to find out was to ask her. He'd have to get her someplace where she could be questioned and if that wasn't possible, eliminate her. If he went after Harker, he'd have to take out her team as well.

Somehow his glass was empty. He got up and filled it again. Tomorrow evening, the next phase of the plan was set to unfold. It would provide a perfect opportunity to catch Harker off her guard.

Westlake picked up his phone and made the arrangements.