‘So I take it this isn’t how you usually spend your Fridays?’
We’d been on the Interstate nearly half an hour, and though Ellen had, at the start of the journey, helped me figure out a route – Springville was a 175 mile slog up the I-5 – she’d been silently brooding ever since. So, since I had to get her talking sooner or later, I’d decided to bite the bullet.
She glared at me.
‘No, usually I just have to roofie myself,’ she replied sardonically. ‘Is eighty miles per hour the fastest you can go?’
I stared out the windscreen. Clearly the chummy approach wasn’t gonna fly. But I had to persist. And if she was going to dodge questions about herself, I reckoned starting with her brother could be the way to go.
‘As I told you, my license isn’t entirely on the up-and-up. So, if we get pulled over, there’s a real chance I land myself in a cell, and you land yourself with a long walk.’ I looked at her seriously. ‘Right, this brother of yours. Who the hell is he? And how the hell’s he gotten his hands on a hit-list?’
‘I already told you what his text said – do you think he’s telepathically told me more?’
I shot her a look that said I wasn’t in the mood.
She shook her head despairingly. She was about to spill, but wanted me to know she wasn’t happy about it.
‘His name’s Lawrence Kelden, he’s an ex-NSA man,’ she said resignedly. ‘I really don’t know much about what he’s been doing this past year or so. All I know is that he’s been living in San Francisco – though I don’t know where – and working on some secretive project with a bunch of cypherpunks.’ She paused. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’
She’d started at the end, and that was natural enough: what her brother had been doing the last twelve months was almost certainly crucial. But I wanted the full picture – enough context, for example, to know what a cypherpunk was.
What’s more, I only wanted her discussing the past year once she’d warmed up.
‘Start at the beginning. How old is he? Where’d he go to university?’
She nodded. ‘He’s thirty-five. Studied Computer Science at Carnegie Mellon. Graduated in 2001.’ Ellen stretched her neck side to side. She’d accepted she was going to talk, and was settling in. ‘Ever heard of Dennis Baum?’
I shook my head.
‘Basically, he was one of the original cypherpunks—’
Another head shake. ‘I’ve heard of cyberpunk – it’s a genre of futuristic fiction – but never of cypherpunks.’
She knitted her brow. Then, with a newfound patience:
‘In the early 1990s, a group of radical libertarian computer whizzes in California started working on projects that used ciphers – that is, codes, encryption – to limit the powers of government surveillance on the internet. Hence, cypherpunks: a reference not only to the cyberpunk fiction that inspired these guys, but also their penchant for ciphers.
‘Anyway, Dennis Baum, perhaps their most influential member, also happened to be a professor at Carnegie, and took my brother under his wing. And while I’ve no doubt my brother’s abilities caught Baum’s eye, I’m certain Lawrence also sought him out: he’d internalized our father’s libertarianism, and was looking for a mentor.’
She paused, then: ‘Baum came up with the concept of internet-based currency.’
I nodded. I’d never heard the term cypherpunk before, but I knew the sort.
‘So descendants of the cypherpunk movement include the likes of Edward Snowden? Folk using technology to kick government in the balls?’
‘Right.’
‘And let me guess: despite his rabid libertarianism, Lawrence joined the NSA after graduating without batting an eyelid?’
She shot me a knowing look. ‘Right again.’
With that exchange, we both revealed we knew something of the NSA’s unique culture. The NSA – far more than the CIA or FBI – needs computer experts. However, many have anti-government leanings, and the result is an uneasy coexistence between the old guard who run the show and their techie underlings who disdain their superiors’ lack of knowledge and, in some cases, even the NSA itself.
Yet, despite this culture clash, the techies keep signing up; because the NSA is one of the few places that’ll pay them a healthy salary while they cut their teeth.
Snowden was precisely one of these creatures. But whereas the other NSA guys with similar views found it relatively easy to ignore the increasing surveillance post-9/11, Snowden struggled. And eventually, in 2013, he cracked, and leaked a million classified documents, thereby revealing more US secrets than anyone in history.
‘So Lawrence joined the NSA – then what?’
‘Then, for many years, he was happy. He didn’t really let his libertarian ideals bother him – he seemed to suppress them – and as a result, he excelled. By 2007, he’d been promoted twice.’
Ellen eyed me interrogatively. ‘Then, shortly after, he won widespread acclaim – with the Buckshot Yankee incident.’
Ellen paused deliberately, and continued her interrogative stare. I understood the look. Although I’d said nothing top-secret, I’d demonstrated more knowledge than the layman – and she was curious as to the extent of it. By bringing up Buckshot Yankee – an event not publicly known – she was sounding me out.
But since she was opening up, I figured it was only fair I did, too.
‘I know a little about Buckshot Yankee. In 2008, the NSA found a virus on its computers. That was a big deal, because their computers weren’t connected to the internet – in technical terms, they were air-gapped – meaning a foreign spy agency managed to trick or coerce someone into plugging an infected USB stick into one of their computers. The consensus was, Russia was behind it. The attack was known officially as Buckshot Yankee.’
Her face softened considerably. Clearly, she was most concerned about whether I was being upfront.
‘That tallies with what Lawrence told me. He was the one who spotted the virus – though by the time he did, it’d already spread like wildfire to every US institution using air-gapped computers: the military, FBI, CIA, Secret Service. The way it worked was simple: it sent out a message via radio waves, asking for instructions.
‘Fortunately, however, the virus hadn’t yet received any, so my brother came up with a simple yet ingenious solution. He set up a computer to communicate with the virus via radio, which told the virus to go to sleep, and to accept instructions from no other computer. He rendered the virus dormant and harmless. Some powerful people were very thankful.’
‘I bet.’
Ellen nodded and fixed her gaze straight ahead. I was now making progress – she was laying cards on the table.
I gave Ellen a moment to regroup, then:
‘I’m guessing things didn’t stay rosy?’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ she said, with an ironic grin. ‘The truth is, he always loathed the NSA’s expansion of powers since 9/11 – the expansion that saw them attempt to monitor the entirety of the internet, all telecommunications, and which was kept in the dark until Snowden blew the whistle.’
She said this with venom. Evidently she, too, hadn’t been impervious to her father’s libertarianism. She continued:
‘Yet, he put up with it… Looking back, I think he’d naïvely convinced himself it was temporary; that it’d change once the Republicans lost power. But when the Democrats won in ’08, and things didn’t change, he really began to grow jaded. And though he stuck it out for another two years, he threw in the towel in early 2011.’
I hummed. None of this remotely shocked me.
Ellen continued: ‘But at that point he didn’t do a Snowden: he simply shoved the NSA’s excesses to the back of his mind and moved to the private sector.
‘But then, in 2013, the Snowden revelations hit, and suddenly Lawrence was riddled with guilt. While he’d hid his head in the sand, Snowden had stood up. And so he once again changed course: he returned to the West Coast, and began work on a number of cypherpunk projects in squats and collectives. And ironically, though he was now nearer me, I heard from him less. The occasional text.
‘Then, at the end of 2014, he got involved in a new project – a project so secret he barely told me any details. All I could glean was that he was living with a small team somewhere in the Bay Area, though he wouldn’t give me an address.’
‘Wait, that’s it?’ I replied incredulously. ‘That’s all he told you about his past year? Yet he gave you insights into the NSA’s secretive inner-workings?’
Ellen shrugged. ‘Maybe he takes libertarian projects more seriously.’ A contemplative pause. ‘I don’t think it’s because he stopped trusting me. He made it seem like his secretiveness was for my own good.’ She let loose a sharp laugh. ‘Fat load of good it did.’
With that, she grabbed the Dunhills I’d left in the change holder and lit one.
I sighed inwardly. I felt sure Ellen hadn’t held back about her brother. But that was the problem: she’d spilled, and I was still none the wiser as to what this was all about – what awaited in Springville. But while her brother’s back-story had failed to give me bearings, there was a chance hers would.
But then, when I looked at her again, I knew I had to give her a moment, because suddenly she didn’t look fearless and defiant; suddenly she’d let her guard down, and she looked how she felt: tired, worried, uncertain. And as I took in her appearance – took in her deep brown eyes, small angular nose, shoulder-length hair with sweeping fringe, slightly oversized, protruding ears – it felt like I was seeing her for the first time.
She wasn’t pretty. She was drop-dead.
And with this glimpse beyond her fiery demeanor, it hit home – this woman had been through hell.
I knew she wanted neither my friendship nor pity. But before I continued grilling, I owed her some more information about myself.
I put a Dunhill on my lip, lit it, took a deep drag. ‘As I’m sure you’ve already inferred, I spent time at a federal agency. Fifteen years at the FBI. During that time, I worked for a number of departments: Criminal Investigative Division, Hostage Rescue Team, Office of Intelligence. But insofar as Lawrence’s warning to avoid law enforcement is concerned, I wouldn’t sweat it: I parted ways with the FBI two years ago – acrimoniously.’
I took another drag, then shot her a look that said: any questions?
She took the hint. ‘How’d you find yourself in that line of work?’
I smiled. She could’ve asked about the acrimony, but she’d let me off.
‘Not the usual career path. In fact, before the FBI, I was in prison…’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Basically, during my late teens and early twenties, I was a con-artist. Damn good one, too. Falsified documents, impersonated a doctor, dabbled in organized crime – to name a few exploits. But then, after four years of fun, the law caught up, and bam, I was in the big house. But before long, the FBI realized they could use my talents…’
I waved a hand as if to say, the rest is history.
‘So up until recently, this was how you’d usually spend a Friday?’ she said dryly.
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
I glanced at her. Again, she looked hardened; but I could tell she appreciated my opening up.
I decided to capitalize.
‘So Ellen,’ I said a minute later. ‘I now know plenty about Lawrence. But all I know about you is what’s on your university card. I’d like to know more. And I’d like to know if you have any theories as to what the hell’s going on?’
Her reaction to this question – which she surely knew was coming – was more severe than I’d expected. She groaned, and threw back her head.
‘Fine, fuck it. I’ve kept my mouth shut for so long. But if this is what I fear it is, the cat’s out the bag, anyway.’
She paused, thinking how to proceed. It seemed she was about to hit me with something big.
‘As you know, I’m a lecturer in mathematical physics, and though my work may seem less exciting than my brother’s, I believe it’s important, and it’s always been a priority for me that I do nothing to jeopardize it…’ She trailed off. Then, changing tack, she said: ‘When my brother was at the NSA, he told me that to avoid being monitored on the internet, you should use The Onion Router, or TOR – you heard of it?’
I nodded. ‘I’ve used it a couple of times.’
‘What do you know about it?’
I couldn’t see where she was going, but I bit:
‘It’s a tool you download that lets you browse the internet anonymously: nobody can trace which websites you visit. It also lets you run websites anonymously: it’s impossible to see who’s running which website. As a result, it’s known colloquially as the Dark Net.’ I racked my brain. ‘I don’t know the science behind it, but I know it was invented by the US Naval Research Lab in 2002 to allow people living in dictatorships to use the internet without reprisal; that criminals – terrorists, child pornographers, drug dealers – have adopted it since; and that, though invented by the US, the folk at the NSA regard it a dangerous blind-spot.’
‘Correct,’ she said. ‘The science is simple enough. Instead of connecting you directly to a website, TOR patches you through a number of intermediary computers first, so your IP address – the thing that uniquely identifies your device and location – is hidden.
‘However, the privacy TOR provides is more sophisticated still. All dialogue conducted over TOR is encrypted with Public Key Encryption. A way of scrambling text, invented in the 1970s, which the authorities still struggle with – it takes an NSA supercomputer days to crack a Public Key encrypted message.’
Again, this was technology I’d heard of. In fact, I knew that the guys behind 9/11 used a combination of TOR and Public Key to coordinate and communicate.
‘So in short: if you’re using both TOR and Public Key, it’s near-impossible to see who you are or what you’re saying?’
‘Bingo. And when I heard about it, I got ideas.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘You see, my parents were Tibetan, and fled to the US due to Chinese persecution. As a result, I’ve always closely followed the horrendous human rights abuses that go on in occupied Tibet. But if you speak out against China, even from here, they’ll make your life hell: they’ll hack you, smear you, try to destroy your career… You won’t believe the lengths they’ll go to. In 2009 they hacked Google just to target a nineteen-year-old student.
‘Call it cowardice, but I didn’t want the trouble. So I didn’t speak out.
‘But then, three years ago, I discovered TOR, and it changed everything. I realized I could fight the cause online – promote discussion, encourage dissent, fund projects – while remaining anonymous. So that’s what I did – in a big way.
‘So my theory is: a team of Chinese nationalists are hunting Americans who have protested against China anonymously online – and somehow they’ve managed to identify me as just such a protestor. And that’s why neither I nor the press recognize the other victims as anti-China dissidents – because clearly they, too, had been agitating anonymously online.’
She paused. ‘I figured at worst I might lose my job if I was ever exposed. But in fact, my life’s at stake.’
I absorbed this slowly. Then:
‘Couldn’t your brother have let slip your secret?’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘You’re not getting it. I’ve never told a soul about this. You’re the first.’
She looked at me meaningfully. I was beginning to realize just how much she was laying bare. And since I was clearly dealing with a fiercely intelligent individual, I couldn’t take it lightly.
I nodded at her seriously. ‘But it can’t possibly be state-sponsored actors. I’m aware China commit some monstrous atrocities at home, but they’d never be so foolish as to use lethal force on US soil. The fall out’d be cataclysmic… We must be looking at a rogue group.’
‘Agreed. But what I want to know is: how on earth did they find me?’
I nodded slowly. This was an unsettling question: I knew enough about TOR to know that unveiling even the slightest details about its users was no joke. But in fact, the whole situation was deeply unsettling. And as we fell into contemplative silence, I felt the misgivings creeping in.
I was getting drawn in. That was something I couldn’t afford to do.
Twenty minutes later, we started discussing how we’d approach things when we arrived. According to my road-map, Springville consisted of a main drag of a mile and a half, running south-west to north-east; a modest nexus of residential roads to either side; and a small river bordering the east. And I reckoned – given its location and set-up – we were dealing with one of your quiet, well-to-do, Californian towns, with a population of maybe 1,000.
But, crucially, there was a central landmark: a gazebo, located midway along the main drag.This seemed as good a stage as any on which to carry out the sort of killings these guys had favored the past two days.
We decided that, when we got to Springville, we’d drive along the main drag – because we knew the stretch could be populated by any number of hostiles, and it seemed that approaching in a car they wouldn’t recognize under the cover of night (the sun had already set) was the most efficient way to safely reach the center of town. Then, when we neared the gazebo, we’d find somewhere off the main drag to pull over – which would hopefully put us out of the line of fire of any hostiles – then investigate the area on foot. First, any buildings that looked onto the gazebo, then the gazebo itself.
And we knew that we’d have to act with extreme caution. After all, it seemed the previous killings had involved not just a sniper rifle, but a silenced sniper rifle, given that nobody appeared to have heard a gunshot on both previous occasions. And the last thing we needed was a sniper bullet to the head.