Monday
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow
Raya Kosov got up from her black plastic swivel chair, picked up her pocket binoculars and walked across to the window. Working in the new Russian-designed and built extension at Yasenevo had many disadvantages – including the distance from the staff canteen located on the first floor of the main building – but it also offered some compensations.
One of these was certainly the view. From her window on the west side of the extension, she could see a panorama encompassing most of Moscow, albeit somewhat distant and largely obscured by the ugly tower blocks of nearby housing estates, and of that splendid view she never tired. Most of the offices occupied by senior officers were situated on the other side of the building, looking south over a peaceful vista of the lake and trees, but Raya much preferred her north-facing room.
The first time she had brought her binoculars to Yasenevo, she had immediately been suspended, her superiors duly informed and the binoculars confiscated. Her explanation, that she simply wanted to look out at the city of Moscow, had been rejected without comment.
The binoculars had then been examined in detail by the Technical Services staff, who had dismantled them, looking for the camera, tape-recorder or other such device that the SVR guards were certain would be hidden inside. It was with some disappointment that Technical Services, some three weeks later, announced that the binoculars were just binoculars, and therefore of no possible security concern.
A week after that, the binoculars were returned to Raya, and her right of access was restored. Her superior officer gave her a mild reprimand for wasting time – her own time in looking at the view, and Technical Services’ time in examining the binoculars – and then she went back to work.
Raya smiled at the recollection as she adjusted the focus. It was a clear day, and she could clearly see the green roof and yellow and white facade of the Great Kremlin Palace. Out of sight from her vantage point, lying slightly beyond and to the right of the palace, lay the Lubyanka. It was the former headquarters of the KGB and for Raya, in many ways, a far more interesting place.
She was still standing at the window, staring northwest, when her office door opened.
Paxton Hall, Felsham, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
In the silence that followed Arkin’s remark, the sound of approaching footsteps became audible outside the room. The footsteps then terminated with a double knock on the library door.
‘Come,’ Sir Malcolm Holbeche said, raising his voice slightly.
The door opened and one of the SIS resident staff poked his head around it. ‘Mr Willets has arrived, sir.’
‘Good,’ Holbeche nodded. ‘Send him in.’
‘Willets?’ Arkin looked enquiringly at the head of the Secret Intelligence Service. ‘I don’t think I recognize that name.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Arkin,’ Holbeche replied. ‘In fact, I’d have been worried if you did know him. Roger Willets is the Chief Security Officer at the London Data Centre, so he’s directly involved in this serious breach.’
The London Data Centre, known as the LDC, was British intelligence’s most secret computer centre and occupied three floors underneath Whitehall. The first floor housed the hardware itself, the next one down was the location for the terminals and the system servicing staff, and the lowest and most secure floor held the data disks. Access to the Centre was through the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, since the FCO’s entrance was used by so many people that it would be difficult for enemy agents to identify and target the Centre’s staff specifically.
‘However,’ Holbeche continued, ‘Willets is also a computer specialist, and I’ve asked him here because there are some technical factors involved in this problem which need explaining.’
Holbeche stopped speaking as the door opened again and a tall and excessively thin man entered the room. Moore made the introductions, and Willets sat down next to Simpson.
‘Right,’ Arkin said, ignoring Holbeche. ‘Let’s have it.’
Willets glanced towards Holbeche, who nodded almost imperceptibly, then he cleared his throat. ‘You’ve heard what was recovered from the Russian courier?’ he began, addressing no one in particular.
William Moore nodded, but Arkin butted in before Willets could continue. ‘Let’s get one thing quite clear,’ he said. ‘Is there any possibility that this printout the Russian was carrying was not the real thing? It couldn’t, for example, have been just a clever fake, part of some deception operation that’s being run by SIS without them telling the rest of us?’
Willets opened his mouth to reply, but Holbeche beat him to it. ‘Categorically not,’ he snapped, ‘and that is a wholly improper suggestion. No “deception operations”, as you describe them, are run by my organization without my prior knowledge and approval, and I invariably ensure that all interested parties are kept fully informed.’
Willets nodded his agreement. ‘There’s no possibility that the data was faked,’ he said. ‘I checked a copy of the printout with the LDC system administrator – without telling him where it had come from, of course – and it is definitely the real thing. I should emphasize,’ he went on, ‘that the printout is not in itself a serious security breach, as it only lists the computer directory structure and the names of the files, but not the actual contents of those files.’
‘Agreed,’ Moore said, ‘but that rather misses the point. The vital fact is that whoever supplied that listing obviously has access to the computer system, and can presumably supply copies of whatever files the Russians would like to see. Or, at least, those files that his own security clearance allows him to access.’
‘In fact,’ Richard Simpson interrupted, ‘the listing is simply a shopping list for the SVR, to let them pick and choose what they want to see. And that may actually be good news for us.’
‘Why?’ Holbeche asked.
‘Because it’s possible that no secrets have so far been betrayed by this unknown source. This looks to me like one of the first steps in a treacherous relationship and, whoever this source is, he’s proving to the Russians that he has the necessary access. And by getting them to choose whichever files they want to see, he can avoid copying data which would be of no interest to them. There’s also the financial angle, of course.’
‘Explain that, please,’ Arkin said.
‘The only things missing from the shopping list are the prices. My guess is that our source is waiting to see what files the Russians want, before he tells them what it’ll cost them.’
Moore nodded. ‘Yes, that makes sense, and you might be right. Maybe the leak hasn’t started yet, and we can stop it before things go any further. In fact, we might even be able to make capital out of this, by turning it into a disinformation operation.’
Warming to his theme, he leaned forward. ‘If we can identify the source, and then intercept the instructions sent to him by the SVR, we can achieve two things. First, we’ll find out what particular areas are of interest to the Russians, which will to some extent show what their current objectives are. Second, we can create faked copies of the files they ask for, and thus misdirect them.’
There was a brief silence, then Holbeche spoke. ‘There seem to be rather a lot of “ifs” in that scenario, William. Identifying the source won’t be easy, which is one reason why Mr Willets is here.’
Holbeche gestured for Willets to speak. ‘Perhaps this is the time to discuss the purely technical aspects of this matter?’
Willets nodded. ‘For obvious reasons, our security precautions are stringent,’ he said. ‘We rigidly control access to and from the LDC floors, and all personnel are subject to physical searches of their briefcases and other bags on leaving the section. This volume of paper simply could not therefore have been removed from the LDC.’
‘What about someone removing it a few pages at a time, sandwiched inside a newspaper, say?’ Arkin asked.
The question was directed at Willets, but it was Moore who answered. ‘We looked at that, but it’s not possible,’ he said. ‘The listing we found in the Russian courier’s briefcase was printed on continuous stationery, without any breaks. That means it was an original printout.’
‘And there’s another problem,’ Willets went on. ‘The printers used in the LDC – apart from the dot-matrix units on the second floor, which are used only by the system support staff – are all lasers. This printout was done on a twenty-four-pin dot-matrix printer.’
‘How do you know?’ Arkin asked.
‘We counted the indentations that the print-head made on the paper,’ Willets replied briefly.
‘And what about the second-floor staff? From what you’ve said, they have the right kind of printer, and they also have unrestricted access to the computers. That gives them both the means and the opportunity, and puts them right in the frame, according to my book.’ Arkin thrust his chin forward, somewhat aggressively.
He had made few friends during his rise through the ranks, not least because his investigations were characterized by a thoroughness that bordered on the obsessive, and he had no objection to treading – or more accurately stamping – on others’ toes.
‘You didn’t mention motive,’ Willets said mildly.
Arkin smiled somewhat sadly. ‘Money, perhaps?’ he suggested. ‘I don’t suppose you pay the staff that much. Maybe one of them reckoned he could do a little unofficial overtime for the Russian Embassy, and make himself enough to retire on.’
Holbeche had turned slightly pink, but Willets seemed unfazed by Arkin’s attack on the integrity of the LDC staff. ‘We think alike,’ he said. ‘That was my first reaction, too – but it’s impossible. Precisely because of the access those staff have, and the sensitivity of the data stored at the LDC, the second floor has a total surveillance system. And I do mean total.’
He leaned forward, tapping his pencil on the table for emphasis. ‘As I’ve already said, every bag, briefcase or other package that the staff take in or out is physically examined. This may include X-raying if the security personnel think that necessary. Second, the only entry to or exit from that floor is through specially adapted turnstiles which include metal detectors, and anyone triggering the detectors is subject to an immediate and complete body search. Third, the entire floor is under video surveillance twenty-four hours a day. And finally,’ Willets concluded, ‘every keystroke made on every computer console on the floor is recorded, and warnings are automatically generated if certain actions are even attempted. These “certain actions” include directory printouts, file printouts and file copying.’
Willets paused and looked directly across at Arkin. ‘About the only thing I am quite certain about here,’ he said, ‘is that this printout was not made on the second floor of the London Data Centre.’
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yasenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow
Major Yuri Abramov, the Yasenevo Data-Processing System Network Principal Manager, stood in the office doorway and gazed with ill-concealed appreciation at Captain Raya Kosov’s back view. As he did so he reflected how it would have contrasted so sharply with that of his wife had they been placed side by side. Abramov had married early, far too early, and the slim and charming peasant girl with the rosy cheeks had turned within ten years into the shapeless, bulky woman with whom he now shared his life, and his small apartment. The rosy cheeks were still there, but three children and the genes of fifteen generations of farm girls had obliterated almost everything else in her that he had originally found so attractive.
The first time he had met Raya, Abramov had seen in her something of Eugenia as she had been when they got married, and as a result his feelings for his young subordinate had never been entirely dispassionate. Of course, he had never shown Raya any special sign of affection or extended her any special treatment – that would have been considered nekulturny or uncultured – but without doubt he enjoyed having her as his senior computer-systems specialist.
Raya had known who her visitor was as soon as the door opened, and she turned very slowly to face him. Like any woman who enjoys the admiration of a man, she was perfectly aware of his feelings for her, and ensured that she looked and acted to please him. She smiled a welcome to Abramov, then stretched, lifting her arms slowly above her head, her fingers interlaced, and elaborately failed to notice the way his eyes widened as her blouse tightened over her breasts.
‘Major,’ she greeted him deferentially, dropping her arms and moving behind her desk. ‘How can I help you?’
Abramov coughed, then walked over to the desk and sat down in the chair facing her, motioning for her to sit also. ‘As you know, Raya, I will be constantly in and out of the office during all of next week, so I would like you to do two small jobs for me, because I won’t have the time. In fact, you will need to start on one of them almost immediately.’
This was nothing new to Raya. Major Abramov had come to rely on her more and more since she had been appointed to the section some years earlier. As a result, these ‘little jobs’ had arrived on her desk with increasing frequency as his confidence in her had increased.
At the age of eighteen, Raya had moved to Moscow in order to attend the university. There she had been picked out by her tutors as suitable SVR material, even before the end of her first year. All students at Russian universities were assessed by their tutors for academic progress, but also for their aptitude for employment by either the SVR or GRU – Russian military intelligence.
In Raya’s case, her tutors had been favourably impressed by her considerable skills in two areas that were crucial to SVR operations: languages and computer science. Even before she arrived in Moscow to begin her studies, she was virtually fluent in English, French and German.
A background check had revealed no apparent security problems. Her father had died in a road accident when she was still a child, while her mother lived in a small apartment near Minsk, and she had no other close living relatives. Joining the Communist Party as soon as she was old enough, Raya had been a regular attendant at its meetings and an enthusiastic member as a student.
She had been approached by the SVR midway through her second year at university, and had joined them immediately after graduation. After initial general training at one of the organization’s numerous establishments on the outskirts of Moscow, Raya had then been selected for a series of advanced computer-systems courses.
Her first posting had been to the Lubyanka, as a junior systems-security officer, and on the strength of her performance, and following a lengthy and exhaustive security check, she had then been transferred to Yasenevo as Abramov’s deputy. There she had been cleared for access to documents with classification up to Sov Sekretno, Top Secret, and given formal responsibility for computer-system maintenance and document security.
‘Of course, Major,’ Raya replied, sitting forward.
Abramov leaned across and placed two folders on Raya’s desk. She picked them up, glanced briefly at their titles, then put them down again, her full attention focusing on her superior.
‘Before we discuss these files, could I ask what progress you’ve made with the workstation upgrades?’
Like any network manager, Raya was also required to carry out periodic updating of the hardware of all computers on the network. Her current upgrade programme was fairly basic – just adding extra RAM chips to the networked machines. Although the SVR had a substantial budget, computers were still relatively expensive, and the IT section had a policy of upgrading older machines until they became technologically obsolete or simply stopped working.
‘I’ve finished most of them, Major. There’s another dozen or so still to do, but I should complete the installation by the end of this week.’
Because of the sensitivity of the data held at Yasenevo, ordinary computer technicians were not permitted to work on machines attached to the network. That meant only she or Major Abramov were allowed to handle the upgrades, which in practice meant Raya always did it.
‘Good, and now these files. As you can see, the first one orders a full security check on all files held on the system. You’ve done one before, I know, but I would like to remind you of the most important checks you should run.’
Abramov began ticking points off on his fingers. ‘You must inspect the access history of every file that’s classified Top Secret or above since the last full review. You must make a random check of one hundred files carrying a classification of Secret or lower, and check the access history of at least ten per cent of these files. You should check every officer’s password to ensure that it has been changed within the last three months, in accordance with standing orders. And,’ Abramov finished, ‘you should obviously thoroughly investigate and report on every potential security breach that you detect.’
The Russian officer smiled at Raya. ‘I know it’s boring and irritating stuff,’ he said, ‘but that’s one of the crosses we must bear. Security never sleeps, and it must be seen to be effective at all times.’
Raya smiled back at him, nodding at the adage that was quoted straight off the front cover of the security section’s handbook. In fact, Abramov was both right and wrong. She hadn’t carried out just one full security check before; since she had joined Yasenevo she had actually performed every scheduled check. Once Abramov had decided she was competent, he had delegated these, and other vital but tedious tasks, to her and then contented himself with simply reading and approving her reports. In fact, Raya was, in all but name, acting as the true Yasenevo network manager.
However, she didn’t mind that. In fact, the working relationship she enjoyed with Abramov suited her very well.
‘And the second task, Major?’ Raya asked gently.
‘Purely routine,’ Abramov replied. ‘You may perhaps remember that, shortly after you arrived here, we began receiving information from a new agent in Britain. We named this source “Gospodin” – “Mister” – and one of your first jobs here was to create a restricted-access directory in which all the source Gospodin data was stored.’
Abramov paused and looked at Raya questioningly and, as he did so, she felt a sudden chill. She remembered the incident very well, and for more than one reason. Surely not, she thought; not after all this time. Not when she was so close. She cleared her throat and gazed steadily at the officer.
‘Yes, Major, I remember it well. Is there some problem there?’
Abramov shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘no problem at all. I just want you to repeat the process.’
‘We have a new source, then?’
‘No,’ Abramov said, ‘the new material has also been sent by source Gospodin, but it has been obtained from a new location. Gospodin is very prolific and has managed to access an entirely new database. In fact, a lot of this material has been received only over the last two months, but the operational staff here have been assessing it to ensure that it is genuine and not disinformation, or some kind of deception operation that’s been mounted against us. Yesterday I was told that the assessment is favourable, and now all the material needs to be stored on the database.’
He paused, to let her absorb this, then he continued. ‘This information Gospodin has sent has the same Top-Secret security classification as his previous material and, like that, will need to be stored in encrypted form in a restricted-access directory. Please create that directory, prepare the encryption routine, and put security protocols in place to allow access by Directorate heads only. This must be done immediately, as those files are already being prepared for uploading.’
Raya didn’t comment, other than to ask the obvious question. ‘And the name of this directory, sir?’
‘Zakoulok,’ Abramov replied, and, with a final smile, stood up and left her office.
Raya watched the door close behind him, then reached down to open the bottom drawer of her desk. She pulled out a large loose-leaf book and opened it. Abramov’s smile, and the way he had said the word Zakoulok, had told her that this name was something special or unusual.
If she had served for longer in the SVR, she would probably have recognized the word but, as she was a comparative newcomer, she had never operated out in the field, or even outside Yasenevo and the Lubyanka.
The book she had opened was a directory of old KGB and current SVR slang and code words. The majority of its pages were copied from official SVR publications but, at the back of the book, Raya had begun making entries of her own, as she discovered new words or new implications of code words that she already knew. She didn’t even bother with the back pages this time, because she knew she had never encountered Zakoulok as a code word. Although she knew its literal meaning: ‘the back alley’.
She scanned the printed pages rapidly, then stopped and smiled as she read one particular entry. ‘How interesting,’ she murmured. ‘I wonder . . .’ Her voice faded into silence as the implications dawned on her. She closed the book with a snap, and pushed it back into the desk drawer.
For a few moments she sat staring into space, then swung her chair round to face the computer screen. After entering her supervisor username and password, she began creating the new directory, using the encryption routines and access protocols exactly as ordered.
After she’d finished, she got up and locked her office door. Then she sat down again and created another directory that was both hidden from other users and also password-protected. Then she wrote a single line of code, which she inserted as an additional instruction at the beginning of the Zakoulok directory encryption routine.
The unauthorized code contained a single, very simple instruction: the original name and number of every file placed in the Zakoulok directory would then be copied into the hidden directory as plaintext. She had done exactly the same thing five years earlier, when Abramov had instructed her to create the Gospodin directory.
Raya surveyed what she had done, and nodded in satisfaction. After exiting the program, she unlocked her office door again, and sat back in her chair. She had effectively created a specialized ‘back door’ into the ‘back alley’ directory. All she had to do now was wait for the files to be copied onto the system, and the new data would form an important part of her dowry.
Paxton Hall, Felsham, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
The silence that followed Willets’s last statement was finally broken by William Moore.
‘Before we convened this meeting, we had already established that the printout had to have come from somewhere other than the LDC,’ he said. ‘If the leak had been from inside the Centre, Willets could have handled it without any external assistance.’
‘And that’s why you’re all here,’ Holbeche added.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Arkin said. Having caught sight of the rabbit, he was unwilling to let it go without a chase. ‘If we accept Willets’s word that the printout wasn’t actually made in the London Data Centre’ – and the way he enunciated this phrase made it perfectly clear that he, personally, didn’t – ‘then there’s still another possibility.’
‘What?’ Moore asked.
‘We live in an age of mobile communications,’ Arkin said. ‘I may be just a simple country policeman’ – he looked round the room, as if inviting disagreement, but nobody seemed inclined to dispute what he had just said – ‘but even I have a mobile telephone. Suppose one of your precious second-floor staff brought in a mobile phone and modem. Surely he could pull the directory listing off the system, and then send it to his own computer using the mobile phone?’
Willets nodded. ‘An excellent suggestion, Mr Arkin,’ he replied, sarcasm dripping from every word. ‘Unfortunately it ignores just a few facts. I’ve already told you that every keystroke on every terminal is recorded. I’ve also already told you that each employee is subject to a search while going in and going out. Do you really think we’d miss something the size of a telephone, not to mention a modem and the cables to link the two together?’
Arkin wasn’t going to let it go. ‘It could be a wireless modem,’ he persisted. ‘They’re very small these days.’
Willets shook his head. ‘No, they’re not. The scanners will detect anything even half the size of a card modem, while a mobile telephone would set all of the alarm bells ringing. Besides, there’s another excellent reason why your exciting little scenario is rubbish.’
Arkin said nothing, and just stared at him. ‘The LDC,’ Willets explained, ‘is a secure computer centre where extremely sensitive data is processed. That means we take elaborate precautions to ensure that none of the data leaks out, either through the front door or through the ether.’ Willets leaned forward. ‘The whole section is completely screened against electromagnetic emissions,’ he continued, ‘and that means no signals can get in or out, from a mobile phone or from anything else.’
He sat back, satisfied, but Arkin was grinning at him. ‘You haven’t been that successful, though, have you?’ he said. ‘Despite your Faraday Cage, somebody did manage to walk out with that directory listing.’
‘Not,’ Willets repeated, his voice rising in irritation, ‘out of the London Data Centre.’
Holbeche intervened. ‘We’re achieving nothing by this bickering,’ he said sharply. ‘The listing was produced. What we have to work out is how – and from where.’ He turned to Willets. ‘We’ll have to accept your assurances about the physical security at the LDC, so where do we go from there?’
‘Right,’ Willets replied, ‘the principal user of the LDC computer system is the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, so obviously we’ll have to investigate the FCO staff thoroughly.’ He paused for a moment, and glanced around at the other men sitting there. ‘You should also know that the LDC computers are linked by armoured landlines to the secure local-area networks – the intranets – operated by the SIS at Vauxhall Cross and GCHQ at Cheltenham. I can guarantee that these lines haven’t been tampered with, because they’re gas-filled and any breach releases the gas and sets off alarms at both ends.’
He paused, and again Arkin seized the moment. ‘That’s a great help,’ he said. ‘Oh, yes, that’s really narrowed it down. At least we don’t have to tramp around the streets of London, looking for a man sitting by a manhole cover with a bunch of wires in his hands and a portable computer. Oh, no, we’re only looking for a mole at the FCO, or maybe SIS, or perhaps GCHQ. Jesus Christ, that’s thousands of people. Even the initial surveillance and elimination could take weeks or months, maybe even years.’
There was a long silence, broken at last by Richard Simpson. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘There might be another way.’