Walker woke as dawn broke. The television was still on. Muted.
The news ticker read: “The worst ever breach of US government data.” And: “Social media hack continues to reverberate.”
Monica was asleep in her bed.
Walker put the subtitles on so he could read what the news heads were saying.
“The Office of Personnel Management claims the hackers accessed not only personnel files but security-clearance forms . . . Such forms contain information that foreign intelligence agencies could use to target espionage operations . . . Chinese officials have denied any involvement . . . The group that has Jasper Brokaw captive have remained silent . . . The Director of the FBI will address the President and National Security Council at eight am at the White House.”
He filled the tiny coffee maker and set two cups under the spout. By the time it had boiled and turned itself off, Walker had showered and dressed. The sound had roused Monica, and she sat up in her bed, having slept in her clothes, and turned up the TV volume.
Walker passed her a coffee and sat on the bed opposite.
When they switched over to the local NBC news, they saw that Monica was on it. She was the headline.
“The sister of captive NSA operative Jasper Brokaw is missing. Is she part of an extortion attempt to force him to work for them?”
“I should call someone,” Monica said. “NBC, FBI, whoever. Anyone who will listen. Anyone who can help.” She stood up too quickly, her coffee spilling on the floor.
“No,” Walker said. “This is okay. For now.”
“What?”
“Whoever has Jasper may now be wondering about you—about who has you, about where you are. It may, in some way, give your brother some leverage. An opportunity to do something.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe the group wants to know about you, and maybe they get him to hack a surveillance system to find where you are. And doing that, maybe he gets a chance to get a message out, to someone who can figure out his location.”
“That’s a lot of maybes.”
“It’s better than nothing.”
Monica looked at him sideways, then back at the television, taking in the news, flicking channels and seeing her face on half of the major networks and cable outlets.
“We should really call the police,” she said eventually.
“It’s better we stay off the grid.”
“Listen!” Monica said, looking down at Walker. “What the hell are you doing, anyway? Taking me to the world’s seediest motel? How does that help Jasper? And exactly what do you propose we do now to find him? Go to his apartment with a magnifying glass and look for clues?” Walker stood, and she pushed his chest with both hands. “How? How in the name of everything holy do you think this is helping?”
Walker waited a moment. The television was on Fox News. They were talking about scandalous revelations within emails leaked from West Wing staff. It was clear that some jobs would be lost that morning, and that lawsuits would be in motion. The Senate Majority Leader was being interviewed and was talking about impeachment for all kinds of perceived improprieties that were being combed through.
Monica froze as the news cut to a familiar scene.
Jasper Brokaw, in his orange jumpsuit.
•
Jasper was filmed with that day’s LA Times, just as before. He was jittery and nervy, just as before. He was silent. The screen went black. Then the white lettering flashed up under his form—THIS IS YOUR SALVATION—and Walker thought briefly that he had left the subtitles on, but then he heard Jasper’s voice.
“Guess we’ve got your attention,” Jasper said to the camera. “And you’re making noise, calling the President to turn off the Net. Good. Be loud. Forty million federal employees are now calling for the kill switch to be used. And that’s in addition to those already shouting about their social-media blues. After the next cyber attack, sometime over the next six hours? That noise, it’s going to be a cacophony. Of course, we don’t have to get to that point, to move beyond what’s already taken place. There’s one person who can make this end. Does the President have what it takes? Time will tell . . .”
“More than the billion already affected?” Monica said. “What could be louder—”
“An actual attack. An atrocity. A cyber-9/11.”
“They’ll stop it.”
“How? How do you stop what you don’t know is coming other than by pulling the plug?”
Monica stared at the screen as her brother continued.
“During his long tenure as FBI Director, J Edgar Hoover amassed a huge collection of information on American politicians, government employees, activists and anyone else he deemed important enough to probe. For decades Hoover wielded those dossiers to prolong his grip on power, impact public policy and distort American politics. That information remained tightly controlled, used only when Hoover thought it would benefit his agenda. When he died, his long-time personal secretary, Helen, destroyed most of those records before anyone else could get their hands on them.
“Now, do you really think that the government doesn’t still store all your data? Of course they do. More than ever. They scoop it all up. And I’m going to prove it to you. And there’ll be no Helen to stop me. In six hours, I’m giving the world access to all the stored data of US citizens and foreign nations that is currently being held at data centers across the country. And there’s nothing they can do about it, because I’ve already accessed it.”
He paused.
“Think back to Hoover. Imagine what would have happened had Helen sent the files to Russia. That’s pretty much the equivalent of the damage done by the OPM and social-media hacks. But forget Russia. Russia is insignificant. The information will be out there for whoever wants it. What’s good for the goose . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself. The last hack exposed the ‘adjudication information’ from security-clearance investigations—the raw, embarrassing intimate personal details of an untold number of government workers, including details of federal workers’ sexual partners, their drug and alcohol abuse, their debts, gambling compulsions, marital troubles, criminal activity . . .”
Jasper dropped the newspaper to the floor. “So, I ask you, the American people, to make more noise. Stop this, before it gets worse. And it will get worse. You have six hours.”