CHAPTER EIGHT
A hood is a more sophisticated version of a simple blindfold. Hoods . . . make hawks sit quietly, . . . during traveling and whilst being carried, particularly if another hawk is being flown at the time.
—Emma Ford, Falconry: Art and Practice
Radulov Industries Lead Server Facility
North Berwick, Scotland
Raphael Marquez’s hands were sweating. He knew the time of reckoning was close. There, out the window of his office, he saw his boss’s plane drop from the overcast sky and land smoothly on the tarmac with a whispered squeal, the sound only a customized Gulfstream G650ER could make. He was on his feet in an instant, heart pounding with dread and fear, running to the large auditorium in the center of their massive, pentagonal structure to meet Mr. Ardelean. Raphael knew the boss hated the pomp and circumstance of the “arrival” ceremonies so many other CEOs craved, and he admired him for it, but not now, not this time.
The boss was, in Raphael’s opinion, one of the best coders in the world. Along with his coding genius was his ability to lead, to draw others to whatever he suggested. He had, single-handedly, made Radulov Industries the most respected cybersecurity firm in the whole bloody world. They were renowned not only for their extensive security protocols but also for their software programs, the guts of every computer mainframe, laptop, phone, and tablet in the world. Both Apple and Microsoft had done deals with Radulov. His security settings were the new industry standard.
Raphael kept walking, his brain squirreling around with the various scenarios awaiting him. He’d screwed up badly enough that the Head of the World, as he thought of Roman, had come in person to what? Fire him? Kill him? But it wasn’t entirely his fault—it was the other’s. He hated to say his name, even think it, for fear it would mushroom in the air itself and choke him. A hated name, the betrayer’s name. Temora.
What was the worst that could happen? He’ll fire your ass, and you’ll be publicly humiliated. You’ll be out the door with nothing to show for your past fifteen years of innovative work at Radulov but finger calluses and a permanent computer-screen squint. Your reputation, accolades, salary, all gone. Please, God, please, God, don’t let him fire me, let me stay, let me try to fix it.
Raphael hurried faster. It wouldn’t do for the Head of the World to beat him to the auditorium, where all the employees were gathered. It would mean the boot for sure, maybe worse.
He wanted more than anything to remain in charge of this spectacular installation, Radulov’s lead server farm in the world. It resembled the American Pentagon, only not as large, with one external and four internal layers of offices. It was a buzzing honeycomb of digital activity. But unlike the Pentagon, the server installation was underground, for protection against a possible electromagnetic pulse—an EMP—strike, or worse. In short, if their servers went down, the computer systems all over the world would, too. Every Radulov server farm had redundancies, and they resided in similar but much smaller facilities in more than thirty countries, the only way to keep up with the load. But the heart of Radulov was right here in Scotland. Put a dagger through the heart, and everything would be lost. And that was what Raphael had allowed the hated other to do. He’d known Temora was a genius, known he was capable of anything, and they’d taken every precaution, but still, somehow, he’d found a way in.
The auditorium was inside the final layer, deep down, with filtered air and ventilation systems, kitchens, food stores, and massive vertical support beams like metal ribs. It had been designed to convert into a dormitory for all the employees of Radulov Industries housed in the facility, two hundred at any given time. Roman was always prepared for the worst.
Faces looked up when Raphael burst through the door. He called down from the catwalk high above, “He’s here. Shape up, everyone.”
The room synchronized, everyone finding their place, ready for this impromptu meeting called by the head of the company. The Head of their World.
Everyone knew why Ardelean was there. Everyone knew Raphael had failed. And as such, it meant they had all failed. What would happen? The air was thick with anxiety.
Raphael waited on the catwalk, tapping his forefinger against the railing, trying his best to look calm, relaxed, in control. He was the manager of this amazing facility, the leader of all those workers below. He wondered if anyone could see him sweating. He certainly knew every one of them expected him to take the fall. All knew Roman Ardelean did not suffer mistakes, and this was a doozy.
Raphael felt ill, but pushed it down. He refused to humiliate himself when Roman was here to do it for him. Maybe a public flogging before his imminent dismissal, something to frighten the rest into performing better? After all, Raphael knew someone had to fall on his sword after the magnitude of the malware attack had been discovered.
The buck had to stop with him. Thankfully he had good news that would lessen the boss’s anger.
He looked up to see the floor-to-ceiling screen at the front of the auditorium spinning the twelve-foot-high Radulov logo, a highly stylized falcon made of black and gray triangles on a deep bloodred background, wings outstretched to form the V of the Radulov name. The effect made the falcon look as if it were flying across the space, lazily swooping back and forth. It was a clever bit of coding, not sophisticated, but effective.
Raphael could pretend all he wanted, do the stiff upper lip, but he knew he was about to be the goat. If he had a brain, he’d do a runner, quit, leave, because he didn’t think what was coming was going to be pretty. He knew he wasn’t kidding anyone. He gave up pretending nonchalance and started chewing on his thumbnail.
The doors to the catwalk flew open, and Roman stepped through. Raphael found himself staring at him. He was beautifully dressed in a soft gray Savile Row suit perfectly tailored to his tall, lean body. His long black hair was swept back from his face, tied with a black cord at the base of his neck. His nose was too hawkish to allow for handsome, but it didn’t matter. He was imposing, his mere presence impressive, even without his opening his mouth. Business reporters loved him—his candor, his genius, his humility, feigned, naturally. He could charm the feathers off a lark if he was in the right mood.
He could also intimidate, scare a man to his bones if he wasn’t happy.
Roman spied Raphael standing next to the railing, his face as white as the snow that occasionally fell in North Berwick. Contrary to expectation, he smiled when he grabbed Raphael’s hand and pumped it, hard.
“Raphael, my old friend, how are you?”
“F-fine, sir. Ah, how was your flight?”
“I came up from London, so it was short. Walk with me.” They started down the catwalk, toward the main stairs and into the auditorium, where there was a stage and microphone. Raphael ignored the hundreds of workers below, even though he felt their stares, heard their murmurs.
Roman clapped Raphael on the shoulder. “I suppose you know why I’m here, don’t you?”
Here it comes. “Yes, sir, I do, and, sir, if I could just explain, tell you what’s happened—”
They were still on the catwalk, high above the auditorium, Roman’s hand square on Raphael’s back. He leaned down, whispered, “It would be so simple, Raphael, to push you over the edge. It’s a long way down. You’d have time to think about your massive failure on the way. But death would be too easy a punishment, wouldn’t it? No, you’re going to fix this mess internally, and remember my benevolence toward your egregious mistake. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. A moment. I have good news.”
Roman stared down at his manager, an eyebrow up. “You have found some good news in this mess?”
“Someone put a hack into the hack, and now the malware itself is infected. It stopped the attack in its tracks. No one will have to pay ransomware. It happened only an hour ago. Sir, the threat has been eliminated.”
This was a surprise. “Someone was better than Temora? You’re telling me this person made Temora pull out completely?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t know who did it, but I will have a name within the hour. I’ve tracked it through fifteen servers with our new tracking software. I know it came from a server north of London.”
“Yes, yes, every time someone activates a Radulov VPN, we can trace every step they make. So, besides Temora, you’re telling me we now have more people inside our servers?”
“Ah, yes, sir. It seems so, sir.”
Roman took a breath through his nose and shut his eyes. Another as talented as Temora.
“As I said, sir, I’ll have a name within the hour.”
“Give it to me the moment you have it.” Roman gestured to the stairs, a fresh grin on his swarthy face. “After you.”
Raphael scrambled down, his boots ringing on the metal. Roman enjoyed watching Raphael squirm, watching him wonder what was going to happen to him. It gave him no small pleasure to have the power of life and death in his hands. That’s what good computer code was at its heart, anyway, the lifeblood of the machine, the brains, the heart. Without it, the screens wouldn’t light up, and humanity would be lost again.
Roman walked onto the stage, the flying Radulov falcon looming above him. He didn’t say a word, simply stood, waiting. The entire room became silent as death, the only sound the quiet whirring of the air pumps, feeding in fresh oxygen.
When, at last, he spoke, his soft words carried throughout the vast auditorium. “I am very disappointed.”
Dead silence.
The soft voice grew meditative. “A wolf entered our henhouse and created havoc. The name of the wolf is Caleb Temora, a name already known to many of you. He is a brilliant coder and worked extensively with me on MATRIX. You have also doubtless heard he was lost to us five years ago, to ISIS. I have no doubt this attack on MATRIX is his doing—there is no other who could do this amount of damage. His malware attack could have cost our clients billions of pounds, but Mr. Marquez has told me another hacker attacked Temora’s hack and put a stop to it. Who this other person is, we will find out very soon. Regardless, even though he stopped Temora’s hack and demands for ransomware, he could be as great an enemy.
“I had believed MATRIX invulnerable, but someone left a door open and allowed Temora in. Now every client, every computer, every software package in the world is vulnerable. We must do the right thing for our clients, and if that means we’re working twenty-four/seven for the foreseeable future, so be it. There is no overtime”—there were several muffled groans, bold of the buggers, he thought, wished he knew who they were—“no, don’t even think about complaining. We are going to take MATRIX apart. We are going to work relentlessly to find every last bit of malware in our systems. We are going to examine not only Temora’s hack but also the other’s hack as well. Then we are going to reengineer MATRIX to make it perfect, impervious to anyone who wishes us and our clients harm. I want sheer brilliance, and I will accept nothing less. No more ransomware attacks.”
He paused a moment to build drama. “The one among you to find the problem source will receive a year’s salary as a bonus.”
Now the whole room was sitting on the edge of their seats.
“And the person who designs me a code that is truly impenetrable gets ten years’ salary, equal to my salary. Are we clear?”
Audible gasps now. Raphael did some math, felt his heart take off at a gallop. That was somewhere near forty million pounds.
“Temora’s hack of MATRIX makes us look bad. We need to make it clear to our customers that Radulov is stronger and more secure than ever, that MATRIX continues to be indispensable to their livelihoods. Now, get to work.”
Roman gestured toward Raphael, and together they walked from the stage. Roman ignored the buzz of excitement coming from the floor. The offered bonus would get his people working harder than ever, gave them the hope of unimagined riches.
In the elevator, Roman fixed his dark eyes on Raphael. “I am increasing my efforts to find Temora. Even so, he should not have been able to get into MATRIX. This was done on your watch, Raphael. Should I fire you?”
“I would prefer to offer my resignation, sir.”
Roman contemplated his manager. Fifteen years, and he’d done a spectacular job, no denying that fact. And this short, bespectacled little man was too good to lose, especially now. And Roman had to hand it to him: at least the man was looking him in the eye, even though Roman could smell his fear.
“No, I don’t think so. That would be too easy. You will personally oversee this project, Raphael. You will repair and patch and fix MATRIX, and make sure every single client is up to date. You will ensure that MATRIX is made impenetrable. And you will give me the name of the one who stopped Temora’s attack.
“I will track down Temora and shove code into his terrorist systems that will disable him and his compatriots forever.”
Roman looked pensive, then said in his terrifying soft voice, “Do you understand what I will do to you if you fail?”
Raphael straightened, and Roman was struck again by the show of courage. Beaten but not broken. Good.
“Yes, sir. I won’t disappoint you again. I swear it.”
“See that you don’t. Give me the name as soon as you find it. Now, I need updates on Project Cabal. Where do we stand?”
Raphael realized that was why he wasn’t dead or ignominiously fired. He needs me to keep track of the shipments.
“Follow me, sir. The hanger is almost full. The shipments have been coming in regularly from your six building sites, and I’ve been handling the deliveries myself, no one else, like you said.”
The hangar was ten minutes away. Raphael gave him updates as they walked. “The boats come in after dark, as you wanted, and the crates are unloaded by the boat’s foreman himself. Then I move them here. I’ve been very careful.”
The hangar doors opened. Inside was a small Cessna, retrofit for battle, with missiles and guns, stripped down so as not to over-weigh the plane, customizations Roman had designed himself. And behind the plane were endless stacks of crates, floor to ceiling. Only Roman knew what was inside. And of course, his supplier knew, but Raphael had no idea, no idea at all, unless—
His soft voice. “Have you ever opened one of these crates, Raphael?”
Raphael looked shocked. “Absolutely not, sir, I would never—”
“I believe you, Raphael. Now, I’m going to share a little secret with you. I’m sure you’ve wondered what’s been coming in from my six building sites, so I’m going to tell you what’s inside the crates. And you will understand the necessity for privacy and discretion.”
Raphael’s eyes bugged out of his head at Roman’s next words.