Harold Coyle, Jennifer Ellis
Cyber Knights 1.0
HUMPTY DUMPTY
1
Shortly before its takedown by the FBI and other agencies, a small number of security researchers and law enforcement officials around the world had been noticing an unusual advert appearing intermittently in the services section of the Silk Road, the notorious criminal marketplace hidden deep within the Tor network. The advert was simple.
DIGITAL WETWORK
Reasonabl cost, bitcoin only
16 happy customer
contact #digital_sealion on IRC: lgttsalmpw3qo4no.onion
As it didn’t offer malware, credit card hash dumps, hard drugs, weapons, or child pornography, most researchers moved on to more tempting targets. Besides, it wasn’t a permanent feature, popping up a few days every month or two before once again disappearing. With other, more nefarious sorts to deal with, no one charged with policing the Internet who bothered to read it when it did crop up considered the character they dubbed “Sealion” to be much of a threat.
Despite being one of the smaller departments of state, everyone who worked in the unimposing building at the far end of Whitehall knew that the current minister was rather proud of his position. Therefore, violating any of the myriad of rules with which he ran his office was something none of his staff dared to do unless they were prepared to deal with the ire of his ever-vigilant gatekeeper, Terri Campbell, or the unbridled wrath of Edward Telford, the minister’s permanent undersecretary and attack dog. This was why the minister was quite taken aback when Bryan Morton, his director of communications and perhaps the most risk-averse member of his staff, paid no heed whatsoever to Terri Campbell’s effort to stop Morton as he rushed past her desk and burst into the minister’s office without so much as knocking.
Even before Telford, who had been preparing the minister for a meeting with the PM later that afternoon, could utter a single word, Morton had slammed the door behind him and started pacing back and forth in front of the minister’s desk.
For his part, the minister could only stare at Morton with an expression that quickly changed from utter shock to red-faced rage.
“We’ve got a problem,” Morton muttered as he spun about and retraced his steps without bothering to look up at either the minister or Telford.
“You’re bloody right we’ve got a problem,” Telford growled. “To start with…”
Coming to a sudden stop, Morton ignored Telford as he stared at the minister. “The Sun is about to run a story that’s going to make what Anthony Weiner did look tame.”
The minister’s earlier anger turned to confusion. “Who the hell is Anthony Weiner?”
Setting aside his surprise over the minister’s inability to associate that name to the scandal in New York that had put a quick and ignoble end to an otherwise promising political career, Telford glanced over at his political master. “He’s a former American congressman who was caught using a private Twitter account to solicit sex with women.”
When he saw the vacant look on the minister’s face, Morton assumed the man known to be something of a Luddite had no idea what a Twitter account was. Eager to show off his expertise when it came to enlightening the technologically challenged, Morton began to explain without bothering to wait for the minister to ask him. “It’s a microblogging service—”
He was cut short as the minister slammed his fist down. “I damn well know what Twitter is,” he snapped. “What’s that and this American got to do with me?”
Never having managed to develop the thick hide a member of the minister’s staff needed to withstand the scathing vitriol the minister often unleashed on those who were foolish enough to arouse his ire, Morton drew back. By the time he had managed to mentally regroup, he found himself facing two men who were on the verge of verbally skinning him alive. “I just got off the phone with a friend of mine over at the Sun,” Morton began quickly before either man had a chance to lash out. “He told me a journalist named Sue Oliver is working on a story that links the minister to a Twitter account used to post invitations to young girls.”
Frowning and without taking the time to think, the minister blurted out the first thing that popped into his head. “What kind of invitations?”
Shooting Telford a quick sideways glance, which was returned blandly, Morton hesitated as he waited for Telford to inform their boss of the obvious. When he saw the career bureaucrat had no intention of doing so, the young technocrat drew in a deep breath. “Invitations to have sex with him — I mean you, Minister.”
Dumbfounded, the minister blinked furiously as he gave his head a quick shake. “That’s preposterous!”
“That’s what I said,” Morton replied.
“Did this friend of yours bother to tell you how Sue Oliver managed to find these tweets?” Telford asked as the minister was recovering from Morton’s stunning revelation.
“There are no such tweets!” the minister snapped as he rounded on Telford.
Before responding, Telford took a moment to study the minister. Whereas the minister tended to think in terms of black and white, Telford knew they lived in a world composed of various shades of gray, a world where even a politician who strove to be as pure as the driven snow all too often gave in to the temptation to use tactics and his position to achieve ends that were less than honorable. Suspecting something was afoot, he turned his full attention back to Morton. “Get back in touch with this friend of yours and find out all you can about Sue Oliver’s sources and their reliability.”
Nodding, Morton looked over at the minister, waiting to be dismissed.
Telford sighed. “Today, Bryan, if you don’t mind,” he muttered.
“Oh, yes, right.” With that, the harried young communications director spun about and beat a hasty retreat.
“And you?” the minister asked as he turned his attention to his principal advisor — a man he hoped would help him in his bid to be promoted to one of the more prestigious departments.
Before answering, Telford came to his feet. “Whilst our eager young technocrat is running around, flapping his wings about like a headless chicken, I think it might be best if I kicked over a few rocks to see what I can find out about this Twitter account Oliver claims you have.”
“There is no such account,” the minister snapped. “Anyone who says there is one is lying.”
Knowing it was an exercise in futility to argue with the minister when his knickers were in a twist, Telford excused himself. Making his way to his own office, he retrieved the pay-as-you-go mobile from the locked drawer of his desk, one he used whenever he needed to make a discreet call. After informing his secretary he’d be out for a while, he headed for the door without telling her or anyone else where he was going. Whereas Morton would go about making his enquiries with all the finesse of a bull charging a red cape, Telford’s contacts understood the need for discretion.
2
Despite having spent far too much of his youth wandering around the damp streets of Belfast with hair down to his collar, a Browning pistol nestled down the back of his jeans, and a barely passable Irish accent, Edward Telford had never before set foot across the very unobtrusive threshold of the Special Forces Club. An elderly but still very trim porter with startling sapphire eyes greeted him with careful courtesy at the door and enquired after his business.
“I have a meeting with Andy Webb.”