“To what result?” Gierek pressed.
“We have not yet uncovered any definitive evidence, Janusz,” Wilk admitted reluctantly. “As was the case with the malware found inside the Cernavodă reactor, there are some elements in the code which suggest involvement by Russian hackers — but nothing more concrete.”
“Who else besides the Russians would conduct an attack of such scope and severity?” Gierek snapped. “The Americans may have the ability to engage in cyberwarfare on this scale, but I do not believe that even their president, Barbeau, would act so malevolently.”
“At least not without a little more provocation than we’ve given her,” Martindale agreed wryly. “As a matter of purely personal revenge, Stacy Anne might be willing to see my corporate or personal accounts wiped out, but I doubt she’d risk the political and diplomatic fallout involved in taking out your whole banking system.”
“If Moscow is responsible, then what is our response?” Prime Minister Rybak asked. “Can we take our case to the United Nations? Or press for compensation through the World Trade Organization?”
“I’m afraid going down either of those two roads right now would only play into Gryzlov’s hands,” Martindale said quietly.
Wilk nodded his understanding. They were faced with the same dilemma they’d confronted after the cyberwar attack in Romania. Without solid evidence directly tying Moscow to the malware-caused collapse of Poland’s banking system, lashing out against Russia would only lend credence to claims that the Poles were paranoid.
Gryzlov could easily blame the catastrophe on criminals. For years now, gangs of hackers based in Romania and Russia and elsewhere had been stealing millions from banks and retailers and other corporations. Any claim that this most recent hacking incident was just more of the same would be readily accepted by those eager to stay out of any conflict between Moscow and Warsaw.
“If protesting to the international community would be a wasted effort, what exactly do you propose that we do?” the defense minister asked.
“I’ve ordered our computer response teams to help our banks and other businesses tighten their security,” Wilk said, already knowing how inadequate his words sounded. “They will also apply special scrutiny to Internet portals and sites we suspect are vulnerable to Russian infiltration.”
Gierek snorted. “Wasted time. And wasted effort. It’s too late to lock the barn door now. The horse has already bolted.”
Martindale looked apologetic. “Janusz is probably right, Piotr,” he said. “If I were Gryzlov, I wouldn’t have kicked this war off until I had more of my cyber bombs safely ticking away inside other targets.”
“Then why not launch retaliatory cyberwar strikes of our own?” Klaudia Rybak asked. “Perhaps we could show Moscow this is a dangerous game by knocking out Russian government websites — or better yet, those important to industries and corporations controlled by President Gryzlov and the oligarchs who are his allies.”
Piotr Wilk wished that he could do as she urged. Every bone in his body cried out for vengeance. His instincts as both a patriotic Pole and a former officer in its air force all told him that taking the fight to the enemy was the only way to win. Gallant defensive struggles waged against enormous odds might be the stuff of legends, but offensive action was the path to victory.
Sadly, in this case, wishes could not change realities.
Poland did not have either the resources or the time needed to develop the kinds of sophisticated cyberwar weapons Gennadiy Gryzlov was now using against her. And since the Russians had been systematically “hardening” their own computer networks against hacking, limited Polish cyberspace counterattacks were unlikely to penetrate their security. At best, any damage they could inflict would be minimal. At worst, a failed Polish cyberattack might leave traces that would allow Moscow to brand Poland as an aggressor state.
“Perhaps that is true,” Gierek agreed after listening to his president’s reasoning. He scowled. “We have spent the last year and billions of zlotys building up our conventional air and ground forces. Sadly, it now appears that we were only preparing to fight the last war instead of the one we now face, just like every other fool in history. We are no different from the French who wasted their resources on the Maginot Line or the Americans who thought they could refight World War Two in Vietnam.”
The defense minister’s bitter gaze turned toward Martindale. “But what of our allies in Scion? Are you equally unprepared?” His eyes narrowed. “Or do you have such weapons of your own you might share?”
“If we had cyberweapons that would help, I’d employ them in a heartbeat,” the American assured them. He smiled ruefully. “Remember, we’ve tied our fortunes closely to yours. If Poland prospers, my people and I prosper. If you fall, we’re going down with you.”
“But your company’s hacking operations are extraordinarily sophisticated,” Gierek pointed out. “During our last conflict with Russia, my intelligence analysts were amazed by the information your ‘tech wizards’ pried out of the enemy’s computer networks.”
“True enough,” Martindale said quietly. “But Scion’s computer operations are primarily focused on intelligence gathering, not direct action on a strategic scale. Going off half-cocked now only risks exposing sources and methods my people need to penetrate the security screen Moscow has thrown around this covert war.”
“Then why not modify this netrusion capability your Iron Wolf fighting machines and aircraft employ to blind enemy radars in combat?” the Polish defense minister asked stubbornly. “That is a form of weaponized computer hacking, is it not?”
“Because netrusion is a tactical option, Janusz, and a significantly limited option at that,” Martindale replied. “Yes, we can hack into enemy radars — but only for a few minutes and only at relatively close range. That’s a far cry from being able to pull off the same kinds of stunts Gryzlov and his guys are managing.” His mouth turned down. “Look, I don’t like this any better than the rest of you folks. But all I can suggest for now is that we’d all better buckle up. Because I’m damned sure this ride is going to get a lot bumpier real soon.”
TEN
Seven stories high, the all-white Dominion Tower was a remarkable piece of avant-garde architecture. Each floor was stacked above the others in an irregular, uneven pattern, creating a profusion of cantilevered balconies. At the building’s heart, a series of interconnected staircases crisscrossed its soaring white-and-black atrium. Reviewers characterized the building’s exterior as resembling something seen in a Jenga or Tetris game, while the interior reminded many of one of M. C. Escher’s wilder drawings.
Igor Truznyev’s Zatmeniye Consulting Group occupied the top two floors. While he found the Dominion Tower’s name a hopeful omen for his future, the building’s other tenants were its primary attraction. Even before it opened, Moscow’s most successful information-technology start-up companies had rushed to lease office space in the new building.
Their presence served Truznyev’s purposes in two ways.
First, the need to protect their precious intellectual property made these IT start-ups incredibly security-conscious. The physical and Internet safeguards they’d added to the complex dovetailed perfectly with Zatmeniye’s armed guards, biometric locks, and the expensive, anti-eavesdropping film applied to all of its office windows.