The instructor’s desk had a phone on it. I dialed the tech support number. “Yes, this is Agent Benjamin Harrison,” I said, doing my best to imitate my instructor’s grandiose tones. “I’m teaching a course here, and I need a password reset on the unclassified network.”
“Name and badge ID,” said the bored voice on the other end of the phone.
“Benjamin Harrison,” I repeated. “And… hang on, I can never remember it. My badge is in my coat pocket. I’ll call you back.”
I hung up, denied but not discouraged. I went back to the classroom and put on an embarrassed, confused look. “Mr. Harrison?” I said.
He looked up. So did a few of my classmates.
“Um. Where is the bathroom?”
He was sitting behind the front table, and I still couldn’t get a good look at his badge, so I doubled over with a hand on my stomach. I tried not to overplay it. As I hoped, he stood and came around to put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right, son?”
I saw his badge. The number was printed small on the top right corner, but I memorized it quickly: 7014603. I straightened and gave him a sickly smile. “A little ill, sir. I’ll be okay. I just need the bathroom?”
“Out the door, to the left, then left again toward the lobby.”
“Thanks,” I said. I went out the door and turned left. I wanted to get back to the empty classroom, however, which was in the other direction. Our classroom had glass walls, and I didn’t want to be spotted going the wrong direction. I waited until a man and a woman walked down the hall the way I wanted to go, and then walked next to them, keeping them between me and the classroom with my face turned away.
Back in the empty room, I called tech support again.
“Benjamin Harrison,” I said. “Seven oh one four six oh three.”
I didn’t dare ask for the password to the student exercise to be reset, partly because I didn’t know what to call it, and partly because it might seem suspicious. Instead, I just asked for a reset to Harrison’s main unclassified account.
I heard typing in the background. “Okay,” said the bored voice. “You should be all set. Your new password is the first three letters of your last name, followed by the last four digits of your badge number. Change it within the hour, or the system will lock you out again.”
I thanked him and returned to my class. I nodded weakly at Harrison. A few of the women glanced at me as I made my way back to my seat. Maggie gave me a sympathetic look, but Diane eyed me suspiciously. I smiled at them both. None of the men looked up at all.
I sat down at the terminal and logged off, then logged in again using Harrison’s account and the temporary password. I held my breath, but no sirens wailed. The account welcomed me, and I was in. I brought up the training web site again, which now contained several new options like “Instructor Resources” and “Course Curricula.” I followed the curricula link and found the listing for the Introduction to the NSA course. As I had hoped, the course was given by various instructors, who were provided with a script. I scanned it quickly, until I found the student exercise. And there it was. Username: alanturing. Password: bletchleypark. I smiled.
Five minutes later, Agent Harrison checked his screen and looked up. “It looks like we have a winner,” he said. “I’m not sure it’s ever been cracked that fast before.”
The students all looked at each other, some in surprise, some in annoyance. I smiled at Diane and gave her another wink. She wasn’t as cute as Maggie, but I guessed she would be bright and opinionated. I wondered if she would be interested in going out for some Thai food afterward.
“Neil Johns,” Harrison said. “Please stand.”
I did so, with a flourish and my best winning smile. The expressions on the others’ faces ranged from resigned to disgusted. I guessed they were all pretty competitive and didn’t like to be beaten.
“Congratulations,” Harrison said. “You’ve got a great career in cyber espionage ahead of you. The rest of you, keep at it! Second place is still up for grabs.”
I was still looking around the room, basking in my victory, when three men pushed through the door. Two of them were dressed in very serious-looking uniforms with MP armbands and their hands on their sidearms. The third was in his thirties, bearded, wearing jeans and a striped shirt. The third man took the lead, scanning the computers. He walked down the aisle until he reached my place and tapped on the table next to my terminal. “This is the one,” he said.
One of the MPs eyed my temporary visitor’s permit. “Neil Johns?”
“Yes,” I said. “What is this?”
The first MP took me by the elbow, while the other drew a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “You’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER 7
FANX was essentially a large group of office buildings, not a military base like Fort Meade. This meant, presumably, that they didn’t have any proper cells to lock me in. They stuck me in a small room with a table and chairs—and no computer—with an armed guard to make sure I didn’t leave. The guard was shorter than me but looked as though she could rip my arms off and would be glad to do so given the chance.
She had no sense of humor. I couldn’t get her to crack a smile. In fact, I couldn’t get her to respond to me in any way. Attempts to engage her in conversation, to ask how long I would be kept there or to demand a lawyer all met with the same impassive gaze. I considered just trying to walk out the door, if only to get her to respond. I suspected that if I did, however, I’d regret it. The phrase “shot while trying to escape” had an unpleasant ring to it.
Time can seem incredibly slow when you have absolutely nothing to do and your future is in doubt. It occurred to me that if I were a foreign agent, applying for a job at the NSA would be a great way to get in the doors. They must be vigilant about security for such unvetted visitors. On the other hand, they had told us to hack into the account. I was just doing the exercise.
There was no clock in the room, and no windows, so I had no idea how much time had passed before I was joined by a uniformed man with the silver bars of an Army captain. He sat across from me at the table. I thought they might send someone to shout at me, to threaten to bury me in a hole where I would never again see the light of day if I didn’t tell them who I was working for. Instead, the captain—Scaggs, by his name patch—was soft-spoken and professional. He asked me for every detail of what I had done and why, which I was eager to provide. He went over it several times, asking the same questions in different ways. He sometimes asked me about technical concepts, using words I didn’t understand.
I had plenty of time to study his uniform while answering his questions, since I was afraid of looking him in the eye. I noticed a patch on his sleeve—a blue circle with an eagle carrying a key. Around the circumference of the patch were a series of letters and numbers that looked like a code. I recognized it as the emblem of the United States Cyber Command.
“Wow,” I said. “You’re with USCYBERCOM, aren’t you?”
“Let’s stick to talking about you,” he said.
“Okay. But wow. I’m a fan. You’re the guys who wrote that software worm that destroyed Iran’s nuclear centrifuges, aren’t you?”
Scaggs gave me a sidelong look. “I can’t comment on that.”
“Yeah, I know. You had nothing to do with it. But that was some piece of work. You guys are my heroes.”
“What connections do you have with members of the Brazilian government?” he asked.