The Geneva Strategy by Robert Ludlum
Smith watched as the various men shot at each other. Within seconds all were dead.
“And now, this.”
The screen changed to a side street in a leafy neighborhood where a man walked his dog.
“Where’s this?”
“Here in Georgetown. The camera feed comes from a private home a few feet from the action, which is why it’s so poor. The man is Richard Meccean.”
“The head of HHS?” Smith asked.
“Yes,” Klein said.
Smith watched as two men jumped out of a van, shot the dog, hustled their victim into the vehicle, and drove off.
“The homeowner was out of town and only returned today. As soon as he saw the tape he took it to his local police station and they contacted the FBI. In the Ankara case it seems as though the men all shot each other, despite the fact that they were in no way enemies. In fact, the two slumped against the limousine were colleagues. Likewise, we have a case in Afghanistan where two helicopter pilots crashed a copter because while in midair they’d forgotten how to fly it,” Klein said.
“How is that possible?”
Klein shook his head. “We don’t know. A few hours ago Meccean was located in a small town in Canada. He was fine, if a bit disoriented. He still had his wallet and all his personal belongings on him and was standing in the airport in Toronto arranging a flight home to Washington. When the FBI agent came to debrief him he denied any knowledge of being kidnapped.”
“Did they tell him about the dog?”
Klein poured himself a glass of water. “They did, and while he claimed not to remember that, either, it was then that he began to become alarmed.”
“And you think these incidents are related?”
Klein pointed the remote at the monitor again. The screen switched to show a series of bubbles connected by lines. To Smith it appeared to be an illustration of a family tree.
“As I think you probably know, the CIA funds various IT companies and tasks them to create software designed to analyze connections. The NSA uses these programs to analyze the billions of bits of metadata that they collect daily from emails, IP addresses, and telephone calls. After that’s done they use an enhancement program that adds GPS information drawn from the navigation system in a person’s car or cell phone and updates from a target’s social media activity that indicate location. The resulting connections map gives a remarkably accurate picture of the social network and activities of just about anyone.” He put the pointer on a bubble, one of two, in the center of the diagram. “Take a look at the grayed bubbles here in the center.”
“Okay. It just says Actor A and B.”
“That’s because these two individuals were communicating through a highly complex network of IP addresses and dummy email accounts that the software was unable to crack. Any connection that the software can’t identify is flagged and given high priority, because it indicates a determined effort to remain anonymous. We believe Actor A is operating out of China, probably in one of their infamous cyber espionage units. This is trouble for a whole host of reasons, but the second actor is the one we’re really concerned about. We have reason to believe that he or she is actually sitting in either Syria or Iran. Now look what happens when we expand this connection map.” Klein switched up the view and several more bubbles appeared on screen. On the far edges Smith saw the names Meccean, Rendel, Warner, Wyler, and a list of the helicopter unit in Afghanistan and Canelo’s troop in Djibouti. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
“It’s remarkable that such disparate people have actual connections, but isn’t this just the six degrees of separation theory? That all of us are connected once we move six degrees out?” Smith asked.
Klein nodded. “There’s that, of course. But watch how the bubbles shift when we add in one factor.” Klein hit a button and the bubbles shifted dramatically. Now the group of names became clustered together and jumped several spaces toward the grayed-out Actor A and B bubbles. Only Meccean’s name remained on the fringes.
“What factor did you add?” Smith asked.
“Any connection to the United States’ drone program.”
“That is sobering,” Smith said. “But what’s the point of attacking such a disparate group of people?”
“We don’t know, but we have a list of more possible victims. When we realized what had happened to Meccean we ran a search on the source of the email that was sent to his secretary. It was generated from a remote server that had hacked his computer and had already been logged by the software as high priority, again, through an untraceable series of IP addresses. We found three in total. Meccean’s email was first. The others were Carter Warner, undersecretary at the Department of Defense, and Nick Rendel, a computer specialist and contract worker, also at the DOD. Both lived alone and both sent out the exact same email claiming that they were ill. When the FBI went to their homes there was no answer.”
“How much lead time did the kidnappers buy?” Smith said.
Klein sighed. “Enough. The metadata analysis took almost thirty-six hours to create an initial connection map, and then it took another few hours to enhance it. When we got the initial analysis, we were only looking for Meccean. It wasn’t until we ran the email that the other names popped up on the map through that link. Since the men lived alone it took another day for anyone to become alarmed. During that time the men could have been whisked out of the country.”
Smith agreed with Klein’s assessment. “You mention that you added in the drone program as a possible connection. Are you aware that I had my own close encounter with a drone just last night?”
“I am. Mr. Brand told me.”
Smith pointed at the map. “Maybe you load me into the program and see what connections it produces.”
Klein gave him a wry smile. “I don’t have to. The only connection that will show is your status as a USAMRIID researcher. Any other connections, such as email and phone usage by you, have been encrypted by us to mask your Covert-One activities. Whatever connection map could be created wouldn’t accurately reflect reality.”
“Normally I would be relieved to hear it, but right now I would like to know who sent that drone after me. Is there any way to track it?”
Klein shook his head. “Not unless it showed up on someone’s closed-circuit camera somewhere or tripped a radar scan. There are already so many drones in private hands that we can’t trace every one that may exist. A low-range, low-altitude device such as the one that you saw can be made by any civilian enthusiast. We need to recover those individuals. I have a feeling that whatever is going on here, finding them will go a long way toward explaining these events. We’re concerned that someone took a page from the old CIA rendition program and whisked these individuals away to foreign locations to be tortured. We’re particularly worried about Warner and Rendel. Both work in the drone program and both had knowledge of the one aspect of passcodes needed to access the drone controllers. I need you to help find them,” Klein said. He shoved a file across the table at Smith. “We have reason to believe that both have been taken out of the country, and the latest tip we received suggested Warner is somewhere in Germany. The FBI has some limited international jurisdiction, but generally once a missing person has been removed from U.S. soil we require the assistance of the country in which we think the hostages are being held. You, of course, can go anywhere. Russell is already on it. She’ll be in touch once the Ankara thing is finished. Anyone else you’d like to help you?” Klein asked.
Smith nodded. “Andreas Beckmann and Peter Howell. Can you locate them?”
Klein waved at the file. “Known current locations are in there. Howell’s in London. Good luck.”
“Sounds like I’ll need it,” Smith said.
15
Carter Warner took the first blow on the soles of his feet twelve hours after his kidnapping. He was lying on a cement floor with his arms still tied behind his back, the hood still over his head, and a cloth gag in his mouth. The blows continued, o
“We need the drone password.” The voice was a sibilant whisper. Warner closed his eyes. They’d made the same statement several times over the last few hours and his response was the same: silence.
He was privy to only one aspect of the drone defense unit. The passwords were spread across several departments and personnel and protected by a highly developed cyber security program. At the time the IT technician in charge of the passwords had argued vociferously against spreading them among several people, pointing out that the more people who knew a secret, the more likely it was to be passed on. Now Warner was thankful for the fact that if he cracked under torture he couldn’t jeopardize the entire program.
“No need to speak.” The man chuckled. “Just nod your head.”
Warner’s body shook and he tried to focus away from the pain and instead on the ramifications of giving the man what he wanted. The single password by itself would be useless—a fact that Warner suspected the attacker knew. If so, then he must have a plan to obtain the others. Warner wondered how many the attacker had obtained already. Warner’s continued silence worked against him, and the next blow made him scream. He felt his neck muscles clamp in a spasm and he heard only a muffled sound through the gag. He tried to gasp but the gag made it impossible. Sweat poured down his face and the mask pulled against his nose with each inhale, blocking any fresh air from reaching his lungs.
“The password,” the man whispered.
Warner stayed silent and began to count the seconds while he waited for the next blow to fall.
16
Smith reached the gated entrance to the clinic and announced his presence on an intercom. The birds sang in the trees and a small breeze made their branches sway. When added to the warmth of the late-July sun the location seemed a world away from the news of trouble that he was bringing to its doorstep. The metal gates swung wide and Smith proceeded up a gravel driveway that curved through the trees. After the second bend a long, two-story building came into view. The modern architecture had clean lines and was built of wood, stone, and glass, giving it the air of a wealthy man’s estate rather than a hospital. He reached the end of the driveway, which curved around in a horseshoe shape; to his left a sign bearing the word “Respite” was the only indication that he was in the right place. He parked off to the side and entered through a glass-and-wood door.
Smith’s steps were muffled by thick carpeting in the plush and inviting lobby. A massive stone hearth took up the far wall to Smith’s left; cold now, but he presumed it would be roaring in the winter. It was surrounded by leather club chairs and a long sofa.
Directly in front of Smith was a reception station behind which stood two men. To the right of the station was a door that Smith presumed led to the clinic’s interior. Both men, one young, about twenty-five, and the other in his late forties, looked up from a computer screen. The younger man leaned forward.
“Herr Smith?”
Smith nodded. “Here to visit Andreas Beckmann.” The older man leveled an interested gaze on Smith but said nothing. The younger man smiled.
“He’s walking in the gardens. He’s quite interested in the landscaping.”
Smith did his best to hide his surprise. Beckmann was the last person he would expect to be interested in horticulture. The older man shot a sideways glance at his younger colleague and then returned his attention to Smith.
“He’s in the garden sneaking a smoke,” he said with a lift of one eyebrow.
The younger man frowned. “That’s not possible. He doesn’t have access to tobacco at Respite.”
“Just what exactly does Respite do?” Smith asked.
The younger man’s face lit up. “We’re an addiction rehabilitation facility. State of the art. Our success rate is over eighty percent. We achieve this rate by running a well-controlled environment for our patients. Herr Beckmann has been exemplary in his behavior, and I doubt that he’s breaking the rules.” The younger man spoke in earnest tones and sent a pacifying glance at his older colleague. Smith was in the older man’s camp. Likely Beckmann was breaking the rules.
“I’ll just walk around to the garden,” he said.
The older man waved to his right. “Follow the path past the gazebo. He has an unending admiration for the lily pond.”
Smith didn’t bother to hide his grin at this comment and even the younger man unbent enough to swallow a laugh. Smith nodded at them both and headed out to follow a manicured trail through the trees. After a couple of minutes he reached the gazebo and less than one hundred steps past it he saw a man standing in front of a pond with his back to Smith. Though Smith couldn’t see his face, his tall, fit build, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and the cloud of smoke billowing out in front of him matched the Beckmann whom Smith knew. The man turned and a smile creased his face.
“Smith, what the hell are you doing here? All healed from that mustard gas, I see. You look good.” Beckmann put a hand-rolled cigarette to his lips, strode across to Smith, and leaned in to shake his hand and slap him on the back. Smith returned the greeting.
“I should ask the same of you. What addiction are you trying to break?”
Beckmann grimaced, retrieved the cigarette, and held it up. “This one. Some young prick was appointed head of risk management at the CIA and decided to reinstitute fitness requirements for certain field personnel.”
Smith glanced up and down at Beckmann. “You look incredibly fit. Did you not pass?”
“I passed the cognitive speed, threat assessment, hand-to-hand combat, target shooting, push-up and sit-up tests, but failed the sprint.”
“How far did they want you to run?”
“Two miles in a minimum of eighteen minutes, twenty-two seconds.” Beckmann took a drag off his cigarette.
Smith nodded. “Sounds like the same standards as the army fitness test that I take every year. So you came here to kick the cigarettes and try again?”
Beckmann shook his head. “No. I came here to spy on one of the patients. There’s a Russian lieutenant of the prime minister who has a deep and dirty OxyContin addiction. He’s here trying to kick it. Word is that when he’s high or coming down off a high he babbles in German, so the CIA saw it as an opportunity to get me clean and pick up some intelligence at the same time.”
Smith jutted his chin at the burning cigarette. “I can see that one prong of the strategy is failing, how about the other? You getting any intel out of the Russian?”
Beckmann looked disgusted. “None at all. The guy does babble in German, but all he talks about is his young mistress’s bedtime antics and how much he needs her. He’s desperately afraid she’ll leave him for greener pastures. What he doesn’t know but the CIA does is that she’s already been dancing under the sheets of a Chechnyan rebel twenty years the guy’s junior.” Beckmann shook his head. “He’s looking at sixty, so there’s no way he’s going to keep up with a guy in his thirties. When he finds out I have little doubt he’ll be back to swallowing his painkillers.”
Smith put up a hand. “Not true. I’m told that Respite has an eighty percent success rate.”
Beckmann inhaled another drag. “The young doctor at the desk tell you that?”
“He did. But the older man is on to you.”
Beckmann smiled. “That’s Herr Doktor Steiner. Seen it all, that one.”
“You feel like getting sprung from here?”
Beckmann gave him a piercing glance. “Absolutely, but what’s up? I’ve been unconnected from the outside world.”
Smith told him about the missing personnel. “We’re tre
Beckmann took another drag and nodded. “Sure I’m in, but you’d have to get me clearance to leave. If this guy doesn’t cough up some information soon I’ll have nothing to show for this mission.”
“I might be able to get Russell to lean on someone at headquarters. Get you an extension to meet the fitness standards. It would help if you’d say that you’ll continue to try to quit once you’re on the outside.”
Beckmann sighed. “If Russell gets me out of here tell her I’ll give it a shot. Where are we going first?”
“To your old stomping ground. Berlin.”
17
Beckmann shoved open a wooden door and entered a rathskeller an hour north of Berlin. Smith walked in behind him. Smoke hung in the air from the fifty or so patrons, mostly men. A heavy wooden bar, worn smooth from years of use, flanked the right, and heavy wooden tables flanked by benches filled the rest of the area. A large stuffed boar’s head jutted from the top of a mirror against the wall behind the bar. It had two long, wicked-looking tusks, beady eyes, and dark bristled whiskers. Underneath it a bartender with arms of a stevedore and an elaborate, waxed mustache poured ale from a tap.
Beckmann strolled down the narrow aisle. Smith watched as all the patrons marked their progress. Some openly, some not. They reached the end and Beckmann slid onto a stool. He hooked a second one closer with his foot and indicated to Smith to sit.
“Nice place,” Smith said in a low voice. “Looks like the annual meeting of the outlaw biker gang’s German chapter.”
Beckmann gave a quick, surreptitious look to the side and then back at Smith. “Not an upstanding citizen among them. Fantastic place for information.” He shook a cigarette out from a pack and offered it to Smith.