20
Alexander Palmer looked to a woman on his right. She rose and said, “Sir, I’m Nancy Phelps of the FBI’s financial crimes division. To answer your question, Bitcoin is a form of digital currency that is fairly anonymous. It has no physical, tangible properties, like a dollar bill, but it is worth money and can be exchanged for cash. It’s a way for the terrorists to get something of value without us being able to catch them. They want to prevent us from setting up any traps by avoiding hard currency. No wire transfers, no banks, no suitcases full of cash to pass off. Basically, they give us a digital address and we transfer the ‘coins,’ all done over the Internet.”
President Warren said, “Can we track it?”
She said, “Not if they set up certain protocols. It’s not like wiring money, with all the regulations involved. The Bitcoins will simply go to an address on the Internet. If their current expertise is any indication, we won’t know where that is. But when they exchange it for real money, we might be able to track that. Every Bitcoin transaction is maintained in a log, so when those coins resurface, we’ll know they’re the ones we paid, and we can then possibly get a real address to work back from. Sooner or later, if they want to use them on anything besides novelty sites on the Web, they have to have a bank account that takes real money. And that account will be tied to a name.”
“So if we give them the coins, they can’t ever use them? Surely they know that.”
“Well, there are ways around the problem. There are mixing sites that will take your coins and intermingle them with others.”
“Speak English, please.”
She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts, then said, “Say you marked a bunch of quarters, then gave them to me. Every time I spent one of the marked quarters, someone would know. Now say I want to guarantee my anonymity. I get together with fifty or a hundred other folks with quarters, and we put them all in a bag and shake it up. When I’m done, I simply count out the number of coins I put in the bag. What I end up with is washed quarters. The mixing sites work the same way, only digitally. When they’re done, our Bitcoins will be spread out all over the place. We could track them to the mixing site, but little else.”
President Warren said, “Why on earth would such a site exist?”
“Because criminals use Bitcoins. Just like these terrorists.”
Billings said, “Well, why don’t we just make up a bunch of Bitcoins? It’s all digits, right? Hell, give ’em a million of them.”
Nancy smiled and said, “It doesn’t work that way. It is digital, but it has a real architecture and backbone behind it. We can’t counterfeit Bitcoins. One other thing, the actual dollar amount fluctuates wildly. Currently, one Bitcoin is worth about five hundred US dollars, so he’s basically asking for about fifty million. Tomorrow, that could be a hundred million or one million, depending on price fluctuations.”
President Warren said, “Can we get a hundred thousand of them? Without spiking what we’re doing and causing questions?”
“It will be hard and involve setting up multiple different accounts that purchase small amounts from different exchanges, but we could do it. It will require time.”
Kerry Bostwick said, “Wait, wait, before we even go down that road, how do we know this is for real? I cannot believe that an Islamic group would ransom such valuable hostages back to us. It makes no sense. I mean, look at the chain of events: First they talk about stopping our drone attacks, then they kill one of the hostages to prove they’re serious, then they tell us they believe in the sanctity of life and we can pay to get them back? How do we know this message is from the group that’s got our people?”
Palmer said, “Good question. They also gave us an account and password for an application called Snapchat. They stated they would tell us when to log in.”
President Warren looked at the ceiling and said, “Do I need to bring my daughter in here for this? What the hell is Snapchat?”
“It’s a picture-sharing application. Basically, you can send an image or video that has a finite time before it deletes itself. You take a picture, send it to a friend, and it disappears seconds later.” He coughed and said, “Apparently, it’s primarily used to send naughty photos between young people. We think they’re going to use it as proof of life.”
“So once again, we can’t do anything with it? Only get a couple of seconds to analyze it for clues before it self-destructs like a Mission: Impossible movie?”
“No. They may have outsmarted themselves this time. We can intercept the picture and do a lot with it, depending on how it was taken and transmitted. It’s a mobile application, so it’ll be coming from a cell phone, which opens up a host of possibilities.”
“Good. About time we get a break. Okay, here’s what I want. Continue the full-court press with the units in the field. Something may break.” He looked at Nancy. “In the meantime, start buying Bitcoins anonymously. Get up to what they want.”
Kerry started to protest, and President Warren held up his hand. “I’m just covering all bases. Finally, get whatever experts we have on standby to receive this Snapchat. I want everything associated with that picture analyzed when it comes in.”
Kerry said, “I’m assuming we’ve already bled the Bitcoin account for any information?”
Palmer nodded. “Yeah. We talked to the company.”
Now jotting in a notebook, President Warren snapped his head up at the comment.
Palmer said, “Don’t worry, there aren’t any fingerprints. We went through the FBI on a routine check. Anyway, it didn’t do any good. The account was created from an ISP in Shanghai, which is to say it was spoofed. No help.”
President Warren said, “Listen up, everyone. Palmer’s last comment reminded me of something. The circle of trust on this thing is getting bigger and bigger, which means a leak is just around the corner. That cannot happen. This isn’t about politics, and it isn’t about egos.” He looked at the vice president, then Easton Clute, the chair of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. “There are lives at stake here, and if word gets out to the press, our options will be severely limited.” He paused, looking from person to person around the room. “Does everyone understand?”
Kurt saw the powerful first tier sitting around the conference table nod their heads, the various staffers in the back row with him doing the same, and wondered how many times a sitting president had said similar words only to read about something the next day in the newspaper.
One man raised his hand. Kurt recognized the secretary of Homeland Security.
President Warren said, “What is it, Gerald?”
“Sir, I was going to bring this up later, but now’s as good a time as any. What are we supposed to say for press inquiries? The reason I ask is that Grant Breedlove contacted me today. He wants to talk. He didn’t say what it was about, only that he was working on a story. But he seemed pretty sure he had something explosive and gave the usual threats about posting the story without my input.”
Kurt heard the name and inwardly groaned. Grant Breedlove was an investigative reporter for The Washington Post and was very, very good at his job. He was Kurt’s greatest fear regarding Taskforce exposure. Somehow the man managed to find sources in the deepest, darkest places of the national security architecture—and those people always talked.
Kerry Bostwick said, “Put a bullet in his head.”
The table gave a polite chuckle, and President Warren cut it short. “We already have reporters circling? Jesus Christ, if I find out who’s talking, I’m going to put a bullet in their head.”
Palmer said, “Nobody’s talking. He’s just got his ear to the ground. He’s heard about all of these meetings. He’s sniffed a story but doesn’t know what it is. He won’t publish without comment. Why he went to DHS is a mystery.”
Kerry said, “Because the leak is in Homeland. That’s why. Someone’s talked. That’s what always happens. They get a whiff of blood and then start swimming for the carcass floating in the water. He’s smelled the blood downstream and is now trying to find the body.”
Gerald bristled. “Nobody in my office talked. I’m the only one read onto this.”
“Bullshit. Someone in your office—a contact of his—has pieced together something and fed it to him. It might be solely based on your schedule, but make no mistake, Grant is good. And honestly, half the time he listens. Maybe we bring him into the fold. He won’t want to get anyone killed.”
Vice President Hannister spoke up for the first time. “No way. We let him get his nose in the tent, and we’re screwed. It’ll be just like you say. He might keep his word, but his cubicle mates will then start sniffing. It’ll blow, and my son will die.”
Easton Clute nodded his head vigorously. “I agree. He can’t find out. My son and daughter are worth more than someone’s scoop.”
President Warren sat back and rubbed his eyes, saying, “The wonders of a free and open press.” He pulled his hand away and said, “Meet him. See what it’s about but don’t look too eager. You agree immediately, and he’ll think he’s near the body. Drag him out with mundane stuff, then finally agree, as if it’s a huge favor. Then find out what he’s talking about. Hopefully it’s just some stupid noncontroversy. Drones on the border or some other bullshit. If it is, let him run with it. Keep him focused on another story. Hell, it might work in our favor. He breaks a story I don’t care about, and the slavering twenty-four-hour news cycle will pick it up and go crazy, letting us work the real problem.”
Palmer said, “And if it isn’t?”
“Then we deal with it. But let me make this perfectly clear: Nobody in this room had better be keeping secrets from me. You hear anything, and that includes from the press, I want to know.”
He looked around the room, catching Kurt’s eye. Kurt nodded, once again feeling adrift. Torn between his desire to save his niece and his loyalty to the administration. But the president was only one man. As much as Kurt trusted him, he knew Warren would defer to the “expertise” in the room, and Kylie would die.
Kurt glanced at the secretary of defense, the man’s grief radiating out like heat in a sauna. He focused on the vice president and recognized the same visceral fear that was eating at his own soul.
Come on, Pike. Work your magic. I need it now more than ever.