Cal didn’t change expression, but he was thinking furiously. What Rudy described—it sounded more doable than he’d originally thought. A modern jetliner at cruising altitude is on autopilot, which means that it practically flies itself. If there was a program that could interfere with the autopilot . . . He felt his shoulders tighten with concern. “When you tell me what I want to know. And what I want to know are specifics. Everything. How the program works, who designed it, what kind of system it needs to run on. Who’s using it. Who has access to it.”
“It’s on the market as we speak. Anybody with the money to buy it can get access to it, what do you think? Course, that’s a short list, because a program like this is worth tens of millions to the right group. The FSB has it for sure, that’s how I found it. Also, at a guess, some factions of the Bratva.” Having clearly assumed that Cal knew that the FSB was the latter-day KGB and the Bratva was the Russian Mafia, Rudy screwed up his face in the pained expression of an expert conversing with the uninitiated as he moved on to describing the technical side. “As to how it works, it’s like a virus. All it takes is for one passenger to turn on his individual entertainment unit and it’s in the system. Then—” He broke off, frowning. “Look, it’s all on the flash drive I gave you. Steps A through Z, so simple a kid—no, that’s not right—a grandpa could follow it. It’s fucking amazing, let me tell you. I only wish I’d come up with it.” Cal got a glimpse of what looked like professional jealousy shining out of Rudy’s eyes before the other man continued, “Give it back to me, and get me a laptop, and I’ll walk you through it.”
The flash drive was secured at that moment inside Cal’s belt, which was of the type—offered by travel companies—that had an inside zipper in the back for the concealment of cash and small items. He’d been using it on various jobs for various purposes for years. The thing was so low-tech that it had never been compromised.
“Just talk me through it,” Cal said, because until he got inside a secure facility he wasn’t putting anything on a computer that he didn’t want the whole world to have access to. Rudy was a great hacker, but there were more just like him. Lots of people out there were looking real hard for Rudy, and one way to look for him, or the information he’d stolen, would be to scan the Web. Cal didn’t believe in taking unnecessary chances. He got the job he was hired to do done with a minimum of fuss, which was why he kept getting hired.
“You’re making this difficult.” Rudy frowned at him. Cal shrugged. Rudy sighed.
“Who created the program?” Cal said.
Rudy made a face. “I don’t know. What, you think it was signed or something? Whoever it was sold it to the Russkies. Or maybe they just took it. Whatever. From whomever. The point is, it’s out there, and there are people looking to buy it or get hold of it however they can. What happened to Flight 155 is almost foolproof.” He smirked a little. “Without me, it would have been foolproof. Nobody had a clue.”
Cal thought about that. His first reaction—why not just shoot the plane down, or place a bomb on board and blow it out of the sky?—was followed by a quick and terrifying answer. A missile strike would leave a heat signature; so would a bomb, not just on the plane itself but as a record on the satellites and other sensitive devices that monitored what was going on in the world. Investigators would figure out that the plane had been brought down on purpose, and would go hunting for the perpetrators. There weren’t that many with that kind of capability. The culprits would be identified.
But if the plane’s own systems were compromised, all investigators would be able to determine was that, for reasons unknown, the plane flew into a mountain.
Rudy was right: as a method of bringing down a plane, it was almost foolproof.
The hair rose on the back of Cal’s neck.
Rudy said, “What makes what I’m selling even more valuable is that there’s chatter it’s getting ready to happen again.”
Cal sat up straighter. “When? Where?”
“I don’t know. These kinds of people don’t exactly post up schedules. The talk is coming out of Ukraine. I figure your people are smart enough to track it down.”
“Tell me how it works,” Cal said through his teeth.
“All right, jeez. Don’t go getting mad at me. I’m the one who found the thing. I’m the good guy here.”
“Right.” His voice was dry. “How does it work?”
“Think of the program as a simple”—Rudy broke off, gripping the arms of his chair while the plane bucked through a pocket of turbulence; as the air smoothed out he continued—“repurposing of any basic remote control program. The program itself is not the trick. The trick is getting it on the plane. In this case, they used a private jet to get within range and then—” Without warning, the plane dropped like it was falling down an elevator shaft.
Rudy gasped out, “Holy moly!” and hung on so hard that his nails made visible indentations in the soft leather of the armrests.
As the seat seemed to drop out from under him, Cal grabbed for his armrests, too. Cruise altitude for this segment of the flight was thirty-three thousand feet. No way should there be this kind of turbulence at thirty-three thousand feet.