Finally, the clapping ended, and the audience sat down to watch the rest of the performance.

In Dewey’s ear, the monotone Philadelphia accent of Bill Polk brought him back into focus.

“We have sign-off from the president,” said Polk. “Get in and get it done.”

31

ELEKTROSTAL

Sascha nodded at Cloud. Cloud stepped around the table and walked to him.

Sascha was a gifted programmer in his own right and was the one who was able to penetrate Alexei Malnikov’s father’s VPN, thus enabling Cloud to anonymously set up the elder Malnikov.

“What is it?” asked Cloud.

“The trapdoor into Langley,” said Sascha. “It was there an hour ago. Now I can’t find it.”

In hacker lingo, a trapdoor was a hole in the security of a system deliberately left in place by a designer or maintainer.

Cloud moved quickly to Sascha’s workstation.

“The operation will be going live,” said Cloud.

“I know.”

Cloud leaned over and took Sascha’s keyboard, then started typing.

“Yes, I see,” said Cloud, typing away. “They found the evidence of one of the times we were inside. Like finding the ashes after a fire. But they’re not anywhere near the matches or the gasoline.”

Cloud gently pushed Sascha aside and took over his computer. He typed a URL into the Web browser. This was the enterprise server in Elektrostal. He went through a series of consecutive screens, entering passwords, each time pressing his right thumb to the computer’s thumbprint detection security device. At the fifth screen, a large cartoonish-looking eye suddenly appeared. Cloud leaned forward, staring into the laptop’s built-in camera. After a few moments, a soft musical note chimed, the eye disappeared, and the words came onto the screen.

Welcome home, Cloud

Cloud had succeeded in hacking into the CIA but not by penetrating the Agency’s computer networks. The odds of being able to pull off such a “front door” intrusion were not only remote, but they would also likely lead the CIA back to him. The CIA was in large part a closed-loop user of the Internet and originator of signals intelligence. This meant there were few exposed access points into the Agency. Those that did exist were for noncore, “passive” activities, such as human resources and public relations. Those access points which allowed the general public into the CIA through e-mail or a Web browser were heavily monitored and delivered visitors to a digital world entirely separate from the important stuff, such as communications regarding live operations.

The coming attack on America was based on surprise. Although he’d stolen hundreds of millions of dollars from U.S. corporations over the years, he’d never targeted any entity that would consider it a national security violation.

Instead, Cloud had taken a more prosaic approach to worming his way into Langley. He’d written a virus, which, once downloaded, was innocuous and invisible to its users. It sat there in silence and was impossible to detect. The virus was activated by a user mistakenly clicking a link in an e-mail. Once activated, the virus targeted music files, striking the digital code of a song as it was being downloaded. Then the virus waited. For most people, it waited forever and did nothing.

The virus was designed to awaken if it was ever placed on the CIA mainframe. Then it would go live and create a single trapdoor for Cloud.

Cloud had designed the virus, then blanketed a fifty-mile radius around Langley. The goal was to have a vital employee of the Agency, with access to the closed-loop mainframe, break Agency rules and share music on a home computer with a work computer.

It took almost a year of daily e-mails, often in the millions, but eventually it happened. A young case officer had synced his iPhone with his computer at Langley. Within forty-five seconds of the insertion of the USB, Cloud, on the other side of the world, had a ladder into Langley’s closed-loop mainframe.

He was soon staring at a live video, the same video being watched inside the CIA mission theater.

He typed in silence for more than five minutes, then, with a dramatic flair, hit Enter.

Sascha smiled at him.

“A lucky break,” said Cloud, pretending to be modest.

In a dialogue box at the lower left of his screen, the audio communications passing between Langley and the Agency’s operators in the field were transcribed in real time:

1842

phase line in twenty guys

1843

this is immediate priority

1844

its vital we capture this guy

1845

use all means necessary to bring him in alive

1846

roger langley

1847

we have sign off from the president

1848

get in and get it done

Cloud sat back, crossed his arms, and stared at the screen.

“It is beginning,” he said.

32

IN THE AIR

BRITISH AIRWAYS FLIGHT 319

Dowling looked down at the earth. He clicked the ceramic switch in his glove. A digital altimeter in his helmet read:

32,880.7FT

006.23M

He glanced at the mission clock, dimly illuminated in orange in the upper left corner of his glass:

1:06:32

They had a little over an hour to go. He clicked again. A digital chart appeared, displaying Dowling’s position relative to where, based on trade winds and other metrics, he should have been.

The data that informed the charts was compiled and processed in real time, based on readings in their helmets, in communication with an Air Force AWACS that was flying, at that moment, above the Caspian Sea.

Dowling clicked again and looked at yet another chart, which showed the three commandos, along with data as to how much height and distance separated them.

All three commandos had spent years learning how to do high-altitude high-opening (HAHO) and high-altitude low-opening (HALO) parachute jumps as Rangers. HAHOs were exhausting. The adjustments to the steering and altitude of the canopy, based upon a constant cycling through the charts, was endless. It required intense concentration, especially for the lead navigator, who, in this case, was Dowling. A strobe on his helmet enabled the other men to follow.

The sky above Russia was clear and warm as the commando team descended. The lights of the Moscow suburbs were like a carpet beneath them—yellow, increasingly bright—as they came concentrically closer to the dacha.

They reached the outskirts of Rublevka while still a thousand feet in the air. A green light appeared in the upper corner of Dowling’s helmet along with a steady beeping noise. They were directly above the dacha.

The lights of the modern glass mansion were visible below.

The three Americans circled concentrically above, funneling rapidly lower as if swirling down a drain. The lights grew brighter. Dowling triggered the ceramic in his glove several times until the plot lines of the property appeared in bright orange. He made out a line of cars in the driveway. He soared left, over the house, moving out over a dark lawn. Night-vision goggles lit up the ground in light green. Several large pine trees lay dead ahead, then a field, and he dropped rapidly now. When his feet were about to hit the ground, he adjusted his chute, letting it pull him up one last time, softening the coming landing.

A minute later, Fitzgerald landed a few feet away, then Tosatti.

The team removed their parachutes, flying packs, tanks, helmets, and anything else that was unnecessary, packing it in black nylon bags they’d carried in. All three men were sweating profusely, from the heated flight suit and from the adrenaline now coursing through them like fire.