Zero Day_ A Novel - Mark Russinovich [66]
During that hotel room meeting Carlton had said, “In case I didn’t make it clear when we first met at your lovely home, I have no interest in this unless it is very profitable.” Fajer had nodded his head. “Here is the information from two Company reports you might find of interest.” Carlton handed him a manila folder.
“And here,” he continued, giving Fajer a printed sheet of paper, “is the account into which you are to wire the money. If it is enough, we will meet again.” He’d then briefed Fajer on the various drop boxes he intended to use. “Our personal meetings must be infrequent. None is even better. I mean no disrespect, but each time I see you increases the likelihood I’ll be detected.”
Fajer nodded as if impressed. “I understand and agree, though from time to time a personal meeting may be necessary.”
“The American government views the release of commercial data the same way it would if I were behaving as a spy.”
Fajer pursed his lips. “I wasn’t aware of that. We must be very careful, in that case. There is much more at risk here than your career. Why not simply e-mail the material to me?”
Carlton had considered that very idea. He’d checked with Jeff Aiken of his Cyberterrorism Unit on Internet security, someone whose expertise in this regard he trusted, and though he’d understood e-mail was usually easy to trace, efforts could be made to conceal it. He decided that was too complicated for him and not worth bothering with. Besides, he understood that the NSA programs monitoring e-mail were highly sophisticated, and he was certain his messages would be spotted. No, the old proven methods were best—except hereafter he’d leave the material on the less bulky disks.
“The drops are safer,” he’d answered. Fajer had not pursued the matter.
Those two initial reports had garnered Carlton $50,000. Over the years, Carlton had taken in half a million dollars from Fajer, transferring data to him on average just twice a year. The money had made possible his new car and better vacations. He’d also paid off his personal debt, being careful to do so slowly. Only now was he in a position to start piling up the money. With a bit of luck, Carlton was of the opinion he’d be retiring early from DHS. And since most of his assets didn’t legally exist, a divorce was likely in the cards.
He’d only met with Fajer twice since that 2000 meeting in New York City. The last had been in Arlington, Virginia, the previous June. This time Fajer had taken a modest hotel room, and as before, they met indoors.
Following the exchange of the usual pleasantries and the information Carlton had brought, Fajer had crossed his legs, taken a long moment to light an elegantly thin cigarette, then said, “I have an associate in Paris. The relationship between us is very complicated, and you’d have to be an Arab to understand it. The bottom line, as you Americans so delightfully say, is that I have a family obligation with this person I must fulfill. I don’t like it, but I have no alternative. I hope you understand.”
Carlton felt a tingle along his spine. He’d been trained in the art of espionage, what was then called tradecraft, and could not view his relationship with Fajer without considerable suspicion. Their arrangement had gone on much longer than he’d initially thought it would, so long he’d become accustomed to the idea that it would continue unchanged for another few years. Now he wondered if it had all been a setup, aimed for this very moment.
“This associate is engaged in the use of computer viruses to obtain financial information. He then draws money