Текст книги "Splinter cell : Blacklist aftermath (2013)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

2

“MONEY is like alcohol,” Igor Kasperov was telling the reporters from the Wall Street Journal as they toured his Moscow headquarters. “It’s good to have enough, but it’s not target. I’m here to be global police and peacekeeper. I’m here to do charity work everywhere. I’m here, I guess, to save our world!” He tossed a hand into the air and unleashed one of his trademark smiles that had been featured on the cover of Time magazine. The two gray-haired, bespectacled reporters beamed back at him.

Kasperov was no stranger to entertaining the press in the old factory that was now the headquarters of Kasperov Labs, one of the most successful computer antivirus corporations on the planet. That was no boast. According to Forbes, between 2009 and 2012 retail sales of his software increased 174 percent, reaching almost 5.5 million a year—nearly as much as his rivals Symantec and McAfee combined. Worldwide, he had over 60 million users of his security network, users who sent data to his headquarters every time they downloaded an application to their desktops. The cloud-based system automatically checked the code against a “green base” of 300 million software objects it knew to be trustworthy, as well as a “red base” of 94 million known malicious objects. Kasperov’s code was also embedded in Microsoft, Cisco, and Juniper Networks products, effectively giving the company 400 million users. His critics often quibbled over the accuracy of those numbers. He’d send them cases of vodka with notes that instructed them to relax and simply watch as Kasperov Labs became the world’s leading provider of antivirus software.

To that end, Kasperov took enormous pleasure in employing hundreds of software engineers, coders, and designers barely out of college. This motley crew of pierced-and-tattooed warriors created a magnificent dorm room atmosphere that was, no pun intended, infected with their enthusiasm. They’d seen pictures of the playful Google offices in Mountain View, California, and had become, in a word, inspired. These reporters could sense that, and Kasperov played it up for them, joking around with the staff, high-fiving them like a six-foot-five rock star with unkempt sandy blond hair that he constantly tossed out of his face. His daily glasses of vodka had turned his cheeks ruddy, and last year he’d begun wearing bifocals, but he was still young enough for an American girlfriend barely thirty-two who’d modeled for Victoria’s Secret among others. Surrounded by his youthful staff and his lover, he would defy time and live forever because life was good. Life was fun.

Without question, these uptight American journalists would refer to him as an oligarch in their reports, a continent-hopping mogul who’d made his fortune after the fall of the Soviet Union. They’d say he was a wild man who had the president’s ear and was, like the country’s other oligarchs, heavily influencing the government because of his connections and wealth. He would dismiss those shopworn claims and give them something more impressive to write about that would enthrall their readers. To begin, he would discuss the ambitious nature of his new offices in Peru and the great work he was going to do there.

They stood now on a balcony overlooking the hundreds of individually decorated cubicles and walls of classic arcade games. Banks of enormous windows brought in the snowscape and frozen Moskva River beyond. “It is wonderful, is it not?” he asked.

The reporters nodded, issued perfunctory grins, then launched quite suddenly and aggressively into their questions, as though the sheen of his celebrity and success had suddenly worn thin.

“What do you think about social media websites like Facebook, Instagram, and others?”

Kasperov refilled their vodka glasses as he spoke. “Freedom is good thing. We all know this. But too much freedom allows bad guys to do bad things, right?”

“So you don’t like Facebook.”

“I’m suspicious of these websites. We have VK here, right? It’s like Facebook clone, very popular, even my daughter who’s in college has account. But these websites can be used by wrong people to send wrong messages.”

“You said freedom is a good thing. But exactly how much freedom do you have?”

“What do mean? I have much freedom!” He gestured with his drink toward the work floor. “And so do they.”

Kasperov knew exactly what they were getting at, but he preferred not to discuss it.

In Russia, high-tech firms like his had to cooperate with the siloviki—the network of military, security, law enforcement, and KGB veterans at the core of President Treskayev’s regime. Kasperov worked intimately with the SVR and other agencies to hunt down, expose, and capture cybercriminals who’d already unleashed attacks on the banking systems in the United States and Europe. In turn, the Kremlin had given him enough freedom to become the successful entrepreneur he was, but their arrangement was their business—not fodder for American journalism.

“You work very closely with the intelligence community here, don’t you?”

“What is it they say in Top Gun movie? I could tell you, but then I must kill you, right?” He broke out in raucous laughter that wasn’t quite mimicked by the reporters.

“Mr. Kasperov, there have been some allegations linking you to the VK blackout during the elections. Some say you helped the government bring down the social media website to help quell the opposition. After all, they had struck a rallying cry on social media.”

“I’ve already commented on that. I had nothing to do with this. Nothing at all. We detected no attacks on VK. None at all. We don’t know what happened.”

“And you don’t find that—to use your word—suspicious?”

“Of course I do, but it’s all been investigated and put to sleep. Don’t you have any more fun questions? If not, I have some stories to tell you.”

The journalists frowned at each other, then the taller one spoke up again: “Your company is valuable to the Kremlin, so do you think you can ever really be independent of it?”

Kasperov tried to quell his frustration. He had been told this would be an interview, not an interrogation. “There’s no problem here. We work together the same way other companies work with American government. Executive orders by your past presidents provide exchange of data between private sector and government. Your Homeland Security regulates critical infrastructure, same as we do. We’re very happy in this marriage.”

He took a long pull on his vodka, then tipped his head and led them across the balcony to his office door. He ushered them inside, and they gasped over the mementoes of his past and world travels: an African lion mount from one of his safaris; thousands of rare artifacts and gem stones meticulously arranged in glass cases; walls of software boxes written in German and Chinese; Persian rugs splayed across the floor; a basketball jersey from the New Jersey Nets in a glass case, the NBA team owned by a Russian billionaire friend; photos of himself with celebrities and world dignitaries, including American President Patricia Caldwell and the pope; and finally, his dark green dress jacket from his tenure as an intelligence officer with the Soviet Army. His desk, which was loosely copied from the one located in the reception area of the British House of Commons building and cost more than a three-bedroom house in Liverpool, had an opaque glass top and a limestone front. On it sat a picture of himself with his parents before their house, a meager shack on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.

He gestured toward a sprawling leather sofa that, when the reporters sank deeply into the cushions, made them look like dwarves. Kasperov gesticulated more wildly now as he spoke: “Welcome to my life. A poor boy from St. Petersburg. I got lucky. But you know story, right?”

One of the reporters glanced at his notes. “At sixteen you were accepted into a five-year program at the KGB-backed Institute of Cryptography, Telecommunications, and Computer Science. After graduation, you were commissioned as an intelligence officer in the Soviet Army.”

“Yes, but reason I’m here is because one day, I’m like on my computer, and it’s virus there. This is long time ago, 1989. Every time I find new virus, I get more curious. I spend hundreds of hours thinking about them, working on them. This is how I made name for myself in Soviet Army.” Kasperov glanced to the doorway, where, in the shadows, a man appeared, a familiar man whose presence suddenly dampened his mood.

“Mr. Kasperov, you’ve been touted around the world as a generous and remarkable businessman, but you have to admit, you’re surrounded by others in your country who might not be quite as honest as you are. Oligarchs, mafia . . . How do you keep yourself above all the corruption?”

Kasperov glanced once more at the doorway and tried to keep a happy face. “I keep pictures of my family close to my heart. I keep pictures of children all over the world I’ve helped close to my heart. I know they need me and believe in me. I know this company can help me do great things because I believe in it.”

“Do you think your company can help foster better relations between our nations?”

“Oh, I think it already has.”

“I can see why you say that . . . Your girlfriend’s an American. Any talk of marriage?”

He blushed. “No marriage yet. Now, gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me, I have another visitor. If you’ll go downstairs, one of my best managers, Patrik Ruggov—we call him Kannonball—will show you exactly how we work with customer.”

The journalists rose and Kasperov escorted them to the spiral staircase, then he returned to the man who’d been waiting for him in the shadows.

“Hello, Chern,” Kasperov grunted in Russian.

“Igor, I see you are massaging your ego again.”

Kasperov ignored the remark and stormed back into his office. Chern followed.

“Shut the door,” Kasperov ordered him.

Chern smirked and complied.

Kasperov knew this man only by his nickname, “Chernobyl,” aka “Chern.” Leonine, with a prominent gray widow’s peak and fiery blue eyes, Chern contaminated everything he touched and was often the bearer of bad news. While officially he was a member of the SBP, the Presidential Security Service, he served unofficially as President Treskayev’s personal strong arm and courier.

“How is your daughter doing?” Chern asked.

“Very well.”

“She’s away at school, yes?”

“She just flew home for a short visit.”

Chern grinned over that, then moved to the window at the far end of the office. He spent a long moment staring at the snow through the frosted glass, then lifted his voice. “There’s someone else who needs to go home.”

“And who’s that?”

“Calamity Jane.”

Kasperov nearly spit out his vodka. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“That can’t be possible.”

Chern’s eyes widened. “Are you that naïve?”

“I was told from the beginning that it was a deterrent, a deterrent that would never be used.”

“Then you are that naïve.”

Calamity Jane, named after the famous American frontierswoman, was created by Kasperov and a few of his lead programmers, most notably his man Kannonball. It was, in their estimation, the most malicious computer virus in the world; it not only would bring down the American banking system but would also render the country’s GPS system useless by exploiting a systemic problem with the cryptographic keying scheme. The virus would take advantage of this weakness before Raytheon delivered to the U.S. Air Force its Next Generation Operational Control System, or OCX, with the GPS III, third generation, satellites. With banks and GPS offline, the virus would move on to major utilities. Of course, he and his team were the best people to construct such a piece of horrific code because as antivirus champions, they knew the enemy better than anyone.

“I need to think about this,” said Kasperov.

Chern snorted. “There’s nothing to think about. You’re a brilliant man, Igor. You follow the news and world events. You understand the pressure. You know why it’s come to this. All the other elements are falling into place.”

Kasperov closed his eyes. Every time he consulted one of his news websites, there was a new threat to the motherland’s interests.

The merging of local European missile systems into a NATO defense system now put each country’s weapons under NATO command and standardized the command and control, along with local radar access and tactical communication systems. This gave NATO HQ the ability to launch each country’s missiles. The system was coming fully online, and the Kremlin feared it would interfere with Russia’s ability to launch their own preemptive strikes. The military had been threatening to attack the European sites for months . . .

The U.S. Navy’s decision to home port many of its Aegis missile system–equipped ships throughout key Mediterranean ports served as a bold parry to Russia’s opposition to American land-based missile defense installations in the region.

And then, of course, there was the recent surge of American natural gas being exported and sold to European nations at less than half the cost of the Russian natural gas those nations had been buying.

However, there was an even larger economic threat, one Kasperov himself had noted to the Kremlin:

European nations were aggressively developing thorium reactors, the so-called green reactors with their low levels of radiation, minimal waste materials, and outstanding safety features. Thorium, a white radioactive metal with nonfertile isotopes, was proving a viable substitute for nuclear fuel in reactors, and its demand was ever-increasing. In fact, the United States had just struck a deal to sell its current stockpiles of thorium, which were stored in Nevada, to European nations. These stockpiles would be used to bring hundreds of liquid fluoride thorium reactors—FLTR, pronounced flitter—on line throughout Europe, ultimately making Europe fossil fuel independent and destroying Russia’s customer base there.

Finally, recent U.S. sanctions against countries like Syria and Iran, where Russia had strong economic interests, continued to tax the motherland’s ability to sustain herself.

If this was a new cold war, it was one of economics under the umbrella of MAD—mutually assured disruption. There had to be a better way to address these problems.

Kasperov locked gazes with Chern. “This doesn’t come from Treskayev. It comes from the men controlling him. They’ve forced him into this. They don’t think he’ll stand up to the Americans.”

“And they’re probably right. But that doesn’t matter. We have our orders. We do our duty.”

“I want to speak to the president.”

Chern smiled weakly. “He won’t take your call now. Igor, you’ve danced your little dance for long enough. And, from what I understand, you’ll be able to walk away from this. The virus hides our involvement. We blame it all on the hackers you love to put in jail, the Estonian hackers and others. Sure, your company will suffer a blow, but you’ll survive.”

Kasperov averted his gaze, his stomach growing sour.

Suddenly, Chern was clutching his arms. “Igor, we must all make our sacrifices for the motherland.”

“You’re not asking me to guarantee an election here. You’re asking me to cripple the economy of a nation that has been very good to me.”

“No one’s asking. You know what to do.”

A chill began at the base of Kasperov’s spine and wove its way upward, into his chest. “I’m sorry . . . sorry for my reluctance. I was thinking of my employees and of all the families that would be affected by this.”

“They will be okay. Will you?”

Kasperov steeled his voice. “You don’t need to threaten me. We’ve come from the same place. We have the same heart. Do we have a timetable?”

“Yes, I’ll be communicating that to you directly. I would expect sometime tomorrow. Now, it was good seeing you. I have a plane to catch.”

Chern reached the door, hesitated, then glanced back at Kasperov. “We’re trusting you, Igor.” He nodded, opened the door, and left.

Kasperov fired his empty vodka glass across the room, spun around, then bit his fist, trying to hold in the scream boiling at the back of his throat.

Last week he was in Cancun, Mexico, speaking at a convention. He had Bill Gates to his left and former President Clinton to his right. Colleagues.

Two weeks ago he and his girlfriend, Jessica North, were in South Beach at a fashion show and enjoying cocktails.

Three weeks ago, he was having lunch in San Francisco with Virgin empire mogul Richard Branson and discussing his ticket aboard one of Branson’s spacecraft.

The fairy-tale life would end today. No more rock star.

He began to lose his breath, eyes burning with tears. He glowered at his old Soviet uniform, then looked to the picture on his desk, the little boy there, the innocent little boy who would grow up to destroy the world.

They were asking too much. Their plan would not work. The truth would emerge and the motherland would become the pariah of the global community.

But if he failed to obey now, they would systematically tear apart his life. They would start with those he loved, then move on to the causes he loved, undermine and destroy the humanitarian work, punish him until he was a broken, bleeding, and bitter old man who’d “disappeared” but was, in truth, lying in a gulag and hunting roaches for dinner.

Again, this was not coming from the president. Kasperov knew this in his heart of hearts. Yes, Treskayev was a nationalist like his father, but he was also a pragmatist, spending much of his administration mending fences with the United States and Europe, earning him the ire of the imperialists. He wanted to call the man, beg him to stop this, but Treskayev might not even know what was going on. This could be bigger than all of them.

Kasperov backhanded the tears from his cheeks. If he did not comply, he, like the malicious objects identified by his own software, would be quarantined . . . then erased.

3

THE C147-B, call sign Paladin, had become Fourth Echelon’s mobile headquarters and was cruising over the Atlantic at thirty thousand feet, traveling at a speed of Mach 0.74, or 563 mph. She was a fully customized C-17 Globemaster III with special composite matte gray fuselage that functioned as a Faraday cage, shielding her cutting-edge components from electromagnetic pulses. Her interior was TEMPEST certified up to and including NATO SDIP-27 Level A standards. Her avionics/comm circuits met RED/BLACK separation standards, and her computers were shielded against electromagnetic eavesdropping techniques called Van Eck phreaking. These countermeasures had been phased in after the jet’s flight controls had been hacked, and Fisher had made damned sure that would never happen again.

With a length of 174 feet and wingspan just shy of 170 feet, Paladin was originally designed for heavy lift military cargo and troop transport and was powered by four fully reversible Pratt & Whitney F117-PW-100 turbofan engines similar to those used on commercial Boeing 757s. Her original cargo compartment was 88 feet long by 18 feet wide, with a ceiling height of over 12 feet, but now much of that open space had been converted into living quarters, a galley, a fully stocked armory with more than a thousand pieces of ordnance, an infirmary with complete surgical center, and a holding cell.

Located at the bay’s core was Fourth Echelon’s control center—a cocoon of flat-screen computer monitor stations, along with giant displays affixed to either side of the hatch leading to the infirmary. Cables lay like piles of spaghetti beneath the flickering glow of computer stations, and dim starlight filtered in through the circular portholes above them. The desktops of several junior analysts were piled with hard-copy files and seemingly every portable electronic device known to mankind: Kindles, iPads, iPods, and tablets of varying sizes, colors, and shapes. Heavily padded computer chairs sat on tracks bolted to the deck, and you could tell where Charlie Cole was working based upon the coordinates of a jar of extra-crunchy peanut butter with a fork jutting from it. The kid said Skippy helped him think.

Positioned at the center of this technological nest was a rectangular-shaped table about nine feet long and six feet wide constructed of magnesium and titanium to support a glass touchscreen surface. This table with its linked processors was Fourth Echelon’s Strategic Mission Interface, or SMI, an advanced prototype analytics engine capable of news and Internet data mining, predictive analytics, and photo and video forensics. The SMI enabled them to have backdoors into foreign electronic intelligence, or ELINT, systems, as well as facial recognition integration from the CIA, NSA, DHS, and FBI. They were linked directly to the National Counterterrorism Center and to the watch teams inside the White House Situation Room. In the blink of an eye they could pull up surveillance video from a hundred different locations simultaneously, analyze those videos, and issue a report.

Opposite the SMI, Sam Fisher leaned back in one of the computer chairs, pillowed his head in his hands, and reflected on his new life. Talk about a reboot. A breath ago he’d quit Third Echelon—once a top secret sub-branch within the National Security Agency—but then he’d been caught up in a 3E conspiracy that had resulted in the entire covert ops organization being grounded and gutted, dismantled forever. Fisher assumed he’d never again be a Splinter Cell. He was done.

But then President Caldwell had come to him with an operation that required a man not only with his skill set but one with the internal fortitude to get the job done:

A coalition of rogue nations had come together to bankroll and support a terrorist group called the Blacklist Engineers, who were bent on forcing the United States to withdraw its military forces from around the world. Their leader was Majid Sadiq, a former MI6 deep cover field agent and sociopath. The group’s plan involved a “blacklist” of American targets that would be hit if the Americans did not comply.

Caldwell had sweetened the deal, told Fisher the entire op was off the books, no NSA jurisdiction, no open government involvement. She had granted him “the fifth freedom” to use any means necessary to take out the terrorists with no fear of prosecution. The freedoms of speech and worship, along with the freedoms from want and fear, had first been articulated by President Theodore Roosevelt. The fifth freedom was the freedom to protect the first four. Fisher had the right to defend our laws—by breaking them; the right to safeguard secrets—by stealing them; and the right to save lives—by taking them.

No more bureaucratic bullshit. No more politics. No more red tape. It was a covert operator’s dream come true. Clandestine backing from the government without interference.

That Majid Sadiq had been dispatched and members of his group were dead or on the run was an important victory in the never-ending war on terrorism because it had proven that Fisher and his team were a viable asset.

Indeed, this was Fourth Echelon, and Fisher answered only to the President of the United States. He no longer worked alone in the field but relied upon his team. He’d come a long way since his early days of hanging out in a ventilation shaft at the Tropical Casino in Macau. However, the ghosts still hovered at his shoulders, the ghost of his old boss Lambert, a man whose life he had once saved but then had been forced to take . . .

“We’re going over the files from Istanbul,” came a voice from behind Fisher, jarring him back to the present. “But you still want to go back there?”

Fisher swung his chair around to face Anna “Grim” Grimsdóttir, her strawberry blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, her blue eyes narrowing with skepticism. She wore a black striped blouse and the shoulder harness for a SIG P229R 9mm pistol.

When he’d first met Grim, she never carried a weapon. She’d been secretly watching him run a CIA obstacle course at “the Farm,” Camp Peary, Virginia. Her spying on him should’ve been his first clue that he couldn’t trust her, but as they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. She’d begun her career as a programmer, hacker, and analyst, providing assistance for Fisher while he was in the field. Over the years they became friends, sharing jokes about the use of lasers being so 1970s and hi-fi versus Wi-Fi in such globetrotting locations as skyscrapers in New York and banks in Panama City. Grim relished reminding him that he was “old,” but her taunts were good-natured, and Fisher never took them lying down; in fact, he usually took them while suspended, inverted, from a rope.

Then, regrettably, their relationship had taken a very dark turn. They’d told him that his daughter, Sarah, was killed by a drunk driver.

That was a lie.

Grim had known the truth. For three long years he’d thought he had no reason to go on living, and she’d done nothing. Then, when 3E became gripped in conspiracy and corruption, she began working as a mole inside the organization, reporting directly to President Caldwell. Grim had used the promise of Fisher being reunited with his daughter to manipulate him into a mission he didn’t want to take.

He’d thought what she’d done to him was unforgivable, but she’d apologized, told him she’d had little choice, that it was all for the greater good and that she’d do it all again if necessary. The venerable nickname “Ice Queen” had been used to describe her before, but that seemed insufficient. He’d never known she’d go to such great lengths to protect their country. He’d never known her at all, and the emptiness he felt over that revelation ached every day.

He studied her now, acutely aware that she had not wanted him in this position, that Fourth Echelon had originally been her initiative and she’d wanted to be its commander. She hadn’t trusted his motives, but he thought he’d proven himself to her during the Blacklist mission.

“Grim, I know it’s a long shot, but maybe we missed something. There has to be another connection.”

“If there is, we’ll find it. Charlie’s acting like he’s possessed right now.”

“I’m glad you guys are getting along.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m telling you, Grim, when we worked for Victor, the kid was amazing. And you have to admit, the SMI would be nothing without him.”

Fisher was referring to his time working for his old Seal Team Two buddy Victor Coste, who’d formed Paladin 9, a private security firm. That’s where Charlie Cole, the twenty-five-year-old technophile and brilliant programmer, had gone to work after Grim had booted him out of Third Echelon’s R&D department—they’d been working on the SMI together—and that’s where they’d taken the call sign for their aircraft after Vic was injured in the first Blacklist attack and closed up his firm. The name “Paladin” was a tribute to him and a historical reference to chivalrous and courageous knights.

Grim shook her head. “Charlie hasn’t changed a bit. Still an uncompromising know-it-all who almost got us killed—”

Fisher frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

Grim winced, as though she’d let something slip. “Look, he’s great at what he does—”

“But what?”

“But I still don’t know if I can trust him.”

“Give him a chance.”

“Oh, I will. That doesn’t mean I’ll take my eyes off him.”

“Maybe I never earned your trust, but he will.”

She took a deep breath. “Sam, we’ve been through a lot together. And we’ll go through a lot more. The work always comes first.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

“I know, but we can’t let the past come between us.”

“I’m glad you finally said that.”

“Really?”

He smirked. “Yeah, because it’s the understatement of the year. You think we’ll ever trust each other?”

“We’re gonna have to.” She started off.

“Hey, Grim?”

She paused and glanced back.

“You made me realize I belong here. Not Vic. Not anyone else . . .”

A sheen came into her eyes before she turned and headed back to the SMI table.

Her reaction surprised him. It always seemed that her warmth and sympathy had been accidently uploaded and stored in the cloud instead of her heart. And admittedly, she was often a far better strategist than him, yet at the same time she was risk averse, unable to call an audible, and too worried about the consequences of going with your gut. But he needed her. More than ever.

Before he could ponder that further, the seal of the President of the United States appeared on their big screens, and Charlie came rushing out of his chair, tugging on the strings of his hoodie and raising his voice: “Got the POTUS on the line!”

“Good morning, everyone,” said the president.

Patricia Linklater Caldwell was an absolute rarity in American politics, having reached the highest office in the land while single. Her husband, Tobias Linklater, had lived long enough to see Caldwell become a senator before he’d succumbed to pancreatic cancer. In many ways Caldwell was a survivor, having suffered the loss of her husband even as she weathered a tumultuous bid for the presidency and an assassination attempt after she’d been elected. As chief executive, she was results driven, did not frighten easily, and her willingness to get things done by taking quick action had easily won over Fisher. Knowing she lacked Fisher’s perspective from the ground, she wasn’t afraid to listen to his advice.

“Hello, Madame President. If this is about Rahmani, let me assure you—”

“I’ll cut you off right there, Sam. I know you’re on your way to Istanbul, but there’s been a change of plans.”

The SMI began flashing with imagery and data bars, and the big screens above the infirmary hatch displayed images of a handsome middle-aged man with long sandy blond hair and piercing eyes.

“I assume most of you recognize Igor Kasperov, founder and CEO of Kasperov Labs in Moscow.”

“And one of the greatest antivirus programmers ever,” added Charlie. “A legend like Gates, Jobs, and McAfee.”

“That’s right,” said Caldwell. “And I’ve met him before. He’s quite a character.”

“What’s going on?” Fisher asked.

“Just a few minutes ago his headquarters in Moscow abruptly shut down and his employees scattered. His offices around the world have been left hanging. No one knows where he is, but we just received some good HUMINT. Our agents in the Kremlin suspect that he wasn’t taken prisoner by the government because a localized virus just infected security systems all over the city, bringing down surveillance cameras. They also report that the Federal Security Service has dispatched agents to all the transportation routes.”