enough despite various security loopholes and which Abbas had left
alone, but he had added an anti-virus suite and a firewall for safety. He’d also installed a copy of the PGP – Pretty Good Privacy – file encryption program.
Next to the computer was a small-footprint Hewlett-Packard laser printer, which was used only to print the very rare email messages intended for the group, rather than just Abbas, to see. On the
floor next to the table was a large uninterruptible power supply – a UPS – which would provide back-up power to the computer for about half an hour in the event of a mains power
failure. Beside the UPS was a black leather Samsonite case containing a powerful laptop computer to be used as a back-up to the IBM machine in case of some kind of major software or hardware crash,
and a mobile telephone in case the landline ever failed. And apart from two upright chairs, the room contained nothing else.
Every afternoon Abbas unlocked the door of the back bedroom, switched on the computer, opened Internet Explorer and surfed the Internet for a couple of hours, concentrating on pornographic
sites. This he had done ever since they had taken the house, establishing a routine that served to cloak his real activity on the web. He had no interest whatsoever in the lurid images that flashed
across the screen, and barely even glanced at them. All he was interested in was one site that he himself had created and that was hosted on a low-cost server in Arizona. He had done nothing to
promote the site, so very few people knew it existed, and fewer still bothered to visit it because it was, even by the low standards normally applied to sex sites, remarkably badly constructed and,
frankly, boring.
One link on the site generated a 404 error – page not found – but pressing the ‘Refresh’ button three times within two seconds ran a small piece of code Abbas had
embedded in the site. This action didn’t produce a new page but simply dialled the classified number of a distant mainframe computer, which Abbas logged on to at least once every week.
As well as surfing the net, Abbas had established himself on several email mailing lists, and every day had to wade through some fifty advertising messages. The majority of these he deleted
immediately, but he always read the messages from one advertiser in Germany completely. Some of these messages he deleted after reading, but some he didn’t. Although the originating address
was German, these emails had actually been sent from a different country, using a series of redirection sites to conceal their true origin.
That morning, Abbas downloaded the overnight messages and found only one from the German email address. He scanned through it carefully, then grunted with satisfaction. About halfway down the
page were a few lines of what appeared to be corrupted text. Abbas highlighted the text and copied it into the word processor, then closed his Internet connection and shut down Outlook Express.
Then he ran the decryption routine in the 128-bit PGP encryption program on the copied text, using his private key, and read the message twice. Its contents disturbed him, and he knew Khamil had to
be told at once.
Abbas spent forty minutes working at the computer, composing and encoding a message for Sadoun Khamil’s eyes only, which he embedded in another advertising email, this one with a Spanish
originating address. As with the incoming message, Abbas arranged for it to be bounced from server to server before finally being delivered to Saudi Arabia.
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yazenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow
It was, Sokolov thought, as he surveyed the pile of folders and files on the desk in front of him, an almost impossible task. He was not even sure that Nicolai Modin was
right, that one of the records he was studying was that of a traitor. It was surely possible that the Americans had flown their spy-plane just because they wanted to
alone, but he had added an anti-virus suite and a firewall for safety. He’d also installed a copy of the PGP – Pretty Good Privacy – file encryption program.
Next to the computer was a small-footprint Hewlett-Packard laser printer, which was used only to print the very rare email messages intended for the group, rather than just Abbas, to see. On the
floor next to the table was a large uninterruptible power supply – a UPS – which would provide back-up power to the computer for about half an hour in the event of a mains power
failure. Beside the UPS was a black leather Samsonite case containing a powerful laptop computer to be used as a back-up to the IBM machine in case of some kind of major software or hardware crash,
and a mobile telephone in case the landline ever failed. And apart from two upright chairs, the room contained nothing else.
Every afternoon Abbas unlocked the door of the back bedroom, switched on the computer, opened Internet Explorer and surfed the Internet for a couple of hours, concentrating on pornographic
sites. This he had done ever since they had taken the house, establishing a routine that served to cloak his real activity on the web. He had no interest whatsoever in the lurid images that flashed
across the screen, and barely even glanced at them. All he was interested in was one site that he himself had created and that was hosted on a low-cost server in Arizona. He had done nothing to
promote the site, so very few people knew it existed, and fewer still bothered to visit it because it was, even by the low standards normally applied to sex sites, remarkably badly constructed and,
frankly, boring.
One link on the site generated a 404 error – page not found – but pressing the ‘Refresh’ button three times within two seconds ran a small piece of code Abbas had
embedded in the site. This action didn’t produce a new page but simply dialled the classified number of a distant mainframe computer, which Abbas logged on to at least once every week.
As well as surfing the net, Abbas had established himself on several email mailing lists, and every day had to wade through some fifty advertising messages. The majority of these he deleted
immediately, but he always read the messages from one advertiser in Germany completely. Some of these messages he deleted after reading, but some he didn’t. Although the originating address
was German, these emails had actually been sent from a different country, using a series of redirection sites to conceal their true origin.
That morning, Abbas downloaded the overnight messages and found only one from the German email address. He scanned through it carefully, then grunted with satisfaction. About halfway down the
page were a few lines of what appeared to be corrupted text. Abbas highlighted the text and copied it into the word processor, then closed his Internet connection and shut down Outlook Express.
Then he ran the decryption routine in the 128-bit PGP encryption program on the copied text, using his private key, and read the message twice. Its contents disturbed him, and he knew Khamil had to
be told at once.
Abbas spent forty minutes working at the computer, composing and encoding a message for Sadoun Khamil’s eyes only, which he embedded in another advertising email, this one with a Spanish
originating address. As with the incoming message, Abbas arranged for it to be bounced from server to server before finally being delivered to Saudi Arabia.
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvyedki Rossi Headquarters, Yazenevo, Tëplyystan, Moscow
It was, Sokolov thought, as he surveyed the pile of folders and files on the desk in front of him, an almost impossible task. He was not even sure that Nicolai Modin was
right, that one of the records he was studying was that of a traitor. It was surely possible that the Americans had flown their spy-plane just because they wanted to
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