The Blockchain Revolution Read online

  “If it’s not obvious, these tasks are highest priority. Each of you will keep me apprised of your progress on a frequent basis. Now, let’s take a break.”

  As the room emptied, Yazzi congratulated himself. Sometimes, the Decider’s job was easy – pick both options, especially when one might work before the second was ready to go. And, he reflected, there was at least one big advantage to being the Decider. Once the decisions were made, it was somebody else’s problem to carry them out.

  * * *

  Crypto’s interactions with the voices were typical of what one might find in any dysfunctional family. When life was smooth and conflict free, the voices were nonthreatening and tolerable. But when times grew tense, they became strident and distracting, like agitated insects buzzing around his head. They had never introduced themselves, so early on, he labeled the most consistently present one voice A. During difficult times, she became insistent and hysterical. The second – naturally voice B – only visited when times were bad. B was always loud and over-bearing. During a particularly trying period, Crypto renamed the exasperating, buzzing, circling voices A Bee and B Bee.

  The presence of his Bees was not always unwelcome, though. The fact was, he had no one else to talk to. He’d never allowed anyone into his adult life, and his mother was a broken woman who rarely left the small tract house the CIA installed them in. When they arrived in the United States, Crypto spoke no English; Russian was the automatic second language for the son of a Stasi officer. The US government resettlement bureaucrats were not unsympathetic, but Crypto spurned the tutor they offered, even after he was lagged two grade levels to give him time to learn the language of his new country.

  But why should he? There was nothing he wanted to learn from the capitalists who had pushed communism and his own family’s fortunes to the brink. Instead, he sat silently in the back of the classroom, scowling over the heads of his smaller, younger classmates. They, of course, were quite content to leave the out-sized, ill-tempered stranger alone. Notwithstanding the sins of the Stasi, Crypto became more committed than ever to the communist ideology of his childhood.

  Which, for a while, served him well, because in time, it led him to change his approach to education. He decided he wanted revenge, and the first step toward achieving that goal must involve learning English in order to infiltrate the capitalists and beat them at their own game. There was a delicious irony in that realization, and he turned himself to his studies with a vengeance, doing well enough to later earn a free ride through Stanford, earning both undergraduate and graduate degrees.

  But halfway along this path his new strategy collapsed. In college, he enrolled in every Cold War history course he could find, hoping to determine why communism had failed; perhaps, next time, there could be a different result. He did not like what he saw. At first, he rejected what he read as American propaganda. But then he concluded that the accounts of corruption and mismanagement, deceptions and betrayals, were largely correct. And not just in the GDR but throughout the Soviet bloc as well. Yes, there were many true believers. But those at the top parroted the teachings of Marx and Engels only to keep the proletariat in check. Communist leaders could be brutal, too, and not just Stalin. It was his successors who brutally put down the Hungarian uprising of 1956 and sent tanks into Czechoslovakia in 1968 to crush the Prague Spring.

  Nor were the Soviets alone in their abuses. The Chinese experience under Mao Zedong was likewise a debacle. In the early years, his ill-considered priorities led to the starvation of millions. Later, the Chinese chairman purged millions more during the Cultural Revolution. North Korea’s overpowering government was if anything even worse. And the butchery Pol Pot unleashed on the Cambodian people rivaled Hitler’s most terrible atrocities. How could so many communist disasters be explained away? Was Marxist theory flawed in some strange way that invariably led to authoritarian abuse?

  Crypto concluded he’d been an idiot and a fool. It was foolish enough to swallow the party line as a child surrounded by puppets. It was ridiculous to self-indoctrinate as a young adult. Clearly, communism held no promise for him or anyone else. Therefore, his determination for revenge made no sense. Revenge against what? And for what? He had no answers to those questions.

  That was when the voices emerged, leading to his initial and most terrifying bout with mental illness. It was not until he was halfway through graduate school that disaster struck again. For the first time in his life, he had allowed himself to believe a certain young woman might have taken an interest in him. For a few months, he felt a lightness of being he had never before experienced. But when at last he hesitantly made his belief known to her, she tactfully, but firmly, disabused him of that notion.

  Crypto had suffered from bouts of depression since adolescence. Now, he sank into a deep, immobilizing despair. He blamed his doctor, since depression was a known side effect of his medications. Perhaps he could lower his dosage just enough to lift the heavy veil of hopelessness while still keeping the voices in check? No, he decided. That was too risky.

  But then his depression and sense of isolation deepened. What did he have to lose? Maybe he could have the best of both worlds – a stable relationship with those who populated the world around him and a controllable one with the denizens that inhabited his own mind? Why not?

  Like many afflicted with his disease, when Crypto was stable he was prone to over-estimate his ability to control his demons. And he had grown used to the voices over time, absorbing them into his own identity. Indeed, when they were too long silent, he looked forward to their return. The worst times of the past seemed less harrowing to him now. Was it not also true that their pressing and probing stimulated his thinking? Surely, they had led him to thoughts and places he might never have explored on his own. And he could pursue ideas with the Bees he would never dare discuss even on anonymous internet bulletin boards.

  The harsh truth was, without his Bees, the loneliness was more than he could bear. Certainly, he should be able to ease off on his medications. Surely, there was a balance to be found.

  Ultimately, his black depression left him no choice. Part of him knew it was crazy to allow himself to be half-mad. But living in deep despair was madness, too. And was a life with the Bees so different from thinking to himself? Or talking to a physical person? Could he not monitor his mood and his dosages and have the best of both his worlds?

  And so, he did.

  Over the years, new and better medications came along, and his own skills at self-medication improved. When his existence was relatively calm, he succeeded in keeping his mood positive and the voices bearable and even companionable. When he became anxious, his vulnerability increased. Sometimes, it was difficult to regain control. So, there would always be a risk. But what of it? This was the life he was born to lead.

  Chapter 13

  Welcome to the Club

  “Hey, Frank,” a familiar voice said. “Got time for coffee?”

  “Are you calling on a disposable phone? I thought I was still on the pariah list.”

  “Yeah. Well, as they say, that was then, and this is now. Also, as they say, something’s come up. Anyway, can you fit me into your busy schedule? Or are you spending all your time in your swank New York penthouse these days?”

  Frank paused. How would George Marchand, his former boss and sometime handler at the CIA, know he had a fancy apartment in New York? It wasn’t public knowledge. Was the CIA keeping an eye on him?

  “It’s not exactly a penthouse, George, but sure. I’m only in New York two or three days a week. How about Thursday? Same place and time as usual?”

  “It’s a date. See you then.”

  And so, Marchand did. But not before Frank spotted him first, standing at the cash register of the coffee shop: tall, balding now, thin, and a little hunched over.

  “Hey, Boss,” Frank said when George turned around.

  “Hey,”
George said, handing him a cup of coffee. “Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”

  In fact, it was pouring buckets outside, but Frank nodded and pulled the hood of his coat back over his head. “Never seen better.”

  “Great.” Outside, Marchand opened a golf umbrella large enough to cover them both and walked off at his usual fast clip.

  “So, am I back in from the cold?” Frank asked.

  “Not really. At least, not as far as our congressional oversight committee’s concerned. But the president’s asked us to put together a top-notch task force to advise him on an urgent project. And the big guy gets what he wants. Interested?”

  “Why bring someone in from the outside? Can’t you find enough folks in-house?”

  “It’s too new a technology,” Marchand said, a little stiffly. “We’re not completely out of our element, but this is an area the FBI, Treasury, and SEC have been focusing on, not us.”

  “Ah,” Frank said. “The pieces all just fell into place. So, it’s the blockchain, right?”

  “Bingo.”

  That first guess was easy but not the next. “Offense or defense?” Frank asked.

  “Offense,” Marchand said. “In a nutshell, the Russ, an alt coin the Russians are issuing, is going gangbusters. The speculators can’t get enough, and that’s shoring up the Kremlin’s finances just when the administration very much wants them to be going in the other direction. And the anonymity of the Russ blockchain allows the Kremlin to get around all those sanctions we so painfully negotiated with our allies. The president wants to be able to kill the Russ within six months.”

  “Kill it? How?”

  “That’s up to you. Make the speculators abandon it so it’s worthless. Scramble it with malware. Whatever. The one absolute requirement is that the attack not be traceable to the United States. That’s why it’s necessary to put together this little brain trust to come up with a plan to give Yazzi what he wants. So, are you game to join the team?”

  “If it’s just a few hours a week, sure. Under the contract I negotiated with the bank I can do limited work for other clients so I can keep my consulting practice alive.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Frank grabbed Marchand’s arm and stopped. “George, is the CIA watching me?”

  “You’re not being tailed every day, no. But you are a valued asset, and you also have a high public profile; we’d hate to see anything happen to you. The other side of the coin is you’ve earned yourself a reputation as kind of a loose cannon, and we like to know who we can trust and who we can’t. Sorry. I don’t make the rules. And I’m not the guy who manages that part of the operation.”

  They started walking again with Frank pondering what he’d heard. Had George just tipped him not to do anything stupid for the bank that might embarrass the administration? Otherwise, why would George reveal something Frank didn’t have to know?

  “Anyway,” Marchand continued, “can you be available for a face-to-face meeting a few hours a week? For security reasons, this isn’t a project you can participate in remotely; you’ll have to meet at NSA headquarters.”

  “Leaving aside scheduling, yes. Any chance the meetings can be on weekends?”

  “That’s the plan. Most of the other team members are also employed full time. How about Sunday afternoons?”

  It wasn’t as if Frank had anything else to do, other than pursuing his vendetta against Fang. “Sure. That works.”

  Frank hadn’t paid attention to where they were walking and now realized Marchand had circled back toward the coffee shop. “Who else is in the group?” he asked.

  Marchand handed him a thumb drive. “You can find all the particulars here. The first meeting will be this Sunday at three o’clock p.m. at Fort Meade. Do you have a car these days?”

  “No, it finally died. I guess an Uber driver can drop me at the guard gate?”

  “He can take you all the way to the check-in building.”

  “Great. Will you be at the meetings?”

  “No, I’m just the messenger on this one.” Marchand held out his hand. “Now, go have fun.”

  As his old boss strode off, turning into a blurry silhouette and then disappearing entirely into the gathering mist, it occurred to Frank that Marchand’s career with the CIA must have begun in the depths of the Cold War. Frank wondered whether his old mentor wished he could help tuck it to Ivan one more time.

  * * *

  Frank studied the material on the thumb drive with interest. It was a small group he was joining. He’d heard of several, and the credentials of those he hadn’t intrigued him. And then there was Lawrence Dix, the chair, a full colonel from CYBERCOM. Frank mused over that datum. If the CIA was playing catch-up on the blockchain, CYBERCOM must also be scrambling to figure out what the heck this blockchain technology was all about.

  Frank tapped his fingers on his desk. It was interesting CYBERCOM, one of the ten unified commands of the Department of Defense, was leading the task force alone, instead of teaming with the CIA. No wonder George was unhappy; with the work order coming directly from the president, the turf wars on this one must have been interesting. But it made sense. CYBERCOM had been formed in 2009 to centralize cyber defense response across all the service branches. Its remit had been growing ever since, eventually taking on the same role for offensive operations. And there was no way to pretend the task force wasn’t charged with designing an attack against a foreign power, and a nuclear one at that.

  Frank leaned back and folded his arms. Maybe this project would get him back in the good graces of the powers that be. There would be lots of glory to go around if they were successful. Or maybe banished for good if they were not. If the task force couldn’t produce an exploit that worked – or, worse yet, designed one the Russians could trace – the powers that be would look for a scapegoat. He wondered whether they’d look all the way down to him?

  But there was no point going down that road. He went back to his laptop to read the full bios of the task force members, starting with the colonel’s. West Pointer, number three in his class. Must be about fifty-four years old now, based on his graduation date. Picked up a master’s degree in computer science and another in advanced warfare strategy a few years later. Several tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. For the last eight years, attached to CYBERCOM. Sounded like he should know strategy, but how about cybersecurity? Would he be an asset or an obstacle?

  The rest were as different as could be. One was a computer scientist with dozens of patents and an endless list of academic papers. One was a blockchain startup cowboy. One looked to be a real blockchain fan boy, and the other was a reformed black hat who’d served hard time for hacking banks. And the last one was Dirk Magnus.

  This would be interesting.

  * * *

  Wow! Frank thought, looking at the news alert on his phone. The headline read “White House Announces Strict Price Controls on Oil and Gas to Stop Russian Aggression.” That was something different. He opened the article and read on.

  “A spokesperson for the administration has just read a statement to the White House press corps announcing a new initiative aimed at curbing Russian hostilities and interference in Eastern Europe and the Middle East. All NATO allies, and several oil-rich countries, including Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, and Kuwait, have committed to supporting these latest concerted actions against the Russian Federation. Russia is the largest exporter of natural gas and the second largest exporter of oil in the world and derives most its foreign trade income from sales of those products.

  “Under the initiative, participating countries and oil companies have agreed to offer oil to the marketplace at or below twenty-eight dollars per barrel. Regarding natural gas, for which prices vary significantly on a regional basis, the parties have committed to price caps ranging from two dollars and fifty cents (in the US) to six dollars (in Japan) per million
BTUs.

  “In a first-of-its-kind agreement during peacetime, four out of five of the largest US oil-producing firms have signed on to the same commitment; the fifth is expected to commit shortly. The White House statement included details on a new Oil and Gas Supply and Pricing Board (OGSPB), which will coordinate supply and delivery logistics among US companies to achieve the desired price goals. The Department of Commerce and each participating US-based oil company will take part in the OGSPB.

  “As part of its negotiations with the oil companies, the White House has agreed to ask Congress to make certain public lands and territorial waters available for exploitation that had previously been off limits. According to the statement, the speaker of the house and the senate majority leader have promised to bring appropriate legislation before Congress as early as next week …”

  Frank paused. So, his Russ Task Force was part of a much bigger plan than he’d realized. Maybe an attack on the Russ would never be necessary at all. That would be good. He went back to the article.

  “In response, the Russian president, Sergei Denikin, has called for an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council and placed Russian military forces on alert.”

  Frank closed the article. Then again, maybe it would.

  * * *

  Frank was drumming his fingers as he took stock of what he had learned about an opponent who was proving to be as wily as any foe he had ever faced.

  For example, from his extensive online research, he now knew it was almost impossible to keep a squirrel out of a bird feeder once the beast had committed to its objective. Squirrels, he had read as well as observed, were worthy opponents. Clever, single-minded, and highly motivated; right up there with raccoons. The web was full of despairing tales of anti-squirrel devices purchased and then found wanting. Those few tools that seemed up to the task, like baffles capable of preventing a squirrel from climbing up a pole or down a wire, were of no use where the enemy could jump directly on to the object of its desire. Regrettably, that described his balcony.