The Blockchain Revolution Page 13

  Their urging became incessant, and the medications could no longer rein them in. The best he could achieve was to maintain an outward appearance of calm. Internally, though, he felt as if he was losing control. The price of peace, let alone sleep, was pressing forward with the master plan the voices drove him to complete.

  There were a few concessions on their part, to be sure. He could disregard the developing world, for example. Also, those countries controlled by dictators, as well as China. The latter’s vast holdings of US securities and enormous appetite for foreign food, fuel, and commodities would guarantee that it, too, would fall if he was successful in taking down the developed nations. From that point forward, there would be no stopping the collapse of every economy across the globe.

  The logic was irrefutable. Crypto bought into a strategy that could take down the power brokers of the United States and Russia, the two societies he hated most in all the world. With that concession, the urgings of the Bees became more welcome and affirming. It seemed acceptable to lower his dosages even at the price of giving the Bees unimpeded access to his mind. The prize and the challenge were each enormous, and in the end he was not sure he could go it alone.

  Chapter 15

  Hello in There!

  Dimitri Fedorovich Ustinov, superintendent of blockchain activities for the Department of Information Technology in the Sphere of Budgeting and State and Local Finance Management – a name that fit on his business card solely through the magic of acronyms – was feeling both self-congratulatory and insecure. The former, because the deputy director of the ministry had recently commended him in writing on the success of the Russ blockchain. And insecure, because he knew how little credit he deserved, an inconvenient truth he was sure must become apparent with time. Worse, he had only a general idea how that success had been achieved or to whom the real credit was due.

  Today, he hoped to reduce his insecurity by forcing the issue with Mikhail Semyonovich Filitov, the managing director of RussCoin. Until today, they had communicated exclusively by telephone and email. Now Ustinov wanted to meet face-to-face.

  The flight to St. Petersburg had been smooth, and the rental car had even been ready for him at the airport. Now he was approaching number fifty-two Savushkina Street, which proved to be a four-story building with blinds slatted shut behind every window. The street address sounded vaguely familiar, but he could not say why.

  Ah! Ustinov recognized a building across the street and a few doors down. There had certainly been enough pictures of it in the news. It was purposely unremarkable, just like the rest of this street. Or it had been until Western journalists proclaimed it the home of a troll factory that had – allegedly – disrupted a US presidential election. Perhaps he should not be surprised to find RussCoin’s offices in the same neighborhood.

  He walked up to a glass door under the portico of number fifty-two and found it locked. There was no guard sitting behind a desk in the lobby inside and no tenant list outside with helpful intercom buttons to push. It seemed pointless to bang on the door; no one was likely to hear him. He dialed Filitov’s number on his cellphone and with relief heard his voice after two rings.

  “I am standing outside,” Ustinov said. “Will you please let me in?”

  “Yes. One moment.”

  It was cold, and the portico was open on both sides, funneling a bitter wind past him. What was keeping Filitov?

  At last, the elevator inside opened, revealing a short man whose voluminous beard rested on a plaid shirt spanning an even more ample stomach. He took his time trundling across the lobby to open the door.

  “Ah, Dimitri Fedorovich, so good to meet you in person at last.”

  “And the same to you. May I come in?”

  “Of course, of course. You look cold. But do not worry, I put the kettle back on in my office when I received your call.”

  Ustinov followed him into the elevator. He was surprised when it descended to a bare hallway giving access to several drab metal doors, one of which Filitov opened.

  “Welcome to RussCoin’s world headquarters,” Filitov said grandly, ushering Ustinov into a single, small room.

  There was little to be seen inside except for an open laptop on a folding table. And in a corner, a small cupboard with a random assemblage of objects on top, one of which was a hot plate upon which a kettle was just beginning to sing.

  “Sit, sit!” Filitov said. “I will make tea.”

  Ustinov decided his trip to St. Petersburg was a grave mistake. Now he could never deny knowing what he was seeing in Filitov’s office.

  Filitov turned and set a steaming cup of tea in front of Ustinov, together with cream and sugar. “Now,” he said, “we shall get down to business, yes?”

  Ustinov cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed. Mikhail Semyonovich, I hope you will forgive me if I observe you have always given me the impression RussCoin was a more substantial enterprise.”

  “But it is!” Filitov protested. “You should not judge a software project by its office. And after all, have we not exceeded your expectations?”

  It was true. And more importantly, the deputy minister’s expectations.

  “Fair enough, my friend,” Ustinov said. “But you must acknowledge that should someone less familiar with your enterprise ask to visit RussCoin, your world headquarters would create a most unfavorable impression. It is for this reason in general that I have come to visit with you today. The success of RussCoin has attracted notice at the highest levels of government, and because of this fact, I must ask you to provide explicit information regarding all aspects of its staffing, internal governance, operational locations, and more. The deputy minister expects me to present a full report on these topics by next Wednesday.”

  Filitov stroked his beard. “Yes, I see. It is quite understandable.” He took a sip of his own tea and woke up his laptop. “Come, then. Sit next to me, and I will show you.”

  Ustinov moved his chair around the table as Filitov opened several windows on his laptop and began to explain them, toggling from one to the next.

  “Here, we have the developer list. You can see each name, and after it, a letter or letters. CT stands for contributor. That is anyone who is able to suggest bug fixes and submit other input to the project but can do no more. CM stands for committer – this is a developer that has the authority to add code to the software supporting the Russ blockchain. A contributor may be invited to become a committer when he or she is recognized as being sufficiently skilled and dedicated to be trusted with the ability to commit code. M stands for maintainer. That is someone responsible for one of the significant sets of functionalities making up the code base. For example, those that create a new block or that verify a proposed block is legitimate. Any developer can rise through the ranks as his or her abilities are recognized by consensus among the committers and maintainers.”

  Ustinov squinted at the names. “These do not look like proper names.”

  “Indeed,” Filitov said. “Most developers identify themselves by online aliases.”

  Ustinov sat upright. “But surely, Filitov, you know their real names and nationalities?”

  Filitov smiled and sipped his tea. “But in fact, not always, my friend. Is this a problem?”

  Of course, it was a problem. Filitov could scarcely be ignorant of that. The Russ blockchain was important enough that the Federal Security Service – successor agency to the KGB of the Soviet era – would want to open dossiers on the key developers, if they had not in fact done so already. And RussCoin was a nominally independent company. Filitov might not be held accountable for any disasters, but Ustinov certainly would.

  “Yes, indeed,” Ustinov said. “We will need to return to this. For now, please go on.”

  “Very well,” Filitov said, turning to another screen. “Here, you see the log of all additions to the Russ code base – commits, as we call them. And
here, the Wiki where the developers can discuss any issues. And now here, a history of each release of the Russ software.”

  Filitov continued his virtual tour of the Russ software project. Ustinov was a bureaucrat, not a technologist, but Filitov was patient. For the first time, Ustinov began to realize that these databases, as well as the blockchain code itself, were all there was to the Russ enterprise. The lack of developer names aside, perhaps that was neither more nor less than there should be. But still, he was troubled.

  “Very good, Mikhail Semyonovich. I appreciate your very clear review of the Russ technology development process. I have a few more questions. First, is the technology secure?”

  Ustinov stroked his beard. “The perennial, paradoxical question! The answer is both yes and no. No, in that, like any other software, it is impossible to ensure its complete security. Anything connected to the internet, as a blockchain necessarily is, can be penetrated given sufficient time, skill, and resources. But yes, in that the blockchain recording all Russ transactions is duplicated on seven hundred sixty-seven separate servers spread out across Russia and its trading partners. Currently, they may be found in thirty-four countries in all.

  “Also, the software has been created in such a way that Russ exchanges can only be set up within the borders of Russia, and those exchanges are run by entities owned by RussCoin. The central development of the blockchain technology itself is tightly controlled by the small number of dedicated maintainers. Not all of these are Russians, but each is an employee of RussCoin or another company which RussCoin owns. Most importantly, no update to the software can be released without the approval of the overall project manager.”

  “Which is you, I assume?” Ustinov asked.

  “Me?” Filitov said, laughing. “You would not want me to approve anything. I am not a programmer. I am simply the business person who manages the funds your ministry so kindly provides. No, the final and essential approval can come only from Oleg Borisovich Lupanov.”

  “And who is he?” asked Ustinov.

  “He is the founder and leader of the project. Without him, we would be years behind where we are now.”

  The Federal Security Service would certainly want to keep an eye on him, Ustinov thought. Thank God there was a full name attached to him, at least.

  “Good,” Ustinov said. “We are fortunate then. I assume that a good deal of the Ministry’s money has found its way to him?” The implication of that question was obvious. This was, after all, Russia. If sixty percent of the funding the Kremlin provided to any covert project reached those doing the actual work, the middlemen were considered to be exceptionally honest. Ustinov wondered if that much had made it past Filitov.

  “None, in fact,” Filitov said. “Lupanov is a true believer. The most dedicated blockchain people, you must understand, are libertarians and even anarchists. The hope of developers like Lupanov is that, through the blockchain, the central bureaucracies and authorities of existing nations – and perhaps even the countries themselves – will no longer need to exist.”

  It chilled Ustinov to even hear such words; certainly, this information would never make it into his report.

  “Such beliefs,” Filitov added quickly, “are all nonsense, of course. But the blockchain itself is not.” Filitov smiled into his beard and waited for a response.

  Very well, Ustinov thought. The idea for the blockchain project had come from the deputy minister himself. Ustinov could scarcely be held accountable for following through on his directions.

  “I see,” he said. “But I will need every bit of information you have regarding Lupanov for my report.”

  “That is easily done,” Filitov said. “Do you have a business card?”

  “Why yes,” Ustinov said, withdrawing one from his wallet. “Why?”

  Filitov accepted the card and wrote something on the back. “Here. Now you have his email address. That is all I have.”

  * * *

  Crypto was assaulting his exercise bicycle, feeling like the poor, doomed schoolboy in D. H. Lawrence’s short story, The Rocking Horse Winner, madly driving himself to rescue those who were ignorant, and perhaps unworthy, of his sacrifice.

  The subject of his meditations today was once again Frank Adversego. Why was it the First Manhattan employee preoccupied him to such a degree?

  Doubtless it must arise in part from the additional details about Adversego’s past he had been able to assemble. Reclusive though the investigator might be, curious journalists covering his exploits had achieved some success in fleshing out his background.

  Crypto had been intrigued, for example, to learn that Adversego had also led a solitary, unhappy childhood. He had, for all intents and purposes, lost his father at about the same age as Crypto. And both of them had drifted for many years from job to job, often working for startups along the way.

  But the parallels ended there. Adversego had been a selectively successful student at best while Crypto had always excelled. Each was brilliant, but Frank had squandered his gifts for decades before finally hitting his stride. Crypto had switched jobs frequently, to be sure, but had invariably outperformed expectations. But for many years, Adversego had always been fired. And though each had lost a father in adolescence, Adversego was reunited with his decades later.

  So where did this contradictory – both fraternal as well as competitive – sense of connection he felt with Adversego come from? Crypto could agree that each of them was engaged, in his own fashion, in efforts to save the world. But how different were the paths each had chosen! Crypto had selflessly dedicated himself to work alone and in secret in the service of humanity, perhaps never to receive credit for his many sacrifices. Adversego, on the other hand, was simply a commercially inept small businessman who had a knack for attracting assignments relating to threats to society.

  No, that wasn’t quite fair. Adversego had impressive technical abilities. He was determined, too, with a history of sinking his bulldog teeth into difficult problems and worrying them into surrender. And Crypto couldn’t care less about Adversego’s fancy bank title and presumably outrageous compensation. But still: why was Adversego celebrated while Crypto must skulk, rat-like, to avoid discovery and destruction by those he was trying to save?

  But enough. Crypto decided he bore Adversego no ill will. Different as they were, the two were similar enough for that to make no sense, regardless of the very different paths destiny had assigned to them. What remained to be seen was what fate had in mind for them now that their paths were converging.

  Chapter 16

  Come Into my Web, Darkly

  True to the commitment he’d made to the Bees, Crypto had been monitoring Frank Adversego’s BankCoin interactions on GitHub for a month now. Happily, nothing Adversego had done to date suggested he was on the way to discovering anything of concern. But the possibility of his doing so was not zero.

  Not zero! Not close to zero! A Bee’s voice was disturbingly loud.

  He waved his hand in the air. Sometimes, he could shoo the Bees away for a little while.

  Which was helpful because today Crypto needed to concentrate. It was time to launch the next critical step in his plan, which was to raise the perception in the marketplace that BankCoin was far more secure than any other alt coin. That would reassure Adversego and his overseers as well.

  But there was no need to act in haste. Only methodical care and a fanatical attention to detail had allowed Crypto to remain hidden for more than a decade. Over that span of years, a slow, careful approach had become second nature to him – a source of pride rather than of impatience at the extra time and effort such care required. But it was clearly time to put the next phase of his plan into operation.

  He began by accessing the Tor Network, the most popular manhole into the mysterious netherworld referred to as the Dark Web. Dark, because unlike its everyday counterpart, data on the Dark Web w
as invisible to the indexing crawlers of browsers like Chrome and Firefox. Dark, too, because of its almost impenetrable anonymity: the Tor software automatically encrypted every message sent on the Dark Web and then encrypted it again, down through the multiple layers of scrambling that had produced the Tor acronym – short for The Onion Router.

  Crypto loved everything about Tor, and especially the fact that the thousands of systems comprising its network were maintained by volunteers – it was a perfect demonstration of anarchism in action! Not only could you send massively encrypted email, chat messages, and files wherever you wished, but Tor separated your identity from the message or document itself. When you hit the “send” command, it directed each package of information separately caroming across the vast expanse of the Dark Web until Tor decrypted and reunited it with its peers at your intended destination. It was a wonderful resource for anyone – a whistleblower, for example – anxious to protect their online anonymity. It was even more useful to someone engaged in an illicit activity, whether it be drug dealing, fraud, or – in Crypto’s case – taking down governments.

  Still, one had to be careful.

  But yet act – without action, there is nothing! A Bee’s voice was growing more urgent.

  Yes, yes. He waved his hand again.

  A Bee had been friendly and supportive for so long; Crypto hoped the voice was not on the verge of unleashing another episode of torment.

  In any event … The Tor technology was powerful indeed. Still, that most venerable of all top-secret skunk works – the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, or DARPA – had helped fund its development. There was therefore reason to fear it might have weaknesses only the US government knew how to exploit.

  So, you must be careful! Very careful!

  Yes, yes, of course, he replied. Act or not act? He wished A Bee would make up her mind.

  Crypto felt comfortable enough engaging in the type of quick hit-and-run activities he had in mind for today. It took only minutes to load his offer to several sites where zero-day exploits were bought and sold. A zero-day exploit was an attack designed by a black hat to take advantage of a program or system flaw that only he had thus far discovered. Such an exploit was hence still at “zero days” from the time the honest world would learn of its existence.