Still, it would not be enough.
On top of all this would be the physical attack. The ordinary citizen did not understand cyberwar. A computer virus was not tangible. It was a concept, ethereal by nature. It meant nothing.
Ordinary citizens needed blood and guts and bombs and rubble to know they were under attack. They needed to see the faces of the dead, the anguish of the survivors, the rage of the violated, and the tears of orphans. They needed to feel unsafe, insecure and at risk.
They needed to feel in danger.
Only then would they understand.
9/11 was a good beginning, but it did not go far enough. Stock prices plummeted. The Exchange closed for a week. But when it reopened trading continued as if nothing had happened. America was bruised, but came back stronger than ever. Tomorrow, China would land the decisive blow and complete the mission to dethrone the United States as the financial and economic capital of the world.
It was not enough for China to succeed—America must fail.
All this Magnus Lee saw played upon the screens in front of him. Step by step, victim by victim, country by country.
And when the virus had done its worst and all seemed lost, Lee himself would call the American president. He would volunteer China’s services to locate the virus, kill it, and restore the lost financial records. For no one had a safer, more secure, more stable platform than the Chinese. No one had foreseen such an attack and taken preemptive measures. No one had guessed its adversaries’ motives, means, and methods.
No one except the Chinese.
America’s “old friend.”
There would be no calls for the yuan to be revalued. If the Chinese preferred a weak yuan to bolster their export sector, they were welcome to it. If Chinese-made products resembled those of their American competitors a bit too much, nothing would be said. If a breach of a defense contractor’s most sophisticated weapons systems was traced to a Chinese computer, the discussion would be made behind doors and without acrimony.
America knew how to be grateful.
The attack wasn’t about bringing down America permanently.
It was about control.
75
Astor knew Reventlow was lying. Everything would not turn out fine. He and his brother, Magnus Lee, would not put this behind them. All who knew about the CIC and its plan to exercise control over key components of the country’s financial and national security infrastructure had to be eliminated. There would be no handshake and promise to keep it all a secret. Astor possessed information vital to his nation’s defense; in fact, every bit as vital as the pictures from on high showing Soviet missiles being installed on Cuban soil in 1962. As Reventlow had said, why wipe out a city when you can control an entire country without anyone’s even knowing it?
Astor called his CFO and told her to expect an incoming wire any minute and to call each of Comstock’s lenders and inform them that Comstock would meet its margin call. He handed over the papers for Reventlow to sign, then replaced them in his briefcase.
“Are we done?”
“For now. But don’t be in a hurry to leave. I can’t let you go just yet.”
“I need to get back to the office. My lawyers are expecting me.”
“I’m sure they will celebrate their reprieve just fine without you. I’m afraid I do need to ask you some more questions. It’s important for us to learn how much you know about our affairs. My brother told me you were speaking with someone on your father’s computer who was involved in his investigation. Does Cassandra99 ring a bell?”
“That was Palantir. He might have helped my father earlier, but he refused to help me.”
“I wish I could believe you. We also have a record of your call to a Michael Grillo, a corporate investigator. We weren’t able to listen to his calls, so we must rely on you to tell us what you were discussing.”
“It had nothing to do with this. Grillo does other work for my company.” Astor picked up his briefcase and turned to leave. Standing in the doorway was the man from Cherry Hill. The warrior monk. Alex had said she was sure she had shot him, but he appeared to be in good health.
“May I introduce my brother Daniel,” said Reventlow. “He’s going to escort you to a private spot where we all can chat.”
“Hello, Mr. Astor,” said Daniel, his English unaccented, essentially an American’s.
“Hello,” said Astor. “And by the way, my arm’s fine.”
During the entire meeting, Astor had felt his father’s Beretta pressing against his spine. He measured the distance between him and the monk as 15 feet. Four long strides, to be sure. “All right,” he said. “I’m ready to go.”