A Restaurant in Jaffa

By Mark E Sorenson

A RESTAURANT IN JAFFA combines contemporary science and ancient settings with the unraveling of a chillingly plausible cyberoffensive. It is the tale of two talented individuals, each grappling with a troubled past while caught in the middle of a modern global conflict.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Sorenson
• Release date: Mar 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953910059

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Dammit, Ryan said as he watched the mail icon spin around and around on his phone’s screen. Brent said he would shoot him an email regarding where and when to meet, but the cell service was painfully slow in the Las Vegas casino. He didn’t dare use the free Wi-Fi for fear of becoming infected, or worse—ending up on the Wall of Sheep, a huge cardboard placard in the main hallway that listed various attendees’ usernames and passwords stolen by impish hackers.

The BlackHat Convention began as an annual gathering of computer fanatics, self-described hackers whose hobby was finding and exploiting weaknesses in computer systems for fun, profit, or, more often than not, just because they could. Ryan had attended once before—seemingly a lifetime ago—with a crew of his teenage pals as a rite of passage for young computer geeks.

Ryan Thompson was a computer prodigy; at least, that’s what everyone told him. But a hacker he was not. No, he was the about-to-go-broke founder of a tiny computer company hoping to strike a deal to save his business from imminent and complete failure. Ryan could write brilliant software, and had been doing so since only a couple of years after he learned to write words. But for the past two years he had learned a hard lesson. While writing good software is easy, selling it is not.

Ryan leaned against an empty blackjack table in the middle of the cavernous casino, watching the attendees stream by, heading en masse to the main ballroom. BlackHat had gone mainstream and now attracted tens of thousands to one of the glitziest casinos on the strip. There was a curious collection of codependent computer communities present. The hackers were still the same, carrying backpacks from past conventions and wearing their universal attire of ratty sneakers, worn-out jeans, and oversize flannel shirts. The pocket protectors had been replaced with phones stuffed in their shirt pockets, unless of course they were the new, larger models. Those wouldn’t fit.

Ryan knew the eccentric hacker persona well; heck, he worked with one of them every day. Corky Lumpkin was one of his best friends and the cofounder, sort of, of his start-up computer company Velocé.

No, the hackers hadn’t changed much. What had changed was the sheer number of the others. Government technologists from the FBI, CIA and NSA, the so-called WhiteHats, now attended the convention seeking the latest tricks, tools and weapons in global computer warfare.

Also in the throng of people heading to the ballroom, invisible even to the sharp-eyed WhiteHats, was another type of newcomer. Everyone knew they were there. Willy Sutton purportedly said that the reason he robbed banks was because that’s where the money was. Today, the money was all online, and present among the vast BlackHat crowd were the professional cyber criminals eager to snatch it up for themselves.

Ryan glanced up from the icon still spinning, waiting. He saw a thirty-something-year-old woman gliding along with the pack, a Gucci bag slung over her shoulder, stilettos on her feet, and her gym-toned body wrapped in a tight, trendy dress. The woman was part of the corporate crowd, another one of the new types of BlackHat attendee. Computer companies were sending their employees to get first wind of any security flaws in their products that might be unveiled in some lecture given by a speaker who would demonstrate just how he or she had exploited a popular computer product.

The woman looked right at him as she continued to walk, though just a bit slower now that she’d spotted him, and slightly parted her lips in a silent but unmistakable hi. Ryan was tall, with his father’s well-proportioned physique, his mother’s straw-colored hair, and haunting blue eyes. He shot a brief smile back at her, but quickly returned to his phone.

Finally, Ryan exhaled. Brent’s email had arrived. They would meet at Café Americano, a coffee bar just off the casino lobby, in a little more than an hour.

With time to kill, Ryan found himself in the back row of the massive Octavius Ballroom, which held 5,000 people in a space that felt a lot like the Roman Colosseum. This year’s keynote speaker was John Draper, aka Captain Crunch. He was basically the Christopher Columbus of computer hacking. After his introduction, Draper rose from his chair to thunderous applause from the admiring crowd. The aging hacker with the sizeable gray beard and wire-rimmed glasses, vintage 1970, ambled over to the lectern and looked skyward like a king waiting for his subjects to complete their ovation.

Ryan listened as Draper told the story of his first hack, the one that resulted in his nickname. It was not exactly a computer hack, but a phone phreak. Draper described using a toy whistle that came with a box of Captain Crunch cereal; it generated a tone of exactly 2,600 hertz and fooled the AT&T phone system into allowing him to call, or be called, from anywhere in the world for free. He was eventually arrested for fraud, but got off with probation since, in those days, hacking was generally viewed as a harmless prank pulled by intelligent, if somewhat maladjusted, adolescents.

Ryan watched the crowd exit the ballroom and couldn’t help but note that his family was sort of a microcosm of the convention. He was the computer guy, of course. His father was a cop, a definite WhiteHat. Smart and spectacularly beautiful, with an irresistible personality, Ryan’s mom was a marketing executive at one of the world’s most prestigious computer companies, Data Science. He had interned at Data Science in college and took a programming position there when he graduated. After a couple of years, he found that advancement had as much to do with which butts he kissed as it did the brilliant code he wrote. And of course, there were the memories. So, he quit and started his own company with the money from his mother’s life insurance policy. A company that was about to go under—unless he could pull off this deal.

Hey, Ryan! Over here, Brent called from the back of the coffee shop.

Brent, good to meet you. Ryan shook Brent’s small, soft hand. Pretty weird crew here this year, eh?

Looks like wackos and feds to me, but they both keep me in business, Brent said with a laugh. Sit down, Ryan. It’s good to meet you, too. In his mid-thirties and diminutive in stature, Brent was impeccably dressed in the uniform of the Silicon Valley start-up executive: black Armani sports jacket with a dark purple shirt. Ryan could have picked Brent out of the coffee shop crowd even if he hadn’t looked at his LinkedIn profile that morning.

So, Ryan, the chairman of my board said I had to meet you, Brent said while he tried to grab the waitress’s attention.

I think we have some technology your company could use.

Well you’re flyin’ under the radar, bro. I couldn’t find much about you. You’ll have to educate me.

Velocé was indeed flyin’ under the radar. His marketing strategy consisted of a stale website, a dormant Twitter account, and a Facebook page with an embarrassingly low number of likes. But Ryan knew all about Brent’s company, TransPort Systems. They built dirt cheap computer network switches and software, outsourcing their manufacturing to Taiwan and their software development to India. It was initially funded with a bunch of Brent’s own money and a few obscure investors.

The software’s called Mercury. Network performance improvement of twenty-five percent is typical, though fifty to a hundred percent is possible, Ryan said.

How?

Temporal Habit Analysis.

Nice, but everybody’s got that.

Not TransPort.

Working on it, my friend. Working on it.

You could have it today. Best algorithms in the industry. We’ll beat any benchmark you throw at us. Just shipped a new version of software. Ryan left out the part that he had shipped the new version to three beta sites, and none of them were paying customers. I’m sure we can agree on a price, Brent. If you want to go big, we can talk about an outright acquisition.

I don’t want to go big. I want to go small. We’re not in buying mode right now.

Ryan had spent most of the night thinking about this very conversation, but he struggled to focus once he was actually engaged in it. He couldn’t stop himself from observing that somehow, despite the laws of gravity, Brent’s hair did not move at all—not one iota, and not even when he looked down to stir his drink. Ryan forced his attention back to the negotiations, ready with another offer.

What about a resale deal?

Hmm. I’d need to put it in the hands of my customers first. We could ship Mercury with the next release of TransPort and, after a six-month free trial, we can then decide if there’s a deal we both like. Or, we can both walk.

Free trial? I’m not crazy about ‘free,’ Brent. Free was definitely not going to work.

Well, like I said, my board chairman seems to be stoked about you guys, so I’d be open to giving you an advance. Prepaid royalties—refundable if we don’t close the deal, of course.

What are you thinking?

$50K.

Ryan tried to concentrate. The coffee shop was louder now, crowded with BlackHats and WhiteHats, young girls in bachelorette headdresses, moms and pops from Middle America, and sleepy drunks waking up over five-dollar cups of coffee. Fifty grand would pay off his crucial liability, but wouldn’t give him the leeway he needed to keep Velocé going. Rent on their small office was cheap, but a bill still arrived each and every month. He and Corky drew embarrassingly small salaries, their interns worked for free—a gift from one of his old professors from NYU. He quickly calculated what it would take to buy him another four months, maybe a bit longer.

$75K?

Deal, Brent said, grinning his perfectly bleached smile as he extended his hand, which was warmer this time from being wrapped around the macchiato in front of him.

This is going to be big, Brent said. We have an update going out this week. We should get your stuff in it. Got a name I can send to my guys to start working with right away?

Sure. Corky: Corky Lumpkin. I’ll send you his contact info.

Outstanding. Send me your bank info, too, and I’ll wire the money as soon as your guy Corky—weird name by the way—gets us your software.

Will do.

OK, I’m off to the blackjack tables before my flight. You sure you don’t want to join me? I’ve been known to be pretty lucky.

No, I’ll pass. I better call Corky.

Right. Good idea. Let’s get a move on this thing and connect next week. I’ll call you.

Sure, no problem. Connect next week.

Grab that check, will you buddy? Brent asked as he got up to leave.

Ryan opened his wallet to find a twenty-dollar bill to pay for the two lukewarm cups of coffee. He had his deal and had bought himself some time, but felt little relief. If the deal fell apart, he knew he could never return the advance money. If things went south, Brent would end up owning his company—and him, too.

CHAPTER TWO

As the sun rose and the heat of the desert began to shimmer, the Dead Sea and the mountains of Jordan beyond came into focus. Masada, an ancient isolated mountaintop, was one of the most important symbols of the nation of Israel. It regularly hosted important Jewish rituals, from bar mitzvahs to Israeli army ceremonies. Today, defiantly standing in the middle of the timeless Judean desert plateau, Eliana Beck would be sworn in as an Israeli citizen.

Eliana looked around at the fortress King Herod built thousands of years ago. Of all places, how on earth had she ended up here? Given what she was trying to escape, it seemed completely illogical. But after living a year in Israel, she had to agree that her friend Malkie was right after all. Israel was a country full of transplants. Nearly half the population of Israel was made up of first-generation immigrants. Eliana had thought the place would feel like a giant outdoor synagogue filled with religious zealots, eating kosher, praying constantly. But while everyone did celebrate the major Jewish holidays, except for the ultraorthodox, the majority of Jews in Israel seemed to be only moderately observant of their faith. Eliana had found that some had certainly come to Israel for religious freedom, but most had come for just freedom, period. Just like her.

Even at dawn, four hundred meters above the desert floor, it was hot. The long-sleeved cotton blouse Eliana had chosen to wear to the ceremony clung to her back. Her long auburn hair blew aimlessly in the heated morning wind.

"You look yafeh today," Gil said. He was dressed in his army uniform and looked quite distinguished despite the tiny rivulets of sweat rolling down his face. Eliana let out a quiet little laugh like a shy teenager; compliments on female appearances were scarce where she was brought up. She was slender and physically fit, her amber complexion was the color of honey in the desert sunlight—a little dark for an American, but light by Middle Eastern standards. Eliana’s cocoa brown eyes were rich and innocently sweet, unadorned by makeup, elegantly framed by the perfectly curved arches of her brow.

Shush! It looks like they’re going to start now, Eliana said. Gil smiled and gave her a mock salute. Although the Masada setting was dramatic, the ceremony was brief and to the point. Typical Israeli. She and two dozen other Jews took their oaths and promised to be faithful citizens of Israel, a Jewish and democratic state.

Under Israel’s Law of Return, any Jew, from anywhere, could become a citizen of Israel. Of course, they had to prove they really were Jews, which, to the Orthodox rabbis who held sway on such things, meant they had to have been born to a Jewish mother. With a little paperwork, Eliana was able to become a citizen of Israel; it was called making Aliyah. According to Eliana’s Guide to Aliyah, which she read three times to make sure she didn’t overlook anything, more than four million Jews had come to Israel via the Law of Return.

The bureaucrats and politicians in Israel were begging for Aliyah candidates, and once even considered establishing a marketing department just to attract more Jews to Israel. They needed Jews like Eliana. The middle class of Israel—the reform, conservative and secular Jews, those who did most of the work, paid most of the taxes, and filled most of the army—was being squeezed from both ends. The ultraorthodox men didn’t work or serve in the army. They studied the Torah and took the advice in the ancient Hebrew Bible to be fruitful and multiply quite literally. The Arabs did work, when they could find it, and a few actually did serve in the army though they were not required to. As part of their culture, the Arabs also had huge families. They heeded their prophet, who said in the Quran, I will be proud of your large numbers [on the Day of Judgment] in front of the other nations.

You’re one of us now, Eliana, Gil said as the new citizens congratulated each other, clutching their ID cards in their hands. How’s it feel?

Good. It feels good. And it was good. She had come a long way and had met a lot of wonderful people, every one of whom wanted to help her. And, she would start a new job next week doing what she did best. Still, Eliana thought about her family. Did they know where she was? Would she ever see them again? Did they miss her?

Cable car or walk? Gil asked.

Let’s walk, Eliana said, seeing the large crowd waiting for the gondolas to take the new citizens to the bottom of the prehistoric mountain. They walked quietly along the trail on the side of Masada, where Jews called Zealots had held out against the Romans after the Romans conquered Jerusalem in 70 BCE. After years of attempting to starve the Jews to death in their stone perch, the Romans built a ramp to reach the top of the fortress, the remains of which you could still see winding up the mountain, starting at the rocky relics of the ancient Roman encampments below. When the Romans finished the ramp and ascended the mountain to complete their mission, they found that the Jews had died by their own hands rather than be conquered. To this day, every recruit sworn into the Israeli army took the vow, Masada will never fall again.

"Safa, bring us some of your great shakshouka, please!" Gil shouted so he could be heard over the din of the noisy restaurant. Eliana, Gil, and a handful of Gil’s friends from Unit 8200 were celebrating Eliana’s Aliyah, and when Gil Kaplan celebrated, he ate at the Al Hadyag restaurant in the town of Jaffa, an ageless Middle Eastern port just south of Tel Aviv. Gil was a foodie and a particular fan of North African fare, which the restaurant prepared to perfection. Strands of red, green and white bulbs that looked like Christmas tree lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the banquet on each wooden table. Old, frayed fishing nets hung from the wooden walls, which were stained by a century of cooking and eating. Horseshoe-shaped arches decorated with flowing Arabic script rose above each window.

Your favorite dish, Gil, Safa said. The beautiful young Arab girl placed a hot skillet of steaming, watery eggs swimming in some sort of tomato sauce in front of him with her left hand while her right covered her heart in an Arab sign of respect.

"Shukraan, Safa," Gil said, looking up at the attractive girl as he genuinely thanked her.

Another waiter brought more dishes to the table, though without the same fanfare or respect. Eliana watched the man, who was not much more than a boy, place dish after exotic dish on the table. Al Hadyag employed only Arabs, who were also the majority of their customers in the evening after the tourists left—tourists who invaded the town during the day, visited the art galleys that lined the shore, scoured its famous flea market, or just peered at the ancient port where it was said Jonah departed before he was swallowed by the whale. In the evening, Al Hadyag could be an uncomfortable place for local Jews to eat, but not for Gil Kaplan. He was a member of Unit 8200 and could eat at any damn place he pleased.

Eliana, too, would be a member of Unit 8200 come Monday morning. Gil had recognized her extraordinary computer skills at the Technion, where she’d enrolled when she first arrived in Israel, and where he was an associate professor of computer science. Unit 8200, the prestigious special intelligence unit of the Israeli Defense Forces, was where computer skills were more valuable than guns or missiles. For young Israelis, being assigned to Unit 8200 was the equivalent of being accepted by Harvard and the Navy Seals on the same day. It was a badge of honor that they would carry for the rest of their lives.

There were many smart, up-and-coming computer scientists at the Technion, but Eliana was special. Everyone saw it, Gil included. He had helped Eliana accelerate her citizenship application by getting the Ministry of the Interior to waive the residency time requirements. Once she was a citizen, she could volunteer for the Israeli Defense Forces. It was a dangerous world, and the IDF could use all the smart people they could get. She had a nearly perfect score on the entrance exam, and with Gil Kaplan as a sponsor, of course she was assigned to Unit 8200.

Eliana was just glad that she wasn’t home alone in her apartment, even if she couldn’t follow all the conversations quite yet; her Hebrew was still inadequate when it was spoken quickly and sprinkled with slang. For the first time in a long time, she felt a glimmer of happiness, a new sense of belonging. The cloak of anxiety she constantly wore seemed a little bit lighter. She had been embarrassingly unprepared for the world outside the one she was raised in. She had run, hid, and searched for her new life—a new life that was now within her grasp, standing before her. Still, she missed her family. They were always in the back of her mind—her brothers, her sisters, Momma, and Tatty—all left behind in a world she could no longer live in. This was her world now.

CHAPTER THREE

Ryan’s office consisted of two square rooms: one stuffed with computer gear, the other with tables and chairs from Ikea. It was in an old, brick mill building the New York Department of Urban Renewal had refurbished, offering small businesses and start-ups cheap rental space.

Inside, in what passed as a lobby, company signs—some of which were handwritten—gave Ryan an idea of who his neighbors and fellow entrepreneurs were. Some were ordinary, like Bettie’s Brownies, which sold organic brownies over the web. The smell of chocolate often permeated the hallways, and free brownies were set out on Fridays beside the elevator. Another company, PhotoMem, developed tiny cameras that clipped onto your lapel and recorded your interactions for the entire day, so as to give one a photographic memory. Another start-up, HairRaisin, was his favorite. The personal security company produced fashionable hair clips for women; the stylish hair clip contained a miniature accelerometer, gyroscope, and a microphone. If the wearer was attacked, the sudden and continuous movement of a struggle triggered sensors, which then alerted the local police and could turn on the microphone to gather audio evidence. Unfortunately, the police were annoyed, having responded to more Zumba and spinning classes than actual emergencies since the clips took off.

A large box sat outside Ryan’s door, its FedEx label showing that it had been shipped from TransPort Systems’ Palo Alto headquarters. Ryan opened the door and slid the heavy box inside. He flicked on the lights to find that he was alone in the office. No surprise there, as Corky was always a late starter and the interns were away on school vacation. The walls were covered with Gantt charts, coding assignments, and QA results for the weekly builds. Post-it notes were stuck everywhere in between. A peculiar poster depicting a giant moth, a circle drawn around it, and a diagonal line running through it, hung between two large windows with wavy glass; the windows were the original ones installed in the hundred-year-old building.

Ryan had founded Velocé a year and a half ago, a few months after quitting his job at Data Science. The company’s software product, Mercury, was basically a super smart traffic cop that moved data across a network as quickly as possible. Ryan had invented a predictive learning algorithm that directed each packet of data to its destination in the fastest possible time. Netflix’s movie recommendations (since you watched that creepy movie, maybe you’d like this creepy one, too) were also based on predictive learning algorithms, though theirs were much simpler in design. Installed on network switches, Mercury continually sped up a network by learning its data traffic patterns and user habits until it reached its peak operating level, squeezing out every bit of performance that the underlying hardware could sustain.

Dude, you’re finally back, Corky said as he blew through the door, his shaggy red hair following behind him. Though he was closing in on thirty, his face was still pockmarked with acne, stubble covered his chin, and he wore his trademark work uniform: camo pants and T-shirt. It was a Pink Floyd tee today. It’s about time, Corky continued, obviously irritated about something.

About time? Jeez, I took the red-eye last night so we could sort this TransPort thing out. Haven’t even been home to shower.

So we got money now? Corky eyes were bulging and his forehead was damp from perspiration despite the coolness of the New York morning.

Brent said he’d wire it as soon as he gets the code. I figure we’ll package Mercury up and get it to him today.

That’s done, dude, Corky said as he looked at the box from TransPort.

Done?

Yup, they’ve got Mercury. Cranked it out in a few hours, right after you called.

I don’t get it, Ryan said.

There’s nothing to get, man. They’re shipping an update this week and wanted to get Mercury in as soon as possible. I wrote a quick installer script, bundled up version 1.2, and dropped it in their FTP site.

I told you I’d be back this morning and we’d work on it then.

They wanted it yesterday. What was I supposed to say? Wait till the boss gets back?

Come on, Corky, they couldn’t wait a day?

You told them to contact me. They wanted it now, so I gave it to them.

What about licensing? Ryan asked.

The TransPort guy said it was going out as a free option. You’ll have to explain to me what kind of deal you made and how ‘free’ is going to help pay my stupidly small paycheck, Corky said. He testily ripped open the top of the cardboard box and added, "Not that I’ve gotten any paychecks recently."

It’s not free. We’ve got a decent amount of prepaid royalties. Seventy-five thousand bucks. But we needed a way to keep track of the Mercury installs.

Well, nice of you to tell me about these details before siccing the Silicon Valley shysters on me, Corky said, removing the installation manual out of the box.

Sorry. Any talk about integration, like management or performance monitoring? Ryan asked.

Come on, get real. They don’t give a shit about that kind of stuff. They want to pretty up their pig, sell it to some sucker, and move on to the next gig. We’re hairspray, Ryan, that’s all.

What’s in the box? Ryan asked.

The TransPort cat said he’d send us a switch and all their software. Probably ought to test our stuff together.

Ya think? Ryan said quietly to himself, not wanting to set Corky off again. Louder, he added, You’re right. We better get on this as soon as possible.

Yes, boss, Corky mocked as he dug further into the box. Corky like to think of himself as a cofounder of Velocé even though Ryan came up with the concept, wrote most of the code, and provided all of the money.

His instructions to Corky had been vague and urgent. Normally, Ryan was with him for things like this, side by side, making all the significant decisions. Corky would argue technical approaches, but the final decisions were Ryan’s. Corky accepted him as the leader of their company, and one of the few technologists he considered his equal.

They met in their high school’s computer science club. Ryan liked Corky right away, even though most people—including most of their fellow club members—did not. He was an overweight loner, infatuated with computers, and universally thought of as just plain weird. But he was smart, no doubt about that. Corky was all geek, uninterested in anything but computers, and condescending to those he considered technically inferior. He had trimmed down considerably from the days where some called him Cork the Fork. His parents were old hippies. Ryan had never seen them at any school events, and Corky didn’t talk much about them, or really anything other than computers. Ryan was the only one who would volunteer to work with Corky on projects outside of school. His father, not surprisingly, thought Corky extremely odd and preferred Ryan’s jock friends, but his mom thought he was a cute, cuddly puppy: a bit quirky and obviously lonely. Laura fawned over the social outcast whenever he came over. She was like that. She could make anyone feel great, so Ryan wasn’t surprised when Corky was the only one of his friends to show up at Laura’s wake before they buried her. He only thought about that time in his life occasionally these days, which was better than before, when he relived it every day.

I came home from school and opened the front door. The smell hit my nose like a fist. I entered the house and followed the scent to the source. There was Mom, lying on the bathroom floor, passed out in a puddle of piss.

Why do you do this to yourself? I yelled at her. She had one shoe on. Her panties clung to her knees and a dark crimson bruise was already forming on her forehead.

It was four o’clock. He’d be home soon. I considered leaving her there so he could see how bad it had gotten. Instead, I grabbed a stack of towels from the linen closet and began wiping the floor. I propped her up beside the tub and attempted to dry her off, but it was no use. Her dress was soaked. I looked away and awkwardly removed it. I quickly wiped her as dry as possible, trying to preserve our dignity as much as possible.

Don’t move, Mom, I’ll be right back. I raced to her bedroom, grabbed her white robe, and carefully laid it out on the bed for its owner. Standing a couple of inches more than six feet, I was tall but thin. My mother called me wiry. Dad preferred scrawny.

With an oversize towel wrapped around her, I lifted Mom’s surprisingly light body and carried her to her bedroom. I laid her on top of the robe and quickly covered her. I grabbed her brush and tidied her hair. Finally, I wiped the smear of lipstick that framed the vodka-scented drool oozing out of the corner of her mouth. He walked in the door at 4:45.

Where’s Mom? Jack demanded, his nose wrinkled like he could smell it, too.