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Prologue
THE PROFESSOR
Courage is fear that has said its prayers.
Dorothy Bernard
If anything happened to this kid, the professor would never forgive himself. The young man was more than just a brilliant protégé; he was like a son. He reminded Professor Dagan so much of himself at that age. Too much, sometimes. Except that Chow was brasher, bolder than Dagan had ever been.
Chow Zhang possessed his mentor’s gift for complex mathematical theories, but he had something more. At heart, Chow was a businessman. A capitalist. A risk taker.
He had grown restless as a teaching assistant at the university; Dagan could see that. Chow stayed out of respect for the professor. When Professor Dagan told his protégé about the Abacus Algorithm, the young man’s eyes burned with entrepreneurial fire. To Chow, it was more than a math formula. It became an opportunity to piece together a historic agreement that might help millions of his fellow Chinese countrymen and women. He proposed the plan with such zeal and attention to detail that the professor couldn’t say no.
This meeting was the culmination of Chow’s plan.
Dagan said a prayer, his head bowed as he sat in the driver’s seat of the Ford Windstar rental van. He had a bad feeling about this meeting, something he just couldn’t shake. He had insisted on elaborate security precautions to protect the algorithm.
“You worry too much, grasshopper,” said Chow from the passenger seat, trying hard to inject a worry-free tone into his voice. Dagan had once asked Chow about the grasshopper reference; it was an allusion, as best Dagan could remember, to some old American movie or television show, the type of thing that didn’t interest Dagan in the least.
“That the birds of worry fly above your head, this you cannot change,” the young man continued, with mock solemnity. “But that they build nests in your hair, this you can prevent.”
Dagan did not smile. He was known for being jovial and outgoing, having a type of mad-professor personality, which, he had to admit, was a reputation he did little to dispel. But this was not a time for smiles.
Chow had never been one to pick up on subtle unspoken messages. He ran a hand over his own shaved head. “No worries here,” he said.
“Be careful, my son,” Dagan said.
This time, Chow took the cue, wiped the smile from his face, and instantly became the earnest young businessman. He looked professional in his dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. Professional, and almost American. Still, he was so inexperienced to be handling such a sensitive transaction.
Dagan wanted to give Chow a lecture, one of Dagan’s patented professorial pep talks, more about life than about academics. But Dagan sensed that the young man had already surpassed his teacher in so many matters of life and faith. The time for lectures had passed.
“God be with you,” Chow said.
“And with you.”
The young man climbed out of the van, grabbed his briefcase, and strode confidently toward the MGM Grand. He did not look back to see the lines of worry etched into his mentor’s face, the birds beginning to nest in the professor’s hair.
“Protect him,” Dagan prayed. He pulled away from the front of the casino, cutting off other drivers and ignoring their horns.
Twelve minutes later, Dagan entered his apartment, breathless from his climb up the outdoor steps. He disabled the alarm system, locked the deadbolt, and pulled the chain lock into place.
The living room and dining area, one long, L-shaped open space, was littered with twenty-four interconnected desktop computers and enough wiring to make the rooms look like a den of snakes. There were no pictures on the walls, no couch or recliner or television set. Just twenty-four desktop units, a small card table set up in the dining area, two folding chairs, and a beanbag.
In the single bedroom were two air mattresses.
Dagan had chosen this unit twenty days ago because it met all three criteria on his list: high-speed Internet access, a monthly lease, and anonymity. He paid cash in advance and signed the application using a phony name.
He hustled across the room, accidentally kicking one of the computers. He checked the lock on the sliding glass door that led to a small patio. He pulled the blinds on the glass door and placed his laptop on the card table so he could hook it up to his improvised network.
Each computer had been maxed out with memory upgrades, according to Chow, and then linked in such a way that the total network capacity exceeded 72GB of RAM. The network was protected by three separate firewalls.
Dagan’s screen flickered to life, and he entered his password. He connected immediately to the Internet, and an instant message from Chow flashed on the screen: Let me know when you get this. Dagan typed in his reply and simultaneously pulled up the video and audio feed from Chow’s computer. When the MGM Grand conference room came into focus, with the same grainy resolution that Dagan had witnessed during the trial runs, he began to relax just a little.
Chow, the more electronically savvy of the two, had wired his laptop with a hidden video camera on the back of the computer, inside a port that looked like an Internet connection. He squeezed a corresponding microphone inside what appeared to be an expansion port on the side. Using a wireless card that connected Chow to the Internet through cell tower technology, his computer now fed Dagan a live, blow-by-blow broadcast of the meeting.
Though the resolution was not the best, Dagan could make out three business executives within range of the wide-angle lens. They sat across from Chow, separated by a large polished-wood conference table. The man in the middle had dressed casually; the others wore suits. All three appeared younger than Dagan had anticipated.
The Chinese American man on the right looked more like a thug than a businessman. He had a low brow and thick neck, with veins bulging from a too-tight collar on his shirt, as if he couldn’t afford a custom fit. On the right side of his face, a scar started at his sideburn and ended at his jaw. His right ear was smaller than the left, as if he had lost part of it in a knife fight and a plastic surgeon had just sewn up what was left. A tattooed cobra was coiled on the left side of his neck, poised to strike at any moment. Dagan pegged him as security.
The man on the left, pale-skinned and tall, seemed infinitely more sophisticated. Eastern European perhaps, with ice blue eyes and short, Nordic-blond hair. He slouched in his seat, a cool, disinterested look on his face.
In the middle, the position of influence, sat a young man approximately Chow’s age, probably the CEO, dressed in a black linen shirt, with long dark hair, a trim goatee, and dark brooding eyes that seemed to pierce Dagan’s screen.
Dagan had missed the introductions and casual conversation, if any had taken place. Chow was sketching out the logistics of the transaction, a complicated matter since Chow had insisted on having the fifty million dollars in the bank before the algorithm was transferred. The men opposite Chow were employed by a deal-brokerage agency that represented the three largest Internet security companies in the world. Understandably, they wanted to test the algorithm before any money changed hands.
“You will forgive my skepticism,” said the middle man, his expression difficult to read, “but the implications of your claims are enormous. Not to mention the fact that our top consultants believe rapid factorization into prime numbers is a mathematical impossibility.”
“Did you bring the numbers?” Chow asked calmly. His voice came across louder than the others, based on his proximity to the mike. Dagan could discern no wavering in it, no hint of the frayed nerves that surely had to be wracking his young partner.
“Of course.”
“Then we can talk theory or we can talk application,” said Chow. “I mean, why bother finding out the true facts if we can just sit around and speculate based on the opinions of your experts?”
“We can do without the sarcasm,” said the Nordic man.
The CEO betrayed no emotion as he consulted a folder. He dictated a long number that Chow typed into an IM message to Dagan. Next, Chow read back the digits to the CEO, all one hundred ninety-seven of them, double-checking them slowly. It took nearly two minutes just to verify the number.
Dagan smiled. Child’s play. Using his algorithm, he should have the answer in less than five minutes. His laptop could process this one by itself. He copied and pasted the number into his formula.
As Dagan’s computer crunched the algorithm, and Chow plunked away on his own keyboard, plugging in phony numbers and functions, the conference room grew remarkably quiet, tension filling the air, as if the executives didn’t dare jinx this moment by making a sound. From miles away, Dagan could almost tell what they were thinking: If this works–if this really works–it would destroy the foundation of Internet encryption.
The RSA protocol, used extensively to secure transactions on the Web, would be a sieve. It was, as Chow had exclaimed when Dagan first told him about the breakthrough, “The key to every lock!”
Dagan had started working on his formula nearly twenty years ago as the result of a challenge from a fellow professor. Dagan called it a serious academic pursuit, a scholar’s desire to break new ground. Others called it an obsession. Whatever the label, he dedicated his best and most productive years to accomplishing something unprecedented: discovering an order in the sequence of prime n...
Revue de presse :
THE PROFESSOR
Courage is fear that has said its prayers.
Dorothy Bernard
If anything happened to this kid, the professor would never forgive himself. The young man was more than just a brilliant protégé; he was like a son. He reminded Professor Dagan so much of himself at that age. Too much, sometimes. Except that Chow was brasher, bolder than Dagan had ever been.
Chow Zhang possessed his mentor’s gift for complex mathematical theories, but he had something more. At heart, Chow was a businessman. A capitalist. A risk taker.
He had grown restless as a teaching assistant at the university; Dagan could see that. Chow stayed out of respect for the professor. When Professor Dagan told his protégé about the Abacus Algorithm, the young man’s eyes burned with entrepreneurial fire. To Chow, it was more than a math formula. It became an opportunity to piece together a historic agreement that might help millions of his fellow Chinese countrymen and women. He proposed the plan with such zeal and attention to detail that the professor couldn’t say no.
This meeting was the culmination of Chow’s plan.
Dagan said a prayer, his head bowed as he sat in the driver’s seat of the Ford Windstar rental van. He had a bad feeling about this meeting, something he just couldn’t shake. He had insisted on elaborate security precautions to protect the algorithm.
“You worry too much, grasshopper,” said Chow from the passenger seat, trying hard to inject a worry-free tone into his voice. Dagan had once asked Chow about the grasshopper reference; it was an allusion, as best Dagan could remember, to some old American movie or television show, the type of thing that didn’t interest Dagan in the least.
“That the birds of worry fly above your head, this you cannot change,” the young man continued, with mock solemnity. “But that they build nests in your hair, this you can prevent.”
Dagan did not smile. He was known for being jovial and outgoing, having a type of mad-professor personality, which, he had to admit, was a reputation he did little to dispel. But this was not a time for smiles.
Chow had never been one to pick up on subtle unspoken messages. He ran a hand over his own shaved head. “No worries here,” he said.
“Be careful, my son,” Dagan said.
This time, Chow took the cue, wiped the smile from his face, and instantly became the earnest young businessman. He looked professional in his dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. Professional, and almost American. Still, he was so inexperienced to be handling such a sensitive transaction.
Dagan wanted to give Chow a lecture, one of Dagan’s patented professorial pep talks, more about life than about academics. But Dagan sensed that the young man had already surpassed his teacher in so many matters of life and faith. The time for lectures had passed.
“God be with you,” Chow said.
“And with you.”
The young man climbed out of the van, grabbed his briefcase, and strode confidently toward the MGM Grand. He did not look back to see the lines of worry etched into his mentor’s face, the birds beginning to nest in the professor’s hair.
“Protect him,” Dagan prayed. He pulled away from the front of the casino, cutting off other drivers and ignoring their horns.
Twelve minutes later, Dagan entered his apartment, breathless from his climb up the outdoor steps. He disabled the alarm system, locked the deadbolt, and pulled the chain lock into place.
The living room and dining area, one long, L-shaped open space, was littered with twenty-four interconnected desktop computers and enough wiring to make the rooms look like a den of snakes. There were no pictures on the walls, no couch or recliner or television set. Just twenty-four desktop units, a small card table set up in the dining area, two folding chairs, and a beanbag.
In the single bedroom were two air mattresses.
Dagan had chosen this unit twenty days ago because it met all three criteria on his list: high-speed Internet access, a monthly lease, and anonymity. He paid cash in advance and signed the application using a phony name.
He hustled across the room, accidentally kicking one of the computers. He checked the lock on the sliding glass door that led to a small patio. He pulled the blinds on the glass door and placed his laptop on the card table so he could hook it up to his improvised network.
Each computer had been maxed out with memory upgrades, according to Chow, and then linked in such a way that the total network capacity exceeded 72GB of RAM. The network was protected by three separate firewalls.
Dagan’s screen flickered to life, and he entered his password. He connected immediately to the Internet, and an instant message from Chow flashed on the screen: Let me know when you get this. Dagan typed in his reply and simultaneously pulled up the video and audio feed from Chow’s computer. When the MGM Grand conference room came into focus, with the same grainy resolution that Dagan had witnessed during the trial runs, he began to relax just a little.
Chow, the more electronically savvy of the two, had wired his laptop with a hidden video camera on the back of the computer, inside a port that looked like an Internet connection. He squeezed a corresponding microphone inside what appeared to be an expansion port on the side. Using a wireless card that connected Chow to the Internet through cell tower technology, his computer now fed Dagan a live, blow-by-blow broadcast of the meeting.
Though the resolution was not the best, Dagan could make out three business executives within range of the wide-angle lens. They sat across from Chow, separated by a large polished-wood conference table. The man in the middle had dressed casually; the others wore suits. All three appeared younger than Dagan had anticipated.
The Chinese American man on the right looked more like a thug than a businessman. He had a low brow and thick neck, with veins bulging from a too-tight collar on his shirt, as if he couldn’t afford a custom fit. On the right side of his face, a scar started at his sideburn and ended at his jaw. His right ear was smaller than the left, as if he had lost part of it in a knife fight and a plastic surgeon had just sewn up what was left. A tattooed cobra was coiled on the left side of his neck, poised to strike at any moment. Dagan pegged him as security.
The man on the left, pale-skinned and tall, seemed infinitely more sophisticated. Eastern European perhaps, with ice blue eyes and short, Nordic-blond hair. He slouched in his seat, a cool, disinterested look on his face.
In the middle, the position of influence, sat a young man approximately Chow’s age, probably the CEO, dressed in a black linen shirt, with long dark hair, a trim goatee, and dark brooding eyes that seemed to pierce Dagan’s screen.
Dagan had missed the introductions and casual conversation, if any had taken place. Chow was sketching out the logistics of the transaction, a complicated matter since Chow had insisted on having the fifty million dollars in the bank before the algorithm was transferred. The men opposite Chow were employed by a deal-brokerage agency that represented the three largest Internet security companies in the world. Understandably, they wanted to test the algorithm before any money changed hands.
“You will forgive my skepticism,” said the middle man, his expression difficult to read, “but the implications of your claims are enormous. Not to mention the fact that our top consultants believe rapid factorization into prime numbers is a mathematical impossibility.”
“Did you bring the numbers?” Chow asked calmly. His voice came across louder than the others, based on his proximity to the mike. Dagan could discern no wavering in it, no hint of the frayed nerves that surely had to be wracking his young partner.
“Of course.”
“Then we can talk theory or we can talk application,” said Chow. “I mean, why bother finding out the true facts if we can just sit around and speculate based on the opinions of your experts?”
“We can do without the sarcasm,” said the Nordic man.
The CEO betrayed no emotion as he consulted a folder. He dictated a long number that Chow typed into an IM message to Dagan. Next, Chow read back the digits to the CEO, all one hundred ninety-seven of them, double-checking them slowly. It took nearly two minutes just to verify the number.
Dagan smiled. Child’s play. Using his algorithm, he should have the answer in less than five minutes. His laptop could process this one by itself. He copied and pasted the number into his formula.
As Dagan’s computer crunched the algorithm, and Chow plunked away on his own keyboard, plugging in phony numbers and functions, the conference room grew remarkably quiet, tension filling the air, as if the executives didn’t dare jinx this moment by making a sound. From miles away, Dagan could almost tell what they were thinking: If this works–if this really works–it would destroy the foundation of Internet encryption.
The RSA protocol, used extensively to secure transactions on the Web, would be a sieve. It was, as Chow had exclaimed when Dagan first told him about the breakthrough, “The key to every lock!”
Dagan had started working on his formula nearly twenty years ago as the result of a challenge from a fellow professor. Dagan called it a serious academic pursuit, a scholar’s desire to break new ground. Others called it an obsession. Whatever the label, he dedicated his best and most productive years to accomplishing something unprecedented: discovering an order in the sequence of prime n...
Praise for False Witness
“False Witness is an action-packed page-turner of the highest order. In fact, Randy Singer writes with such visual dexterity that we can only hope Hollywood will turn False Witness into a movie as soon as possible.”
–Aaron Norris, Movie and Television Producer and Director
“False Witness is an engrossing and challenging read, filled with authentic characters and well-drawn situations that are devastatingly authentic. It leaves readers wondering how much may be true, and amazed at the speed that our morals shift to accommodate our desires. Part detective story, part legal thriller–I couldn't put it down!”
–Shaunti Feldhahn, author of The Veritas Conflict and The Lights of Tenth Street
Praise for Other Novels by Randy Singer
“Singer proves that faith and suspense can make delightful bedfellows. He...is every bit as enjoyable as John Grisham.”
–Publishers Weekly
“Singer...delivers a fresh approach to the legal thriller, with subtle characterizations and nuanced presentations of ethical issues. And he’s no slouch with a plot.”
–Booklist Magazine
“John Grisham meets C.S. Lewis...Self Incrimination is highly volatile, thought-provoking, and lots of fun.”
–Brandilyn Collins, author of Coral Moon
Randy Singer combines edge-of-your-seat action with a powerful message. Highly recommended.”
–T. Davis Bunn, author of Winner Takes All
“Singer delivers Grisham-like plotting buttressed by a worldview that clarifies the dilemmas that bombard us daily.”
–Hugh Hewitt, author, columnist, and radio host of the nationally syndicated Hugh Hewitt Show
“False Witness is an action-packed page-turner of the highest order. In fact, Randy Singer writes with such visual dexterity that we can only hope Hollywood will turn False Witness into a movie as soon as possible.”
–Aaron Norris, Movie and Television Producer and Director
“False Witness is an engrossing and challenging read, filled with authentic characters and well-drawn situations that are devastatingly authentic. It leaves readers wondering how much may be true, and amazed at the speed that our morals shift to accommodate our desires. Part detective story, part legal thriller–I couldn't put it down!”
–Shaunti Feldhahn, author of The Veritas Conflict and The Lights of Tenth Street
Praise for Other Novels by Randy Singer
“Singer proves that faith and suspense can make delightful bedfellows. He...is every bit as enjoyable as John Grisham.”
–Publishers Weekly
“Singer...delivers a fresh approach to the legal thriller, with subtle characterizations and nuanced presentations of ethical issues. And he’s no slouch with a plot.”
–Booklist Magazine
“John Grisham meets C.S. Lewis...Self Incrimination is highly volatile, thought-provoking, and lots of fun.”
–Brandilyn Collins, author of Coral Moon
Randy Singer combines edge-of-your-seat action with a powerful message. Highly recommended.”
–T. Davis Bunn, author of Winner Takes All
“Singer delivers Grisham-like plotting buttressed by a worldview that clarifies the dilemmas that bombard us daily.”
–Hugh Hewitt, author, columnist, and radio host of the nationally syndicated Hugh Hewitt Show
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurTyndale House Publishers
- Date d'édition2011
- ISBN 10 1414335695
- ISBN 13 9781414335698
- ReliureBroché
- Nombre de pages409
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