Bluegrass and Crimson

by Jeff Siebold

  “I knew Roger,” said Clive. “He was fit and took care of himself.” Clive grabbed the outside door of the office building and held it open for Zeke.

  “And,” said Clive, “we need to consider the project that Roger had been working on. It seems like too much of a coincidence, you know?”

  “Last name?” asked Zeke.

  “Taylor,” said Clive, “Roger Taylor.”

  “What was he working on?” asked Zeke after a moment. They were the only ones on the elevator.

  “Well, it was an NSA type of thing… Essentially, Roger had developed some algorithms that tracked data usage and cell phone usage and connectivity patterns and links, which are being used to help identify possible terrorists and terrorist cells.”

  “I can see where there could be a fairly unique ‘footprint’ associated with the communication patterns of terrorists,” said Zeke. “If you compile enough data and search it for those patterns, it seems like you should be able to isolate activity and persons that warrant further investigation. Maybe call it ‘data usage profiling’.”

  “Yes, and Roger has been a leader in that effort since he came to the FBI from Silicon Valley five years ago. He was very highly recruited, you know.”

  “You said that they found him dead in his cabin on a cruise ship?” asked Zeke.

  “Yes, the Royal Caribbean ship, Venture of the Seas. He’d taken his family on a cruise for the holiday. The others went on a shore excursion, and they came back to find him dead in the bed.”

  “How old was Roger?” asked Zeke.

  “Only about thirty. He was a boy genius. Too young for a heart attack,” added Clive.

  “History in his family?” asked Zeke.

  “None at all,” said Clive. “But initial cause of death by the shipboard doctor was reported as a heart attack.”

  “I assume they did an autopsy,” said Zeke.

  “Yes, they did,” said Clive. “They found some possible signs of asphyxiation. It was conclusive enough, as far as cause of death at that point, and that’s when the FBI called me.”

  “Are we investigating?” asked Zeke. “Is that why I’m here and not somewhere sunny?”

  “The brethren at the FBI did ask us to take a look at this with fresh eyes,” said Clive. “If the death was instigated by a terrorist group, we may be able to start with the motive, and work backwards to narrow down the possible suspects. Roger wouldn’t have been an easy target. He was a tech guy, but he was pretty well trained. He could take care of himself.”

  “He was strangled?” asked Zeke. “What does the autopsy say?”

  “I’ll get you a copy, but essentially Roger was poisoned, then suffocated,” said Clive. “They found scombroid food poisoning in his system.”

  Histamine, said Zeke to himself. “Most likely from spoiled fish.”

  “Yes, they think it was made from spoiled salmon that was served with Roger’s breakfast of lox and bagels. Ordered from room service, you know. The onions and cream cheese likely hid the taste.”

  “So the poison makes him sick, and then the killer suffocates him,” said Zeke, thinking. “I’ll need to get down to Miami the next time that ship is in port. We’ll want to interview the crew.”

  “Definitely,” said Clive. “I have the schedule, and we’ll make the arrangements.”

  Zeke thought for a moment. “Can we get data about the groups Roger was researching?” he asked.

  “I’ve asked for copies of all of his current investigations, going back a year. My impression is that there are several possibilities, and I propose that we work through them, one at a time, bash on and see what we can chase out of the brush,” said Clive.

  “Sounds like something we should do,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  “I was planning to visit you this week,” Zeke said. “Sort of a surprise visit. But things have heated up with the investigation. Well, investigations, plural.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Tracy Johnson from the other end of the phone call. “You found a better offer,” she teased.

  “No, it’s just bad timing. I’d much rather be with you. But I need to get back to DC for a meeting with the FBI tomorrow.”

  “You’d pick the FBI over your main squeeze?” her voice smiled.

  Tracy worked for the Atlanta Secret Service and had met Zeke a few months earlier when they were tracking a counterfeiter. They were enjoying a long-distance romance.

  “Well, no, actually.”

  “But…” asked Tracy.

  “But you know I’ll make it up to you.”

  “I may not wait around forever,” Tracy said with a sigh. She hesitated. “But…”

  “Yes?” said Zeke. She’s enjoying this, he thought.

  “I guess you’re worth waiting for. I’ll give it another week or so.”

  * * *

  “Then how do you explain this?” asked the young man. He was a tall, lanky man of eighteen or nineteen years with a head full of brown, tightly curled hair, which was loosely bound by a cloth rubber band and extended well past his shoulders. He wore a light linen shirt and brown painter’s pants, and his shoes were red Air Jordan’s with a Velcro clasp across the tongue. He was holding a magazine open to a page, folded back and showing the picture of refugees walking along the right side of a long, winding dirt road. There were mountains in the distance, and dirt and dust swirling low around the refugees’ knees and feet. The headline, superimposed on the picture, read “Out of Syria.”

  “Yes, I know,” said a second man, a little bit older and with a soothing lightly accented voice. His name was Asad Hassan. “Things don’t always go exactly as we wish,” he continued. “It is better for us to focus on the larger mission, on the jihad, and expect that the exceptions will take care of themselves.”

  “But we have to do something,” said the younger man. “Look around. There are eight of us here. Eight who honor Allah and despise the ways of the west.”

  The older man smiled to himself. A jihad, he thought, can mean a holy war, or it can mean the internal, personal struggle each of us goes through in our devotion to the spiritual discipline of Islam. The true jihad is a battle for self-control and betterment. The younger man seems to have a ways to go in his personal jihad, Asad thought. He said, “Trust Allah.”

  The eight men were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Mosque, with Qur’ans open before them. Several of them were reading quietly aloud to themselves in Arabic, seemingly engaged in a separate reality. All eight were chosen; all eight were strong supporters of the cause. Most had brothers or uncles or cousins or nephews in Syria or Jordan or Yemen. All supported the al-Nusra Front, the Sunni Islamist militia, against the Syrian government. And they were supporters of the Sunni extremists who were known as the Islamic State.

  “But what action do you suggest?” asked the lanky man. His beard was a tight set of random curls along his jaw line that shifted and realigned across the bottom of his face as he spoke. “What action?” he said again, louder to emphasize the point and assure the others had heard him.

  “The plan is solid, Amed. We are set on a path, a direction. It is not up to you or me to change the path, but it is for us to embrace it, and follow it to its end, where we will find Allah.” He spoke in vague ethereal terms, working to maintain his role as the spiritual leader of the group.

  “How long will it be before we begin our journey?” asked another, Ismael, the youngest of the group. “I, for one, am ready for my virgins.” He laughed mildly to himself.

  The rest of the men grunted their agreement in muted tones. Some looked up at Asad.

  “It will not be much longer, my friends. We will have all the opportunity for glory that we could want,” said Asad. He paused and looked at his notes, written in Arabic. “Very well, that’s the last of the business we need to cover,” said Asad, anxious to end the discussion. “This meeting of the Arabic Student Group is adjourned.”

  Chapter 8

  To Zeke, Clive’s office lo
oked as if it were an English gentleman’s club, with wood paneled walls and built-in bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes, and with a rolling wooden ladder to access the books located on the higher shelves. There was no desk in the room, but several wingback, overstuffed, brown leather chairs were scattered about, and each had a side table associated with it. Some of the chairs were arranged around a low coffee table in the center of the room, with a warm light antique lamp in the center of it. Overhead lights were muted, and the windows were covered by heavy curtains. Concealed spotlights highlighted framed drawings of hunters on horseback, with dogs and foxes on the plain.

  Traditional, thought Zeke. For ambience.

  “Jolly good,” said Clive to no one in particular, as he pulled a chair toward the coffee table and sat comfortably in it. “Here are Roger’s active files. If the murder, the assassination was arranged by terrorists, it was likely one of these groups.”

  There was a stack of blue file folders on the bottom corner of the coffee table, within Clive’s reach. The top one, the only file in view, had a stripe across the cover marked, “FBI. Top Secret.”

  One wall was occupied by floor to ceiling built-in shelves with glass doors that contained a variety of British Gins and Single Malt Scotches, on display. The bottles didn’t appear to be opened. Most of the complimentary appointments in the room were also of leather and dark wood. There was a humidor on one table, surrounded with antique cigar clipping tools, metal lighters and two heavy, solid glass ashtrays. A display of tobacco pipes occupied another small table. Clive pulled the drapes back and let some sunlight into the room.

  In addition to Clive and Zeke, Sarah Ditton, an FBI Agent, was present. Sarah had brought the files over from FBI Headquarters, and would be staying until The Agency was done with them. Kimmy stood near the fourth chair. Kimmy was a small brunette who seldom sat still. Zeke watched her constant motion, shifting, changing her position or her posture. She had history as a Mossad operative, and had recently joined The Agency.

  “What do we have?” asked Zeke, sitting in a leather chair across the coffee table from Clive.

  Clive picked up the top folder and flipped it open. “Looks like this one is a suspected terrorist group in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Here are lists of phone numbers and phone transmissions, in and out, that were picked up by the computer.” He looked at Sarah. “So my understanding is that Roger’s software program was designed to isolate certain calling patterns based upon frequency, length of the call and the timing of the occurrences. Is that right, Sarah?”

  “Well, that’s part of it. And we use stingrays- cell phone trackers- to compliment that. Combine that information with Internet usage, e-mail patterns, web site visits, Skype calls, messaging, social media sites, IP addresses and a host of other, complimentary data, and you can begin to see patterns of communication that lend themselves to possible terrorists or terrorist cells. The second part of the process is feet on the ground. Agents reviewing the information, watching the suspects, wire taps, the more traditional activities. Roger always said that his program was an identifier, a starting point, not a solution,” she said.

  Sarah was a small, mousey looking woman with light brown hair pulled into a tight bun; she carried herself with a pronounced shoulder slouch. Her glasses, although a designer brand, were thick and gave her the overall appearance of a librarian, which she was, in a sense. She wore muted navy blue slacks that looked like part of a suit ensemble, and a white blouse that had a bow at the neck. She wore minimal jewelry, and no wedding ring, Zeke noticed. She spoke quietly, and in a fashion that made her listeners lean forward and pay attention.

  “The patterns that the software looks for are what you might expect,” she continued. “Terrorist cells and spy cells have a lot in common. In addition to the secrecy they both covet, there are an unusual number of repetitive communication patterns. Person-to-person, over and over again. Think about the way spies only know their own handler. Typically, they’re not privy to information about other spies, for obvious reasons. It minimizes the damage if one spy is caught.”

  “A terrorist cell would have different communication patterns, though, right?” said Zeke. “Maybe two or three extremists, or a very small group working together?”

  “Yes, different patterns, but still recognizable. Remember, with the program the computer can search thousands of records each hour, and report the matches it finds,” said Sarah. “We’re casting a wide net.”

  “How accurate is the software?” asked Zeke. “It seems like you wouldn’t want to exclude too much, or make the pattern associations too narrow.”

  “Honestly, probably one in fifteen matches turns out to be somehow associated with terrorists or extremists, but those odds are acceptable. And, the software learns from its mistakes,” said Sarah.

  “Runs on a Unix system?” asked Zeke.

  “Yes. Simple and speedy,” Sarah said, nodding.

  “What else do you see in the files?” asked Zeke, turning to Clive, who was busy making notes on a yellow legal pad. His pen was an Onoto Magna plunger-filler, arguably the finest British pen ever made. Typical understated Clive, Zeke thought.

  “Here’s a group located in and around Charlottesville, Virginia,” said Clive. “It looks as if this one has some pretty tight patterns.”

  Over the next four hours, the three agents organized and reviewed the files and made notes to themselves about the contents. Names, numbers and notes about the patterns the computer had discovered filled most of the legal pad that Clive was working with. At the end of it, Clive noted that there were six open situations that the FBI was currently evaluating- the “Open Cases”- and there were another nine files that were being monitored, but the FBI had made a preliminary determination that there was no cause for alarm.

  Clive thanked Sarah Ditton, and she left for Quantico, taking the original files with her. Clive turned to Zeke.

  “So, six possibles,” Clive said.

  “Roger was pretty impressive,” said Zeke. “No wonder someone wanted him out of the way. We need to find out which group arranged for his murder.”

  “Richardson, Texas. Charlottesville, Virginia. Nashville, Tennessee. Pullman, Washington. McKinney, Texas.” Clive read the list from his notepad. “And Ann Arbor, Michigan.”

  “Most all college towns,” said Zeke. “Time to get to work.”

  “Indeed,” said Clive.

  “I’m heading to Little Rock, Arkansas, to meet with Dan and the FBI about the bank robberies and the guns,” Zeke said. “From there, I can hop over to Dallas and check out two possibles, Richardson and McKinney. They’re only about twenty miles apart.”

  Chapter 9

  “It’ll be a joint effort,” said Bill Crawford, the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Little Rock FBI office. “FBI and ATF together.”

  “That sounds great, partner,” said Texas ATF Special Agent in Charge, Dan Wheeler, “but it never works out that way. Somehow, your cowboys always get the camera shots and the publicity, while our guys get shoved into the background and are assigned the clean-up detail when you leave. We get to muck out the stalls.”

  “Unless something goes wrong,” said Zeke, under his breath. The one-stop flight from Washington, DC to Little Rock had been uneventful. Zeke had planned to attend the FBI’s meeting with Dan Wheeler, and then stop down in Dallas and follow up on two of Roger Taylor’s possible terror groups. The GPS path of Camo Jack and his friends had led from the gun show in Texas to northern Arkansas.

  Crawford looked like an FBI throwback, a white-shirted, blue-tied man with close-cropped gray hair and highly polished black shoes. The tie matched his eyes, and he had rolled the cuffs on his dress shirt one roll up onto his forearms. Overall, he gave the impression of a J. Edgar Hoover-era agent.

  The GPS device that Zeke had planted on the panel van was being tracked remotely from Texas Rangers Headquarters in Austin. Zeke checked occasionally, as it had led the ATF agents across Texas, through Texarkana, alo
ng Interstate 30, and then on to Little Rock. From there, the van turned northwest on Interstate 40 to Conway, at which point the vehicle turned north and headed toward Harrison, Arkansas on secondary roads. FBI personnel tracked the truck the entire way.

  The 10-hour drive spanned almost 650 miles with a quick stop, probably for fuel and a bathroom, in Texarkana, Texas. The van approached Harrison, a notorious area of militia men and free men. Zeke had stopped in the FBI’s tracking and command room before the meeting started.

  “No surprise,” said one of the agents tracking the GPS, a slightly overweight black man with graying hair and a pot belly. “Expected they may be from that part of the state.” But then, to the surprise of the agents assigned to the tracking team, the van drove through downtown Harrison and turned east. Zeke saw the surprise register on their faces, and he turned to the front wall, following their gaze to the tracking screen. They watched for several minutes.

  “They’re heading east,” said the overweight man. “There’s nothing over there. Look, they stopped at the next town, a place called Zinc.”

  * * *

  One of the ATF agents monitoring the GPS device accessed the Internet. “Looks like Zinc is a rural town of about 100 people with no major industry,” he said. “And it’s home to an anti-government Christian patriot movement group, an independent group called the Arkansas Freemen.” He was reading from an encyclopedia webpage.

  Then he pulled up a roadmap of north central Arkansas, as well as a topographical map. Zeke hopped up and looked over their shoulders. Routes into and out of the small town were limited by the size and condition of the roads, and the mountainous terrain. One of the FBI men continued, “It says here that ‘citizens of Zinc are a private lot, interested in maintaining their independence. Zinc has, in the past, been a refuge for escaped prisoners and AWOL soldiers and criminals running from the law. It’s located within 20 miles of the Missouri border, which allowed fugitives to escape into the neighboring state when the local law got too close.’”