by Larry Bond
“Not entirely,” Thorn said stiffly. “What about the Bulgarian virus? Where would a bunch of racist fanatics get the kind of money and connections they’d need to buy something like that? And what about the practically identical language all these supposedly separate terrorist groups are using to claim responsibility for their attacks? Is that just a coincidence?”
Flynn heard him out impassively, just standing there with his arms crossed. “I’ve already talked to Agent Gray about that, Colonel. You’ve raised some intriguing points. But I’ve spent too many years in this business to dive headfirst at the first plausible theory I hear.”
Thorn gritted his teeth, biting down an angry retort.
In the abstract, he could understand the FBI agent’s skepticism. He was making a lot of assumptions about the contents of that intercepted electronic mail. More important, both of Flynn’s superiors, the FBI Director and the Attorney General, had already invested a lot of their political prestige backing the notion that American neo-Nazis and radical black extremists were the driving forces behind the wave of terror. Convincing them that they had been wrong would certainly take a lot more evidence than a few indecipherable computer messages.
Appearing more curious than anything else, Flynn watched him struggle to hold his temper in check.
“So you’re not interested in pursuing this angle further unless the NSA can crack those messages?” Thorn asked finally, instantly aware of the bitterness apparent in his voice.
The FBI agent snorted and shook his head. “That is not what I said.” He smiled wryly at the surprise on Thorn’s face. “I may be a skeptic, Colonel. But I’m not an idiot. And I’ve never turned my back on a promising lead in my life.”
He nodded toward the E-mail intercepts spread out across his conference table. “We’ll check with CompuNet’s managers to see what they can tell us about this stuff.” He looked up at Thorn. “In the meantime, Colonel, I suggest you try to light a fire under those folks at the NSA. See if you can get ’em to crank those supercomputers along a little faster.”
Flynn smiled humorlessly. “I’d feel a lot safer telling the Attorney General she’s been a Grade A idiot if I had a few more aces up my sleeve.”
Thorn felt his spirits lift. Helen had been right. He had been misjudging the head of the FBI task force. Mike Flynn was one of the good guys after all.
The Pentagon
The telephone call Thorn had been expecting came shortly after noon.
“Any more luck on those codes, Colonel?” Flynn asked.
“Not yet, sir,” Thorn admitted. “The NSA is still stumped. They say the system used to encrypt these messages is definitely better than anything they’ve ever seen in private use. It’s more sophisticated than many of the data encryption systems used by other governments.”
“I see,” the FBI agent said quietly. “Then we may have to do this the hard way.”
“You mean, you’ll have to work in from the other end,” Thorn reasoned out loud. “Find out who these users are first—before we get a read on the kind of data they’re sending and receiving.”
“Right on the money, Colonel. I talked to CompuNet’s operations director after you left this morning,” Flynn explained. “Once I put the fear of God, or more precisely, a Presidential National Security Directive, into him, he agreed to release the billing information for your mystery E-mail users. More important, he also agreed to let us trace any future calls they make to CompuNet.”
Thorn nodded to himself. By itself the billing information would have been nearly useless. Once you were signed up with one of the computer networks, you could dial in from anywhere in the world. Permission to trace their incoming calls was the key to pinpointing the people sending and receiving these messages.
Zahedan, Iran
(D MINUS 12)
The order reached the headquarters of the 12th Infantry Division shortly before midnight.
General Karim Taleghani roused slowly at his orderly’s shaking. He had been driving his division hard, retraining both it and himself according to Amir Taleh’s new directives. The old, easy patterns of garrison life had been completely disrupted. Now he and his troops were up well before dawn and asleep only when their work was done.
“Sir, please, you must wake up. We have movement orders for the division.”
The orderly’s frantic words finally penetrated the fog and Taleghani came fully awake. “Give the message to me,” he mumbled.
“Sir.” The orderly passed him the message form and reported, “Colonel Beheshti has already ordered the staff to assemble.”
Taleghani frowned slightly but then nodded. Beheshti was an efficient officer, if sometimes a little too willing to assume authority not fully his. “Inform the colonel I will be there in five minutes.”
The orderly vanished.
Left alone, Taleghani scanned the decoded dispatch. It told him to ready his division for movement to the port of Bushehr. The schedule attached told him when to expect fuel and additional trucks, what supplies to take, and when to arrive. Significantly, the message ordered him to take his entire force. A much smaller Pasdaran brigade would take over the division’s mission of guarding Iran’s border with Afghanistan and Pakistan.
He stood up and started moving. Even as he automatically went through the motions of dressing and washing, his mind raced through the possibilities. Was this only another drill?
Taleghani had received a similar emergency alert from Tehran six months ago, and the result was an utter disaster. Only one of his battalions had been able to load on schedule, availability of vehicles was much lower than had actually been reported, and many critical jobs were found to be occupied by untrained officers and men.
In the aftermath of that fiasco he had been paid a visit by Taleh and his shadow, that young Captain Kazemi. Taleghani still shivered at the promises Iran’s new military leader had made. Stories he had heard whispered down the Army grapevine made him sure they were not idle threats.
Driven by fear and by a prideful determination not to be caught napping again, his division had done much better during a second surprise alert two months ago. Two of the 12th’s three brigades had been ready to move on schedule that time.
Did the Army’s new master want to see if they could get it completely right given a third chance? Taleghani shrugged. Well, then, he would show Amir Taleh what the 12th Infantry Division could do when it was ordered into action.
By the time the extra trucks dispatched by Tehran arrived at dawn, his troops were mustered in long lines, loaded with packs and weapons. The division’s own transport was already filling up rapidly.
Taleghani stood with his staff, watching closely as a mile-long column of military vehicles—the first of many convoys—roared out through the Zahedan Garrison’s main gate and turned onto the Kerman Highway. Brand-new, Russian-made armored personnel carriers loaded with troops, prime movers with towed artillery pieces, others with antiaircraft guns, freshly refitted tanks, Chinese multiple-rocket launchers, supply and maintenance vans all flowed by in a camouflaged, olive-drab river.
The river would flow for days. It took time to shift ten thousand men and all their gear from one place to another.
Taleghani wondered where his men and equipment would all end up. He had waited in vain for a message canceling the movement—for a signal telling him that it was all an exercise. But no such order had arrived.
Perhaps this was not a drill.
As God wills, he decided.
Hamir Pahesh watched the convoy as well, from a very close viewpoint. Loaded with artillery shells, his truck’s suspension groaned as it lumbered over the poorly maintained Kerman road.
A few days ago, the Afghan had reported to his company’s dispatcher’s office for a new assignment. He’d found the place in chaos. Everyone who could drive was driving anything that would move. Along with a score of other truckers, he had been ordered to the eastern end of Iran. There was no explanation given, of course, but s
omething big was happening. That was obvious.
From the cramped cab of his truck, Pahesh had watched with interest as the 12th Infantry Division stripped its storerooms and magazines. Now the entire division was pulling out of its garrison, headed west. He had overheard enough to know that this was not a temporary move. They were going to be replaced by another unit. What was going on? A redeployment? Not the way everyone was hurrying. This had to be it—whatever “it” was.
CompuNet network management center, outside Baltimore, Maryland
The beauty of CompuNet’s worldwide network was that it largely ran itself. Automatic switching systems handled incoming calls. Intricately crafted software managed everything from billing to file and electronic-mail transfers. Even better from a corporate view, volunteer systems operators, or sysops, monitored the various user forums and roundtables on their own time. The sysops policed them when flame wars—slanging matches—erupted, and coped with newbies who couldn’t get the hang of navigating through the system on their own. Usually, the network required professional human intervention only when its software and hardware crashed.
The result was that CompuNet’s small permanent staff spent most of its shift time playing computer games.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Byron Wu, CompuNet’s senior technician on duty, swore and hit the pause key on his auxiliary system. His space fighter had been within seconds of dumping a plasma torpedo into an enemy base. It had already taken him a dozen tries to get even this far in the mission. This interruption was going to screw up his reflexes.
He spun his chair around to look at his main monitor. Beneath the glowing schematic that showed the network in operation, a small red flag pulsed: USER 1589077 CONNECTED.
“So who the hell cares?” Wu muttered irritably. He tapped a function key, calling up management’s reasons for layering this alert into the system. His eyes widened as he read the first line aloud. “Emergency network tap authorized by Federal Bureau of Investigation …”
Below the scrolling, boldfaced memo, the red warning flag changed: TRACE COMPLETED. CONNECT NUMBER IS 703-555-3842.
The Pentagon
“You’ve got an address here in northern Virginia?” Thorn asked into the phone again, scarcely able to believe that some of the information they were seeking had come in so quickly. He checked his watch. It was just after 10:00 P.M. It was too easy to lose track of time under the Pentagon basement’s fluorescent lights.
“Yeah,” Flynn said. “One of the Magi group users logged onto CompuNet less than an hour ago. We traced the number they gave us to an address in Arlington.”
“Oustanding.”
“Yeah.” The FBI agent sounded pleased. “I’m putting a team in straightaway to scope the place out … to see what we can find out about the people living there.”
“Why not launch a raid right away?” Thorn asked. “If that is a terrorist safe house, why risk giving them time to scoot or launch another attack?”
“It’s that ‘if’ I’m having trouble with, Colonel,” Flynn said flatly. “Point A: We still don’t know who this so-called Magi and his electronic pen pals really are. It could just be a goddamned lonely hearts club, for Christ’s sake! Point B: I need more than illegally obtained E-mail to get a warrant. If these are some of the bad guys, and we take ’em down without a warrant, the whole prosecution will be tainted from day one. So unless we want these sons of bitches to walk, we’re going to have to do this by the book.”
Thorn frowned. He hated the prospect of more wasted time. Delay only benefited the enemy. “Damn it.”
“Too true,” Flynn agreed. “Look, Colonel, don’t sweat it. Thanks to you and this Maestro of yours, we’ve finally got a shot at what may be a real target. So if my people pick up even a whiff of something bad at this place, I’ll get a search warrant and send an HRT section in on the double. Any terrorists inside that house will be dead or behind bars before they wake up.”
DECEMBER 4
Near Kerman, Iran
(D MINUS 11)
Hamir Pahesh looked back, toward the campfires and the road beyond. He cursed the half moon, but in the next second was grateful for the hints it gave him about the ground under his feet. After fourteen hours of driving in convoy, all he wanted to do was join his countrymen at the fire, eat, drink a little sweet, hot tea, and go to bed.
Instead, here he was picking his way across a pitch-black, rocky ground looking for something, anything, that would give him cover. The treeless landscape held nothing higher than a weed or two, and he needed more.
The bundle he had smuggled out of his truck cab was small enough so that it could be tucked under his coat. But the rest of the drivers thought Pahesh had left the convoy to attend to nature’s needs, so he could not afford to be gone too long.
There. A low rise, little more than a fold in the ground, seemed to offer an acceptable solution.
Kneeling on the cold, stony ground, the Afghan ignored the lumps under him, hoping none of them would start moving. He unzipped a small case and fumbled in the darkness with the unfamiliar device it contained.
The antenna was easy enough, but there was a small lead that had to be plugged into the case, and for a moment he could not remember which side it went into.
In the quiet darkness every click and scrape seemed deafening. He paused for a moment, listening for the crunch of a footfall in the sand, or some more ominous sign, but all he heard was singing and faint chatter from the roadside several hundred meters away.
Ah. Pahesh found the socket for the antenna cable, then the rocker switch for the power, and turned the machine on. He typed in a series of digits he had computed earlier, based on the date, and hit the start button. While the transmitter sent out its signal, he slipped on a set of earphones and picked up the microphone.
A small indicator on the front told him the transmitter had found a satellite, that it had acknowledged his signal, and that he had entered the proper code. Only a moment later, a voice answered, “Watch officer.”
Pahesh hoped this man knew what to do. “This is Stone,” he started. Trying to speak clearly and whisper at the same time was difficult but he dared not speak louder. “I have a flash message for Granite.”
His own code name was Stone. He’d never met his controller, Granite. Indeed, the Afghan didn’t know if Granite was one man or more, or where this signal was being received.
All he knew was that the Americans couldn’t wait until the end of the week to hear what he’d learned. He’d gathered more information at the noontime break, and still more just now, with the convoy stopped for the day.
“Roger, Stone, ready to copy.”
Pahesh recited his message—composed, changed, and polished a hundred times as he drove. “Iranian 12th Infantry Division left barracks in Zahedan zero six hundred hours today, 4 December, with all elements and extra fuel and ammunition. Another unit, identity unknown, may be arriving in Zahedan to take over its duties. Convoy passed through Kerman in the afternoon and is now headed for Shiraz. Ultimate destination is unknown. Message ends.”
The American voice at the other end read back the message, then said, “Received and understood. Please stand by.”
“Stand by?” wondered Pahesh. He looked around nervously, but could see nothing in the darkness.
“Stone, this is Granite.” The voice was different, more purposeful. “Could this simply be a routine redeployment?”
The Afghan shook his head in reflex before he remembered they could not see him. “No. The Iranians have an urgent deadline. Two officers have already been punished for not meeting their schedules.”
There was what seemed a long pause before the American replied. “All right. Can you give us an update in twelve hours?”
“Yes.” Then Pahesh corrected himself. “I will try. I must go now.”
“Understood.”
Pahesh turned off the machine and hurriedly repacked it. He was late. He hadn’t counted on an extended conversatio
n. The others would be looking for him.
Tucking the satellite radio pack under his coat again, he strolled as quickly as possible back to his truck. As soon as there was enough light, he checked his watch. Only twelve minutes had passed since he’d left the roadside. He felt the tension ease.
Fatigue replaced the tension, and he quickly unrolled his pallet near one of the fires. Pahesh crawled in, reasonably sure the Komite, Iran’s hated secret police, were not going to arrest him before dawn. Before he dropped off to sleep, he found himself going over and over his brief communication with the Americans. It was good to know they were taking him seriously. Instincts honed by years of war told him this long road march was the first stirring of an evil wind.
CHAPTER 21
HORNET’S NEST
DECEMBER 4
Washington, D.C.
Outside the Hoover Building, the capital city’s streets were filling up with rush-hour traffic. Even in the present crisis, the hundreds of thousands of workers employed by the various government agencies, businesses, and law firms seemed to be determined to carry on as much of their daily routine as possible. For all the outward show of normalcy, however, the unpredictable, ever more frequent, and apparently unstoppable terrorist attacks were striking nerves already worn raw.
False alarms were triggered more and more often, with less and less provocation. Whole buildings emptied into the streets at the sight of a package without a return address. Phoned-in threats prompted widespread closures of the Metro or the region’s major highways. Entire neighborhoods, from wealthy, trendy Georgetown to the hopelessly poor northeast sections of the city, barricaded themselves in by day and by night, desperately hoping they could seal themselves off from the terrorist contagion. The drab, olive-green Army Humvees and Bradley armored fighting vehicles posted to cover the capital’s major intersections and traffic circles only increased the sense of crisis.
