by Brad Taylor
After spending the night by himself, it had taken him a full day to get out, and that was mainly due to his GPS. Without it, he’d probably be trying to suck water out of vines right now. He had hotfooted it to Flores, a small town on an island in the Petén province, with access to the airport at Santa Elena. At fifty-eight, he was weary down to the center of his bones, and wanted nothing more than to return to his calm life in Charleston. He hoped that the news of the travesty wouldn’t make it to this town before he could catch a plane out. Meanwhile, to keep his mind off his impending doom, he collated his information on the temple. Maybe, just maybe, he could get out of this alive and return with a real expedition of scientists.
As he always did, he maintained his level of secrecy, only this time he wanted to get all traces of the location of the temple out of his immediate possession. He downloaded the waypoint data and tracks from the GPS to his computer. Then he wiped the memory of the GPS so that it showed no trace of where he had been. He opened his laptop and booted up a very powerful encryption program by means of a sequence of keystrokes. The program itself couldn’t be found by a cursory examination. He pulled the drop-down menu and selected the steganography feature.
The professor had first heard of steganography, or the hiding of messages in otherwise innocent carriers such as pictures or letters, while still an undergraduate student. He had read about the ancient Greeks, where Herodotus tells of hiding a message of Xerxes’ planned invasion underneath the wax of a writing tablet to avoid scrutiny, and the legends of the pirates, where the head of a man was shaved and tattooed with a treasure map that was concealed when the hair grew back.
Later on, while on a dig with a savvy undergraduate of his own, he had been shown the modern usage of the technique. Every computer file, such as JPEG, MP3, or WAV, has unused data streams within itself, basically empty pockets that serve no purpose. The steganography program simply fills up this empty space with the data that one wishes to hide. Thus, while the picture of Aunt Sally still looks like a picture of Aunt Sally, someone who knows there is hidden information within the picture can extract and reconstruct it.
After the program booted up, the professor was asked what he wanted as his carrier file, or the file that would hide the data. He selected three MP3 songs from his hard drive. When asked what he wanted to hide, he selected the GPS data. He continued by selecting AES 256 encryption and the password key. Now, even if the data were to be separated from the songs, it would be encrypted in an algorithm that had never been cracked, and thus would be secure.
In thirty seconds it was done. He was asked if he wanted to create a physical key, and selected “yes.” When prompted, he put a blank thumb drive in the USB port and the computer churned for a few more seconds.
He now had his data securely encrypted and could extract the data both virtually with a password on his computer, which held the steganography program, and physically by inserting the thumb drive into whatever computer held the carrier file, regardless of whether that computer contained the stego program or not. Once the thumb drive registered, it would self-extract the data.
The professor plugged in the phone line and dialed the closest ISP given to him by the front desk. It never failed to amaze him how far and deep the Internet had penetrated. It seemed like it was in more places than indoor plumbing. Once he was connected, he logged onto Hotmail.com and pulled up his account. He typed a short note and e-mailed the songs to his niece in Charleston, South Carolina. Jennifer was an anthropology student, so it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that she would appreciate the local Mayan music. Still, even if she thought it a little odd, she’d have no idea the information she was helping her uncle to hide.
Three minutes later the e-mail completed sending. He closed out of the Internet, then used a shredding program to erase all traces of his stego activities. Nothing related to the expedition remained on his hard drive.
He gave a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair. Maybe he should get himself a giant margarita and relax a little bit. As he cataloged the bars in the small town he heard a knock on his door, and his name called out. He nearly passed out in shock. Just as his mind spun into overdrive, with fantasies about the tortures he would experience along with the ludicrous choices he faced, such as jumping out of the third-story window, it dawned on him that the man outside the door was speaking with an English accent. He must be an expat who worked for the hotel. When he had signed in, the professor had tipped handsomely to generate goodwill, so perhaps the man was here to warn him about something he had heard on the street. In the span of seconds the professor went from doom to giddy excitement. He rushed to the door, intent on seeing who was there.
There was no peephole, forcing him to crack the door. He found himself looking up into the ice-blue eyes of a man a full head taller than himself. His clothes didn’t indicate that he worked for the hotel. In fact, he was dressed like he was going into the jungle. His face was expressionless, giving no hint as to why he had knocked. The only indication of why he was there was a section of pipe held in his right hand. Maybe he was a plumber.
“Yes?”
“Professor Cahill?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
In response, the man kicked in the door, knocking the professor to the floor. The last thing the professor saw was the section of pipe coming at his head.
20
Jennifer Cahill opened her eyes and watched the ceiling fan above her rotate for half a minute. This isn’t going to cut it. I need to find something to do or I’m going to go nuts. At first, she had enjoyed sleeping in. Waking up whenever she felt like it or rolling over and going back to sleep had been a nice reprieve. Now, with spring break almost over, she was beginning to feel a little restless. As an anthropology major herself, she had asked her uncle to let her go with him to Guatemala, but he had refused. She hoped he was having some luck, although she knew it was a long shot. Everyone else had written him off as a crackpot, but she believed in him, if for no other reason than because he had been so kind to her.
She threw off the covers and padded into the kitchen. She had a one-bedroom apartment in a row house on Pitt Street about two blocks from the College of Charleston, in the heart of downtown. The house had been turned from a regal antebellum statement of the past history of Charleston into a rat maze of individual apartments for college students. She was the only one still at home. Everyone else had left the city for party time at some spring break location. She didn’t miss that. At twenty-eight, she wasn’t that much older than her peers, but she was a world apart in maturity. She’d had enough of the spring break bullshit and Animal House lifestyle on her first try at getting a degree.
She put on a pot of coffee and went to open the front door to get some fresh spring air. It was only March, and the weather was already starting to warm up. The swelter was something that she enjoyed. She couldn’t see how anyone could live in cold weather. She got cold in a movie theater—forget about living permanently in the snowbelt. Having grown up as a tomboy on a ranch outside of Dallas, Texas, where she had spent most of her time outdoors, she had become used to the heat. It was muggier here, but still pretty close. If she couldn’t live in Texas, at least she could sweat like she did.
She turned to check her coffee and found a flyer at her feet. It was for a live band at a bar called the Windjammer on the Isle of Palms, a barrier island about thirty minutes from her house. She picked it up and saw writing at the bottom: “You should be going stir crazy by now. The offer still stands—you can stay with us. Meet us at the Windjammer tonight. If you don’t like it, you can always go home.” It was signed by her girlfriend Skeeter.
Jennifer thought about it for a second. She was looking for something to do, and maybe it was time to get out a little. Yeah, she’d have to fight off all the ogling boy-men who only wanted to get drunk, then get laid, but she could handle that. She just wasn’t sure it would be fun anymore. Those situations always made her think of her past. Shi
t, who am I kidding? I think about the past no matter what happens. The damn weather makes me think about it.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and was reading the flyer again when her cell phone rang.
“Hey, you’re up. Let me guess. You’re in your pajamas studying for a test that might come after spring break. Did’ja get my flyer?”
Jennifer smiled. “Hello, Skeeter. No, I’m not studying. I had a man over here last night. He’s an exchange student from Nigeria. He’s still asleep because we were up pretty late watching C-Span. I’m not sure what you mean by flyer.”
“Bullshit. I left a flyer on your doorstep. Go get it. I’ll wait.”
“I got the stupid thing. It’s in my hand right now.”
“Well, what do you say? Come on out. The condo’s already paid for, so it won’t cost you a thing.”
“Skeeter, you know how I feel about that scene.”
“Jesus, Jennifer! When are you going to let go? I get you had a rough time, but come on. This is your last year of college! Your final spring break. You’ll be able to sit in a cubicle and slave away to your heart’s content in a little bit. Think about it. I’ll call back and bug you later.”
Jennifer was going to reply when she realized that Skeeter had hung up. The truth of the matter was not a day went by when she didn’t think about her ex-husband and what he had done. Not a day without feeling sweat break out over the memory, wondering what her life would have been like if she had stayed in school the first time.
She had dropped out of the University of Texas after her junior year to marry the iconic frat boy son of a Texas oil tycoon, who had just graduated. Things had been fine for all of ten minutes before she realized he was sleeping around on her. It was as if her husband was trying desperately to hold on to his frat boy lifestyle while walking up the corporate ladder. Nobody held him accountable, least of all his trophy wife. Thinking about it now, she had been very shallow. She had been raised poor, but proud. The Cahill name had been drilled into her from an early age as something that mattered beyond wealth. She had believed it, then had thrown it away.
They held on for four long years, mainly because divorce wasn’t accepted by the in-laws. She made do with the finer things in life, all the while knowing that everyone was laughing at her behind her back. On the surface she had everything a girl could want, or at least anything that could be acquired with cash—cars, trips to St. Lucia, jewelry, you name it. She was only missing the things that money couldn’t buy, like respect. For a Cahill, this was worth more than wealth. She tried hard to get her husband to stop, then tried to adjust her pride to accept her lot, but neither worked.
It finally came to a head when she arrived home to find him in bed with his secretary. Cheating at a sleazy motel was one thing, but doing it in her bed was another. The scene was branded into her soul, still as raw as the day it had happened. The secretary covering up her obviously fake breasts, a small smile on her face, no fucking shame whatsoever. Her husband taking control, not even acting as if he had done anything wrong.
She had begun to pack her bags, telling him that it was finally over. He told her to stop. She told him to screw himself. He slammed her against her dresser and punched her viciously in the stomach, causing her to fall onto the floor. He calmly told her to unpack her things and left the room. She remembered lying on the floor in her own spit and vomit, gasping for air, the fake-tit whore stepping over her with a sheet around her body.
She fled the marriage with the clothes on her back, returning to her mother’s house in McKinney, Texas. The next few weeks were a nightmare. The punch seemed to have done something internally. She had cramps so bad she was left doubled over in pain. Her period came early, and very heavy. She went to the doctor and in the same breath he told her that she had been pregnant—and had had a miscarriage.
Jennifer shook herself. The memories always caused her to sweat, making her heart palpitate. That fucker . . . I should have . . . She took three deep breaths. Quit thinking about it. Think of anything else . . . Think of positive things....
After the miscarriage, her family had been her anchor. She had lost her way, but they didn’t care. They had rallied around her as soon as she had come home. She didn’t tell her family about the miscarriage, fearful of her brothers’ possible retaliation. Sometimes, when the darkness came, she toyed with the idea of letting them in on the secret, knowing they would kill that sorry sack-of-shit with a cheese-grater. Looking back, she was glad she never did, but a part of her waited for the day when she could get retribution. On days like today, when she was left clutching a counter, taking deep breaths to control her fear, she wanted nothing more than to cause him the same agony.
In the end, while it wasn’t a pleasant thought, she knew that the attack was the best thing that could have happened. She had understood that she could never win any legal battles in a system owned lock, stock, and barrel by the family, and that it was the fight alone that they were afraid of. It never entered their minds that something bad would happen to their son. They just didn’t want the embarrassment of the publicity. So, as they had been doing since robber baron times, they bought her off. They gave her an impressive little nest egg of two hundred thousand dollars, telling her never to talk about what had happened. She agreed. She remembered the moment well, thinking she should have crossed her fingers behind her back because if she ever got the opportunity, she would bury the family and sow their graves with salt.
Now, standing in her kitchen a thousand miles away, she had had enough of the hate and fear. Maybe a night out would help. Just because the Windjammer had a bunch of drunken college men didn’t mean they were all like him.
She glanced at her computer screen and noticed she had an e-mail from her uncle. She forgot about the Windjammer. He’s not supposed to come out of the jungle for at least three days. Obviously, once again he had failed to find the temple. She smiled to herself, thinking of him hacking his way through the jungle on yet another attempt. No matter how many times he failed, Uncle John remained optimistic. She admired that in him. Then again, she knew she’d find anything her uncle did something to admire. He had gone out on a limb to help her, getting her a fresh start at his own university based solely on the fact that she was his niece, telling white lies that could have cost him tenure. She would never forget that.
She opened the e-mail and saw that it was nonsense. It said nothing at all about his trip, or his return. It was just a few MP3s containing some local music. She found this strange, but not unduly so, as her uncle was always doing goofy stuff. Last time he came home he gave you a real shrunken skull. Be thankful this is just music. Whatever had happened, he would give her the full story on his expedition when he got back. She hooked up her MP3 player and began downloading the songs. Her uncle must have thought they were some pretty good tunes if he’d e-mailed them to her instead of just waiting until he returned. With the music downloading, she went to pack an overnight bag.
21
Abu Sayyidd was electrified by the story they had heard. “Did you listen to that? The boy found some sort of ancient weapon in the jungle. A weapon that can be used to kill the infidels. What we’ve been sent here to do, we can accomplish in half the time, a month instead of years.”
Abu Bakr wasn’t so sure Sayyidd was right. He was a pragmatic planner, a man who had escaped death precisely because he had predicted and counteracted contingencies before they occurred. This mission had taken close to a year to develop, and he was reluctant to simply throw it away on the story of a native boy.
“Sayyidd, please. We don’t have the time or equipment to go foraging through the forest for some sort of mythical weapon. We don’t even know if that boy was telling the truth. We’ve worked too hard to get where we are.”
Their purpose was to set up a mechanism to infiltrate the United States using the illegal immigrant pipeline already established. Once the cells were in place, they would conduct synchronized acts of terror that would dwarf Septe
mber 11, 2001. The hope was for a sustainable, repeatable mechanism that would cause the U.S. to crack down harshly on all things Arabic (and even Sikh, Hindu, whatever was seen as “strange”), which would in turn plant a seed of jihad inside the U.S.
Sayyidd persisted. “You heard the description of the death. The weapon is something like the poison weapons we learned about in the camps. Something The Sheik has tried mightily to obtain. We might now have the ability to do what no other has done.”
“What on earth makes you think there’s a weapon in the jungle?” Bakr said. “I’ve heard children with more logical skepticism than you.”
“Have you never heard of the medicines that are found in the rain forest? It’s said to be a wonderland of ancient plants simply waiting to be discovered. What’s the harm of looking? If we find it, we may truly bring the far enemy to his knees! We were chosen for this mission based on our skills and judgment. We need to use both.”
Never having worked with Sayyidd before, only trusting that his superiors had selected the right man, Bakr was suspicious of Sayyidd’s eagerness to abandon all they had worked for up until now. He took a different tack. “Why is your idea, even as fleeting as it is, better than what we’re already doing? The only difference is time, and the fact that the original plan allows multiple blows against our enemy. How will your blow of one time outweigh the ability to strike repeatedly?”
Abu Sayyidd inwardly smiled. He was making headway. He had been thinking about their mission for a long time, and saw the fatal flaw within the jihad as currently waged.
“Tell me, what’s the greatest problem facing the jihad today? Is it truly the far enemy? His transgressions on the land of Mecca and Medina spit in the face of all true Muslims everywhere, yet he is allowed to continue. Why is that? It’s because the true Muslim has been seduced by Satan, choosing Big Macs over the purity of the Quran.
