The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  Miller shifted his weight. "Excluding cell phone encryption, most communications we can handle. There are a few we can’t. I call those our coconuts because they are hard to crack. I don't think of them as a percentage. It's too small a number."

  "How small?"

  Admiral Smithy, frowned. "The number is small. That's all you need to know, Doctor Youris."

  Rashid turned toward the Admiral. "What I know is that if someone has taken the time and expense to devise a code you can't break, it's for a reason. Those information exchanges are the most dangerous to national security."

  Miller agreed. "That's why we employ the best and brightest mathematicians in the world."

  "Of course you do." Rashid let a moment pass. "I'm not an expert in cryptography, but I have worked with smart people in the past. I’ve been able to supplement their work resulting in significant success."

  Shaking his head, Admiral asked Rashid to explain.

  "I've lived and worked in the Middle East most of my life. I know the culture, the religion and the languages of those people. I know how they think. My knowledge can’t be reduced to a mathematical equation. It can, however, complement your skills and get results no logarithm can calculate."

  Norman Miller faced the Admiral and nodded his head. "There might be merit in that approach."

  Smithy said. "Give me an example of where you achieved a significant success."

  "That's easy. During my assignment in Pakistan, our team intercepted encrypted messages flowing between the FIA, Pakistan's equivalent to the NSA, and the Ministry of Intelligence in Iran. Our Cryptology Section in Washington failed to break the code nor could the CIA. The code used a variation of the One-Time-Pad encryption. Both agencies asked that I lend a hand."

  "If written correctly, the OTP is damn near impossible to break," the Admiral said.

  "Yes, that's right. The author of the Iranian-Pakistan code selected a secret random key. He used the Quran, the Muslim holy book as the basis for the key. That was the first source I urged the analyst to examine. Using the best techniques available, we discovered that the key used the first letter of each of the 114 chapters of the Quran. We broke the code and the world soon learned Iran had made a deal to buy advanced plans to refine weapons-grade plutonium."

  The Director leaned back in his chair and nodded his head. "Remarkable. A marriage of science and sociology. I have the feeling you are about to make a proposal."

  "With your permission, sir, and the backing of Mr. Miller's staff, I would like to work on those coconuts in my spare time."

  The Admiral looked over at Norman Miller, who gave his mustache another twist and winked his approval. Miller turned to Doctor Youris, "You understand nothing leaves this office. We will monitor your work and you will undergo a security search when you enter and leave this facility."

  "Of course."

  Miller continued, "There will be a trial period of one month. Your agency, the FBI, must approve this experiment in advance–in writing. You cannot reveal anything you learn at NSA outside our approved network.

  A flush if excitement swept through Rashid. "I understand. How many coconuts?"

  With a shrug of his shoulders Miller answered. "Six, all originate in central Europe."

  “Good,” Rashid stood. "I'll start the paperwork this afternoon. Thank you for your time, cooperation and trust gentlemen. You won’t be disappointed."

  Rashid returned to FBI Headquarters with one thought in mind: mission accomplished.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ABDULLAH RECLINED ON THE king-sized bed in the rear of his new diesel powered Class A motor home. Hands clasped behind his head, he stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. He daydreamed about the influence of his mission on Islam. If successful, it would make him a figure of celebrated importance in the Muslin world. Even if he lived, people would speak of him with reverence and respect. The name of Abdullah al-Jamal would forever be a part of his people's history. All true believers would talk about his accomplishment on holy days throughout the Arab world. Future generations would remember the man who cast aside the enemies of Islam, and advanced the spread of Sharia influence in the western world. To rid his people of the malignant influence of the United States and its allies, he must kill many Americans.

  The sound of a pickup truck next to his campsite bought him back to reality. The driver gunned his engine as he positioned his rig for utility hookups.

  Abdullah, rose from his bed and headed to a makeshift office in the forward living area of his 45-foot home on wheels. At this point in Abdullah's research, he knew if he planned with skill and dedication he could kill thousands of Americans. His nuclear device, while small in weight and size, could produce the explosive energy of six kilotons.

  He imagined the size of a single kiloton which is a thousand metric tons of TNT. If he loaded a five ton truck with TNT, he would need 200 trucks to move one kiloton. His bomb was six times that number. To equal the energy of his device he would need 1,200 truckloads of TNT.

  Abdullah Googled World War II online. The size of the atomic bombs used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki were sixteen to twenty-one kilotons. He viewed pictures of the aftermath of those cities showing massive damage and loss of life. Although a third of the size of those bombs, his nuclear device, located in the right place at the right time, would inflict enormous destruction.

  He set five goals for himself. He must take full advantage of his weapon’s power, place it where many people congregate in a small space, hide it, and be able to detonate it remotely at the perfect time.

  Abdullah started his search for a suitable target by making a list of places where large numbers of people gathered. He first thought of a church or a revival tent, but dismissed this idea. People might think it was a strike against a particular religion. That would be misleading. His second idea to bomb a political convention or large rally also might be misinterpreted as an attack on a specific political party.

  An ideal target would be a dissimilar grouping of Americans. An assembly representing a cross section of this bloated capitalistic society. One that contained a mix of whites, blacks, Asians, Native Americans–people of all ethnic groups, both men and women. He favored mature adults–the most productive members of the population. Abdullah excluded children because American society had not yet tainted them. They were young enough to learn the duties and penalties of Islam as contained in the Quran. He thought of his six-year-old brother still in the age of innocence and with a future as a Prince of Saudi Arabia. Children must be spared. Even children of infidels.

  Abdullah heard something hit the side of his motor home with a dull thud, followed by sounds of laughter and shouting. He opened the door. Two young boys jumped back startled, one holding a basketball. The other boy said, "Sorry, Mister," and then both ran off. No discipline. Then it struck him. A sporting event. Yes, that's where Americans go in great numbers. Some type of ball game might fit his criteria.

  He settled in front of his computer with new excitement, and searched for ‘games of ball’. Baseball, basketball, billiard, football, ping-pong, soccer, and tennis appeared on the screen. Making a list, he had to decide which event would best serve his needs.

  Immediately he crossed off ping-pong and billiards. Both played indoors to small audiences. Soccer held limited national interest in America, so he checked that off, too. Since professional basketball is played in a covered building with maybe five to ten thousand fans at professional events he eliminated that sport.

  Outdoor sports held the greatest potential. Tennis attracts a few thousand people to major events. Abdullah marked this off the list due to attendance numbers. Major league baseball, the American pastime, is played outside to larger crowds of ten thousand or more fans seated on two or three sides of a playing field. He marked baseball as worthy of consideration.

  He then turned his attention to football. For some reason Americans were obsessed with this brutal game of young men smashing into one another with a ball pointed
at two ends. Always played outdoors, it attracted large crowds who surround the game on all sides. It is attended by mostly young to middle-aged adults with few or no children. He decided football would meet his criteria.

  An online search resulted in a long list of large stadiums around the country. The professional teams played in their own well financed facilities. Abdullah considered the Super Bowl, but scratched that off because of the heavy security such an event attracts. After further study he decided the NFL teams presented too many security risks. That left college football.

  The University of Michigan had the largest stadium in America with a capacity of 110,000 seats. Fans usually filled eighty percent of the stadium. Every seat filled when Michigan played Ohio State University. Abdullah went to the Goodyear Blimp site and viewed the huge crowds photographed by this famous airship. As he stared at the photographs of people crowded close together, devoting their attention to a central point of interest, it looked familiar to him. Where had he seen such a crowd before? A crowd of tiny specks that sparkled like a kaleidoscope of many shapes and hues. Where?

  Then it came to him. The week of Hajj, the Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca. The largest pilgrimage in the world attracting two million worshipers each year. A journey of faith required of all able bodied Muslims at least once in their lifetime.

  As a young man his father, Prince al Jamal took him to western Saudi Arabia's holiest city, the birthplace of the Prophet Mohammad. Because of his father's membership in the Royal Family, Abdullah sat high above the marble floors of the Great Mosque viewing a hundred thousand dedicated believers. A massive congregation of men and women conducted the rituals of faith–all standing, kneeling and bowing shoulder to shoulder. This image remained unforgettable in his memory. From his position high up, the multitude blended into a human sea of devotion. No one individual distinct.

  The masses of people in the football stadium in Michigan and the assembly in the Great Mosque in Mecca, looked the same. Abdullah did not want to admit the similarity. "They are not the same!" he shouted aloud, slapping his hand on the table. But the resemblance was inescapable, and he could not ignore that fact.

  Okay, he thought, but they are not alike. They are people, but not the same people. My people believe in Allah the Almighty, the one true God. These people believe in many Gods. Some believe in no God, only power and money. He viewed the image of the Michigan stadium. These are Americans. They pay taxes to their government and elect leaders who defile my faith. They support killing innocent Muslim men and women in the name of democracy and their vision of freedom. He again looked at the photograph. Many beliefs? Could there be Muslims in this stadium or innocent visitors from other counties–my homeland?

  He deleted the Michigan photograph and the list of college stadiums reappeared on his computer screen. He stared at the capacities of 125 stadiums found around the country, and forced himself to calm down. I must kill many Americans to make a statement, but I do not have to kill the maximum number possible to achieve my goal.

  He searched the listings again, this time steering away from large cities where he knew mosques existed. Finally he selected the Aggie Memorial Stadium in Las Cruces, New Mexico. Only a few hours from Roswell, near the border with Mexico, and no mosques listed in the area. A low risk target with minimum or no security concerns. Las Cruces, the City of Crosses, a relatively small urban center with a stadium capacity 30,343. Ten times the number killed on 9-11. He had found the perfect target. Allah the Avenger be praised.

  TWENTY-SIX

  "LISTEN UP, EVERYBODY. We have work to do this morning." Walter Kent sat at an oak table centered in the main conference room of the Albuquerque Field Office. Agents Kohen and Ramirez, flanked by Dorothy Hogan and Lead Analyst Bill Johnson, faced him. Other agents with active cases occupied chairs around the table. They contributed to a subtle humidity in the air. Heavy drapes at each window blocked the summer sun.

  "We have a dozen items to review this morning." Kent read from a roster of cases. "First is Case Number NM-1056." He dipped his head and turned to Ashley. "You have assembled your team, Agent Kohan, what can you tell us?"

  "Thank you Mr. Kent." Ashley stood. "This case is starting to shape up. I and my partner, Agent Ramirez, working with Staff Analyst Bill Johnson, have made good progress in a short period of time."

  Ramirez interrupted. "The Mummy Case."

  Ashley made a face, then continued. "This is a murder case that involves a male victim found buried in the desert south of Roswell. The killer tried to make identification of the victim difficult: a calculated act by the un-sub–the unknown subject. As a result of a post mortem study we discovered a unique body marking. Using a photograph of this marking we have identified the victim. His name was Russell Smith. "We have Smith's former address, place of work, his Social Security number and insights into his life until his death two weeks ago. We also found the victim's brother and sister. Both are cooperating in this investigation.”

  Ramirez still seated, exclaimed, “Piece of cake.”

  “At the crime scene it was discovered the burial of the victim by the killer followed ceremonial rituals associated with a Middle Eastern religion. A terrorist link is possible."

  "Ramirez again interrupted, “We don't have any proof of that yet."

  Ashley’s jawline hardened. Her expression softened when she turned toward Johnson. “You all know Bill is a former field agent with an impressive record and many commendations. He’s been hard at work. What can you report today, Bill?" Ashley sat down.

  Johnson, an elderly man with wavy white hair, giant eyeglasses, well-hidden hearing aids and bushy eyebrows remained seated. He viewed Ashley with a cheerful expression. "Thank you young lady. Based on the excellent legwork you and your partner over there have performed I can tell you quite a bit." He cut a glance at Ramirez, dropped the smile, and addressed the room. "Russell Smith, like everyone here, drove a car. I checked the New Mexico Department of Motor Vehicles, that agency we have all grown to love and adore, and found that Mr. Smith still lives." He thumped his cane on the floor three times.

  Ramirez piped up, "What do you mean old man? He's as dead as a doornail."

  "Well if he's a doornail he most certainly would be dead considering doornails are imamate objects." The room exploded into laughter. "Of course he's dead." Johnson glared at Ramirez, and then continued. "Someone assuming his identity traded a VW Bug on a luxury motor home that cost about a quarter of a million bucks and a 4-wheel drive SUV worth another 50K. DMV records show these transactions in detail."

  Walter Kent took note. "Do you have an address of the current Russell Smith?”

  "Yep, Number One, Boring Lane, Maljamar, New Mexico. Little place west of Lovington. There’s nothing there but a bunch of pump jacks, a few houses, and a radio relay tower used by the Public Broadcasting System."

  "Boring Lane?" Kent raised an eyebrow.

  “The name kind a fits the place, don't you think?" Johnson peered at Kent over-the-top of his glasses. "There's more. Russell Smith also owns a 1979 Ford pickup truck recently transferred to his name from an Allen Lee, who has a New Mexico driver's license and the same address as the deceased. Very likely Allen Lee and Russell Smith are one and the same persons.”

  "That needs a follow up," said Ashley.

  "I'm sure you will get on this like flies on..." He searched for an acceptable word. "...manure, my dear." Johnson appeared pleased with his word choice. "But I'm not finished." He flipped a few pages and began again. "The thumbprint discovered on the moleskin patch that covered the victim’s wound doesn't match anything recorded in our database. INTERPOL can't get a match either.” He paused. “The lock of black hair found in the body wrapping is awaiting DNA analysis. That will take months unless this case gets a top priority rating from Headquarters. Not likely.” He eyed the attentive audience. “An analysis of photographic footprints at the site of the burial suggest the un-sub is around 180 pounds and six feet tall, give or take an inch. Backgro
und checks on Russell Smith's brother and sister reveal nothing unusual." Johnson slapped his hands together. "For now, that's about it folks.”

  Ashley again stood. "You've done a great job in a short time, Bill. I need descriptions and license plate numbers for all the vehicles."

  "Right here, my dear." he said, holding a sheet of paper. Ashley thought he looked like Santa Claus without a beard. Cute and smart.

  "Agent Kohen is right," agreed Kent. “You have done your usual good work, Bill." He turned to Dorothy Hogan. "I will issue an All-Points-Bulletin for the owner of these plates. I want the APB to read Acquire Do Not Apprehend. I want it sent to all local jurisdictions, the State Police and appropriate Federal agencies. If we don't make contact in a week, I'll broaden the distribution."

  Ramirez jumped up, "Wait a minute. We have this guy by the short and curlies. He lives close to the burial site, he has assumed the victim's name, and stolen his car. We may have a matching thumbprint. We should arrest him on the spot."

  Ashley, already on her feet, "We don't know what he's up to, and can only speculate on the danger he poses. We don't have enough proof for an indictment."

  Both agents glared at each other.

  Kent shook his head in disgust. "Okay. Enough. Sit down both of you." He scratched a note to himself: Review pairing of Kohen and Ramirez.

  A moment of silence lingered in the room before he spoke. "Based on what we know, it’s my judgment that making a move on the un-sub this early in the investigation would be premature. Here's why. First, stealing the victim's identity may not be the killer's only purpose for the murder, since the victim didn't have anything else of value to steal. To what use could this stolen identity be put? I need to know the answer to that question. Second, there are Islamic practices linked to facets of this case. The Muslim faith is not practiced in the general area where the crime occurred. I have to wonder if the un-sub is using this identity as cover, while planning an act of terror. I want to rule out a threat to national security, not leave this question unresolved. The best way to do that is to let this person show us what he is up to. Placing him in custody and using interrogation techniques to find out his mission is a less reliable alternative." Kent glanced over at Ramirez. "Third, where in the hell did this un-sub get close to 300,000 dollars to buy a top of the line RV and car, and why does he need them?"