Ashley surveyed the room and surmised by the body language the audience approved of their boss's logic.
"To sum up. Once we find him, and we will find him, I’ll put him under twenty-four hour surveillance while this investigation continues."
"I agree. That's the right thing to do." Ashley blurted, then covered her mouth as if to control herself. She cast a shy glance at Kent.
"I'm pleased you agree," Kent said with a good-natured wink.
For a moment, the room remained quiet, followed by an exchange of knowing looks. Dorothy Hogan bowed her head and smothered a giggle.
TWENTY-SEVEN
BOREDOM SMOTHERED ABDULLAH'S daily existence. Since his return from Italy he received only two messages from Rome. The first complimented his resolve and promised swift progress. The second hinted at expected developments without details. Neither advanced his ability to act. He must act. His drive, his ambition, his purpose for living, needed to be set free. Instead he was condemned to sit with idle thoughts to fill his mind. When he answered these messages he tried to show restraint and respect, but feared frustration showed.
Many visits to the athletic stadium in Las Cruces had allowed him to compile much data. He gathered information on the physical structure and every possible access point to the facility. Abdullah endured two silly football games of boys crashing into one another while crowds cheered for no obvious reason. Based on this research, he had prepared plans for every possible contingency his imagination could create. He had worked out each detail and noted it in his Master Plan, written in Arabic and well hidden.
Careful investigation before the purchase of a motor home prompted him to buy the perfect vehicle for his purposes. Granted, it was a bit ostentatious with three slide outs, a diesel engine and advanced electronics, but still it had everything he needed to prepare for his mission. The selection of a four-wheel drive tow car, designed to be pulled without a dolly, and therefore quickly detached, had needed research, too.
With great care, Abdullah setup Smith Trading in Roswell. He found a remote 2,000 square foot vacant commercial space on the west side of town. Sandwiched between a vacuum cleaner repair shop and a small ice cream parlor, it became an almost invisible place. A sign reading Smith Trading in small letters and Imports and Exports, in smaller letters, hung over the glass door he had painted black. The adjacent single pane window he covered with light reflecting film that blocked any view inside.
Eager to carry out his plans, but unable to move forward without further direction from Rome, Abdullah grew more restless each day. He had too much time to think about the comforts of his former life at his father’s palace in Dhahran where his every need and desire was attained with ease. Its many pleasures: swimming, games, feasting and women lingered in his memory. Oh yes, the women.
The servant girls were there to serve him at any time. He had his pick of them. His momentary urges were satisfied with a sharp command or a point of a finger. They served the purpose all women served; to meet the needs of a man, be it cleaning the bedroom or lying in its bed for the master's gratification.
But not in America. Women wore tight clothing to show off their bodies and tantalize men. They were allowed to go to school, work beside men and even dominate them. In this unholy place, with no shame, women took their status for granted. In the public media they were all but worshiped.
He tried to ignore the American way of life because it disgusted him. It caused him to cringe inside and yearn for the civilized culture of his homeland. The western world forced him to suffer the loss of the most basic privilege nature intended for men–control over women and sexual enjoyment. These thoughts and overpowering boredom led him to a necessary distraction. He had lured Bitty Smith to serve his purpose, he would now use those same skills to meet his personal and immediate needs.
Abdullah considered what kind of candidate he would select for this new conquest. Maybe a girl, young enough to be free of disease but old enough to be serviceable. Another choice might be a mature women with young children and no husband. Yes, a woman who had undergone medical examinations, given birth in a hospital, but still desirable. Easy enough to find considering the divorce rate in this pagan country.
Ah, finally, something to occupy his time as he waited to make world history.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE FIRST TIME, without an official escort, Rashid found the NSA’s security inspection qualified as a serious invasion of privacy verging on sexual harassment. He expected the full body scan, endured an intensive pat down, complained about the need to strip some of his clothes off, rendering him damn near naked, and refused an invasion of his ‘cavities’.
When the security official balked, Rashid fished his phone out of his pants, lost in a crumpled pile on the floor, and called Norman Miller, Chief of the Signal Intelligence Unit. Released five minutes later, he dressed and took the elevator to the fifth floor.
Like most Federal offices, that floor had five-foot high partitions sectioned off into small cubicles. Each contained a desk, chair, bookcase, computer, and a worker hunched in front of a glowing monitor.
"Sorry about that security check," Chief Miller said as Rashid entered his private office which had a door and a window, amenities reserved for executive status in Federal service. "Since this is your first time unescorted, security can get overly protective," Miller pointed to a chair in front of his desk. "Get comfortable, Doctor Youris."
Rashid decided not to comment on the security debacle. He sat.
Miller continued. "I'm pleased our two agencies agreed to this experiment. It will be interesting to see if you can help us crack a few coconuts and milk them." He grinned at his coconut milk joke and Rashid supported it with a nod. "I'm going to pair you with our top cryptologist, Isaac Gunner. He will fill you in on our operation. Mr. Gunner is your primary contact here in the Signal Intel Unit, as well as myself."
"That’ll keep our liaison uncomplicated."
"Yes. We have enough complications in this business without creating new ones." Miller gave his mustache a quick brush with his finger and stood. "Follow me. Mr. Gunner has his own workspace separate from the other members of his team."
As Rashid walked beside Miller, he learned more about the Intel Unit. "Gunner is a cyber specialist. You might say he is our Top Gun," Miller’s lips curled up at his aviation analogy. "He deals with our advanced decryption. I think you’ll find him bright and colorful." They arrived at a metal door with a digital keypad. Miller swiped his ID card, and the lock clicked open. They entered.
The dimly lit room had no windows. It pulsed with blinking red, yellow and green LED lights. Rashid noticed the back of a huge man in an office chair. He heard him tapping furiously on a keyboard. The man stopped, twirled his chair around and faced them. Even in the lowlight, Rashid saw he had no legs.
"Doctor Youris, this is Chief Cryptologist Isaac Gunner."
Gunner broke into a cordial smile showing white teeth that contrasted against his black skin. "Heard about you, man." He raised a hand for a high-five. "Don't want to hear any of that Isaac crap. Call me Ike, Okay?"
Rashid high-fived him back. "Good to meet you, Ike."
"Excuse me if I don't get up," said Ike, with another grin. "Mr. Miller, here, told me all about you." He worked the lever on his electric scooter and zipped over to a leather chair with rollers, pulled it back next to his desk, and gestured to Rashid. “Have a seat right here.”
Miller turned, "I'll leave you two. Don't work him too hard, Ike." He closed the door behind him. The lock snapped shut.
"So you a college professor?”
"Yes, Middle Eastern Studies, but I work for the FBI now."
"I'm gonna call you Prof, okay?"
"My name is Rashid, but you can call me Prof, if you want to."
"Good, I like it that way–nothin’ fancy."
Rashid studied this big man. Above his waist he could be a center on any NFL football team. Still, he seemed content in his own skin.
"Miller said you would brief me on the operation here."
"Yea, man. I can do that." Ike's expression grew serious. "We got a hell of a set-up here. I call it the big sieve." He flashed a smile, then continued. "We deal with billions of information exchanges from all kind a communication sources from around the world. Ain't possible to actually read 'em, so we screen 'em with filters and keywords."
"Miller touched on that before."
"Sure he did. Well everything gets run though our system or as I said, the big sieve. It's like a pyramid. On the bottom, ninety-nine percent of what we process is chitchat. Just folks a talking to each other. We see it as a bunch of contact points. We calls it metadata. But it's that one percent at the top of the pyramid what keep us busy. Most of those still get processed by the math wizards. Real smart guys and gals that have created code that sifts through all the known ways to screw up the meaning of somethin’ on purpose so it don't make no sense. Well that catches most of it. When it gets to the ones the wiz-kids can't crack, they send ‘em to me and my team. The coconuts. That's the tip-pity-top of the pyramid. They say, hey Ike, we can't crack these nuts. So I get my nutcrackers out and go to work."
"You practice your special skills?"
"That I do, man. Might take a while, but I git’er done–mostly. The ones I don't get...well that's why you is here, right, Prof?"
"I hope I can add a useful perspective. How many coconuts do you have and how old are they?"
"I only got six now, and they is real new. Oldest is less than a couple a weeks old. So far my software ain't hard enough to make a dent in 'em." He grinned. "Get that, Prof? Software…not hard?" He laughed and slapped the table.
Rashid marveled at the disparity between the simplicity of this man, and the sophistication of the environment he worked in. He noticed Ike looking at him and figured he was reading his thoughts.
"I bet you wonder what the likes of me is doin here?"
"I have the feeling I'm not the first person to wonder that."
"Happens all the time. Don't bother me none. I kind a like it," he laughed, again. "So let's get this outa the way right now. You might a noticed I got no legs. Kind a hard to miss. Afghanistan, that where I left ‘em. Weren't my idea, but it happened. Got mustered out the army and had no job, so I learned computers. Kind a home schooled myself with help from some not so honest guys. Hacked into about anything that made me money. Shut down the power grid one time. Pissed everybody off. Got me caught and sent to jail. Then along comes this Admiral guy. Gave me a job soon as I got out a prison. He said he heard bout me and that I had a gift and should serve my country. Damn, I tried that once in the army and it didn't turn out so good, but I say okay. Now I'm makin a difference and a few honest bucks, too."
Rashid stared at Ike. After a long pause, he extended his hand. "That's a hell of a story." They high-fived again. Even though they were different people, Rashid knew he could work with this man.
Gunner explained the ground rules; the parameters that would limit the scope of their work. "We are searching for what the average person would call a password, except it's not a word or a combination of words. The math guys have ruled out those possibilities already. You might say it's a coded key. A key made up of unknown symbols in a unique sequence. That's a mouthful of marbles, ain’t it Prof?"
Rashid nodded and shrugged his shoulders.
"By symbol, I mean any letter in all the modern languages on earth, every number or group of numbers in all numbering systems, and any picture image–hieroglyphics. We call it the key-space universe, and it's a big mother-fucker. Real big."
Rashid shifted in his chair. "That's almost an infinite number of combinations."
"You got it, Prof," Ike said as he made a wry face. "The tool we use to find this coded sequence is called a Brute Force Attack."
"A Brute Force Attack - sounds fearsome."
"The NSA has the most powerful super computer in the world. At least we don't know of one bigger. It's half a billion dollar baby. I call this contraption Big Mamma. We feed Mamma all the time, so she gets bigger and more powerful by the day. She can process a billion bits of data in a nanosecond. At that rate it would take her about 20,000 years to exhaust the key-space universe using Brute Force, our most advanced software tool.
"I don't think we have that much time."
"You got that right, Prof." Ike clasped his hands in front of him. "The NSA has a policy. Even Big Mamma has limits, when you think about the workload placed on her. If Brute Force can't break a code in two days, we terminate the search. That action creates an official coconut." Ike raised his shoulders, threw his hands into the air as if to say–so there you have it.
Rashid scratched his chin. “What’s your gut tell you about these encryptions? Are they separate and unique or do you see similarities?
“The only thing not unique about these coconuts is their style.”
“Style?”
Ike’s eyes lit up. “It’s like Hemingway, the writer. He got a style to his way a writing. Well cryptologists have a style, too. I been in this game enough to know a style when I sees it. The same guy or team of guys built these nuts.”
“So the chances are if we crack one, we crack them all?”
“Better hope so, Prof.”
TWENTY-NINE
WITH BRIGHT EYES AND an expression of excitement, Ashley dashed into Walter Kent's office and announced, "They found him."
Kent glanced from his desk and saw an energized Ashley Kohen waving a notepad over her head. "You look like you won the lottery. Who found who?"
"Chavez County Sheriff's Office called. They found our man. The Russell Smith impostor."
"That's good news. Only five days since our APB went out." Kent tried to stop staring at her. Never had he seen her face so flushed and her eyes sparkle as they did at that moment. He forced himself to refocus his attention. "Where did they find him?"
"Downstate in an RV Park south of Roswell. A deputy sheriff went camping on his day off. Parked right next to the suspect's rig. He checked it out when he got back to work. Sure enough, the description matched."
Kent didn't expect to find the un-sub this fast, but had prepared a surveillance team to stand ready for mobilization. Checking his assignment roster he turned to Ashley. "I’ve ordered Agent Jerry Cebeck and his surveillance team to work with you. As the lead investigator this will give you a chance to watch the un-sub and learn his modus operandi."
"What about Ramirez?"
"I've reassigned him. I need Mark back doing what he does best–helping me with administrative matters. For now, I want you to work with Cebeck." He paused for a moment. "I hope your work with Agent Ramirez has been a learning experience." Kent checked Ashley's response.
"Oh yes. A unique experience, Mr. Kent. One I will remember for many years."
He noticed the corners of her mouth twisted with amusement.
LATER THAT MORNING Ashley met Cebeck in the staging area of the field office motor pool. Florescent lights disclosed gray concrete walls and a dark tire-marked floor. "Hi, Agent Cebeck, I'm Ashley Kohen, the lead on this case. I have a Covert Entry search warrant for the suspect." She handed him a copy of the order. "I can extend the time period, if needed."
Cebeck, a burly guy with watery blue eyes, dirty blond hair and a perpetual two day growth on his face, took the paper. "A Sneak and Peek warrant. We need that. Thank God for the Patriot Act or whatever they call it nowadays." They shook hands. "Surveillance means long hours in close quarters. You can drop the formalities. Call me Jerry." He tucked the paperwork in his back pocket. "You're new to the field office. Have you done this work before?"
She knew Jerry Cebeck had worked surveillance much of his career with the FBI, and did it well. "Sure. I've done my share of stakeouts with the Chicago PD." He acknowledged her with a skeptical nod.
The other team members joined them in the staging area. Ashley counted ten men. Cebeck began the briefing. "The suspect is in an RV park. Our assigned agent
on duty in Roswell is watching him as I speak. I've arranged to rent a truck and a camper so we can locate near him tomorrow, Saturday. This will be a 24-hour shadow operation. Under no circumstance will any member of this team allow the subject to become aware of his presence. The subject is about six feet tall and 180 pounds with dark hair. The size of our team will vary based on the subject's movement. If he’s idle, the team will consist of two stationary observers and two remote agents ready to move as needed." He snapped on his pointer. A tiny red dot danced across a map of Roswell taped to the concrete wall. "If the subject becomes mobile, the team can grow to half a dozen or more agents using various modes of transport–usually four-wheeled vehicles. I have two bicycles and a motorcycle ready if needed. Each of you have a copy of this map in your file folders. Learn the streets and highways." He studied their faces. "Radio contact will remain constant 24-7. We'll work four hour shifts. Dress code is standard seedy American. I will create a base of operations in the travel trailer on-site. The Bureau's satellite office in downtown Roswell will serve as a backup. Any questions?"
A veteran team member asked, "Will we have tracking receivers?"
Agent Cebeck, besides his role as surveillance team leader, also served as the Bug Man. A title given him years ago for good reason. Cebeck's expertise in planting satellite tracking devices matched or exceeded anybody's skill in the Bureau.
"You bet. Every unit will have electronic trackers set to our usual frequency. As soon as we find out the subject's movement pattern, I'll get my gardening tools out and do some planting." A ripple of laughter was heard. “Any other questions?" He heard nothing. “Okay gentlemen tomorrow you start your engines." He gawked at Ashley with a crooked grin. “You too, Agent Kohen.”
The Seventh Message Page 12
