"Yes. He's okay. He burned his right hand poking around in the debris before he discovered the escape route. The un-sub probably used a timing device to start the blaze. A perfect diversion. He walked away before anyone suspected it. The smart son-of-a-bitch had a Plan B that he carried out without a flaw."
"Sounds like it."
"Cebeck said if you'd come back and been a man, he'd of decked you right there."
"In the heat of the moment, I can understand that."
"Because of your actions, the surveillance failed and the subject escaped."
A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. "That's not true. This operation failed because obvious precautions were not taken."
"Are you saying the subject's escape is Cebeck's fault?"
"It's not my place to criticize, but yes that's what I am saying."
Kent began pacing behind his desk, faster this time. "I find it difficult to believe an agent of Cebeck's experience is the reason we lost this un-sub. I hope you aren't making a false claim that Jerry caused this disastrous outcome." He stopped pacing. "Explain yourself."
She started speaking in a slow and controlled voice. "When I decided I had to act to save that abused woman, I turned the surveillance cameras on so Jerry could see exactly how it went down." Ashley's words came faster now. "When he got back from downtown he had to discover my note stating I had rescued the poor unfortunate victim and for him to take defensive actions. It’s obvious he ignored my note–obvious he panicked and lost control."
Kent frowned. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying Cebeck sat on his ass surrounded by all of his electronic toys and let the un-sub slip away. He should have brought Joe and Fred on-site and armed them with night vision goggles. Then he should have posted them behind the RV and on the blind side of the motor home while he watched the front. Cebeck had mobile backups to replace Joe and Fred in case the un-sub tried to escape. He didn't do any of that. He ignored my note and screwed up."
"There's some truth in what you say. There's blame to go all around, but the fact remains your actions precipitated a downward spiral of events that resulted in mission failure."
Ashley did not respond.
Kent sat with his elbows on the desktop. Their eyes met. He waited for Ashley to say something. Ashley reached for the folder she held by her side, opened it and removed four photographs. She stood and spread the photographs on the desk in front of him. "I want you to see these pictures. I took them yesterday afternoon while Jerry went downtown to send his download of the un-sub's hard drive to Bill Johnson."
He glimpsed them briefly. "Cebeck told me about the woman."
Her voice urgent, Ashley controlled her anger. "Look at them."
Kent lifted each picture and studied it. One at a time. An expression of disgust spread across his face, and intensified with the review of each image. "Only a depraved barbarian would perpetrate these acts of brutality. Do you know how long he held her captive?"
"More than a week."
"Where is she now?"
"She's in intensive care. The doctors feel she'll pull through, but she'll have many scars, both physical and mental, the rest of her life. She’s nineteen years old."
Kent pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. "I understand the dilemma you faced Ashley." He used her first name without realizing it. "But the fact remains you acted without authorization. You ignored agency protocol. You struck out on your own. That's not how we do business in the FBI."
"The doctors said she would not have lived another 24-hours. The man, this monster who kidnapped her and repeatedly raped her would have killed her just like he killed Russell Smith. I couldn’t stand by and let this innocent woman die. Agency protocol is one thing–life and death is another."
"So you acted on your own."
Ashley, without hesitation and with renewed defiance answered. "Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity."
"I know the FBI motto, Agent Kohen, what's your point?"
"Our motto, Mr. Kent, defines Integrity as adherence to a strict ethical code, the reason we are an agency of the Federal government. Fidelity as faithfulness to moral obligations as a fundamental principle. And Bravery as the courage to do what has to be done when no other alternative exists. That's how the FBI does business and that's what I did." She stopped, when she realized her control had slipped. "I don't mean to preach, sir. It's just the way I see it."
They stood face-to-face,
Kent's expression registered sadness. He knew she was right, at least on a moral level, but she was also wrong in terms of the discipline needed to run a criminal investigation. "I'm taking you off this case, Ashley, and reassigning it to Cebeck. A Special Agent must not allow emotion to interfere with the conduct of any investigation. It endangers the agent and all those on the team."
"No. No! You can't do that."
"Of course I can."
"This is my case. I am meant to work this case. It's my life," she pleaded. "I have to do this work."
With a downturned mouth he said, "I'm placing you on indefinite administrative leave, with pay." Ashley held on to the back of her chair to steady herself. A sudden coldness hit at her core. "Most administrators in my position would terminate you. But I think you have potential and deserve a chance to...”
"If you take me off this case you might as well fire me."
"Of course that's an option, but that's not my decision, Ashley. My intention is to help you. You will learn from this incident."
"My job is my life. You are telling me the only way I can remain in the Bureau is to surrender my badge and gun and not work on this or any other assignment. That I must wait for an administrative process to take place while this un-sub is free to commit crimes I can only imagine."
"The investigation will continue. I’ll bring every resource at my disposal to bear on this case, Ashley."
"Not every resource, sir."
"Of course every available resource."
"You won't have me, Mr. Kent, but you will have my resignation." Ashley stared at him holding back tears of rage, then made a military about-face and marched out of his office in a four cadence beat.
Dorothy caught Ashley as she quickened her step through the reception area. She spun her around, encircled her with both arms, and whispered, "I'm so sorry. You were right to save that young woman." She added, "If you need anything. I mean anything, you let me know."
Ashley gave her a squeeze, and then turned and left.
THIRTY-FOUR
FOUR DAYS AFTER RASHID and Ike started working in earnest to crack the Key Code that barred them from penetrating the coconuts, Rashid neared the NSA office building for yet another night of work. He parked in an area reserved for guests of his status, which allowed him to enter and leave the building with a minimal security check.
As he did every night, Rashid carried with him a list of related data sets associated with Islam and the Middle Eastern cultures–groupings he hoped the author might have used as a foundation for a unique encryption. Each night they tried his ideas and proved them unworkable. As his list of schemes grew shorter, His frustration mounted.
Ike worked the joystick on his electric scooter to open the door of his private workspace and greeted his friend. "Evening, Prof, got something good for me tonight?" His optimism sounded forced.
"Yes, Ike. I have six possible data sets to try out." They moved to Ike's work station in the darkened room with the colorful blinking lights. Ike sat at his keyboard and Rashid at the table alongside. "You're going to be busy writing code, I'm afraid." He handed Ike the lists of options to read.
(1) Islamic Calendar and Gregorian Equivalent
(2) Sunrise and Sunset times in Mecca
(3) List of 25 recognized Prophets.
(4) The Five Pillars of Islam
(5) Primary Rituals of Islam
"Interesting," Ike said. "You'll have to explain this stuff. Let's roll."
Rashid reviewed the details of each item. Ike made not
es, then assessed the research time and how much code needed to be written before Big Mamma could go to work. "Be lucky to get one of these done tonight. Which one first, Prof?"
"Let's start at the top."
The Islamic calendar is a lunar calendar based on the phases of the moon. The Gregorian or Christian calendar is based on the birth of Jesus Christ using a solar system. Ike built a matrix of data, and then wrote code that allowed Big Mama to search finite parameters associated with each message. He lined up the six coconuts in a date received sequence. If Mamma broke through the first one she would automatically tackle the next using her successful findings. He then set her to work. "Let's get a cup of java, Prof. This'll take some time."
When they left the office, Ike locked the door to his private space. With a devilish grin he baited Rashid. "Race you to the elevator." He shoved the power lever on his scooter forward and bolted down the hallway. Rashid tried to keep up, but Ike reached the elevator button first. "Ain't technology wonderful," he said, as the elevator door opened.
They found a table in the corner of the first floor cafeteria. Ike loaded cream and sugar into his coffee. Rashid drank his black. They talked about family. Rashid explained his wife's bout with cancer and the toll it took on him and on their savings even with health insurance. Ike shared his experience after coming home from the war, and undergoing extensive physical rehabilitation that he endured for two years. He told Rashid how he lost his high school sweetheart to a car accident, and how coming to the NSA had changed his life. Without realizing it, they talked for an hour before heading upstairs.
When they got back, Ike checked Big Mamma's output. "Looks like we might have something here, Prof." Under Ike's Project ID number, Big Mamma had spilled forth data contained in four of the coconuts and started working on number five.
Rashid peered over his shoulder. "Appears to be Arabic, but I can’t read it."
"I thought you knew Arabic.”
"Yes, but not this–this is nonsense."
"Hey, man. Big Mamma's got 108 languages in her database. Forty percent of all the people on earth speak eleven of them–that includes Arabic. The rest of the world speaks the other eighty-seven.”
Rashid eyed the letters scrawled across the screen. It contained the twenty eight letters in the Arabic alphabet. The letters didn't spell translatable words. "Can you print those out?"
Rashid sat in the corner and read the five information exchanges Big Mamma had cracked. Almost nothing he read made sense. Occasionally he identified an isolated word or phrase. Meaningless without a context. He spent an hour working without success.
Ike checked his watch. "It's gettin late, Prof."
"I can't read them," he said with desperation in his voice.
Ike focused on his friend, who looked like a kid who opened a Christmas present and found the box empty. "You know, Prof, I bet the Japanese felt the same way back in the second World War."
"What do you mean?"
"Ever hear about the Code Talkers."
"Yes. Native Americans used their language as the basis for an encryption. The Japanese never figured that out because they had no knowledge of the Navajo Nation or their language." Rashid leaped to his feet. "Damn it, I think you've hit on something!"
“How’s that?”
Rashid explained. "Big Mamma has the Modern Standard Arabic form of the language in her database. The formal language I learned at the university. But stretching from far West Africa to the Sultanate of Oman in the Middle East there are four regional groups that speak a variation of Arabic. Each group has three or more dialects in it."
"How different are these dialects?"
"The differences are so great Arabs of one region often can't talk to Arabs from another part of their world."
"What do we do?"
Rashid paused. "We think like the author of the encryption. We search for a remote dialect within the Arab speaking world, and then make Big Mamma translate it into formal Arabic."
Ike’s brows knitted. "That's not as easy as it sounds, old buddy. We got to find lots a samples of each dialect, assemble 'em, then digitize ‘em into a new linguistic source, and then enter it into Mamma so it becomes a reference language. Once we have that language onboard, we can feed the data we just cracked back into Mamma. All that could take weeks for each dialect."
Rashid shook his head, "We can't afford that much time."
"How many dialects is there?"
"Sixteen."
"As my momma used to say, Lord A-mighty."
Rashid whispered, "We might get lucky."
"Say what?"
"The key is obscurity. We start with the most obscure and work up."
Ike thought about that. "Yea, that might improve our odds. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "I think we got a time problem, brother. While you and me is dickin’ around with all this–somethin’ terrible might happen..."
Rashid finished his sentence, "...leaving our country at risk."
"Right on, Prof. This is no technical problem no more. It's something way above my pay grade. I'm takin this to my boss first thing tomorrow mornin'."
Rashid read Ike's expression of concern. "I don't agree with that, my friend. I think we should do it right now, tonight.”
THIRTY-FIVE
NORMAN MILLER’S REPORT TO NSA Director Smithy set off a chain reaction not the least of which was the Admiral’s forceful and terse reaction. "Norman, are you telling me you've cracked the six coconuts?" Smithy pointed at the interoffice memo on his desk as Miller, Isaac Gunner and Rashid al Youris, stood at attention.
"Well, yes and no, sir," stammered Miller, his mustache less than its usual tidy self.
"What the hell does that mean? You either did or you didn't."
"Let me explain, sir. We have cracked the encryption, but not the code."
"That doesn't make any sense!"
Isaac Gunner, his electric scooter parked behind Miller, leaned to the side. "Can I explain, Mr. Admiral, sir?"
"Well I'd like someone to tell me something I can understand."
Ike maneuvered his scooter next to Miller facing Smithy. "The Prof, that's Doctor Youris, and me been working nights on these coconuts. We feed Islamic related datasets into Big Mamma and one of them recognized the Key Code, letting us open 'em up.
"Big Mamma?"
Miller interpreted for the Admiral. "Mr. Gunner refers to our super computer as 'Big Mamma', sir."
"Oh, I see. Go on Gunner."
"So we broke the Key Code, but not the data inside. It’s got to be translated. The author double coded the messages."
Smithy looked perplexed. "Translated?"
Miller spoke again. "I think Doctor Youris might be able to clarify what we mean by translate."
Rashid glanced around the room. "Admiral, I see you have decorated your office with photographs of navy vessels including several famous World War II ships. I'm sure you remember the huge advantage our military had over the Japanese when it came to communications. We broke their codes, but they never figured out ours."
"You mean the Code Talkers? Yes, anyone familiar with the Second World War knows about that."
"What we have here is something similar. The messages we have cracked use the Arabic alphabet, but not the Classic or Modern Standard Arabic that I can read. We need to research the many dialects and compile each of them as a new language. Then we can apply our advanced decryption techniques and translate them. I'm sure we can do this, but it will need a massive linguistic assault requiring hundreds of work-hours, maybe thousands. We need your help, Admiral."
"You need my help? Hell yes. What do you want?"
"I think Norman has an estimate." Rashid faced Miller who produced a folder from his briefcase.
"Sir, there are sixteen Arabic dialects. They are all different. All must be assembled, compiled as a language, coupled with our decryption software and run through our system."
"How much time? How many people?" snapped the Admiral.
<
br /> "Best estimate: two dozen language experts, working shifts twenty-four hours a day for two weeks might get the job done."
Smithy settled back in his tall leather chair and fiddled with a gold button on his coat. "Linguistic assault," he mumbled to himself as he swiveled his chair so he could see a broad expanse of a green manicured parade ground out his window. "I like the sound of that-–linguistic assault. Reminds me of a military action, like our D-Day assault on the Normandy beaches." He turned back and faced them. His eyes sparkled. Everyone waited.
"Pat Fitzgerald over at Langley has a unit that deals with forensic linguistics. Doctor Ophelia Verbich heads the unit. She brings forty years of experience to her job. A true pioneer in her field. You might have heard of her, Doctor Youris. Her pen name is Otto Benjamin."
"Yes. A pioneer in the field of sociolinguistics."
The Admiral agreed. “I'll give Fitzgerald a call. If anybody can conduct this 'linguistic assault' it's Doctor Verbich at the CIA."
DOCTOR OPHELIA VERBICH had white hair, without a trace of gray. It framed her softly lined face in smooth waves with a neat bunch of curls nestled above her forehead, a hairstyle out of the 1940’s. "Oh my. NSA sends three handsome men. My briefings seldom have more than one." She offered them seats at a small conference table in the corner of her office. "Director Fitzgerald said you boys need a little help." She hobbled to the table with the support of a cane.
The 'boys' waited until she took a seat and got comfortable. "We appreciate this opportunity to work with you," Norman Miller said, taking a chair next to her. "We have a project that is time sensitive."
"A little interagency coordination between members of the intelligence community can't hurt our reputation." Verbich paused. "As long as the word doesn't get around," she said with a hearty laugh. The crew from the NSA nodded approval and rewarded her humor with a polite chuckle.
The Seventh Message Page 15
