No Woman Left Behind: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery, Book Six

by Julie Moffett

  “We’ve got what? A message? What does it say?” He read aloud from my screen. “‘A man’s faith might be ruined by looking at that picture.’ Huh? What does that mean?”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer him because Dex Woodward stepped into the room followed by several more people.

  All the same crowd from yesterday filed in except I saw a young woman who hadn’t been in here before. She was probably in her early thirties with long chestnut hair pulled back in a bun and eyes so light brown they were almost gold. She carried a large file stuffed with papers and was dressed in a navy suit with a photo badge hanging around her neck. She gave me a small smile as she came in and sat next to Woodward.

  I gathered up my notes and laptop and made room for the others. I didn’t see Slash, and some guy took his seat next to me. After waiting a moment, Woodward made a motion and someone closed the door.

  “Okay, we’ve all had several hours to attend to our respective tasks. Let’s share what we know. First up, Steve Levy. He’s Mark’s second-in-command. What do you have on those GPS coordinates, Steve?”

  Steve consulted his notes. “Well, we reviewed the GPS coordinates and the satellite images of the site. We considered that the subject might have had a portable residence of some kind. However, extensive review of the site indicated no evidence that a physical structure of any kind had been constructed and no sign that anyone had even been in the area recently.

  “We then did a thorough background check on the location to see if it held any kind of historical, environmental or astrological significance. We came up empty. So we ran a transposition between latitude and longitude to see if we could come up with a meaningful location there, but it put us in the middle of the ocean.

  “After that we tried applying a Vigenère Cipher, various steganography techniques and a monoalphabetic substitution to the numbers. Basically we’ve got nothing. I’m sorry. Could be he just spoofed the system and sent us on a goose chase.”

  I tried not to show my disappointment. They’d done everything I would have, so I couldn’t fault their technique. Still, I didn’t buy it. I couldn’t explain why, but I knew Broodryk had a very deliberate reason for selecting those coordinates. I just couldn’t prove it yet.

  Woodward thanked Levy and then leaned back so I could better see the woman sitting beside him.

  “Lexi, I’d like to introduce you to Grayson Reese. Ms. Reese is a CIA analyst. She’s been tracking Johannes Broodryk for more than four years. She’s just returned from out of town and has gathered all the intel we have on him. She’s prepared to give us a quick background briefing now.”

  She tilted her head toward me, looking directly at me as she spoke. “Johannes Peter Broodryk was born on February 19, 1977 in Cape Town, South Africa. His father, Drake, was a computer engineer and designed software for one of the early microprocessors for the popular Anati 6600 computer at a company called Dynamica Tech located in Cape Town. His mother, Alina Pogova, was the daughter of Russian immigrants. She taught Russian literature at the University of Cape Town. Both of Broodryk’s parents were killed in an automobile accident when Johannes was eleven. He lived with his single uncle, Boni Broodryk, a ship engineer, until he graduated. Johannes attended the University of Cape Town for four years and graduated with the equivalent of a BS in Computer Science with a specialty in network security and neural networks. His grades indicate he was a so-so student. Didn’t show up for class much, but got the work done.”

  I made some notes on my paper. “Did he get a higher degree?”

  “He started, but got kicked out. Got a taste for hacking. He stole about four hundred thousand dollars from a local bank and had blown through most of it by the time he was caught. He got three years in a minimum-security facility where he apparently honed his skills even further in the prison computer lab and got his hate on for authority in general.”

  I nodded and she continued without looking at her notes.

  “Once out of prison, he went to live with a friend of a friend he’d met in prison. They needed a computer guy for their underground business and Broodryk fit the bill perfectly. Drugs, money laundering, forgery, extortion and robbery were just a start for him. His friend in prison, Gregor Muller, eventually got out and re-joined the operation. The two of them renamed their organization Skelm, which in Afrikaans slang can mean either troublemaker or a lover on the sly. Somewhere along the line Broodryk and Muller had an ugly falling out and the group split. Broodryk renamed his group the Veiled Knights and moved his operation to Johannesburg.”

  I interrupted. “The Veiled Knights—Broodryk’s group—were the ones who masterminded the hit on the high school.”

  “Yes. Broodryk moved in a new direction and put the word out that the Veiled Knights are cyber mercenaries or hackers for hire. Cyber terrorism, fraud, documents, assassinations and drugs. You name it—he’ll do it...for a price. He’s amassed a fortune.”

  “What do we know about Broodryk’s most recent whereabouts?”

  “Intelligence indicates he prefers to operate out of Africa in general. Not only is it home, it’s easier for him to move from country to country without detection. We do know that at one time or the other, he has had compounds in Johannesburg and Port Elizabeth, both of which are in South Africa. He also has been traced to the cities of Luanda in Angola, Niamey in Niger and Victoria in Seychelles. Most recently, we have determined he was operating out of Gabon during his attack on the high school in Washington, DC. The odds are extremely high he’s still on the African continent. However, we are unable to isolate his specific location at this time.”

  I jotted some notes. “Does he have a family? Wife, children or a significant other?”

  “None that we know of. We obtained his psychological reports from the prison, where he was required to undergo monthly examinations. The reports indicate he has a highly narcissistic personality with an overstated sense of self, a deep-seated need for admiration and a complete lack of empathy, among a range of other sociopathic tendencies. That kind of personality doesn’t lend itself to long-lasting relationships, although we can’t rule it out. We just don’t know. However, despite his need for attention and admiration, the last photo we have of him is the one of him taken in prison.” She nodded to a guy with a laptop and Broodryk’s photo appeared on the smart board.

  I shuddered. Broodryk’s albinism—his white hair and pale skin—caused his face to blend into the stark white backdrop. His eyes freaked me out the most. They should have been a beautiful bluish white, but they were utterly devoid of emotion. Sociopath was an apt description for him.

  “No one that we know of has seen him in person since this picture was taken.” She cleared her throat gently. “No one except you. Can you advise us on his appearance?”

  I set my pen down. “The fact that I saw him via a computer screen filters it some. But he looks very much the same. A little thinner in the cheeks and face—perhaps from age and maturity. But the eyes are identical. As of a few weeks ago, he hadn’t changed the color or style of his hair. He still presented as albino.”

  She made a note of her own. “Okay, thanks. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t changed things up by now, but it’s good to know.”

  Slash stepped into the room. Our eyes met and he gave me a small nod. Woodward acknowledged him and then motioned to a thin, red-headed guy who sat farther down the table.

  The guy lifted a hand. “I’m Stuart Levy and I work with the NSA. My team was assigned the analysis of the painting in the video and the potential significance of it as part of a code. This is what we know so far from the video itself and the research we compiled in the short time we had.”

  He clicked on his laptop. The painting appeared on the smart board. “We think this is the painting hanging on the wall. It’s a replica, of course, and it’s called The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb. German painter Hans Holbei
n is believed to have painted it in 1521. The painting is oil on wood and is 30.5 by 200 centimeters. It currently hangs in the Kunstmuseum in Basel, Switzerland. The painting depicts a life-size, biologically accurate rendering of Jesus Christ lying in his tomb. Art critics agree that Holbein, who reportedly unearthed a dead body to use as a model for the painting, wanted to show a realistic view of Jesus suffering the fate of an ordinary man. The decay and malformation of the body is consistent with what a body might look like after twenty-four to forty-eight hours in a warm environment. We ran several algorithms on the digital files of the painting to see if we could detect any abnormal or unusual use of color, paint, techniques or significant objects. We came up empty-handed. Scholarly research on the painting is limited mostly to an examination of Holbein’s art techniques—none of which appear to be out of the ordinary—and his influence on modern literature.”

  I looked up from taking notes. “He had an influence on modern literature?”

  He nodded. “Specifically Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Dostoyevsky refers to the painting in his novel The Idiot. He apparently viewed the painting in person in 1867. He spent so long staring at it that his wife feared it would induce an epileptic incident. The painting made such an impression on him that he later incorporated a viewing of it among his characters in the novel.”

  “Wait.” My thoughts whirled. I held up a hand so no one else would talk while I tried to sort out the significance. “Broodryk’s mother was Russian and taught Russian Literature at the university. ‘A man’s faith might be ruined by looking at that picture.’”

  Levy frowned, puzzled. “Excuse me?”

  I grabbed my laptop, typed in the phrase and then grinned in excitement. “That’s it. Dostoyevsky wrote this exact phrase on page four, paragraph nine of his novel The Idiot. It happens when two characters are looking at the painting The Body of the Dead Christ by Hans Holbein. One character asks the other if he believes in God. The first character, apparently horrified by the painting, cries out that a man’s faith might be ruined looking at that picture.”

  I glanced up and realized everyone in the room, except for Mark and Slash, was looking at me as if I’d completely lost my mind.

  “What the hell does any of that mean?” Woodward asked.

  “It means she found the first clue,” Slash said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Everyone started talking at once. Woodward had to get everyone quiet so I could bring them up to speed on the flashes of light Mark and I had discovered on the video and how we’d translated it.

  “So, the bottom line is that Broodryk sent me a message in the form of a Dostoyevsky quote,” I finished. “What it means, I don’t know yet.”

  “Dostoyevsky’s book The Idiot?” Woodward asked. “Do you think the title of the book is significant? Like he’s referring to us as idiots or something?”

  I shifted impatiently. “Sure, he’s poking at us, but I don’t think that’s what’s paramount here. He now references Dostoyevsky twice, which means he’s making it clear that whatever we need to do has to involve him somehow.”

  “I’m not following you,” Woodward said. “Dostoyevsky is a dead Russian novelist. How does this factor in to our situation?”

  Mark suddenly pumped his fist in the air. “Got something. I just ran the transcript of the video against a cross-reference of Dostoyevsky quotes and came up with another match. Broodryk said, ‘I’ve plenty of time...my time is entirely my own.’ Dostoyevsky wrote that as well—word for word. And it also came from The Idiot.”

  My mind raced as I organized the information, trying to sort through the significance. “That’s three times he cites Dostoyevsky—twice from the same novel. Three times is the charm. Now I have to put it all together. What’s he trying to tell me? I’m still missing a piece of the puzzle. It’s got to be those GPS coordinates. They weren’t a spoof or misdirection—they mean something.”

  Slash pushed off the wall. “You’re right. They do mean something.”

  “And you know this how?” Woodward asked.

  “I know because while Broodryk may be a psychopath, he’s isn’t stupid. Those coordinates were chosen specifically for a reason. He didn’t just forget his GPS was on when he took the video. He knew that’d be the first thing we checked. Once we viewed the satellite images and ruled out the location, it was game on. I figured Levy’s team would take the required path, examining and ruling out the obvious codes and ciphers. Tedious, but necessary work. I knew Broodryk would know that, too, so I decided not to waste time there.”

  “So, what did you do?” I asked.

  “I tried something completely different. I started by converting the coordinates to binary language. I tried the binary-coded decimal, ASCI II, Bagua and Ifá divination, but unfortunately nothing yielded any usable results.”

  “Wow. That was smart thinking, Slash.”

  “Not smart enough if it didn’t work. So, I thought for a while longer and had another idea.”

  I held my breath. Slash was good, very good, so I knew whatever he said would be vital.

  He looked at me. “This time, I put myself in Broodryk’s shoes. He wants you to play his game. He has to engage you, draw you in, so what does he need in order to do that?”

  I considered. “Communicate. He’s got to figure a way to communicate with me. It has to be a back and forth exchange, so he can make certain I’m involved personally and issue appropriate taunts in order to feel superior to me.”

  “Exactly. Now what’s the easiest way for a man like him to do that?”

  “A phone number?” Woodward offered. “The GPS numbers could be configured into a phone number. It’s too long for a US number, but maybe a variation of an international one? Maybe he wants to talk on the phone.”

  Mark started typing, but Slash held up a hand, stopping him. “Don’t bother. That’s not it.”

  I suddenly knew where Slash was going with this. I almost jumped out of my chair and planted a big one right on his mouth.

  “Holy cow.” My eyes widened. “It’s deceptively simple. I should have thought of it sooner.”

  “Holy cow, what?” Woodward frowned. “Can someone please clue me in?”

  I kept my eyes on Slash. “It’s an IP address, right?”

  Slash smiled. “Exactly. I had to go to a seven-digit latitude and longitude string and convert east/west into numbers, but that was the easy part. Once I had the formula it was only a matter of time before I came up with the answer.”

  “Oh my God. You’re a freaking genius. What did you find?”

  “I came up with several possibilities, depending on which way I crunched the numbers. But hearing what you and Mark have found, I think we can narrow it to one optimum choice.”

  Hope soared through me. “What is it?”

  Slash put his hands on the table. “A private chat room set up to discuss the literary works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Once again everyone started talking. Woodward had to thump the table to get people quieted down.

  Slash walked behind my chair. “First order of business is finding out who owns the address. It’s private, but it’s likely legit. I had time only for a quick overview, but it looks like the chat room was established about four years ago and has about one hundred and twenty members who visit on and off to discuss their views on the works of Dostoyevsky. My best guess is that Broodryk intends to simply to co-opt the chat room and use it as a place to talk. If I were him, that’s what I would do. I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with discovering the source of the IP address, but we’ll have to investigate it anyway.”

  I glanced up at the clock. “How much time do we have left?”

  Woodward scrawled something on his notepad. “Four damn hours. Not much time.”

  “It’s enough
.” I sat back in my chair. “He knows we’ll be tracing him with everything we’ve got. No doubt he’ll take every precaution.”

  “No doubt,” Slash agreed. “If he chats, it will be short and sweet. He already knows what he wants to say... Where he wants things to go.”

  Grayson Reese’s eyes widened. “How can we find him in a public chat room? How will you track him?”

  “Very carefully,” I answered. “We’ll put the best we’ve got on him. He’ll throw every trick in the book at us, but we’ll be ready and tracing him in multiple ways. It’s a crap shoot, but hopefully we’ll get lucky.”

  Mark stood up. “I’ve already got my team on the IP address, tracking it down, finding out what we can about it in the most discreet way possible.”

  Slash nodded. “Good. We’ll need to convene a separate tech meeting to discuss our strategy for the chat. First order of business is to get her approved to join the chat room, as it’s both moderated and private. Get a couple of spots for us, too.”

  “I’m on it,” Mark said.

  I blew out a breath. “I need to think through what I should say to keep him chatting. Every second will count.” I turned to Grayson. “You’ve compiled the most information on him and have been studying him for more than four years. You probably have the best handle on his mental state, his likes and dislikes, and what pushes his buttons. I need you to brief me in detail and sit next to me during the chat in case I need advice.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, when do we conduct this chat?” Woodward asked. “How will we know when or if he’ll appear?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “I guarantee he’s already there—in and out—checking for me, which will be a good place for the tech team to start. They’ll begin tracing those people who have been active for the past few days. We’ll go in when we’re ready, but at least an hour before the cut-off time. For an initial post, I’ll provide a clear identifier so he’ll know it’s me. If he responds, then we’re off.”