To Hunt a Sub

by Jacqui Murray

She dressed and went to work. She slid into her chair, but instead of working, she sat, arms across her chest, eyes staring into the distance, with the dogged expression of an innocent on death row at a law library. A headache knocked inside her skull. Tylenol didn’t help, but her resolve did. They threatened Sean, murdered Annie, and dognapped Sandy, but there it stopped. Last night, she’d been the prey. That ended today.

  She tapped in her log-in, stared into the retinal scanner, and activated the video replay of the intruder.

  Carl. Another betrayal. Was anything he told her true? He camouflaged his appearance with a watch cap and Coke-bottle glasses, but couldn’t disguise the fervent sparkle in those close-set black eyes, the expression she mistook for anthropologic passion in Israel. The half-open lips under his thin nose, once endearing, now seemed stupid. The tweak of his ears when he concentrated used to intrigue her and now disgusted her. She didn’t care anymore about his hardscrabble background. Rather than motivation to improve his life, it became the seedbed for treachery.

  “What are you doing… Laslo?” Two could play this game.

  He wandered the false pages programmed with enough clandestine facts to be convincing, each new link rising organically from his previous selections. Five minutes passed and he logged out and then back in under Wyn’s profile. He opened the scientist’s email program, typed a note summarizing what he found, attached an audio file uploaded from a flash drive, and dead dropped it into the ‘Draft Folder’. No electronic trail. No footprints.

  “I can’t believe I missed that.”

  Next, he loaded a worm onto Manfried’s computer, one that would incriminate both Fairgrove and Manfried.

  Kali stuck scotch tape over each key. She destroyed most of the fingerprints with her typing, but maybe he hit a few keys she didn’t. She put the makeshift prints into an envelope and downloaded Laslo’s keystrokes for the Dean’s password to a flash drive as well as the dead-dropped email.

  Then she logged remotely into Wyn’s computer. This time, she activated a bot that would locate other bots, sniffers, and worms. It took only seconds to find one.

  “Who’s spying on you, Wyn?”

  Next, she opened the audio file Laslo had attached. It was her conversation with Sun about magnetics. There was a second dead drop, this from someone named Salah, reminding Wyn he owed a Blood Debt. Was this the same Salah who wrote to him earlier? The one who killed Zematis and contacted her? Why the interest in Wyn?

  Kali shivered. According to the date stamp, whatever it was expired yesterday. A chill sluiced through her body. Did Annie die because of Wyn?

  She switched to the ‘History’ file she noticed last time. It included articles submitted to magazines, curriculum vitae, and letters of commendation, but nothing unusual. She had time for one more search. The Wyn she knew had no expertise at creating hidden files, but Laslo did. She logged off and back on under Admin. Like most tech newbies, he placed no password on this profile despite that it allowed complete access to his computer. A couple of clicks and she could see everything. He had a ‘save’ protocol that he used daily. A series of keystrokes unhid the properties and she gasped.

  “Now why would that be here?”

  Chapter 48

  Saturday

  Mr. Winters’ lights were on when Rowe left Kali’s. No surprise. Marines always woke early. Rowe showed him Hemren’s snapshot. Yes, he recognized him, walking the street several times, always when Kali wasn’t there. He also pegged one of the dog walkers as the utility man. The more they talked, the angrier the old man got. Rowe told him what he could, warning him without being explicit.

  Finally, Mr. Winters said, “I tried to reenlist after 9-11. The sergeant I reached was real nice, professional. Took my name and called back sixty minutes later. Said he checked my records and I did some fine work with the Corps so they re-classified me 1600P. Well, I served in the Marines half my life and never heard of ‘1600P’, so I asked him what the hell it was. Sarge said to relax. 1600P meant they’d call me after the women and children and right before the enemy got to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  Mr. Winters chuckled and pulled out an aged Browning 45 from under his chair.

  “This’ll take care of me, son. You take care of Kali. I wish I could have done that for Sandy.”

  Rowe sat at his desk, arms crossed. When Kali entered, he cracked an eyelid, pushed a key, and his screen dissolved into an ancient pre-human map of the Middle East.

  “If you know something about Sean, I want in.”

  He remained silent so long, she thought he fell asleep. As she moved to kick him, he continued. “OK, but stop me if it’s too much.”

  Annie’s vindictive words blasted from the speakers. “The United States occupies the land of Islam, plunders its riches, and humiliates its people. Many are dead—Ahraf, Olsal, Renug, Nyw, but not N—”

  Her torturers slapped her so hard her lip split. “No names!”

  Blood leaked from her cracked lips and shattered nose. One eye had puffed closed while the other burned crimson. “Praise be to God, who says, ‘Slay the pagans wherever ye find them, seize them, beleaguer them, and lie in wait.’ This is the duty of every Muslim. Whosoever denies his Islamic religion must be killed. I die proud to add my blood to their fight as my brothers redeem themselves by freeing me.”

  “She’s quoting Osama bin Laden’s declaration of war against America, Kali, but I don’t think her captors recognized it. She’s telling us they aren’t very smart.”

  The cadence of her phrasing was erratic, out-of-sync with the message. Zeke listened, repeating parts, stopped and started and replayed until Kali had it memorized.

  She scratched her forearm and the back of her neck. “Why these names, Zeke? They aren’t even Muslim.”

  “They may be code. We’re running them by the cryptographers.”

  Something nagged at her. Annie couldn’t doubt they were going to kill her, and this was her last chance to share what she learned those final horrible hours. She warned them of the earring recordings. She told them the enemy was more fervent than smart. No way were the names meaningless.

  Kali stared into the middle distance, seeing nothing. Were they from her dream? She willed her thoughts back to last night, to Annie’s blood red eye, her cracked lips as she spit out the same words over and over, taunting, like ducks in a shooting gallery. They danced, bounced… Something about the letters…

  “They’re backwards! Annie knows I like word codes. Play them again.”

  Rowe tossed Kali his pencil and texted the names she called out to James—Halas, Olsal, Renug, Nyw, and N… Salah, Laslo, Gunner, Wyn, and a name that ends in ‘n’.

  He turned to Kali. “You did well.”

  Not good enough for Annie. “Zeke. I met Salah.”

  Zeke jerked his head toward Kali. “What?”

  “On the phone. He called me after the Zematis trial, offered to fund Otto. I refused. I also saw his name in emails to Wyn when I hacked into his computer.”

  “The man is dangerous, Kali. If he contacts you again, tell me.” Rowe opened his mouth and snapped it shut, then said, “What else did you find about Wyn?”

  She handed him a flash drive and an envelope. “Last night, Laslo tried to crack Otto. Of course, he failed, but these are the files Laslo looked at and his fingerprints if you can separate them from mine.” She bit out the words, not trying to mask her contempt.

  Rowe paused a moment before speaking. “Kali. I don’t think Laslo believes like Salah does. He sends money to his sisters, talks about bringing them here ‘when he’s done’. I doubt he realizes the damage he’s causing to the country he dreams of calling home.”

  Kali didn’t care. Laslo had betrayed her trust. She wanted nothing more to do with him. “I’m going to meet with Al-Zahrawi. If he doesn’t yet realize that Otto and I are a package, he soon will. You can catch him then.”

  “Don’t do that, Kali. This man is more treacherous even than Gunner Goya.” Rowe massag
ed the stump of his pointer. “Let me tell you a story. When Al-Zahrawi was a young man, five women from his village refused to honor arranged marriages. Al-Zahrawi raped all of them before slicing deep cuts into their skin, pouring honey in the wounds and leaving them to die chained to an anthill. No one helped the women and Al-Zahrawi’s actions were applauded as retribution.”

  Kali swallowed her bile, walked in a circle, and turned back to Rowe. “Al-Zahrawi thinks threatening my son will break me. He’s wrong, but I won’t shoot him. I’ll outthink him.”

  The silence grew, broken only by phones ringing down the hall and muted voices. Kali said nothing. She wouldn’t change her mind until Sean was safe, Sandy back, and Annie avenged.

  He acquiesced. “Ok. We do this together, though. How long it takes to finish Otto’s programming is how long we have to catch them.”

  Kali sniffed. “Zeke. Al-Zahrawi is calling in a debt Wyn owes, due yesterday. Was Annie killed because of Wyn?”

  “A Blood Debt…” and then nothing. What was it about men? Couldn’t they say something like, Beat’s me. Or Here’s what I know. No. They just stop talking.

  Kali rubbed her temples. “Al-Zahrawi’s setting Wyn up. When Wyn logs off, porn downloads to a hidden file. All Al-Zahrawi needs is a phone call to put him in jail.”

  She breathed in and out, eyes focused on her left foot. “That’s not all. He has pictures of me.” Her voice was as tight as the E string on a violin that’s about to pop.

  Rowe gently took her chin, tipping her face upward. His eyes were deep, angry, and caring in equal amounts. “The pieces are coming together. We’ll get the bastard.”

  “I’m OK, Zeke. Just mad.”

  She swiped at her eyes and left, determined to finish her dissertation, which was when Mr. Grant called. “I’ll send you a magnetic signature. Find the sub or your son dies.”

  Chapter 49

  Sunday

  Rowe’s plan today was to visit every place where Annie used her credit card that final trip. Her GPS auto-loaded to an FBI cloud making it easy to follow her trail. Somewhere, something ended in her death. James wanted to join Rowe, but ended up in another FBI mandatory briefing.

  Rowe finished up two Zone bars and a canned protein drink as he moved into the right lane, listening to James. “Even though Sean’s at a retreat, I’m not discounting him as the N- name. A friend with the Park Rangers is checking on him.”

  Rowe exited the Thruway and wove his way to Old Niskayuna Road. “I’m at the Albany Airport General Aviation T-Hangars. According to Annie’s GPS, she stopped here for 45 minutes. It has a good visual of the private planes. With the top down, in her low-slung Mini Cooper, she should have been invisible. Can you get a list of ALB 2:00ish arrivals?”

  James grunted. “That’s the Vitolska’s local airport.” Hunh. Coincidence? “OK. Here we go. There was only one departure, for Washington DC. A Cessna, Nellie-909-Major-Alpha, started in Los Angeles.”

  The twenty-something agent, Claude, remembered the Cessna. He squinted at the number through mascaraed lashes and tapped the page with a black tipped finger.

  “The Eclipse 500 Luxury Edition. Navy-Bahama blue striping. A beauty. I rode in one once with a … date. That Pratt and Whitney engine is so so smooth and quiet.”

  He blinked at Rowe and ran his fingers through longish bleached blonde hair. Rowe smiled.

  “Any of these men on it, Claude?” Rowe showed him shots of Sean, Al-Zahrawi, and Matt Monroe. He still didn’t have one of Edik Vitolska.

  Claude cocked his head, touched his pale throat, and squinted again. After a few seconds, he huffed in exasperation and pulled reading glasses from under the counter.

  “It sucks getting old. I just started using these. Nnh, unh. For sure not this sweet-looking boy. One guest was white, six foot, cute crew cut and muscles that could do anything.” He paused, lost in his memories. Rowe prodded. “Anything else about him?”

  Claude’s brow puckered. “Hostile, and short tempered. I don’t think he liked me.”

  Rowe flicked through his phone until he found Gunner. “Is this him?”

  “Ooh, yes. That’s the sneer, but I missed the Rolex. Is he rich?” Splotches of pink blossomed in Claude’s cheeks.

  “You mentioned a second man?”

  “Yes. A Middle Eastern gentleman—short, dark hair. Charming and gentle. He made an effort to put me at ease when Mr. Muscle growled at me.” He poked at the grainy image of Laslo. “That could be him.”

  “How about this woman?” Rowe showed him a photo of Annie. Wavy blonde hair framed a perfect face blooming with pink and white in all the right spots.

  Claude shook his head. “I’m looking for a wife. I would have noticed her.”

  Rowe continued north, through a sparsely populated woodsy area, past a 410 million year old arthropod bed inexplicably named Fiddler’s Green, to Hwy 9 and Schroon Lake until he pulled into the parking lot of Cap’s Corner Motel, a cozy collection of eight rustic cabins, an office, and a serviceable picnic table dropped amidst a copse of trees. There sat Annie’s Mini Cooper. He parked next to it, got out, and cautiously surveyed the empty vehicle as he called James. “I found her car. No obvious signs of trouble. Doors are locked.”

  Rowe discreetly searched the windows of the visible cottages as he crossed the nearly deserted pot-holed asphalt surface, past a sagging marquee that promised air-conditioned rooms and color TV’s. Rowe guessed people came for the stunning view of the Adirondack Mountains and the high altitude forests, not creature comforts. He walked between chipped planters filled with hollyhocks, gladiolas and daisies, and ducked under a worn-but-clean American Flag with forty-eight stars.

  The door squeaked open on a dingy 1950’s lobby. It had scuffed off-white walls, two worn chairs, a cracked plastic table, and a rack for local maps and brochures. A reservation desk covered the far wall, in front of a door to what must be an office. A whip-thin girl, sixteen at best, poked her head out.

  “May I help you?”

  She wore a short-sleeved white blouse and salmon glasses over close-set blue eyes. Her shoulder length mouse-brown hair was wet or oily. Rowe couldn’t tell which until he caught the odor of dirty socks.

  “Hello.” Rowe showed his badge as he read her name tag. “How are you, Kathy?”

  “Fine, thank you. Things are a little slow so I’m reading. I like to read. Books take you places you couldn’t go otherwise. I’d like to be a librarian, you know? This book’s about England …” As she prattled on, she shuffled from one foot to the other and tugged at a clump of hair.

  Finally, she wound down and stopped. Rowe guessed not many people listened to her for more than a few seconds. Now, she fumbled for what to do. He smiled and asked, “My friend’s Mini is in your lot, but she’s disappeared. Were you here last Thursday or Friday?”

  Kathy’s eyes went wide. “Last Thursday? You’re here about those guys? Dad!” She backed away, but never took her eyes off Rowe. She started scratching a spot on her wrist that was already raw and chewing at the inside of her cheek.

  A mountain of a man trundled in from the back office. His stained Cap’s Corner t-shirt barely reached a pair of well-used jeans riding well-below his waist. He had shaggy salt and pepper hair and the spongy skin of someone who spent his nights indoors with a bottle. As he approached, he blew into a tired kerchief.

  “He’s here about the prossy.” Scratch, scratch. A line of blood prickled up.

  “Cap Barlow.” He stuck out a leathery paw. “This here’s my place. I knew those rag heads ’re bad news. She tried t’ say something, but they said she’s drunk. I called th’ police, but when they knocked, she said she’s fine.”

  “Is this her?”

  Rowe flicked forward on his phone to one of his favorite photos of Annie, in a cheery yellow cap-sleeved blouse over suntanned skin. Her head tilted to the side and a grin creased her heart-shaped face. Her eyes filled the frame with life.

  “Yep. Pretty girl. She could’ve do
ne better.”

  “Mr. Barlow—”

  “Cap.”

  “Cap. Is this your motel room?”

  Rowe showed him a shot from CNN. Sun had cleaned it up, but blurry hints of the violence remained.

  “Yep, Cabin Eight, with th’ new TV.” He pointed to a ten-year-old seventeen-inch wood veneer set. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “You hate TV, too, huh?”

  “The last good show’s Bonanza. They don’t even play th’ reruns anymore.”

  “Cap, can we see if my friend is OK? Leave Kathy at the desk.”

  Cap understood. “Work on the billin’, Kath.”

  They walked in silence, feet crunching on dry pine needles and twigs. Shafts of sunshine broke through the canopy and dappled the earth with a mosaic of light. A squirrel family hustled across the path, collecting winter stores.

  As the duo approached the cabin, Rowe picked up a distinctive low hum.

  “No one checked out, but the car’s gone,” Cap swatted a cloud of flies that swarmed the door.

  “Just crack it,” Rowe said as Cap plugged the key into the lock. He didn’t think the old guy could handle what was behind his door.

  The buzz increased to a roar and a cloying sweetness squirted out, followed by fat green flies so gorged, they could barely get off the ground. Cap reared back like a spooked horse.

  “Call the police. Tell them it’s the place they visited before, but this time the girl’s dead.”

  Cap backed up, fleshy hands at his sides and shaggy head bobbing. He made it as far as the bushes before he retched.

  Rowe slammed the door and sprinted to his car where he kept a Sig Sauer 9mm. After Iraq, he thought he’d never fire a gun again, until he met Thomas Meier. Meier could adapt any weapon for any handicap. Missing fingers were no big deal. Hands were harder, but he’d done that, too. Rowe spent a week at Meier’s 128-acre SigArms Academy. They adjusted the trigger and grip until he could fire faster and truer than at any point in his life.