“Finished?” he asked.
She nodded and stood up.
“What do you think?” Rusty asked her.
“Could be a credible report,” Sherry said with a perplexed expression. “Any group with the right hardware could fly over the desert and reach that airfield for an attack, I suppose.”
“Accomplishing what?” Rusty asked. “I mean, they’ve obviously got CNN and Reuters in the headquarters of every pipsqueak terrorist organization in the Middle East. If they’ve found out about the airfield, they know why Flight Sixty-six is headed there. Sure, Ambassador Lancaster’s on board, but he’s going to die along with the others as far as they know. Why risk your people and equipment to go kill a dead man in front of hundreds of witnesses? That doesn’t make sense.”
Sherry sat down and cupped her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, eyes on the wall.
“Doesn’t, does it?”
Without changing position, she looked up at Rusty with a sideways glance. “But, you know, we’ve got so many of our people bored to tears out there, they think they’ve got to write up an alert whenever they wake up from a threatening dream.”
“I’ve never worked in the field.”
“I have, and it really can be a crashing bore.” She stood up. “Main thing that bothers me, Rusty, is how they found the right location so fast. I mean, I’m sure the airline told their people by satellite phone, but the only organization with enough technical superiority to be listening to those channels is also the one with enough sophistication to pull off an attack.”
“Which one is that?”
“I know you’ve read at least one briefing paper on them. It’s Aqbah. They formed in the aftermath of the Gulf War, remember? Jon Roth is the expert on them, and I know for a fact they scare the deputy director half to death.” She gave him a short recap of the emergence of Aqbah and their capabilities.
“One problem, Sherry,” Rusty said when she’d finished.
“Which is?”
“If they’re that sophisticated, they wouldn’t be running all over the place openly trying to borrow a fighter squadron. We wouldn’t be hearing a thing about it yet.”
She cocked her head and smiled. “Good catch. You’re right.”
“Logic is my life.” He chuckled.
“So what do we have here, Doctor? A bored fiction writer in the Cairo station, or what? You analyze these things all the time too.”
“Yeah, but mainly medical and aviation-related messages.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds in silence before Rusty turned back to the computer and began retrieving tracking numbers. He triggered a printout and tore it off as he got to his feet and turned to Sherry.
“Do you suppose Communications could get me a secure line to Cairo?”
“Worth a try,” she said. “You know where the comm room is.”
He stood up and started for the door, looking back over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
It took nearly twenty minutes of flashes, calls, and messages to the U.S. Embassy in Cairo and other secure locations in the Egyptian capital to confirm that there was no one formally on duty in Cairo. Whoever had sent the message had done so without coordination with the station chief, who had heard nothing of the reported rumor.
But someone had written the alert, and the more he thought about it, the more Rusty wanted to question him.
He turned his attention to the tracking numbers, following the trail deep into the computer room, where a friendly technician began digging for the computer tape that had brought the message into Langley in the first place. He waited while the man disappeared into the electronic labyrinth, returning a few minutes later with a puzzled expression.
“No record, Doctor. Those numbers don’t match.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, maybe there’s a glitch or I looked in the wrong place, but if that message came in on any of the normal lines, the tracking codes got garbled. I also ran a search based on point of origin. The computer never logged it as a message from Cairo with that wording.”
“But it obviously came in. You saw it too when you looked at the computer file.”
The man nodded and looked around worriedly before turning back to Sanders and handing back the printout.
“Sorry, Doc. Dead end.”
“But, how could …?”
The technician put a hand on Sanders’ shoulder and began walking him toward the door to the computer room.
“Two possibilities.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s a glitch in the system, or the message didn’t originate outside.” He let that sink in for a moment, watching Rusty’s reaction. “You didn’t get that from me, okay?”
Rusty stopped and turned to him. “You mean, if someone here put this in the system with a bunch of bogus tracking numbers, you’d have no record?”
The man glanced around again, this time in both directions. Rusty followed his glance to a TV security camera hanging in a corner.
The man turned back. “We didn’t talk, okay? You draw your own conclusions.”
Rusty nodded, feeling more perplexed than ever.
Rusty returned to his office in deep thought. If the technician’s implications were correct, the message hadn’t come from Cairo at all. It had been typed into the computer within the complex at Langley.
But why? Did that mean the report itself was bogus and someone at Langley had simply fabricated the alert? Or was the message-sender simply trying to add believability to a verbal rumor from Cairo or somewhere else in the Middle East?
Rusty pulled out a yellow legal pad and began hastily scribbling out possibilities and motives. Someone could have phoned in the alert, he reasoned, but if so, whoever then transferred the message into the computer had gone to all the trouble of assigning it bogus tracking codes and reception times. For what possible purpose?
He looked at the message again, going over the language in detail. There was the usual cold, conservative, cryptic nature to the phrases, but there was also a difference he couldn’t quite identify.
Okay, so someone’s playing games at CIA headquarters. That’s like carrying coals to Newcastle. Maybe the big guys do that on weekends to amuse themselves, watching schmucks like me trying to figure it out.
Rusty got up and wandered around his small office, wishing it had the floor space Roth enjoyed. He could really pace around with an office that size.
Why would someone want to plant a warning like that? To upset Roth? Mark said he’d go ballistic because the bad guys had discovered the identity of the West African landing site.
Rusty stopped suddenly in front of his desk as a connection coalesced.
Hold it. Suppose I wanted to implicate one of the terrorist groups like Aqbah even though I had no proof they were really planning an operation? What if I wanted to set them up for international condemnation? Would this be a first step?
He resumed pacing. To whip up international sentiment against a group like Aqbah, he thought, other governments would have to be involved, and possibly even the media. And in order to accomplish that—if the message was truly bogus—whoever planted it in the first place would be preparing to broadcast it as widely as possible.
Rusty returned to the conference room determined to keep his theory to himself for the time being. The room was empty, and he sat in front of the computer and began paging down the nonsecure outbound traffic, looking for any evidence that the warning was being sent to American allies.
He found nothing.
Sherry returned at the same moment Mark arrived from the quick meeting with Roth. The deputy director, Mark said, was massively upset, and was demanding to know how Aqbah could have intercepted the information about Flight 66’s destination.
“He wants to make sure none of us, including you, Rusty, talked about it on nonsecure lines.”
Rusty looked first at Mark, then at Sherry, then back to Mark.
“Sherry and I were discussing
that earlier, Mark. We figured the airline would have discussed it with their crew by satellite phone. The airline already has the flight plan.”
Mark tossed Sherry a questioning look. “Flight plan?” Mark hadn’t known about that.
“Yeah,” Rusty replied. “I noticed it on Roth’s desk several hours ago. It was a Quantum Airlines’ computer flight plan, which means they probably transmitted it over their datalink satellite channels to their aircraft. Those channels are not scrambled, of course. They’re digital, but anyone could have intercepted it with the right equipment.”
As Mark nodded in deep thought, a red light flashed in the back of Rusty’s consciousness.
“Wait a minute, Mark. Is Roth concluding that the message is referring to Aqbah when it talks about a Shiite terrorist group?”
“Yes, he is. Why?”
Rusty looked at Sherry, whose expression was neutral. Hadn’t they concluded just an hour ago that Aqbah would gain nothing from attacking Flight 66? Hadn’t she agreed with him? Why hadn’t she mentioned it to Mark?
Caution, son! Rusty thought to himself. You’re out of your league here. They’re not communicating for a reason, and you don’t know what it is.
“Rusty, why’d you ask?” Mark prompted again.
Rusty shook his head. “Ah, nothing. I’m confusing myself. I’ve been reading too many threat messages, I guess.”
Mark Hastings was half-sitting on the edge of one of the tables, examining his shoes. Sherry was quietly watching him while Rusty waited.
Mark looked up at him suddenly.
“Rusty, you’ve talked with the flight crew several times during the night, correct?”
“Yes. I could find the times for you if …”
Mark raised his hand. “Not necessary. Just tell me this. At any time did you mention the Saharan destination on that hookup?”
“You mean with the pilots? I sure didn’t say anything to the flight attendants.”
“Anyone. Pilots, flight attendants, Ambassador Lancaster. Anyone.”
Rusty took a deep breath and thought hard and fast. On the second call he had talked to the captain. They had just received the new flight plan. What had the captain asked? Oh, yeah. “Why Africa?” was the question. And he had answered him.
Rusty looked Mark in the eye. “In response to a question from the captain, I may have. They already had the destination. I can’t remember who mentioned it, but the words were ‘eastern Mauritania.’”
Mark looked away. “Oh Jesus Christ! Aqbah’s monitors probably overheard your conversation.”
“But they wouldn’t have the exact coordinates. We didn’t mention anything more specific.”
Sherry Ellis had said nothing. Now she spoke up.
“Mark, the whole damn flight plan went chattering out on the same channels, as Rusty just told you, and he had nothing to do with that.”
Mark turned to her. “Yeah, but Roth looks for easy targets and Rusty apparently fits the description.”
“Wait a minute!” Sanders interjected, getting to his feet. “Are you trying to say that Roth is spending his time looking for who leaked a drop of water in a thunderstorm? The destination was declassified the moment Quantum Airlines was informed!”
Mark Hastings got to his feet and took a deep breath. “Rusty, I’ve got to run an errand for Roth that will take me about an hour. He’s headed back over to the Situation Room at the White House. When he comes back, he’ll want a report on who said what to whom, but if I haven’t been able to talk to you, how can I know anything about your phone call? Otherwise, there’s a pronounced risk.”
“In other words, go home and lie low, pull the phone out of the wall, and speak to no one?” Rusty said.
Mark patted him on the shoulder and glanced at Sherry, who did not respond. “By tomorrow, this will be a tempest in a teapot. Get some sleep, and thanks for all the great help.”
Mark walked swiftly from the room, leaving Rusty in confusion. The sudden focus on who might have found out about Flight 66’s Saharan destination, the sudden implication that he was in trouble, didn’t ring true.
Rusty looked around at the computers in the conference room. The message could have been planted by any of them.
He glanced at Sherry. She was busying herself with a stack of messages, but she let him catch her eye.
“You agree with this, Sherry? Should I get the hell out of Dodge?”
She inclined her head toward the door with a shadow of a smile.
“See ya,” she said simply.
Rusty picked up his notes and turned toward the door, feeling somewhat betrayed.
Less than fifty yards from the conference room, Rusty Sanders came to a halt as his mind forged a connection he hadn’t considered. He fumbled with the papers he was carrying to see if he was right.
He was. The message held the same phrase, “pronounced risk.”
Mark had just used the same words.
But I’ve seen or heard it somewhere else as well. Where?
Rusty began walking again until the hallway jogged to the right. He stopped just around the corner and stood with his back against the wall in thought.
If the message was written on a standard personal computer, it would have been saved as a specific file before being transferred to the communications system by file name. If I can find the right computer, I can probably find the file.
There were footsteps approaching down the corridor to his left. Rusty glanced to the right and realized he was near Jonathan Roth’s office. He covered the twenty feet to the entrance, surprised to find the outer office door still ajar and half expecting Roth to be inside.
The outer office was empty, and Rusty stood for a moment in thought before moving inside and quietly closing the door behind him.
The footsteps were closer. Whoever it was would pass harmlessly—unless he was headed to Roth’s office.
Rusty looked around the waiting room. If the footsteps belonged to either Jonathan Roth or Mark and one of them came swinging in the door, trying to physically hide in the office would be a monstrous risk. But if he was just waiting for the deputy director to return …
I’d look stupid to Mark or Roth if either walk in here and finds me sitting in an empty office, but at least I wouldn’t look suspicious.
Rusty plunked himself down on the waiting room couch, a red leather affair opposite the secretary’s vacant desk. He snuggled into the corner closest to the outer wall and waited as the footsteps slowed, then passed on by and disappeared down the corridor.
Rusty realized he was breathing hard.
I’d make a lousy agent! he thought. The sound of chattering knees would give me away every time!
He got up, prepared to leave, but the memory of the personal computer on Roth’s desk resurfaced. It was an IBM-format machine. If Roth had left it on, it would take a simple series of keystrokes to get to the main hard-disk directory. If he could find it—if the message really had been written at Langley and there was no alert from Cairo—that fact alone would prove he hadn’t compromised the operation by mentioning Mauritania on the satellite phone.
Rusty quietly moved to the inner office door and tried it. It was unlocked.
The office was lit by filtered light from an adjacent parking lot. He opened the door gingerly, realizing there could be no alibi for being caught inside.
Rusty studied the desk. The laptop computer was in the same place, still open and on, apparently connected to a power supply plugged into the wall.
He moved inside quickly and slid into Roth’s chair and began working the keyboard. Getting to the main hard-disk directory was simple.
He studied the subdirectories, guessing which one to try and how to launch a search routine. He spotted a communications program and ordered the computer to bring up its subdirectory.
A message filled the screen instantly:
ENTER PASSWORD
Good Lord, for a directory? The whole directory is password-protected?
&n
bsp; He tried a few combinations, obvious pairings such as the office extension, Langley’s zip code, and Roth’s age. Predictably, none worked. He could assume it was a four-digit code, but Roth could have easily left a longer, more complicated one as well.
He was totally absorbed with the problem when a small noise reached his ears and he whirled toward the inner office door.
Sherry Ellis was standing in the open doorway.
Oh hell!
She said nothing, standing stock-still for a few seconds as her eyes ran from Rusty to the computer screen and back again. Her expression was stern and unyielding.
He stumbled for words. “Sherry, you startled me, I … ah …”
Without a flicker of a response to his words, she walked slowly toward him, moving around the back of the desk as he turned the chair to face her, wondering whether or not to get up.
“Sherry?”
She’s Roth’s assistant. There’s no way to explain this!
Sherry stopped inches from him, her right arm reaching out suddenly to the computer keyboard as her eyes moved to the screen.
She entered a quick series of keystrokes and hit the ENTER button. She straightened up then and looked at Rusty.
“I believe that’s the code you were looking for.”
Rusty looked up at her in shock.
She looked back at him and inclined her head toward the computer.
“Come on! The Director could be back early. Move your fingers!”
“You … you’re curious about the same thing?”
She leaned over him again, deciding not to wait, and entered a flurry of keystrokes to call up Roth’s newly unlocked communications directory as she asked, “What, exactly, were you looking for?”
He held up the security alert message and she nodded knowingly.
“I wanted to see if this came from Roth,” he said.
She shook her head. “No way. But you’ve already figured out that it didn’t come from Cairo.”
“You spotted that too?” he asked.
“Timing.”
“Timing? What do you mean?”
“The message was supposedly transmitted Friday night, Saturday morning—about four A.M. Cairo time. No way! Even dedicated spooks drawing CIA paychecks don’t like to work Friday nights. I know our macho men in Cairo. If there’s liquor to be consumed or females to be serviced, they’re not going to be slaving over a hot teletype around four A.M.” She picked the message up from the desk where Rusty had laid it.
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