by Brad Taylor
Bakr gave Sayyidd a stern look. “You understand that, correct?”
Pleased at the new path, Sayyidd said, “Yes. Of course. I wouldn’t do anything foolish.”
Abu Bakr went to the back of the room and opened a box. They had brought with them a test case — a collection of items that were not illegal individually but, put together, were sure to be confiscated. If the package made it to the contact inside the U.S., then AQ would continue to the next step with Miguel’s network. Inside the box was a Canon Rebel XTi digital camera, four Garmin 6 °CS mapping GPSs, four 3M P100 medical respirators, a box of glass test tubes, and two remote control garage door openers. Fairly innocuous items by themselves, but if the box were searched, the items together would trigger a response, which would allow the terrorists to judge the integrity of the smuggling network.
Abu Bakr was disappointed in the packing list. “Where’s the police scanner? The GPS and respirators will be useful for finding the weapon, but we need the police scanner right now.”
“Ahh… I did some research on the American laws, and the police scanner we obtained had the ability to scan in the American cell phone spectrum. It’s illegal to import those to America, so I took them out. I didn’t think we’d really be using any of this equipment. It was just to see if the network was good.”
Bakr was flabbergasted. “You took something out of the box because it was illegal? Something that we were illegally trying to smuggle in? What in all that’s holy—”
“Don’t begin to attack me!” Sayyidd said. “We were specifically told not to include illegal items so that if the box was found there would not be a legal reason to pursue its owners. It would simply get confiscated. I didn’t know we would use the equipment.”
Bakr waved his hand. “What’s done is done. I won’t mention it again, but if you wish to proceed on this path we need to find a scanner.”
He pointed to the suitcase holding their laptop computer and Thrane M4 satellite phone. “Get on the Internet and find a local store that sells scanners. One that can scan in the nine-hundred-megahertz range that the cell phones here use. We need to hear what’s being said from inside this room. It’s the only way we can stay ahead of Miguel.”
22
The professor woke up bouncing on the backseat of an old Toyota Land Cruiser, having no idea how long he had been unconscious. He was covered in a musty blanket that stank of horse sweat and moldy hay. He heard the Englishman talking on a cell phone.
“He’s not permanently injured, but he’s going to have a headache. I took everything with him and checked him out of the hotel. Outside of some ratty clothes and a few maps of the biosphere, all he had was a laptop, an American cell phone, and a GPS. He had no return plane tickets.”
The professor tried to move and realized that both his legs and hands were shackled like those of a death row inmate, which he was beginning to believe he had become. He was convinced that he was headed to some dank prison deep within Guatemala, to be held on the charge of murder and antiquities theft.
The man on the phone continued. “No, he didn’t have anyone else with him. He looked like he was about to flee. I didn’t want to try to smuggle him past airport security, so I’m driving back. I’ll be there in about seven hours. I’ll see you then.”
Eight and a half hours later, the professor sat in absolute panic. He was tied naked to a chair with a cloth bag over his head. He could make out light, but nothing else. He felt he had been sitting for at least forty-five minutes but in truth had lost all track of time. He heard a door open and felt a breeze on his naked chest. He made one final attempt to raise whatever dignity he could muster.
“I am an American citizen and a famous archaeologist. The embassy knows I am here, and in fact sponsored my expedition. They will come looking for me, and when they find me, they will punish you.”
The only response he received was two alligator clips clamping onto his nipples. His heart began to hammer in his chest. He thought he was going to piss himself or throw up. A voice with a heavy Spanish accent stated, “You are Professor Cahill, a known antiquities thief and potential murderer. Far from sponsoring your expedition, the American embassy will more than likely sponsor your extradition to Guatemala to stand trial. Spare me your theatrics and you may yet walk out of here. I want to know where the temple is located. I’ve been through your computer and GPS and could find no reference to it. I have very little patience. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you go.”
It finally dawned on the professor that he wasn’t in the hands of anyone remotely associated with the Guatemalan government, and that his overwhelming fears twenty-four hours ago paled in comparison to his present predicament. For all of his eccentricities, at his core the professor was a very intelligent man. In an instant, he computed that the only thing that would keep him alive was the fact that he alone knew where the temple was located. The minute he gave this up, he would be discarded with as much fanfare as a used condom.
As he began to form a plan, a searing jolt of electricity rocked his body, causing him to lock up in a rictus of pain, screaming out his soul. As rapidly as it came, the pain left.
The disembodied voice spoke again. “I can see you’re thinking of ways to lie to me. Trust me, the longer you sit and think, the more I believe what you say is a lie. You have exactly three seconds to start talking, or I’ll flip this switch and leave it on for an hour.”
The professor gasped for air, sweat running freely over his body, his mind racing. He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t know what to say. His heart was palpitating, skipping irregularly.
“Three, two, one…”
“Wait. I’m trying to talk. Please… Dear God, don’t do it again. I’ll tell you whatever you want. I have two GPSs. I FedExed the one I used in the jungle to my niece in Charleston, South Carolina, from Flores. I don’t have the information here, but I can get it. Please… Please… Please… I want to help you.”
The professor couldn’t believe how ridiculous this sounded. Why on earth would he do that? It made no sense whatsoever, but if he told them the truth, he would simply be made to retrieve the data from his Hotmail account. It was still in the sent folder. Once he gave that up, and he was sure he wasn’t strong enough not to, he would be dead. He had to buttress the argument, so he began babbling to stem the punishment that was sure to come.
“You know what happened. A man died at the temple. I was not on a sanctioned expedition. The government would arrest me. I had to get rid of the data without losing it. I was afraid of getting arrested. I wanted to keep the location but didn’t want to have any evidence on me. You have to believe me!”
He was met by silence. The disembodied voice circled around behind him. “Professor, that story is so ridiculous it insults my intelligence. I’m a smuggler. I know every single way to get something into the United States. I know there is no FedEx office in Flores. Why on earth would you think I would believe that?”
The professor now believed he would die. The man had freely told him he was a criminal. Obviously, he had no intention of letting him go. In a panic, the professor began to expand on his story, making it more unlikely, grasping at straws.
“I gave it to an American who was leaving yesterday. We had become friends drinking at the bars, and I didn’t want any evidence on me if I was stopped at the airport. He promised to FedEx it as soon as he landed in the United States. You must believe me! I’m telling the truth!”
“All right. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. What was this man’s name?”
“His name? It was… Uhh…”
With that, the pain returned like a lightning bolt. The professor jumped out of the chair, his entire body bowed out in an attempt to get away from the agony, his ankles and wrists holding him in place. He let loose a keening wail, then collapsed back into the chair, his bowels releasing onto the floor.
“Why’d you shut it off?” Miguel asked.
Jake said, “I didn’t. He’s still
got megavoltage going through him.”
“Wake him up,” said Miguel.
Jake shut off the juice and felt the professor’s pulse. “We can’t. He’s dead.”
“What the fuck do you mean, dead? We barely got started.”
“Maybe he had a bad heart. We usually do this to men and woman much younger than him. Whatever, it’s irrelevant. He’s stone-cold dead.”
“Shit. What do you suppose the odds are that he was telling the truth?”
Jake grinned. “As a matter of fact, probably pretty good. He didn’t say anything that we can contradict, and people who follow the law usually panic when they realize they might be caught doing something illegal. The story is so damn stupid it just might be true. If you want to continue with this, it wouldn’t hurt to simply check it out.”
“Perhaps. I suppose it’s worth following through. I’ll give our friends in the U.S. a call. They owe me a favor, and this won’t take much effort. In the meantime, I saw that our friends from overseas brought some computer equipment with them. Please go get them. Maybe they can take a look at his computer and find something we missed.”
Jake left the room to go to the guesthouse while Miguel dialed an unlisted number.
“Let me speak to Vincent.” He waited while the phone was handed off. “Yes, it’s your southern helper, and it’s time to repay the favor owed. I’d like you to get a package for me that’s been mailed. It’s coming by FedEx to a woman named Cahill in Charleston, South Carolina. She’s the niece of a professor at the College of Charleston under the same name and may very well be going to the school. You don’t need to be polite to her.”
23
Sayyidd stared at the laptop he had been asked to examine, wanting to shout in triumph. The thumb drive he had found among the belongings next to the computer had come to life, asking if he would like to use something called “cryptmaker” to extract data. He had been right. The computer was hiding a steganography program. He hit “yes” and waited for the work to be accomplished. Three of the twenty JPEG pictures he had cut and pasted from the laptop had dissolved, leaving behind a notepad file welcoming him to the cryptmaker family and giving him a troubleshooting guide. He realized that these were probably the example photos that came with the software package, allowing a new user to play with the software without fear of losing any valuable data.
Two hours earlier, when Jake had asked if either Bakr or Sayyidd could help with a computer problem, he had jumped at the chance. After meeting Miguel’s computer expert, a man introduced only as José, he had been led into a room containing a table heaped with clothes, a laptop computer, cell phone, and GPS. While examining the computer, he began to suspect that it held a covert partition used for a steganography program due to the large amount of random digital photos and MP3s. José might have been an expert at typical computer problems, but he hadn’t spent a life on the run with the world’s greatest superpower chasing him. While serving as the media chief for his cell in Iraq, Sayyidd had used steganography quite a bit. He knew the signs. He also knew that he had no chance on earth of figuring out the keystrokes for a hidden program. His only hope was a physical key, something missed by Miguel’s men. He had asked José for a glass of water to get him out of the room. As soon as he had left, Sayyidd had searched the clothes on the table. To his absolute surprise, he had found a thumb drive missed by the computer expert and had loaded it on the computer.
He was now sure he was only seconds away from finding the temple’s location. One of the pictures on the hard drive would hold the data. He only needed to find the right one.
He was about to go back to the photo files when he heard José returning down the hallway. He deleted all of the files from the thumb drive, palmed it in his hand, and backed away from the computer.
José handed him the water and said, “You ready to continue?”
Sayyidd shook his head. “Not really. I’ve found nothing in two hours. I can’t do anything more than what you’ve already done. I think this is a waste of time but will continue if you wish.”
José said, “I knew this was folly to begin with. Miguel appreciates you trying anyway. You may go.”
Sayyidd hurried back to the guesthouse with the thumb drive. He knew that Bakr would be livid at his theft. If Miguel realized what had taken place, they would both be dead. Sayyidd was counting on nobody knowing the thumb drive existed. He told Bakr of his experiences and what he had found. As expected, Bakr initially flew into a rage at Sayyidd’s risks, but calmed down when told of the manner the thumb drive had been taken and the fact that Miguel’s computer expert hadn’t searched it. There was nothing to be done about it now anyway. The thumb drive was theirs. Risking returning it would be worse than keeping it.
The stego program itself made no sense to Bakr, given Miguel’s previous phone call. They had obtained a Bearcat scanner earlier in the day, and both had heard the conversation between Miguel and his friends in the U.S. describing a FedEx package. Why would Miguel be searching for a package if the temple location was on the computer? Bakr told Sayyidd to check the Web for a FedEx office in Flores, the last place the professor had been. Within minutes, Sayyidd answered that the only FedEx was in Guatemala City.
Bakr digested this. The facts didn’t make sense. Let Miguel waste his time and money searching for answers in America. Bakr was sure that the data was hidden somewhere on the professor’s computer, and that maybe they were as close as Sayyidd thought to pleasing Allah as no man had before.
24
The old man had been watching the boat-pretender for close to two months, waiting on him to do something interesting.
He called the man the pretender because he didn’t act like anyone who owned a sailboat. He had seen plenty of people rich enough to own such a luxury in his job at the marina, and this man didn’t fit the profile in any way whatsoever.
For one, the old man had never seen the pretender’s boat leave the dock. Ever. Truthfully, he was unsure if the pretender even knew how to sail.
For another, boaters were a partying, gregarious bunch. When they docked, it was all about margaritas, bragging, and laughter. The old man had never seen the pretender smile. Never seen him talk to a single captain of another boat.
He’d figured out early on that the pretender was living on the boat. Something that wasn’t allowed long-term, but the old man said nothing. Working dawn until dusk pumping gas at the marina, the old man had studied the pretender just to break the monotony. Every other day the man would punish himself with a workout routine on the deck of the boat, working until total exhaustion in the South Carolina heat, seemingly trying to kill himself, the sweat rolling off his body in rivers. He would then leave for a run that lasted about an hour. When he returned, the old man would watch him stagger behind the Dumpsters and vomit, sometimes on his knees. He didn’t understand why until the pretender had passed by him finishing a run. The man stank of liquor, the foul smell wafting out of his pores like a fog.
After that, the old man began to lose interest, not wanting to waste his time on a drunk. Then one day the pretender had surprised him. Buying fuel for his boat, he had recognized the U.S. Army Second Division patch on the old man’s hat and had asked if he had been in the Army.
The old man had grown wary, not wanting to be patronized as he had been by all the other rich folks who treated him like a piece of furniture, fulfilling their duty of patriotism with a pat on the head before demanding gas.
He had said, “Yes.”
“Korea?”
“Yes. During some bad times.”
The pretender had nodded with understanding. “Nobody can take that away from you. Even when you wish they could.”
The old man was shocked. He knows.
A long time ago, on another continent, nobody had cared about the color of his skin. Rednecks and racists alike had learned that combat was color-blind. All that mattered was skill, and the old man had found that he inherently possessed something that others
did not. Once upon a time he had been regarded as a savior, a man who could keep you alive, if you were lucky enough to be near him. He had been held in awe by better men than those who now demanded his gas. He was reminded of this by the nightmares that still caused him to lose sleep. He both loved and hated that time in his life, and somehow the pretender knew.
He began watching the pretender with renewed interest. The next time they met, he had asked, “Were you in the service?”
“Yes. The Army.”
“Been to Iraq? Afghanistan?”
“Both at one time or another.”
“Seen some bad shit?”
“Not really. The bad shit’s here at home.”
The answer had confused the old man. He continued to watch, waiting on the pretender to do something interesting. Eventually, he began to believe he had been wrong. The pretender held no secret truth. He was simply a drunken loser, dealing with the same demons as the old man. That is until the day the pretender disappeared and the old man had found two dead bodies behind the Dumpster, both killed by hand. That caused him to rethink the pretender’s status for sure.
* * *
I woke up in my king-sized bed and rolled over to kiss my wife. My arm hit the pylon holding the foldout twin bed, and I returned to the reality of my existence like I had done every morning for the last nine fucking months. Each day, in the brief moment between being asleep and awake, I had one split second of happiness before remembering what had become of my family. If I could bottle each split second, I’d give the remainder of the day to God, or the Devil, or whoever else was having a party out of my pain. Twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes, fifty-nine seconds, and some change for each split second. It would be a good trade.
