The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  His answer was meaningless, of course. What Harding had needed to see was his eyes, to watch his expression as he dealt with the dilemma.

  Nathan had worked diligently over the ensuing ten years, often proving himself under fire, and the associate had become a trusted partner. Harding had been able to expand his business five-fold. Not a bad return on his investment.

  At 6:15 Nathan spotted a familiar shape approaching the apartment. Among his other talents, he had a knack for faces and had noticed the elderly woman leaving the apartment earlier. The two men left their rental and made their way through the drizzle to the other side of the street. They were dressed in dark jackets and slacks and wore thin black cotton gloves. The crepe soles on their shoes were designed to provide secure footing even on wet, normally-slippery surfaces, another precaution for the day’s forecast.

  They timed their arrival to match that of the woman and followed her up the steps to the entrance. She unlocked the security door and thanked them when they held it for her as she fumbled to get inside with her umbrella and grocery cart. Tired and wet from the rain, she had no desire for small talk and struggled down the hall and around the corner. Harding was sure their faces would rapidly fade from her memory.

  The men casually climbed the front stairs to the third floor and walked down the hall to apartment 3B. As Harding kept watch, Nathan produced two small metal wires from his pocket. It took him less than fifteen seconds to pick both the deadbolt and main locks. They entered the apartment, and Nathan relocked the door behind them.

  They pulled out pocket flashlights and made a pass through the apartment together, each man making a mental map of the territory and noting possible emergency exits and concealment locations. Then they separated and prepared the cover. It was to be a bungled robbery. Harding took the kitchen and bedroom, Nathan the dining area and study. They left the living room untouched so as to not alarm the target when he entered. Being so sloppy was against Harding’s nature but the result was all a part of the scene they needed to prepare. After fifteen minutes they completed the search, finding hardly anything worth stealing; only a few pieces of jewelry and a box Nathan had found buried on a hall closet shelf.

  Harding was just as glad that this time they were to leave the computer shit alone. He had never been able to understand the damned things. Explosives were as high tech as he could handle. Their client had complained that they had been too “obvious” in D.C. Harding had pointedly replied that he wasn’t a computer expert, and he had done exactly as they had agreed. If the gentleman persisted in complaining about their results, the relationship would be terminated and appropriate defensive actions would be taken.

  That had ended the client’s whining for the moment. It would not have been the first time that he had had to eliminate an unreasonable reference. It just wasn’t good for business.

  The target would enter the room, turn on the lights, and start to close the door. Nathan would perform the hit, while Harding secured the door. Then they would check the hall, and exit the building via the rear stairway. The trip to Logan Airport would be a breeze.

  Nathan pulled two folding chairs into the corner behind the doorway and the two men settled in. They drew long cylindrical silencers from their pockets and carefully screwed the extensions onto their Glocks. Their motions were practiced and automatic.

  Then they fell silent; the next minutes of quiet preparing them for the imminent rush.

  Chapter 30

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Saturday, 6:05 p.m.

  BRAXTON WAS ALREADY late, and fighting traffic was the last thing he had wanted to do. Boston’s driving reputation was well earned. Driving and parking in the city was a hassle and frequently hazardous. Taking the T was a much better idea. He caught a train just as it was leaving Harvard Station, and fifteen minutes later he was emerging into the twilight at Park Street.

  The clouds were heavy in the sky, but the sidewalks were dry. No rain yet. He cursed himself for not bringing an umbrella. He wasn’t much of a well-prepared escort.

  The Common was surprisingly busy; a mix of early-spring sightseers and afternoon shoppers, the latter balancing bags and boxes as they headed home after raiding the stores at Downtown Crossing.

  He turned up Tremont, took a right onto School Street, and entered the hotel.

  Walking into the Parker House was like stepping back in time. Located on Beacon Hill between the Massachusetts State House and Boston’s commercial district, it was one of the few grand old hotels left in the city. Heavy with oak and smelling of well-fed leather, it made him feel important just to be standing in the lobby. Perhaps it had lost a bit of its grandeur over the past one hundred and fifty years, but it was still a favorite of politicians, lobbyists, and business executives. He would have thought it a little pricy for a graduate student, but he was quickly discovering Susan Goddard was anything but typical.

  He dropped into an overstuffed gold-brocade wingback chair and settled in amidst the muted conversations of the gathered gentlemen and ladies. How could he be waiting here to take a Georgetown graduate student to dinner? He hoped he wouldn’t make a fool out of himself.

  The background chatter suddenly hushed and he followed the others’ eyes toward the staircase from the floor above. Whatever he was expecting, it could not have done justice to the striking woman making her way down the stairs. Goddard was wearing a shimmering blue silk suit cut to highlight her broad shoulders, slim waist and shapely legs. She had rolled her blonde hair into a tight French Braid at the back of her head and added just a touch of makeup. A pair of three-inch heels completed the transformation.

  Walking confidently over to Braxton, her long-legged strides reminded him more of a fashion model than a college student. Where had she achieved such grace?

  “Mr. Braxton. It’s very nice to see you again.” Goddard smiled and extended her hand.

  “Miss Goddard,” he said as he accepted the gesture. Her skin was soft, but she returned the handshake with an experienced firmness. “Ah, you look really nice.”

  “Why thank you.”

  That was a stupid start. Get it together, Adam. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you turned a number of heads just now.”

  A slight flush came to her cheeks and she seemed genuinely embarrassed. “I felt like dressing up a bit tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Although I’m afraid I’m a little under-dressed.”

  “I think you look just great.” Her face brightened the whole room.

  “Thanks. Do you like Italian food?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good, then let’s get going.”

  They took a taxi to the North End, Boston’s version of Little Italy. A close knit, fiercely ethnic neighborhood, it was dotted with exceptional Italian restaurants. Mama Peirina’s was a frequent tourist spot, but Braxton loved the food and the atmosphere.

  It was early in the evening, so they had their choice of tables. Braxton selected one that looked out over North Square Park. The rain had started, and tourists rushed to their destinations waving their umbrellas and sidestepping the puddles.

  They sat opposite each other beside a small candlelit sconce, surrounded by paintings depicting quaint Italian towns.

  A young waitress with long dark hair, olive-colored skin and a thick Italian accent promptly appeared. They left their menus closed and ordered two glasses of Prosecco to start the evening.

  “So what brings you to Boston?” Braxton asked as the waitress slinked back to the bar. “Did you say you had an interview?”

  “Yes,” Goddard replied. “I still have another year of grad school, but I’m looking for a summer internship at a TV station. Jobs at the networks in D.C. or New York are impossible. I thought I might have better luck up here.”

  “An interview on a Saturday”?

  She gave him a sly grin. “They were very accommodating to my class schedule.”

  He wanted to ask why, but sensed an answe
r wouldn’t be forthcoming. “How did it go?”

  “Pretty well I think. I interviewed with the programming manager at WGBH. I want to learn more about the media production end. ‘GBH does a lot of really good work in that area. They also collaborate with WNET in New York, so I would get back down there some as well.”

  “Are you from New York?”

  “Oh no, I was born in Virginia but I’ve lived in a number of places on the East Coast. I like the excitement of big cities.”

  Her travels explained a lot. Goddard was clearly a very polished woman with extensive experiences. It would explain her ability to move so easily in a variety of environments. He felt a bit like a small-town yokel in comparison.

  “It must be tough to move around like that,” Braxton finally replied.

  “It’s not so bad. You get used to it. I never learned how to make many friends, though. I’m afraid I’m pretty much of a loner.”

  That was certainly a surprise. Why would she feel so isolated?

  The waitress brought their glasses. Braxton raised his and toasted his lovely companion. “Cheers, Miss Goddard. To a successful visit.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. “So far it’s been very pleasant.”

  When she smiled, her eyes glowed with an excitement he couldn’t resist. He expected that she was able to put anyone completely at ease; when she wanted.

  “How did you get interested in TV?” he asked.

  “It’s not so much TV, but the whole area of news and information. It took me a long time to decide what I wanted to do. My undergraduate degree is in business but I just couldn’t see spending the rest of my life behind a desk. I was interested in media and government, and got into a great program at Georgetown. I think I can play a role in bringing government and politics directly to the people. And I love being back in D.C., too.”

  He was taken by her openness and enthusiasm. Did he ever feel the same way about his work? Maybe a long time ago.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just babbling.”

  “No, it’s okay. I was just thinking how refreshing it is to talk to someone that really likes what they’re doing. What’s your major?”

  “I’m in the Political Science Department, but my focus is on information and communications. I wanted to know more about the relationship between computers and the media so I started taking some computer science courses at GW. That’s how I met Mohammed.”

  Braxton hadn’t known how to broach her relationship with Ramal. Thankfully, she had provided the opening. He tried a small push. “How long had you known him?”

  “We were in the same class last term. He helped me with some assignments. When we both signed up for Multimedia Systems, we decided to work on a project together. He was a really good guy.”

  She paused and he didn’t know whether to continue. Her smile had changed into a sadder, more pensive look. Despite his initial jitters, he was enjoying her company very much. He hoped she felt the same way and didn’t want to ruin it.

  “Now tell me something about Mr. Adam Braxton,” she asked, turning the conversation to a lighter subject.

  “How about just Adam? Mr. Braxton sounds like a stuffy old man.”

  “Okay, Adam. And I’m Susan. Have you always worked with computers?”

  “Pretty much. My dad was an engineering manager for GE. That was back in the days of vacuum tubes and relays. He got me started tinkering with equipment when I was just a kid. I spent a lot of time at his laboratory all through school.”

  “He must have been very proud of you.”

  “I think he was. When I got to BC I just naturally gravitated to computer science.”

  “You went to Boston College”?

  “Yes. Another good Jesuit school like Georgetown.” He grinned. “That almost makes us brother and sister.”

  “Well, maybe not that close. Is your dad still working?”

  “No,” he said flatly. His smile immediately disappeared. Why did she have to ask that? “He retired a number of years ago. How about your parents?”

  “Oh, they’ve both passed away,” she replied sadly.

  They sat in an awkward silence, neither knowing how to continue the conversation.

  Goddard finally broke the ice. “How long have you been a security consultant?”

  The question felt like the stab of a knife. Why did she have to pry into that?

  He couldn’t just ignore her, so he paused, took a deep breath and replied.

  “Consulting is still pretty new. I went into the Army after BC and learned a lot about networks and security. Then I spent a few years in network research and development. We were working on internetworking protocols and network interfaces; the hardware and software that glues computers together.

  “When I decided to look for something new, a friend suggested consulting. To be honest, this is my first job for CERT. So far it has been quite an experience. And a pleasant one,” he added with an awkward smile.

  She acknowledged his attempt with a demur upturn at the corners of her mouth. “It must have been exciting helping to build the Internet. What made you decide to change?”

  He felt a knot tightening in his gut. Why did she have to talk about Century?

  “Uh, it really wasn’t that glamorous. We were just another company trying to break into a new market. Competition was fierce and we were having some difficulties in other product areas. It was a tough time.”

  “That does sound bad. Is the company still around?”

  The knots were getting tighter. Twisting up his backbone and squeezing his skull until he thought it would break. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

  “Yes, they’re doing just fine. Selling all the products I designed before . . .”

  “Did you get laid off?”

  Why can’t she just drop it? Can’t she see how upsetting it is? He felt beads of sweat dripping down his temples.

  “No, they fired me,” he shot back.

  “I’m sorry, it must have been really difficult.”

  “Look, I don’t want your pity,” Braxton suddenly yelled. He slapped the table, shaking the wine in their glasses. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  The room was struck mute by the outburst. Heads turned to locate the outburst, then, one by one, resumed their conversations.

  Goddard waited until the unwanted attention had passed. “I’m sorry Mr. Braxton. I didn’t mean to imply any pity.” She straightened in her chair and drew back from the table. “Perhaps we should do this another time.” Her voice was icy cold and distant.

  Braxton dropped his head into his hands and slowly rubbed the side of his head. The blood pounded at his temples like hammers on an anvil. Slowly he willed the tension to pass. He had lost Megan by behaving like this. God, please don’t let it happen again.

  “No, Miss Goddard, I’m the one who needs to apologize.” His voice was soft, almost pleading. “The last few years have been pretty hard for me. I thought things were getting better, but I guess I still haven’t put the ghosts to rest.” He managed a small smile. “I’d like to go ahead with dinner. I’ve really enjoyed the evening so far and we do still have some business to discuss. But if you want, I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

  Goddard stared into her wine glass as she slowly turned it between her fingers. “I guess it won’t hurt to stay. I want to help, and I did call you, after all.”

  “Thank you. I promise to keep the devils inside.” If I only knew how.

  He motioned for the waitress and they considered their menus. It provided a much-needed diversion from the previous conversation. Braxton ordered a Caesar salad for two and a small plate of antipasto. For their entrees, she selected a braised lamb and he picked the veal marsala. After a friendly debate, they settled on a bottle of Chianti Classico.

  The ensuing small talk was forced, both of the diners uncomfortable with the situation Braxton had caused. Dinner finally arrived and they took the opportunity to focus on the meal and let the nee
d for conversation subside.

  It was 7:30 when they finished. The restaurant had filled with a lively Saturday night crowd whose cacophony provided a protective shield for further discussion.

  “You mentioned on the phone that you remembered something about Mr. Ramal’s, ah Mohammed’s, work?” Braxton asked as their plates were being cleared.

  He watched her brace for the painful remembrance. “I think so. He hadn’t been making as much progress on our project as we needed. I asked him about it and he said he was tracking down some kind of network bug.”

  “Did he say ‘bug’ specifically?”

  “I’m not sure. It could have been bug, or maybe he said virus. That makes a difference doesn’t it?”

  “Very much. A bug would be some kind of hardware or software error. They’re usually accidental. A virus is intentional. It’s a special kind of software program that can break into networks and systems.”

  “I remember reading about those ransom viruses, the ones that lock your computer until your pay the bad guys. All my classmates were worried about losing the data we had on our PCs.”

  “Those were definitely serious, but it was pretty easy to avoid being infected. I’m sure it bumped up sales of anti-virus software, though. The vendors made out like bandits. It would be a good case for one of your communications classes.”

  Braxton began to relax. The discussion was back on safe turf. He hoped his companion felt the same way.

  “Mohammed had been working by himself for most of the week. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing. He wasn’t responding to my calls or email. I finally talked to him on Saturday and we agreed to get together at his apartment the next evening. That’s when he mentioned the virus.”

  “Did Mohammed keep any log of his activities? A notebook of any kind?”

  “He did have his research notebook. I know he put everything he did in it.”

  “Was it a real book or did he keep it electronically?”

  “It was a regular lab notebook. His thesis advisor required he keep it in hard copy. It was usually right next to his PC.”