The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  The trash did little to damage the ambiance of the place. The motel was a shabby remnant of the early days of interstate travel, a weathered strip of dirty windows and peeling doors in a less than successful neighborhood of Fairfax County. He couldn’t understand how the structure was still standing in the face of the inflated metropolitan D.C. property values. Convenient to the Metro terminus, yet unassuming and set in the shadows of a large stand of oak trees, it was frequented primarily by truckers and other travelers of the night.

  The room was small; the double bed, dresser, sofa, chair and coffee table nearly filling the available space. An even smaller bath led off through a door along the back wall. A tiny LED TV sat on the dresser. At least the motel offered cable and Wi-Fi—he had watched CNN while waiting for Goddard—although the anchors’ faces did have a decidedly greenish cast. A heavy scent of deodorant permeated the room no matter how much he had tried to air it out. He didn’t want to think of what odors it was covering.

  For once, setting up the PC had been easy. The laptop had been preloaded with all the right software. All he had to do was turn it on. The printer had a USB cable and worked the first time. He copied Chamberlain’s original file to the computer, then the files he had downloaded at GW.

  It was time to get to work.

  Chapter 63

  Vienna, Virginia

  Sunday, 4:00 p.m.

  THERE WAS A sound from the bathroom and he looked up to see Goddard coming through the door. She was wrapped in one of the thin terrycloth towels that passed as linens from the motel management. It barely covered her breasts and hips, and dangled suggestively as she walked over to the dresser. He couldn’t help but wonder if it had been carefully draped that way by his companion.

  Looking at her now, he realized he cared deeply for the young woman standing before him. Unfortunately their current situation was hardly conducive to a lasting relationship. He wasn’t sure if either of them would ever feel safe again.

  “Get some clothes on,” he ordered with a smile. “We’ve got work to do and I can’t concentrate with you flagging around like that.”

  “Like this?” she said feigning an innocent smile and striking a very distracting pose. “Okay, I’ll go find a sack to put on.”

  Goddard grabbed some items from the bags on the floor, and disappeared back into the bathroom. She seemed in a much better mood so he wrote her earlier behavior off to fatigue and a long day. When she returned a few minutes later, she was wearing a loose calico blouse and a pleasingly snug pair of designer blue jeans.

  She would have been just as appealing in the potato sack.

  “Any progress?” she finally asked, crawling onto the bed next to him.

  He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Not much. There’s still a lot of questions. How about you?”

  “I got some information, mostly on Chamberlain. It’s in my purse. Nothing that would tie him to Nicholson though.”

  “We’ve got to find the connections. I think Nicholson really believed I killed Chamberlain. If he didn’t kill Warren who did?”

  “Maybe someone else is involved. Did Chamberlain have any close friends?”

  “Not that I remember. He was a real loner. What about Potterfield? Could he be behind all this?”

  “I don’t think he knows about Chamberlain and the mole.” Her voice was oddly flat and her smile had vanished.

  “Why not? He doesn’t seem the computer type, but he certainly was involved with Nicholson from the look of those files.”

  She avoided his look and straightened the papers on the bed. “I went to see him today.”

  “You went to see him!” Braxton nearly dropped the computer on the floor. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Why? He could have had you arrested! What happened?”

  She pushed him away and glared back defiantly. “Nothing. I didn’t stay long.”

  “Why did you go?”

  “I don’t know. I was walking around after the library and found myself at the Senate Office Building. I had to go in.”

  “What did he say when he saw you?”

  “Oh, he denied everything, of course. I got upset and just ran out. I’m sorry. Okay? You don’t have to get mad.”

  She fought to keep her composure but tears welled in her eyes. He now understood what had caused her emotional entrance.

  “I’m not mad,” he said with a sense of relief. “But you could have been caught; he could have called the police. We don’t know who is out there looking for us.” He reached out again, this time she didn’t resist, and pulled her closer. “Promise me you won’t do anything like that again.”

  “I promise.” She wiped her eyes on his shirt and straightened up. “There, I’m fine. Now tell me about your day. Did you call Fowler?”

  “Yes, this morning. He gave me a lot of grief about Nicholson. I agreed we’d meet with him tomorrow.”

  “Is he going to get Nicholson’s files?”

  “I think so, but our credibility is running out. He’s gone way out on a limb for us. We’ve got to get him some proof.”

  “Did you make any progress on Chamberlain’s file?”

  “Not a lot. The good news is that we know what encoding program he used. Chamberlain would have had access to all kinds of technology. He could have used nearly any encryption program. Luckily he used PGP. I downloaded some PGP programs from the Internet that can do the decoding.”

  “I still don’t understand why Chamberlain would use something so easily available.”

  “The strength of PGP is that it is so available. And so secure. It was the best when Chamberlain chose it and he had no reason to change.

  “I also figured out that he used a symmetric cipher. That means we only need a single passphrase or keyword. Unfortunately that phrase could be anything.”

  “So how do we find the keyword?”

  “What we can’t do is break it by brute force, trying all the keys. It’s essentially impossible to crack. At least for us. That’s why the government tried to stop anyone from using it.”

  Goddard looked dejected. “You mean we can’t read Chamberlain’s journal?”

  “I didn’t say that. We just need to figure out what passphrase he used. I made a few simple guesses at GW but they didn’t work. I didn’t figure it would be that easy.”

  “How do we find the right one? What would Chamberlain have used?”

  “The safest keyphrase is a string of random letters, no one can guess it. But most people use something that is easier to remember: a date, the current month, the name of their sister’s dog. What do you use for your password at Georgetown?”

  “We have to change it every semester. I use the name of the season and the year, like spring-oh-one.”

  Braxton smiled and shook his finger at her. “Seasons are really popular. It would take a security expert about two minutes to break into your account. One of the files I copied from CERT was a keyword list that was taken from one of the cracker newsgroups. It should help get us started. But Chamberlain would know enough to pick something more complex. We need to add words that were important to Chamberlain. That’s where you come in. Let’s look at what you got from the library.”

  Goddard reached into her purse and pulled out a small stack of papers. “Like I said, it isn’t much. Will it help?”

  He took the papers and scanned them quickly. There were copies of biographies and a few recent magazine articles on Century Computer and the Potterfield Bill. She had also taken some handwritten notes from smaller articles. “Everything helps. These are a great start. Besides the keywords, I also wanted to see if there was anything that might explain the connection between them.”

  Goddard pulled a few pages from the stack. “I did find that they were at MIT at the same time. That doesn’t mean they knew each other though. Chamberlain was an engineer and Nicholson was a business major. The only other common element was Century’s support of Potterfield’s Bill.

  “Do
you think we can guess the right keyphrase from any of this?”

  “I’m certainly going to try. But there’s something else. Warren wanted me to have the drive. He must have realized his life was in danger. Remember I told you he tried to tell me something just before he died? I’m sure that had something to do with the keyphrase.”

  “Did you try it today?”

  “I tried ‘cash’ and it didn’t work. But that’s too simple. He would have complicated it; added some more words, duplicated it, changed case on some of the letters. We should be able to find the right one eventually. That’s what those programs I downloaded do. It’s just going to take some time.”

  “Great! So let’s go back to GW and try it out.”

  Braxton hesitated. “Ah, there’s just one problem. The FBI came to the Center this afternoon.”

  “Adam!” Goddard’s eyes popped wide.

  “It’s okay.” He raised his hands in mock defense. “I got out before they recognized me, but they’ll undoubtedly put a watch on the terminals and Ramal’s account. I don’t think I can go back there.”

  “Then how do we decode the file?”

  He pulled the GW memory stick from his pocket. “With this and our new computer, we’re going to find the answer.”

  “Then let’s get started,” she said.

  “One thing first. This is for you.” He handed her Chamberlain’s original drive. “Put it somewhere safe. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “I don’t know. Just in case. Okay?”

  “Fine.” She grabbed the drive from his hand, reached inside her blouse and stuck it inside her bra. “Safe enough?”

  He gave up trying to argue with her and ignored the question.

  Setting the keyword list on the bed beside the laptop he began pecking away at the keys. “I’m entering the word list we talked about. The programs I downloaded will take the words and combine them in different ways to form a key phrase. Like ‘chamberlainpotterfield’ or ‘nicholsonchamberlaincash’. It will try all the combinations and permutations, backwards and forwards. I can vary the case of the letters and do substitutions like replacing ‘a’ with the at sign as well. The program will send each generated keyphrase to the PGP program. The right phrase will decode his journal.”

  “How long will it take before we know?”

  “It only takes a few milliseconds for each phrase. That may not seem very long but there are a lot of combinations. Let’s hope we get lucky.”

  They watched the screen in anticipation as it displayed each attempt. Each result was a frustrating rejection. Goddard made some coffee after about 10 minutes.

  At five-thirty Braxton stood up and stretched. Goddard was on the sofa reading the background on Chamberlain and Potterfield.

  “Do you have to watch the screen?” she asked.

  “No. The program will announce when it’s successful. I’m just anxious. But it’s giving me a killer headache.”

  He walked over to the sofa, dropped down and put his feet up on the rickety coffee table. “Maybe I’ll join you. When’s dinner?”

  Goddard looked over, flashed a withering scowl and threw the papers at him.

  “Guess that means I call out, huh?” he replied.

  * * *

  Braxton had gone out for pizza and when he returned he saw that Goddard had straightened up the mess of boxes, papers and shopping bags and set out drinks. The room wasn’t home, but at least it was now livable.

  “Any luck yet?” he asked as he set the box on the coffee table.

  “Nothing but silence,” she replied. “What did you get?”

  “One meat-eaters delight and one veggie. Thought I’d cover all bases.”

  “Hope you like the veggie,” she countered.

  They sat and picked absently at the slices.

  “We’re not going to find it, are we?” she said, verbalizing what they both had been thinking. Depression was filling the room. She knew they couldn’t go on this way much longer.

  Braxton glanced over to the laptop which Goddard had set on the adjoining chair. “The key length is up to fifty characters,” he said. “I can’t believe Chamberlain would have used a phrase that long. We don’t have the right words.” His voice reflected his weariness and dejection.

  “It was just our first shot,” she said. “Let’s think about what we need to do next.”

  “I think what we need is a good night’s sleep,” Braxton replied. “I’m beat. Let’s go back over your notes tonight, update our word list, and give the program another shot. We can see what happened in the morning before we meet Detective Fowler.”

  Goddard nodded and they went back to the pizza. After a few minutes of silence, which felt like hours, she said, “How about we check the news? See what they have to say about Nicholson. Maybe we’ll hear something helpful.” And break the dark mood of this place.

  They sat back on the sofa and snuggled together, the talking heads reciting the news of the day in the background. He drew her to him and softly kissed her cheek.

  He really was handsome, despite his ridiculous disguise. She realized how much better she felt just having him next to her. Together they would find the proof they needed.

  Nicholson’s murder was still a top story. Aides to Senators didn’t get killed every day, even in the crime-ridden District of Columbia.

  The police concluded Nicholson had tried to fight off an attempted robbery; a conclusion that was supported by the powder burns on his raincoat and Nicholson’s missing wallet. It was believed the subsequent break-in at his house had been thwarted by the quick action of the police. There were cries for increased police presence, complaints about drug abuse, and requests for increased congressional funding of D.C. law enforcement.

  No one mentioned the incident at the restaurant.

  They acted like a pair of teenagers in their parent’s basement, awkwardly hugging and stealing a kiss while the reality of their lives was played out on the TV screen. Goddard didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In the middle of one particularly extended kiss, they heard a familiar name.

  “In related news,” the male anchor said, “this afternoon Senator David Potterfield, the Senior Senator from Virginia, spoke to reporters outside his slain aide’s townhouse.”

  Braxton broke the embrace in time to see Potterfield coming out of Nicholson’s home. “Dammit, what is he doing there?”

  “ . . . I have recently discovered that my long-time friend and Chief of Staff, Barclay Nicholson, has been involved in the theft of confidential legislative documents. We do not know why he took the documents or if they were passed to any outside individuals. I am personally saddened by this disclosure and truly hope that we will find some explanation for his actions. Barclay was a dedicated and hardworking servant of the people.”

  “Senator,” an invisible voice said. “Is this theft connected to Mr. Nicholson’s death?”

  Potterfield looked aside briefly then replied. “The police have no reason to suspect that Barclay’s death was anything but an unfortunate accident. I’m sorry, but I will have no further comment on this situation until the investigation has been completed.” The Senator then marched past the reporters followed by a gaggle of well-dressed staffers. Behind them, Braxton saw uniformed guards taking cardboard boxes out of the townhouse and loading them into vans.

  “It’s Nicholson’s files. They’re taking them away! Where the hell is Fowler?”

  He jumped up from the sofa.

  “What are you doing?” Goddard yelled at him.

  “Calling Fowler. He screwed up!”

  Braxton walked over to the dresser, picked up the handset from the room’s land line and punched the buttons. After three rings he heard the familiar Fowler family greeting. Where was he?

  “Dammit, Sam, it’s Adam. What happened? I just saw Potterfield on TV. He took our evidence. Call me at . . .” He stopped, realizing that even giving out his number over the telephone was probably a bad idea
. “Never mind, we can talk tomorrow. I want to know what happened.”

  Goddard watched as he slammed the handset back in the cradle. Her face was drawn and tired from the day’s trials.

  “How could Potterfield have found out about the files?” Braxton asked as he paced in front of the sofa.

  “Adam,” she whispered.

  “I guess the police could have contacted him. But I’m surprised they acted so quickly. Why didn’t Fowler stop them?”

  “Adam!” she demanded. “Listen to me.”

  She sighed and dropped her head. “I told Potterfield.”

  Braxton’s head snapped to face her. “You what?”

  “Today, when I went to see him. He was so pompous, so sure of himself. I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t think he could do something like this. I’m so sorry.” She collapsed in his lap, sobbing.

  He held her tightly and softly stroked her hair. If only he could absorb all the pain she held inside her. “It’s all right. We’re not to blame. It’s their fault.”

  She looked up into his eyes, tears streaming down her face. “That’s it isn’t it? Potterfield has won.”

  “Not yet,” Braxton said, his voice prickling with hate. “Not yet.”

  Chapter 64

  The Mall, Washington, D.C.

  Monday, 11:30 a.m.

  DELICATE PINK AND white blossoms burst from the cherry trees along the Tidal Basin. In 1912, the Japanese people had given 3000 seedlings to their new friends across the Pacific. The two countries’ political tides may have ebbed and flowed over the ensuing years, but every spring the gift brought a flash of promise and rejuvenation to the staid nation’s capital. Not to mention a horde of visiting tourists.

  The Basin was filled with sightseers admiring the colors and taking in the warm noontime sun. A breeze stirred the air and brought the blossom’s light, sweet aroma to two overworked bureaucrats taking a break on the bench just off the main path. The white limestone of the Jefferson Monument glistened behind them. Their eyes lazily scanned the grounds taking in the peaceful beauty.