by Dave Edlund
Gary had left the kitchen and was standing next to Peter. “Search for what?” he asked.
“What is your name and relationship to Mr. Savage?” Nakano asked.
“Gary Porter. I’m his friend. And who are you?”
“Let’s see your ID.”
“You first,” Gary said waspishly. “We have rights, you know.”
Detective Nakano rolled her eyes. She and Colson extended their shields for Gary to inspect, which he did in a most methodical fashion, serving only to further irritate the detectives.
“You still haven’t said what this is about,” Peter said, his voice even.
“Computers, data storage devices. We have a federal warrant for your arrest on charges of espionage and violation of the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act.”
“What? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Save it—not my call,” said Colson.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Nakano was reciting Peter’s Miranda Rights when the patrol officers emerged from the guest rooms with Gary’s laptop and another laptop taken from Peter’s office.
“Didn’t find any portable memory devices—no server either,” one of the officers reported.
“Okay,” Colson said. “Search upstairs. When you’re done here we’ll move on to his business. It’s on the ground floor below the residence.”
“Hey, that’s mine!” Gary said, referring to one of the laptops in a black nylon carry case. “You can’t take that!”
“This warrant says we can. Now, Mr. Porter, stand aside or I’ll arrest you for interfering with police business.”
“Relax, Gary,” Peter said. “I have no idea what this is really about, but we both know I didn’t break any laws. Call Martin Hanson; he’s my attorney. You’ll find his card on my desk. Tell him about our conversation last night.”
“What conversation?” Colson asked. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Dream on, Detective. Looks to me like playing nice is over.”
s
It took all day, but Martin Hanson had bail posted shortly after 4:00 p.m. An hour later, Peter was released from detention with orders not to leave Bend.
“The charges are serious, Peter.” Martin leaned back in his chair. His office was across the street from the jail. “I had to call in a huge favor from Judge Sullivan just to get you bailed out today. Fortunately for you, the jail is full and since you are a first-timer and non-violent, the judge agreed to expedite my request. The espionage charge is the most serious. The Government alleges you accessed secured data files and removed highly classified information. For the moment, they only filed charges for one count of espionage. But, in theory, they could charge you separately for each document that was illegally taken. If convicted, you could be sent to Federal Prison for the rest of your life.”
Peter’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“This is usually where my clients tell me they didn’t do it, and explain why.”
“Of course I didn’t access classified documents. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to do that, even if I wanted to.”
“That’s well and good, but you did end up in possession of the documents. Gary Porter explained everything to me this morning after the police arrested you.”
Peter shook his head. “That’s the weirdest part of this. We didn’t see those files until last night, about 11:00 p.m. or so. We were still reading them into the early morning hours.”
“You didn’t access those files from a government site? Gary Porter said he hacked into the email server and recovered deleted messages between Emma Jones and a Mr. Jon Q. Is that what happened?”
Peter told his story, confirming what he was certain Gary had already shared with Martin. “So, how come the police are knocking on my door with a warrant less than twelve hours after we gain access to these files from a deceased person’s deleted email? How did they even know that we were reading them? I’m not the one who stole them from a government website. That was probably Jon Q—whoever that is.”
“Is there a copy of those files on your computer?” Martin asked.
“No. And before you ask, Gary doesn’t have a copy either. We printed out copies and read those, then burned them in the fireplace.”
Martin folded his arms. “Well, if you didn’t make any electronic copies, and the only paper copies have been destroyed, the DA won’t be able to prove possession. And since you didn’t hack into whatever site was breached, it doesn’t sound like they’ll have a case. In the morning, I’ll file a motion to dismiss. The judge won’t rule on the motion until the DA has enough time to review the evidence. That could take a few weeks.”
Peter felt a pang of guilt for not telling Martin the whole truth. Sure, the files were not on his computer, but he did have a copy hidden away on a memory stick.
“In the meantime, stay out of trouble. And don’t leave town. If something comes up—family emergency or something—talk to me first. Understand?”
“Sure. Thank you Martin; I appreciate your help.”
Martin wrote a number on the back of one of his business cards. “This is my cell phone. If anything comes up—day or night—call me. That’s my job.”
“Thank you. Look, there’s one more thing.”
Martin raised an eyebrow.
“If anything should happen to me, contact Gary Porter. There’s an item hidden away—think of it as an insurance policy—anyway, Gary will tell you where to find it.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this item?”
“If it comes to that, you’ll know.”
Martin leaned forward, hands folded on his desk. “Peter, is there something you’re not telling me?”
Peter looked at his attorney, but decided not to voice his thoughts. There were far too many pieces missing from the puzzle, and even he wasn’t sure any of it made sense.
Chapter 9
Bend, Oregon
April 18
It had been a long, stressful day, and Peter was emotionally exhausted. But he had one more thing to do. After he finished at Martin’s office, he called Kate. Although she had not seen the emails or the classified files, Peter had a nagging fear that something deeper, something sinister, was in play.
“Have you had any recent contact with the police?” he asked.
“No, why? Is something wrong?”
“Yeah, you could say so. I was arrested for espionage. My attorney got me out on bail only a couple hours ago.”
“What?” Peter could hear the concern in Kate’s voice.
“I got a friend to help me, and we know what was in Emma’s email.” Peter paused to see if Kate was going to respond; she didn’t.
“That’s what got me in trouble. I need to talk to you… soon.”
She hesitated. “Okay. I’m at the house, but only for another hour. Just packing a few more things. I’ve been staying with a friend.”
Peter drove directly to the rental where he had first met Kate. She must have seen him drive up, because she opened the door before he knocked.
Most of the furniture was gone. All that remained was the sofa in the living room and the dining table and chairs. Peter glanced into the kitchen and noticed many of the cabinet doors open. Cardboard boxes were on the floor and bubble wrap on the counter, ready to embrace the remaining glasses and dishes.
Kate looked exhausted. Her eyes appeared sunken with dark circles underneath, and she moved slowly, with effort. She looked at Peter, her arms folded across her chest.
“How are you doing, at your friend’s place?” he asked.
“Fine. I’m almost completely moved. Sold some of the furniture—just the sofa and table left. Someone’s coming tomorrow to look at them.”
Peter nodded. He hated moving, and this was ten times worse for Kate. “Can I help you finish boxing up the kitchen?”
“That’s not why you came here,” she said.
“No, it’s not. You said that Emma was w
orking on something on her laptop early the morning she was killed, and that she tried to hide it from you.”
“Yes. She said it was for a term paper, but I didn’t believe her.”
“I think I know what she was doing. We found a number of messages in her account. The messages had been deleted, but a friend of mine knows how to retrieve that sort of stuff.”
“So your friend is a hacker.” She said it as an accusation, not a question.
Peter tipped his head to the side, deciding how much information he would share. “Not exactly. More like computer forensics and cyber security.”
Kate nodded.
“Anyway, this person Emma was corresponding with had emailed a large file late the previous night. I’d bet that’s what she was reading when you spoke to her in the morning. The file details top secret memos and reports related to an incident that happened a long time ago—an attack on a U.S. Naval ship. A lot of sailors died.”
Kate sat on the sofa and Peter followed her, taking the opposite end.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“That information was not supposed to be released to the public. I think someone killed her because she had those files.”
“This doesn’t sound like Emma, not at all. She would never go looking for secrets, especially classified secrets. And you said the ship was attacked a long time ago, so why would anyone even care anymore?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
s
“What do you have?” Angela Meyers said, foregoing a greeting as a waste of time.
“It’s that Simpson woman,” Richard Nyden said. “She’s talking to Peter Savage and somehow they’ve managed to recover deleted emails from that hacker in Friday Harbor.”
“What do they know?”
“I’m listening to the conversation now. Savage claims they recovered the entire PDF file that was received by Emma Jones.”
“Is he telling the truth?”
“You want me to ask him?”
“I want you to fix this problem for good!” Meyers nearly shouted into the phone.
“Yeah, I think Savage has read the file, or at least portions of it. He knows it’s about the Liberty incident, and he referred to memos and investigative reports.”
“Keep listening and find out if anyone else knows about this. And deal with those two!”
“I’m on my way there now,” Nyden said and then ended the call. He was only a couple blocks away from Kate’s house.
The street was deserted as before. “This is one quiet neighborhood,” he mumbled as he parked the dark blue sedan across the street from Kate’s rented house. He continued to listen to the conversation, adjusting the fit of the ear buds and turning the volume down a little. The bugs he planted—one in the living room inside a floor air register, one on top of a cabinet in the kitchen, and one in a floor register in the bedroom—continued to send a strong signal. The devices were very small and would remain powered by the internal battery for two weeks. To accommodate for the limited range of the transmissions, he placed a repeater in the hall closet on the top shelf behind a stack of bedsheets and towels. No one would find it unless they climbed onto a stool and searched all the way to the back of the shelf.
s
“Do you have any idea if Emma had a relative—maybe a father or uncle—who served in the Navy on the USS Liberty?” Peter said.
Kate was shaking her head. “No, her father works at a bank in Portland. He and Emma’s mother visited here often, and always for the holidays—Thanksgiving and Christmas. They’d take us both to dinner, except for Christmas. But they helped Emma and me cook dinner, and they bought all the food. I never heard Mr. Jones talk about the military. I don’t think he served.”
Peter rubbed his chin. “I know someone who can check it out. There must be some connection, some reason—”
“Your hacker friend? I don’t want him messing with their personal information. They’re nice people.”
“No, nothing to worry about. I’m thinking of someone else—he’s in military intelligence and can check service records.”
Kate nodded. “This is just so out of character for her. I don’t understand.”
“I’ll continue to work on the why. But right now the bigger question is who is trying to keep this information secret?”
“It’s the government, right? I mean, it’s always the CIA or FBI.” Kate looked like she was about to cry, but she held back the tears and chewed her lip.
“Sometimes it isn’t that simple. Everyone is eager to believe conspiracy theories, but most of the time the truth is not so complicated.”
“What happened to this ship, anyway?” she asked.
Peter smiled, appreciating the opportunity to move the conversation away from the grim reality. “It was the fifth of June, 1967, and the Six-Day War had just begun. Israel launched a pre-emptive attack on the Arab coalition—Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Iraq, Kuwait, and Algeria. In a brilliant move, Israeli warplanes destroyed most of the Egyptian air force on the ground, and then went on to decimate the air forces of Jordan, Syria, and Iraq.
“With air superiority, the Israeli Self-Defense Force launched a blitz against Egyptian ground forces in the Gaza Strip and the Sinai, quickly winning that territory all the way to the Suez Canal. Israel went on to defeat Jordan, capturing the West Bank and the Old City of Jerusalem, and they defeated Syria, taking control of the Golan Heights.
“It was on June 8, during the height of the conflict, that the USS Liberty was sailing in the eastern Mediterranean not far off the coast of Egypt. She was in international waters and flying the American flag.”
“And the ship was attacked,” Kate said, already knowing the answer.
“That’s right. She was attacked—by Israel.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “Why? Israel and the U.S. are allies. Right?”
“Yes,” Peter said. “Israel claimed it was a mistake, but the attack lasted many hours and involved both fighter aircraft and torpedo boats.”
Kate was speechless, her jaw slightly agape.
“Everything I just said is public record, a common narrative you’ll find if you do a search on the ship’s name. And yet, in that file emailed to your roommate, there are a hundred pages of documents that are still labeled classified—some from the White House, some from the Department of the Navy, some from the State Department—that reveal details that were never shared with the public.”
“Like what?”
“There’s a lot there. Some of the information corroborates what’s in the public domain. To be honest, I’ve only read a small number of the documents.”
“Did the Navy send other ships or planes to protect the Liberty?”
Peter shook his head. “The Liberty managed to send out a mayday radio signal that was received by the Sixth Fleet. They were also sailing in the Mediterranean. Attack aircraft were launched from both the America and the Saratoga, twice in fact, but those planes were recalled before they arrived on site.”
“Surely that was a mistake,” Kate said.
Peter shook his head. “No. Launching and recalling warplanes from the deck of an aircraft carrier is not done by mistake.”
“Okay, so there must be a rational explanation. And I still don’t see how any of this could motivate someone to murder Emma.”
“I’m certain the answer can be found in those documents, but it’s going to take a lot of time to read and digest that information, and then cross reference it with other sources.”
There was a knock and Kate swung her head toward the front door.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Peter asked.
She shook her head.
Peter approached the door and looked through the narrow glass sidelight to the right of the entrance. He saw a middle-aged man with short, black hair. He was wearing a suit and tie. Beyond, on the other side of the street, Peter noticed a dark blue sedan—it had not been parked there when Peter pulled into the driveway.
He opened the door partway and leaned around the edge of the door.
“I’m Agent Barnes, FBI. Is Kate Simpson home?”
She was standing back from Peter, looking through the partially-opened door at the agent. “Yes, I’m Kate.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”
“Just a minute,” Peter said. “How about some ID first.”
Agent Barnes reached inside his suit coat until he grasped a wallet from the jacket pocket. As the coat opened, Peter noticed the grip of his weapon, secured in a shoulder holster. With practiced fluency, Barnes flipped open the wallet and displayed the gold badge along with his ID card.
“If you’re satisfied, may we move on?” Barnes said as he returned the wallet.
“You’re from the Bend field office?”
“No, I drove from Portland. It’s been a long day. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Ms. Simpson.”
“Why not fly? It’s a lot faster.”
Barnes placed his hands on his hips and addressed Peter. “Mister…”
“Savage, Peter Savage.”
Exactly as Barnes thought. Now he had confirmation: both his marks were still at the house.
“Mr. Savage, you are very close to obstructing an official investigation. Now, my business is with Kate Simpson. So I’ll ask once more. May I come in to discuss this matter, or would you prefer we continue in more official surroundings?”
“It’s okay, Peter. Let Agent Barnes in.”
Peter opened the door wider, but not by much. He kept his legs planted securely and his shoulder against the solid wood door.
As Barnes was passing through the opening, Peter suddenly slammed his weight into the door, driving it into the agent. Barnes was crushed against the door frame. His head bounced first off the door and then the frame. Already blood was seeping from a gash at the edge of his scalp.
Quickly, Peter opened the door and was straddling Barnes. He slammed his fist into the agent’s face, bloodying his nose. Barnes was barely conscious, on the verge of passing out. Peter reached inside his jacket and ripped out the holstered weapon.
