by Dave Edlund
“Of course I know. It’s all over the national news. I can’t reach Peter, and I suspect you can’t either. That’s why you’re calling me.”
Jim took two calming breaths. “Correct on both accounts. Those secret files… Lieutenant Lacey has been unable to access them. I understand that you and Peter read portions. What can you share with us?”
“Oh, there’s a lot I can share—”
“Hold it there,” Jim interrupted. “I have Lacey here in my office. I want to put you on the speaker.”
“Yeah, sure,” Gary answered. He paused until he heard the change in tone of the signal before continuing. “The documents were from many different government sources—the Navy, Congress, even the White House. They all were dated between summer and fall of 1967. But I didn’t have a chance to read everything. In fact, we only scanned through maybe half of the memos and reports.”
Gary spent the next twenty minutes relaying what he’d read and discussed with Peter. Jim and Ellen both took notes, occasionally interrupting to ask questions, seeking clarification before Gary continued. When he finished, they were dumbstruck.
The silence hung heavy. Jim was the first to speak. “If those documents are genuine, it’s no wonder they were stamped with the highest level of secrecy and kept from the public.”
“But why now?” Lacey asked. “I mean, the Six-Day War was a long time ago. Lyndon Johnson and Robert McNamara are both deceased. And why are these documents still classified?”
“And why did someone commit murder over them?” Jim added.
“If you ask me, maybe the Liberty really was spying on Israel and sharing information with Egypt. You know, covering our bets, just in case Israel lost the war.”
Ellen Lacey rolled her eyes, earning a brief smile from Jim.
“Did you find any evidence to support that theory?” Jim asked.
“No, but you can’t disprove it either.”
“Be that as it may,” Lacey said, “it wouldn’t justify the on-going top-secret classification of the documents you read.”
“Okay,” Gary said defensively. “Maybe the government of Israel wants to keep the incident secret at all cost. Maybe they’re afraid the U.S. will halt arms sales and other support. You know, we give Israel billions each year in foreign aid. If the public learned about the attack on the Liberty and the role Israel played, maybe they would force Congress to cut off support.”
Lacey was shaking her head. “That makes no sense either. It’s been public knowledge all along that Israeli forces attacked the Liberty. And the Israeli government paid reparations decades ago.”
“Without time to carefully read or study all of those documents, I don’t think we’re going to figure out the why,” Jim said. “So how about focusing on who and how?”
Gary was prepared for this opening. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I can’t say just yet who is behind the murders in Bend, but I may be able to tell you how they seem to know whenever the top-secret files end up in someone’s electronic mailbox.”
“That would be a good start,” Jim said.
“A simple bot that phones home whenever the file or files are opened. That’s how I’d do it if I were keeping tabs on information that no one was supposed to ever see.”
“But you forwarded that file along with other emails to your server…” Lacey’s voice conveyed confusion.
“And you’re wondering why no one has shown up yet at my door to kill me?”
Lacey looked at Jim, who appeared equally confused.
“Elementary. I didn’t open the file. Peter insisted I delete the PDF file and all emails I recovered.”
“Let me get this straight,” Jim said. “You don’t have the files on your server?”
“Like I said, I deleted them. They were there for only a few minutes. I never even opened them. Actually, that’s what clued me in. You see, if receiving the file triggered a flag, then I should have been stormed by now, too. But since that hasn’t happened—and I haven’t spotted anyone following me or otherwise being annoying, other than the cashier at the grocery store who wanted to chat way too much—I concluded that merely receiving the file was okay.”
Jim raised his eyebrows. “It does make sense. Possessing the file is meaningless if the file isn’t opened to read or print.”
“Or copied. The flag would also have to be triggered if the file was copied. The IP address for whatever machine was opening or copying the file would be sent to the owner—”
Lacey interrupted, “Sorry. Owner?”
“Owner, file manager… whoever is responsible to keep the information under wraps.”
“But you did open the file, and print it, at Peter’s house,” Jim said.
“Yes. Peter insisted I use his ISP address. He didn’t want anything to be traced back to me.”
“And you did?”
“Of course.”
Jim and Lacey exchanged concerned looks. “So whoever is managing the file likely knows it was opened by Peter.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid so,” Gary answered, his tone conveying regret. “I could have spoofed a dozen ISP addresses from locations around the world. Had them following the trail for weeks. But Peter said that would tip them off and make it harder for us to figure out who they are.”
“Well, what’s done is done,” Jim said. “Can you help us identify whoever is receiving notifications when the file is accessed?”
“Oh, this application of bots to notify a manager when a subject file is accessed is rudimentary, barely more advanced than child’s play. Since this is my business, I figured it out pretty fast. But I’m certain you would have arrived at the same conclusion given enough time.”
Lacey flushed at the put down, intended or not.
“We’re working together, remember?” Jim said.
“Right. Sorry, I didn’t intend to offend Lieutenant Lacey. I’m sure she’s good at that intelligence stuff.”
“You just did it again. How about you stop trying to compliment my Senior Intelligence Analyst and tell us about this bot. How can we find out who it ‘phones home to’ as you phrased it?”
“I could hack into secret government servers, open the file, and see who knocks on my door?”
Lacey jumped in quickly, cutting off Jim as he was about to speak. “No! Under no circumstances are you to open or copy that file, or hack into any databases.”
“Just kidding. You must think I’m crazy.”
“Close,” Jim said.
“Without opening or copying the file…” Gary repeated the conditions of the challenge. “Off the top of my head, I think I’d construct a bot to surf my server. Once it finds the file—that won’t take long since I already know a lot about the file—it will access the data and search for a particular type of code.”
“Slow down,” Lacey said. “A minute ago you said you deleted the file and emails.”
“I did. But that just means the file marker was removed. The information is still there. It shouldn’t be hard to find. The code will be obvious.”
“Code that would be used to send an IP address to a third party,” Jim said.
“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yes, you’re basically correct.”
“When can you start?” Jim asked.
“Am I going to get arrested for this?”
Lacey rolled her eyes again. “Mr. Porter. Your friend’s life may be at stake.”
“Still, I think that’s a fair question. But relax. I’ve already started. Should have the bot constructed within a couple hours and the code debugged. Late today probably. Once I upload it to my server, it won’t take more than a few minutes for it to find the relevant lines in the file.”
“Thank you, Gary,” Jim said. “Call me tonight, once you have that code.”
“I will. And let me know when you hear from Peter.”
Chapter 20
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 21
Nadya didn’t like it.
Something felt wrong. She’d learned to trust her instincts years ago, on another mission, in Gaza. She had been ordered to infiltrate a cell loyal to Fatah. Mossad believed the cell was responsible for training and equipping two suicide bombers who had struck in Tel Aviv, detonating their vests on crowded city buses. More than 30 civilians had died, an equal number wounded. But it was the death of two toddlers—nine-month-old twin girls—that galvanized the government to take action.
After three months working undercover, pretending to be a radical wanting to join Fatah, she was invited to a meeting at a coffee house. There she was introduced to Farouq Salih, believed to be the leader of the cell. After nearly an hour of rambling conversation, she was asked if she was ready to be a martyr. Ever patient and cautious, this was the opening she’d been waiting for. The conversation was interrupted when Salih’s phone rang, and he excused himself to speak privately.
Two minutes passed, then three. And Farouq Salih still did not return to the table. Some sixth sense told Nadya she’d been made, that she needed to leave right away. With the cell’s leader nowhere in sight, she stood and went to the restroom. That’s when she heard the explosion. Salih had placed a bomb in his backpack and left it on the sidewalk at the table.
From that day on, she never doubted her instinct. Now, she was tracking Peter Savage in the deep draw alongside the creek. A waterfall was just ahead. She saw the game trail coming down the steep slope beside the cascading water and easily surmised that he’d climbed out of the gully along that same trail.
There was another set of prints in the soft mud next to the creek—a dog. “Savage is not alone,” she informed Joshua and pointed to the prints.
He stopped next to Nadya, speaking in a low whisper. “They left the point under cover of this drainage, that’s why we never saw him leave.”
“We must be extra cautious and quiet. The dog will hear us first.” Nadya looked around at the steep edges of the draw. “We must go back.”
Joshua looked confused and shook his head.
“Yes,” she said. “He will be expecting us to crest the ridge there, following his trail.”
Silently Nadya and Joshua backtracked a quarter of a mile. When she judged they were far from the spot Peter Savage would be watching, she climbed away from the creek, Joshua behind her. Before she reached the top of the ridgeline, she dropped flat and crawled until she could just see over to the next ridge.
There she lay. Motionless. Watching.
Perfectly still, she waited five minutes. Nothing. No movement, nothing that appeared out of place. Farther up the ridge she saw a copse of trees. From where she lay, the terrain was barren all the way to the evergreens. Just gravel, dirt, and an occasional boulder.
Pointing, Nadya leaned close to Joshua and whispered. “If he’s on this ridge, that’s where he’ll be.”
Ahead about ten meters was a boulder, large enough for the two of them to hide behind while glassing the grove of trees. Nadya looked to Joshua and motioned with her hand, her fingers counting down… three, two, one. They rose and sprinted in a crouch for the boulder. Given the coarseness of the gravel, there was almost no dust as they slid in behind the igneous outcropping.
Nadya scanned the trees through her binoculars, resting against the rock for stability. She was methodical, searching the deep shadows for anything resembling a human form. The distance was significant; she estimated it be about 500 meters to the leading edge of the grove. She started glassing at the closest point, working back and forth, slowly, deliberately—searching.
s
Peter was beginning to wonder if he’d miscalculated. The two pursing him should have followed his trail along the creek and emerged over the lip of the ridge by now. Something isn’t right, he thought.
He shifted his position and scanned with the binoculars further up slope. If they’d missed his tracks, they might be climbing to higher elevation. He followed the ridge—no sign of them. He checked the other ridgelines off to the right and left, systematically checking the boulders, fallen trees, and foliage for the gunmen.
After thoroughly glassing the terrain, he leaned against the root ball to think it through. What would he do? Diesel was sitting, muscles tensed, staring down slope. The canine was a frozen statue, reminiscent of a stone lion except many times smaller. Then his ears perked up.
A sound, and it had Diesel’s full attention.
Peter was savvy enough to trust his dog. If Diesel was alert, Peter should be, too.
Then the realization came home. They didn’t go up hill—they went down to lower elevation.
Peter leaned around the root ball, binoculars up.
s
Nadya saw the glint of light off the optics first. It was next to a horizontal log with root wood still attached, although most of the branches had long ago rotted away. She watched patiently, completely still.
“Gotcha,” she mouthed, not risking being heard even at a whisper.
The image was of a man leaning into the dead tree. He was also holding binoculars, and looking in her general direction, but not directly at her.
She turned to Joshua. “Ahead, he’s there. Against the fallen tree. He hasn’t seen us yet.”
Taking prone firing positions on either side of the boulder, the Mossad operators acquired Peter through their sights. Nadya held high, judging the amount of bullet drop. Her rifle was fitted with a two-power optical sighting system rather than a conventional scope, a reasonable compromise for close-quarter fighting as well as moderate distance. But right now, she would have preferred something with greater magnification.
She fired a single shot, and saw bark blasted off the log to the side of Peter. With her hold verified, and before Peter had time to comprehend what had happened, she let loose on full auto.
Joshua joined in, sending a barrage of bullets into the hide where Peter and Diesel had thought themselves safe. From their prone positions, the M4 rifles where held securely. With little movement of the muzzle from recoil, both operators emptied their magazines into the target.
Bullets impacted the log and the dirt that once anchored the root ball in place. Sixty rounds in total, in ten seconds. Nadya and Joshua reloaded, and aimed, ready to shoot again if Peter presented himself.
All they saw was devastation—bullet-riddled wood and fresh gouges in the dirt from bullet impacts.
“Looks like we got him,” Joshua said.
Nadya didn’t reply. Instead, she started walking toward the patch of green, her weapon ready. Joshua was two steps behind.
Chapter 21
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 21
The first bullet cratered into the tree only inches from Peter, bark and wood splinters erupting next to his shoulder. The cough of a suppressed rifle arrived a fraction of a second later, barely audible. But the crack of the supersonic bullet was unmistakable.
Before his next heartbeat, Peter was in motion, diving for the ground. He squirmed behind the tree roots as the volley arrived, thankful for the protection provided by the once-giant fir. The root structure stretched out several feet to each side, and he pulled Diesel in tight to his chest.
As soon as the gunfire ceased, Peter was on his feet. He slipped on the pack. “Let’s go, Diesel!”
Peter had already thought through the next location—a crescent-shaped mound of igneous rock and boulders at the edge of a flat meadow. It would make a good defensive position. Plus, it offered shelter with nightfall not long off. The temperature would plummet once the sun settled behind the peaks, and with the dropping temperature there would be a heavy dew as the air shed its moisture. That dew would likely freeze to ice crystals in the early morning hours.
The pair worked through the trees and around rocks, staying within the cover as long as possible. Soon, they reached the end of the grove. Now, there was no choice. They had to dash across the open and drop down into the next creek drainage, hopefully without being seen.
Peter expected the gunmen t
o cautiously approach the grove, not certain if they’d killed him. He was counting on them being preoccupied with his last known position, not looking further up the slope.
He broke out into the open, running hard. Diesel stayed by his side, matching his pace. In a dozen strides he was at the edge, descending into the next gully.
The soft earth compressed under each step, sliding forward and threatening to upset Peter’s balance. He slowed and shifted his trajectory, angling to the left, further away from the pursuers. It would not be long before they discovered he had escaped.
Breathing hard, Peter jumped across the rapidly flowing water and angled up the opposite side. His pace slowed markedly as he climbed, and his knee ached in protest. Diesel plunged ahead, his powerful hind legs propelling him forward.
This ridgeline extended only 50 or 60 yards to the west before expanding and merging with the next ridge. He was close to the spring that fed the creek. By now his pace had slowed to a jog, and his breathing was deep and labored. He felt the ache in his abdomen; the pain was stronger than it had been earlier in the morning. The strenuous activity combined with the altitude—close to 7,000 feet—were taking a toll on his body, threatening to undue the healing that had transpired over the previous 24 hours.
He pushed onward to a small cluster of stunted trees where he was marginally concealed by their branches. He needed to rest momentarily and catch his breath. Even Diesel was panting, his tongue hanging long as he gulped down air.
Peter looked around, checking his bearings. His destination was ahead and slightly to the right. He’d adjust course now that he was above the numerous springs fed by the melting snowfields.
He ventured to gaze back, around the small trees to observe the trail he and Diesel left. There was certainly no trouble seeing it. The soft gravelly dirt was disturbed by their forceful strides, the deeper coloration of the exposed soil leaving a track easily followed by his pursuers. But Peter had learned from the last encounter—they wouldn’t come from that direction. They’d most likely split, flank the trail and approach from opposite sides.
