Dead or Alive

  It was mid-afternoon when he pulled off Highway 84/30 and into the parking lot of the Fairfield Inn & Suites. He shut off the ignition, then opened the travel atlas sitting on the passenger seat. He’d written nothing down, nor made any marks in the atlas. There was no need; he knew the route and distances by heart.

  Six hundred forty miles to go, Musa thought. If he wished, he could start out early tomorrow and probably cover the remaining distance to Beatty, Nevada, in one day. It was tempting, but he decided against it. The Emir had been adamant in his orders. He would follow the timetable.

  77

  DESCENDING THROUGH twenty thousand feet on their way into Rio de Janeiro, Chavez and Dominic could see the pall of oily smoke hanging over São Paulo two hundred miles down the coast from Rio. North of São Paulo, the Paulinia fires were still raging. On the way to the airport the night before, they’d heard on the news that firefighters and rescue workers in the area had changed their strategy, focusing not on extinguishing the refinery inferno but on evacuation and containment. Ethanol had stopped spewing from the pipeline within an hour of the initial explosion, but in that time some ten thousand gallons of fuel had spilled into the refinery, and while some of that was still burning, it was now the dozens upon dozens of blending and storage tanks that were involved. The conflagration would eventually burn out, but experts both in Brazil and in the United States disagreed on how long that would take. Some predicted four days, others two weeks or more. What no one disagreed on, however, was the environmental toll the disaster was taking. Already oil soot was blanketing fields and homes as far south as Colombo. Emergency rooms were overflowing with patients complaining of respiratory problems.

  “If that’s not hell on earth, I don’t know what is,” Dominic said, staring out the window.

  “No argument there. How you feelin’?” While Ding had dozed on and off for much of the flight, Dominic had been dead to the world until an hour ago.

  “Better, I think. I was ass-kicked.”

  “In more ways than one, mano. I know I already said this, but sorry about Brian. He was a good troop.”

  “Thanks. So when we touch down, what’s the plan?”

  “Call home and check the news stations to see if Hadi’s information has hit the airwaves. If it has, we go hunting. If not, we hunker down and wait.”

  Once off the plane and cleared through customs, they went straight to the Avis desk and checked in. Ten minutes later, they were standing at the curb, waiting for their Hyundai Sonata to be brought around. “Air-conditioning?” Dominic asked.

  “Yeah, but manual transmission. Can’t have everything.”

  The dark green Sonata came around the corner. The attendant climbed out, had Chavez sign a form, then nodded and walked away. They got in and pulled out. Dominic retrieved his sat phone from his carry-on and dialed The Campus.

  “We’re down,” he told Hendley, and turned on the phone’s speaker.

  “Good. You’re on speakerphone. Sam and Rick are here, too. Biery’s on his way up.” Dominic heard a door open, then the creaking of a chair. Biery said, “Dom, you there?”

  “Yeah, both of us.”

  “We’re in business. We cycled through ten online storage sites before we got a hit. He’s using a site called filecuda.com. Just like Jack figured, Hadi was using a variation of his e-mail for the log-in. The password we cracked in ten minutes. There’s nothing in the account’s inbox right now.”

  Rick Bell said, “We’ve put together a message we think will get Hadi moving in our direction. Sam will give you the details.”

  Granger came on. “We’re a little worried that the news leak will really spook Hadi, so we’re going to go with baby steps, move him from one place to another. He’ll be on guard, so we figure if he moves to the first spot and doesn’t get ambushed, he’ll start getting more comfortable with the idea. Once we think we’ve got him hooked, we’re going to tell him to meet a contact in the Rocinha—”

  “The what?”

  Ding answered. “It’s Portuguese. It means ‘Little Ranch.’ Down here, slums are called favelas, and the Rocinha’s the biggest one in Rio.”

  “We figure we’ll move him two, maybe three, times before sending him to the Rocinha. Depends on the tone of his responses. I’ll e-mail you a list and timetable.”

  “Why there?”

  “The Rio police don’t go in there unless they absolutely have to. Be easier for you to operate.”

  Dominic asked, “When are you dropping the dime on Hadi?”

  “In about forty minutes, by fax to Record News. We put together our own sketch and description—hopefully, close enough that Hadi’ll recognize himself but vague enough that he won’t get nabbed right away.”

  “How sure are we they’ll use it?” Chavez asked.

  Hendley said, “Survival of the fittest. They’re a news channel, and they’re fighting for market share during the biggest disaster in Brazilian history. They’ll take the tip like a gift from God.”

  “Gotta love cutthroat journalism,” Ding replied.

  “We’re tuned in to all the channels here. As soon as it hits the airwaves, we’ll call you.”

  Dominic hung up. To Chavez: “We hunting?”

  “Damn straight we are. Need to make a stop first. I know a guy who knows a guy.”

  “Who knows where to get his hands on some guns?”

  “You got it.”

  Frank Weaver woke up at five a.m., had two cups of coffee from the in-room brewer, then read the newspaper for twenty minutes before he showered and headed down to the lobby for the free continental breakfast. By seven-fifteen he was packed up and out the door.

  His rig was exactly where he’d left it, as was the cask, but he knew they would be. The DOE had equipped his truck with an immobilizer. Start the engine without a key and the fuel system shuts down. Nice little feature. As for the cask, no one would run off with that thing. Maybe King Kong, who’d noticed he was missing one of his barbells, but no one else.

  He did his usual inspection walk-around, checking the ratchets, padlocks, and chains, and, finding nothing out of order, he unlocked the driver’s door and climbed up into the cab. He was reaching his key toward the ignition when he stopped.

  Something ...

  At first he couldn’t put his finger on it, but slowly it dawned on him: Someone had been in the truck. That couldn’t be, though. Like everything else with his rig, the door lock was beefed up. It’d take more than some crackhead thief to pick it. Weaver looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. He checked the glove box and center console for missing items. Everything was there. Same with the sleeping compartment. Everything was as he’d left it.

  Gun.

  He reached under his seat. The .38 revolver was still there, snug in its leather holster affixed to the seat frame.

  Weaver sat in silence for half a minute before shrugging off the eerie feeling. Maybe the hotel coffee was stronger than he thought. Made him jumpy.

  He powered up the dashboard GPS unit and waited for it to cycle through the self-diagnostic check, then punched up his route. Day three of four. An easy 310 miles to Saint George, Utah.

  Tariq found the Emir in his bedroom, collecting what few possessions he’d brought along into a box. “After I’ve recorded my testament and left to meet Musa, burn these things.”

  “I will. I have two pieces of news. Each of Nayoan’s four men have acknowledged their go-signals. The first will be Waterloo on Sunday morning.”

  “Good.”

  “Second, our man intercepted the truck without incident. We have the driver’s route, including rest and fuel stops. He’s due to arrive at the facility between two-thirty and three, the day after tomorrow.”

  The Emir nodded and closed his eyes, mentally recalling the timeline. “That’s perfect, my friend. Musa will be in place at least four hours early. Go set up the camera. It’s time.”

  78

  BY THE TIME Clark and Jack got off the plane and found
their rental car, it was seven a.m. and time for breakfast and a phone call back home. Armed with only the siblings’ names—Citra and Purnoma Salim—and the date of their arrival into Norfolk, Clark and Jack had no choice but to rely on The Campus to give them a starting point.

  They found an IHOP about a mile south of the airport on Military Highway, took a booth, and ordered coffee, eggs, and pancakes. While they were waiting, Clark called Rick Bell.

  “All we’ve got is the hotel the Salims listed on their entry form,” he told Clark. “If they didn’t check in, we’ll have to get creative. The Indonesian embassy in Washington keeps a list of citizens traveling on vacation to the U.S., but since they came in on a bogus passport, it’s a toss-up whether they’d be logged into the system.”

  “We’ll start with the hotel,” Clark said. “They have to be sleeping somewhere.”

  Bell gave him the name of the hotel and signed off.

  “Econo Lodge in Little Creek,” Clark told Jack. “Stuff your face. We might be doing a lot of running today.”

  They found the Econo Lodge about two miles from the Amphibious Base and a quarter-mile from the Little Creek channel. Jack asked, “SEALs at the amphib base, right?”

  “Yep. SpecWar Group Two—Teams Two, Four, and Eight, plus an SDV team—swimmer delivery vehicle.”

  “You miss it?”

  “Sometimes, but most days not. Miss the people, mostly, and the work, but there were some pretty ugly times, too.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  Clark looked sideways at him and smiled. “No. It’s the nature of what SEALs do, Jack. They go places nobody else wants to go and do what nobody else can. Nowadays they call those spots ‘denied areas.’ Back then we called it ‘Indian country.’ SEALs get a lot more attention today than when I was in, and more’s the pity, as far as I’m concerned. The less people talk about you, the better job you’re doing.”

  “So what changed?”

  “Don’t know, really. I keep in touch with guys that are still in, and they can’t quite figure it out, either. They get a lot of kids who come in thinking they’ll jog on the beach, do some push-ups, and walk away with the Budweiser.” Here Clark was referring to the SEAL Trident badge. “Those usually last less than a week.”

  “Chaff from the wheat,” Jack observed.

  “At about a seventy-five percent attrition rate. Here we are. ...” Clark pulled off of Shore Drive and parked beside the lobby. “Might have to run a little con to get the info we need,” Clark said.

  “You lead, I’ll follow.”

  They went in and walked up to the reception desk. An early-twenties blond girl with a spray-on tan said, “Morning.”

  “Morning.” Clark pulled out his marshal’s badge and flashed it. “U.S. marshal. Looking for a couple kids that checked in a couple weeks ago.”

  “Wow. What’d they do?”

  “Depends how quick we find them. After midnight, we’ll have to file a material witness warrant. We’re just trying to cross some t’s for an old case. The names were Salim—Citra and Purnoma Salim.”

  “They sound Arab.” She wrinkled her lip.

  “What’s your point?”

  Clark had put a little steel in his voice. The girl shrank back and said, “Nothing. Sorry. Uh ... so you just wanna know if they were here?”

  “For starters.”

  The girl sat down at her computer and started tapping the keyboard. “You gotta date?”

  Clark gave it to her. “Give or take a day or two.”

  “Okay, yeah, here they are. They stayed one night, then checked out.”

  “Cash or charge?” Jack asked.

  “Paid with cash, but we took a credit card for damages.”

  “You have it on file?”

  “I don’t know if I can give that to you. I could get in trouble, couldn’t I?”

  Clark shrugged. “No problem, I understand.” He turned to Jack. “Get the Deputy AG on the phone.”

  Jack didn’t miss a beat. He pulled out his cell phone, hit speed-dial, and walked to the other side of the lobby.

  The girl asked, “What’s that?”

  “Deputy Attorney General. Gonna need your name for the warrant.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve gotta serve the warrant on a named individual. That’s the way it works. Gonna need your boss’s name, too. So what’s your name?”

  “Lisa.”

  To Jack, Clark called, “Lisa ...” Jack nodded and said her name into the phone. Clark, back to the girl: “Gimme your last name and Social Security number.”

  “Uh, wait. Wait a second.... So you just need the credit card info?”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry about it, though. We’ll have a team down here in about twenty minutes. What time do you get off?”

  “Nine a.m.”

  Clark chuckled. “Sorry, not today you’re not.”

  Lisa was tapping on the keyboard again. “They used a Visa. Card number ...”

  Pretty slick,” Jack said, as they climbed back into the car.

  “Nobody wants the hassle. I call it the little-big theory. Make the favor you’re asking seem real small and the consequences real big. So whatdya think? Your type?”

  “Her? Cute enough, but something tells me she’s not exactly a crossword-in-ink kind of girl.”

  Clark laughed at this. “So you’re holding out for beauty and brains?”

  “Anything wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing. Call in the card, get Bell working on it.”

  It took twenty minutes. “No more motel charges, but the day they checked out I’ve got half a dozen—souvenir shops, McDonald’s, Starbucks ... Just incidentals, and just that one day. I’m e-mailing the details and a Google map.”

  “Why the map?” Jack asked.

  “All the charges were inside a square mile of one another.”

  Jack hung up and brought Clark up to speed. “They switched credit cards, switched names,” Clark said. “Good sign.”

  “Good how?”

  “Stand-up citizens don’t do that, Jack.”

  Jack’s phone e-mail chimed, and he checked it. Clark asked, “Where’re we going?”

  “Virginia Beach.”

  Okay, guys, we gotta make a decision,” Sam Granger said. “Plain text or encoded?”

  Granger, Hendley, and Bell had been arguing over it for an hour: With Hadi and his team having gone to ground after the Paulinia attack, and with the URC changing its onetime pads every day, did Hadi have the ability to decrypt messages? Better question: Did they have the ability to “de-stego” the images in which the OTPs were embedded? Granger and Bell didn’t think so, but Hendley was worried.

  In the past, the URC had run its big operations by the dead-man switch rule: Once the execute order is given, there’s no turning back and no pulling the plug. This change had come after the failed URC bombing of the Berlin U-Bahn, when, shortly after the go-signal had been given, the URC’s cell leader in Munich was captured by the BfV and persuaded to reel in the attackers. Of course, in the larger context, none of that mattered: Dead-man switch rule or not, either Hadi would get the message or he wouldn’t. If he had the ability to decrypt, a plain text message would spook him and their chance would vanish.

  “Listen, we have to risk it,” Bell said. “We use our message to spook him but in our favor. Get him worked up enough and he might not even question the plain text.”

  Hendley considered this, then looked to Granger. “Sam?”

  “Okay, let’s do it. We’ll move Hadi just once and tell him it’s dry-cleaning, then we’ll move him to the Rocinha, and Chavez and Dominic will grab him up.”

  Bell stood up and headed for the door. “I’ll get it uploaded.” He left.

  A minute later, Hendley’s phone rang. It was Gavin Biery. “You guys upload the message yet?”

  “Rick just went to do it.”

  “Shit. Stop him; get him back. I’m on my way up.”

  79

&nbs
p; BIERY WAS UPSTAIRS and walking into Hendley’s office two minutes later. “I found a pattern,” he announced. “You send that thing in plain text and Hadi will know it’s bogus.”

  His last-second interception of Rick Bell had been the result of a marathon night of watching his newly written algorithm chew on the URC’s onetime pads. Though by their very nature the letters within an OTP are meant to be random and therefore unbreakable by anyone not working off of the current pad, it was in Biery’s nature to look for patterns where none seem to exist. It was, he’d once explained to Jack, sort of like the SETI (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence) project: “There’s probably nothing out there, but wouldn’t it be cool if there was?” In this case, what Biery had found was a pattern to the URC’s onetime pads.

  “OTPs are great, probably the simplest form of ‘unbreakable’ encryption in the world, though nothing’s truly unbreakable,” he’d explained once Rick Bell returned. “It’s all a matter of probabilities, really—”

  Granger cut him off. “Another time, Gavin.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, like you figured, the Emir, or whoever came up with this, was probably worried about their people in the field. Kinda stupid to carry an OTP on you, or have it on a laptop you’re carrying around, so they came up with a system to re-create the day’s pad while you’re on the go. It’s time-consuming but doable.”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Bell.

  “They’re using a formula called the middle-square method. It was created by some Hungarian mathematician named von Neumann in 1946. Essentially, what you do is take a seed number—length doesn’t matter, as long as it has an even number of digits—then square it, then take the middle part of the resulting number—again, however many digits you want—and use it for your new seed number. Since these guys would probably be doing it on paper, they’d use small numbers and build on them. Here ...”