Fletcher peered into the screen. “This is amazing. Why don’t we have this equipment running full-time on our ships?”
“This is cutting-edge stuff,” said Korchek. “Still highly classified. The more exposure it gets, the sooner someone figures out a way to beat it. We don’t want any more people than absolutely necessary to know this exists.”
“Okay,” said Morse. “That takes care of satellite communcations. What about Internet traffic?”
Korchek pointed to a notebook computer with a flickering blue screen. “See this? This box is running a software package that can detect embedded encryption. If we feed this program a normal e-mail message, then encrypt it and hide it in other normal message traffic, this little package can go after it and track it down like a bloodhound.”
Fletcher was shaking his head. “You lost me. How is that going to help us?”
Korchek gave Fletcher one of his patronizing smiles. “Simple. We’re going to send a plain language message, one that we know how to read. Then we’re going to get your spy to send the same message, encrypted.”
Fletcher was frowning. “And then…?”
“And then this software — it’s called Omnivore — performs a million or so content comparisons, runs some very fancy algorithms that one of our borderline nutcases invented, and looks for a match. When it finds one, it shows up right here on this screen.”
“How will you know whose computer it came from?”
Korchek tapped the stack of files Morse had given him in the afternoon. “Every one of your suspects has a personal computer. Every one of them now conveniently contains an invisible command — a thing similar to the ‘cookie’ that on-line merchants sneak into your computers. It will respond to a query from our computer in this room. Then we’ll know who sent the encrypted message.”
“Amazing,” said Fletcher.
“No,” said Korchek. “Pure fucking magic.”
TO: CVBG ELEVEN, ALL COMMANDERS
FROM: COMMANDER CARRIER BATTLE GROUP ELEVEN
COPY: OPNAV, JOINT TASK FORCE, SOUTHWEST ASIA, COMMANDER FIFTH FLEET
CLASSIFICATION: SECRET
SUBJECT: CVBG REVISED POINT OF INTENDED MOVEMENT
REFERENCE: OP PLAN 04061830Z
UPDATE PIM USS REAGAN 0600Z 20 JUNE; AIR OPS SCHEDULED 0630Z, LAUNCH AND RECOVERY POSITION N1248W5105. CVBG DISPOSITION DELTA.
NEGATIVE ACKNOWLEDGE.
Fletcher finished writing the message, then handed it to Korchek. “There. The revised point of intended movement amounts to about seventy miles. Normally, it would go to all the escorting vessels in the battle group.”
Sitting at his computer, Korchek quickly pecked the message onto the screen using two fingers. When he was finished, Fletcher gave the message to the flag office yeoman, who delivered it to the ship’s communications center for transmission to the battle group.
The counterespionage team members had their remote monitoring gear set up at three different stations — on either side of the island and one on the fantail. Korchek waited in the flag conference compartment to see if the spy took the bait.
It took four hours. Korchek and one of the CIA agents, Dick Mosely, were alone in the compartment.
“Gotcha!” yelled Korchek as the data began streaming into his computer. Encoded, the message didn’t make sense, not without going through the laborious computer decryption process that sometimes worked quickly and sometimes didn’t. Korchek didn’t care. The match was positive. Omnivore had detected an encrypted version of Fletcher’s message.
It also identified the computer from which it was sent.
Korchek jotted down the information on a steno pad. Then he reached into his briefcase and pulled out the holstered Glock semiautomatic. He shoved a full magazine into the grip, then slipped the pistol into the holster in the small of his back.
Korchek summoned the two marines who were stationed in the passageway. They wore BDUs, helmets, and flak jackets. Each carried an M16A2 combat rifle.
“Where we going, sir?” said one of the marines, a burly sergeant.
“Big-game hunting, Sergeant.”
Cmdr. Lou Parsons had been in his stateroom for five minutes when he was startled by the pounding on the door. He replaced his spectacles and went to the door.
“Yes?” he said, peering into the passageway.
It was the last word he could utter. The door slammed into his face, knocking his spectacles off, sending him reeling backward into a steel locker.
Korchek went in first. He seized Parsons’s arm, spun him around, slammed him against the locker. He bent Parsons’s arm up into the middle of his back.
“Ahhhhh!” Parsons screamed in pain.
“Frisk him,” Korchek ordered the marine sergeant.
“Goddammit!” Parsons yelled. “Who are you?”
The marine patted the officer down. “He’s clean.”
“What’s this all about?” Parsons’s voice was outraged.
“Cuff him,” said Korchek. “Hands behind the back.”
While the two marines put the plastic handcuffs on Parsons, Korchek pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began searching the stateroom. He went through each drawer, dumping the contents onto the deck. He found nothing.
Next he went through the locker, yanking clothes off the rack, going through the pockets of every garment.
“What are you doing?” Parsons demanded, wriggling against the firm grip of the two marines. “What the hell are you looking for?”
“Shut up,” said Korchek.
He continued ransacking the officer’s room. He lifted the mattress, looked under it, then yanked off the sheets and bedding. He pulled out the drawers beneath the bunk bed and hauled out the folded clothing, throwing it all onto the deck.
Nothing.
Korchek looked around. His gaze came to rest on the safe that was mounted on the steel desk. He turned to Parsons, who was staring at him myopically. “What’s the safe combo?”
Parsons glowered back at him. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Okay, smart-ass, have it your way. Watch how a professional does it.” Korchek pulled up the steel work chair and sat in front of the safe. From his satchel he produced a stethoscope.
Parsons stared in dismay as Korchek went to work. Even the marines seemed awestruck. After he inserted the earpieces, Korchek held the rubber listening cup against the dial of the safe. His brow furrowed in concentration, he carefully rotated the dial, listening for the tumblers to click into place.
He nodded, hearing a faint click. He reversed direction with the dial.
Another click. Back the other way.
It took less than two minutes. “Kid stuff.” He yanked off the stethoscope. “No challenge at all.”
He twisted the handle of the safe and the foot-square door swung open. Korchek reached into the safe and came out with a manila envelope. He set it aside, then reached in again. This time he came out with a vinyl case.
Parsons stared. “What the hell is that?”
A knowing smile spread over Korchek’s moonscaped face. He unsnapped the vinyl case and pulled out the device. He turned it over in his hand, studying the keys, the liquid crystal display, the retractable antenna.
The marine sergeant peered at the device. “What is that thing?”
“Evidence,” said Korchek. “Enough to send some asshole to prison for the rest of his life.”
“So we’ve got our man,” said Morse.
Korchek’s feet were propped up on the table in the conference compartment. He had a toothpick in his mouth. “Not unless he confesses.”
“What do you mean? We have enough to send Parsons to Leavenworth for a hundred years.”
“There’s still a thing called ‘due process,’ ” said Korchek. “The case against him so far is circumstantial.”