It was then that he spotted it — between a single blink of his eyes.
Marcus stopped, leaning closer to the screen. His fingers flew across the keyboard, watching the numbers and data.
“What is it, Paul?”
“What kind of security does the library have on its system?”
“I’ve been assured that it’s some of the best.”
“You need better than the best.”
“I don’t follow you, why?”
“Because you’ve been hacked.”
EIGHTEEN
Deep inside the secure confines of the National Security Agency outside of Washington, D.C., encryption analyst, Alicia Quincy, stared at her computer screen. Her dark hair was pinned up, blue eyes locked on the images. Ron Beckman, pointed face, military haircut in a dark suit, stood next to her. She looked at the time on the screen: 12:15 p.m. on the east coast of America.
“Are you sure it’s Paul Marcus on that computer?” asked Beckman.
“Most likely. It’s consistent with his skills. He’s running numbers, decryptions, on the machine. I can’t tell exactly what he’s doing, but the data is definitely coming from computers within the Hebrew University Library, and he just shut down.”
“What kind of decryption?”
“I recognize the pattern, but I don’t recognize the source.”
“Does he know we’ve breached their system?”
“I don’t know. If he caught on, we wouldn’t know it immediately. Remember, Paul helped with some of our internal security codes before his daughter became sick. I have a weird feeling in my gut doing this. It’s like we’re invading his privacy, especially after what happened to his family.”
Beckman’s eyes looked hard as steel. “Alicia, there is no such thing as privacy when it comes to national security. You can’t have privacy and security, too. You know that. We’re just doing another job we’ve been told to do.”
“Who said for us to watch Paul Marcus and why? Is it because he told the Nobel Prize people thanks but no thanks? Or is it because he’s doing decryption in Israel?”
“I’m not sure. It comes from high up.”
Alicia was quiet a few seconds. “The CIA’s doing fulfillment, and we’re doing the tracking. Maybe Paul pissed off somebody with that Nobel Prize deal. He was always such a damn good guy, the real deal. What’s going on?”
“We’re not here to speculate. That’s where this line of questioning ends.” He turned to leave.
Alicia watched him stroll through the cavernous room filled with computers, international maps and plasma screens displaying video and cyber tracks left by people across the nation and the world.
Marcus and Kogen finished a late evening meal in a small Lebanese restaurant a few blocks from Marcus’ hotel. After paying the bill, Marcus insisted on walking back to his hotel. The night was cool. He wandered up Jaffa Street with the walls to the Old City on his left. Lights inset at the base of the ancient stonewall wrapped it in soft yellows. Skeletal trees, having shed their leaves, cast crooked shadows against the wall.
Although exhausted, Marcus was in no hurry to get back to the hotel. He wanted time to walk and think. He thought about the delicate hacking of the computer while he had worked. Who was behind it? CIA? The Mossad? Someone else? Why?
Three bearded men, orthodox Jews dressed alike in black, two wearing Fedora’s, strolled past him, the men in a heated discussion. Tourists were still exploring the Old City at night, a time when the clank of bells faded with the gray twilight and many street vendors stowed away charms and souvenirs they sold from displays set up on rugs.
Marcus walked toward Jaffa Gate, the trace of grilled lamb, garlic and coffee still clinging in the tranquil evening air. Globed streetlights cast pasty sheens across the stone walkways. Marcus looked toward the Tower of David and the Citadel, both immersed in the golden glow of lights. A yellow cat darted into one of the narrow cobblestone side streets and ran until it was lost in the labyrinth of stone set two thousand years ago.
Marcus entered the ancient city through Jaffa Gate, walked down David Street and then stopped. It was nearly deserted. A few tourists strolled by, heading out of the Old City. Pockets of amber light lit some of the buildings and the closed shops. Marcus simply stood and took in the street that he knew would lead through the heart of Jerusalem, from the Tower of David to the Western Wall.
He noticed a small wrought iron enclosure with two tombstones to the left, almost hidden beneath trees. He walked toward them, wondering if there were inscriptions on the graves.
He heard a sound. A forced whisper, a muffled threat, somewhere in the shadows of tombs and stone carved from bedrock — a mugging. Marcus could turn around and walk back to his hotel, or he could walk toward danger.
NINETEEN
A cloud parted and the Old City was immersed in soft moonlight. Marcus stopped. He listened without turning his head. Then he cut his eyes in the direction of the sounds. An old man was trapped like a frightened animal in the corner of the ancient crypt. A younger man held a knife to his victim’s throat and demanded money. The attacker’s back was to Marcus. He looked around. No one. Marcus slipped off his shoes and walked in his socks toward the mugger and intended victim. Now he could hear them clearly.
“The pouch! Where is it old man?” demanded the mugger.
“In my store! In the safe.”
“I see you take it every Monday. Today is Monday! Where is it? Tell me or I’ll slaughter you like a lamb! No cameras over here. Nobody will know.” He pressed the blade against the side of the old man’s neck, an inch from the carotid artery. Blood trickled down the aged skin, a blossom of red forming on his white collar.
Marcus was less than twenty feet away. Moving silently.
The old man saw Marcus approaching. He didn’t allow a response to register in his eyes, quickly looking back at his attacker’s face.
The mugger said, “Lift your jacket! You hide it in your belt. Lift it!”
“He’s not going to lift anything,” Marcus said, now less than fifteen feet from the attacker.
The man whirled around. His face filled with disbelief at what he was seeing and hearing. His breathing was fast. Chest expanding. Sweat rolling down his forehead. Pupils dilated wide as cats’ eyes at night, adrenaline and cocaine flowing in his system.
“Don’t do it,” Marcus said evenly. “Just go. Walk away.”
“Gimme your wallet asshole! And that laptop! Now!”
“I’m not going to do that.”
The man sneered. To the old man he shouted, “Keep back!” Then he shifted his weight. Crouching, he gripped the knife, his right hand swaying.
Marcus lowered the laptop to the ground, never blinking, never breaking eye contact with the man holding the knife. He stepped closer to the mugger, the man’s eyes wider with disbelief. “You sound American. This will be where you die. Right here! Tonight!”
“Just turn and walk away.” Marcus said, stepping closer.
There was laughter in the distance. A group of tourists entered through Jaffa Gate. The mugger looked toward them, his face twisted in disgust. “Screw it, man!” He turned to leave, glaring at Marcus. “You weren’t even scared, dude. That mistake will get you killed in this country.” He used the index finger on his left hand and moved it across his neck as if it were a knife. “Next time.” Then he turned and ran, the alleys swallowing him as if he entered a dark catacomb.
Marcus approached the old man. “You’re bleeding. Let me see.”
“It is only a scratch,” he said, taking a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket and holding it against the cut. “Thank you. Thank you, my friend. And thank God. My name is Bahir Ashari. You are?”