Right again, Bessolo thought from across the street.
Slowly and surely, Bessolo’s squad compiled an accurate snapshot of Lynn Meyerson. Now it was time to see if they’d find any blemishes in the picture. He counted on it.
“Then tell me, Ira. You’ve read the communiqués. Travel plans? Fleet locations? Pending legislation? Why aren’t I celebrating?”
Wurlin smiled. He was quite prepared to volunteer his opinion. Walk-ins were his specialty. They always had a personal reason for offering themselves up. Sometimes it was their urge as a Jew to connect with Israel; other times, an individual epiphany brought on by a news story, a teacher, or a book. Something as simple as that. Loyalties also swung because of deaths of loved ones. There were often two other reasons: money, or the sheer, addictive lure of living on the edge.
“I have been thinking about it. Chuntul shows no level of sophisticated technical expertise here. Detail is lacking. And as we both suspected, the information is publicly available if you know where to look. These are simply teasers. Dainty bites to entice us, to suggest how close she is to greater information.”
“In such an open manner?”
Wurlin laughed. “Our own website invites people to e-mail us to become agents.” The Mossad discovered that even they needed to find new ways to recruit.
“So, where does Chantul work?”
“State Department. A key senator. Maybe somewhere in the White House.”
This piqued Schecter’s interest. He hadn’t considered that. It had been a few years since they had someone close to an American president.
“But you say there’s no real level of intelligence.”
“No. Not yet.”
“No names?”
“Just what you’ve seen, Jacob,” Wurlin replied. “References to Papa Bear, Baby Bear. Things like that. And what we’ve already discussed. Legislation that could have an impact on us.”
Schecter pursed his lips. “Money or conscience, Ira?” He then phrased it differently. “Will we get a bill?”
“Can’t say yet.”
“Create a short list of likely candidates,” the Mossad Chief ordered.
“Already on it.”
“Good. I want to know who this Chantul is. I still have a bad feeling about this. Nothing you’ve presented is making it go away.”
Gimbrone peered at the 17-inch computer screen. He’d already tried the passwords most used by people — the ones that required little or no thinking. 1-2-3-4-5, A-B-C-D-E. The third one worked. 1-1-1-1-1. Once in, he called up the most recent word docs — all innocuous files. Then he scanned through hundreds of cookies recorded in Windows Explorer. “She shops online,” he reported to his recording in the van. “Some travel destinations checked out: France, Italy, Israel. No porn sites.”
Now to her Internet account. She subscribed to Comcast. He tried the winning password again. It didn’t work. Nor did any of the other likely choices. He tried combinations of birthdays, family names, and other obvious combinations.
“Anyone have any ideas? I’m stuck,” Mark Gimbrone admitted. He turned to the team because that’s what Bessolo had taught them. Individually, they were all highly trained agents, but they were part of a bigger team. They knew when to ask for help.
Certainly another court order could get them into her account through the provider. But Bessolo wanted information now.
Bessolo, monitoring the conversation over the wireless, radioed back. “Come on people. We might have company soon.”
Pictures, Beth Thomas thought as she walked into the living room. Having examined her most intimate apparel, she was probably developing the strongest sense of their subject. “Hey, anyone seen any photo albums? Might be something in one.”
“Don’t know. Try the boxes,” Shik offered.
It took Thomas a few minutes to find two albums filled with laminated pages. “Let’s see what these tell us, missy,” Beth softly said to herself.
The FBI agent leafed through the pages, going back in time through internships, college, high school, and earlier. That’s when she spotted it: A photograph of a then-12-year-old girl holding an apricot toy poodle. Her allergies! Of course she’d have a poodle or another non-allergic dog as a pet. Not a cat or a long-haired dog.
Now for a name. She went to another photo album. On the third page she found the teenager eating a piece of cake. She looked closer. There was the dog: a puppy. Frosting was smeared over its muzzle. She studied the photo more. A number was visible on the cake. They were celebrating the dog’s first birthday! One more look.
Beth swung her backpack around and off her shoulder and removed a plastic kit containing a magnifying glass.
The name on the cake, a blur to her unaided eyes, became clearly visible.
“Try Buckets,” she called out.
“What?”
“Buckets. B-U-C-K-E-T-S.”
“What the hell is that?” asked Gimbrone.
“A password, you idiot!”
“Buckets?”
“Buckets,” Thomas repeated.
Seven letters later, Gimbrone was into his subject’s e-mail account. “Well what do you know,” he said under his breath. “Nice going, Thomas. How’d you pull this one out of the hat?”
Thomas smiled. “Woman’s intuition,” she slyly said. But it was nothing of the kind. One of the leading passwords, and easiest to remember, is the name of a first pet. That’s what credit cards, bank accounts, and online services even recommend. Thomas also knew the old joke about porn stars taking the name of their first pet and the street where they grew up to come up with an exotic stage name.
“Son of a gun,” was all that the computer wiz offered in return.
The criminologist flashed a satisfied smile and joined Gimbrone at the computer. A minute later, after scanning a list of deleted e-mail, Beth tapped the screen. “There. What’s that?”
Gimbrone opened a recent outgoing mail and read through it. “Uh-oh.”
Bessolo keyed his mike. “I heard that. Speak to me.”
Gimbrone reached in his backpack for a backup Zip drive.
Bessolo called again. “What’s going on, people?”
“Going to back up the hard drive before I look any further,” Gimbrone explained. He plugged in his accessory, but before he left the Internet, he decided to read the contents of the e-mail again.
Bessolo was getting annoyed. “Gimbrone!” he said in a raised voice.
“What did you find?”
“Sir, why don’t you lock up and come on upstairs. You’re going to want to see this.”
Chapter 16
“What’s up, Louise?” Roarke asked.
“The vice president wants you to see this.” She handed him a CIA briefing on the Ville St. George discovery and the subsequent evacuation.
Louise Swingle greatly respected Scott Roarke, a man who received no public recognition for his work, but who deserved the gratitude of his nation. Roarke was the Special Ops soldier who rescued Morgan Taylor after his Super Hornet took a hit and crashed in Iraq. More recently, he helped prevent a White House coup. Even she didn’t know the depth of his involvement, but Morgan Taylor’s secretary did recognize his importance.