He couldn’t go home.
In the elevator Paul could see that Ava was feeling her wine. Confident and relaxed, she laughed often and spoke a little louder than usual. She looked pretty in her new dress, a black Versace knockoff that hugged every curve. He struggled to keep his imagination in check.
“You look amazing, by the way.”
Ava beamed. Then she rolled her eyes, feigning embarrassment.
“You must be kidding. This is so not my style. I feel like Posh Spice.”
On the walk to Monty’s Bar, they discussed where to take the jars. Paul favored somewhere with a large Catholic presence. Ava said, “Well, if that’s the criterion, we could try Malta. It’s ninety-eight percent Catholic.”
“Wow. Have you been?” Paul asked.
“Not yet, but I know someone there. Professor Laurence Clarkson, from the University of Malta, taught a guest seminar at MIT last year. It was great. He’s brilliant.”
“We’ll have to look him up.”
“I will. Actually, I’m surprised you’ve never been to Malta.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because of your namesake.”
“Paul Newman?”
“No, your biblical namesake.”
“Uh-oh. I sense a history lesson coming.”
Ava laughed. “Okay, class, now pay attention! In the year 60, St. Paul was on his way to Rome for trial before Emperor Nero. His ship was caught in a terrible storm and wrecked off the Maltese coast. At the wreck’s site, known as St. Paul’s Island, there’s a statue of the apostle. The event is described in Acts 28:1: ‘Once safely on shore, we learned that the island was called Malta. And the barbarous people showed us no little kindness; for they kindled a fire and received us.’”
“Cool. At least the locals are friendly.”
“Yeah, but watch out for snakes.”
“Seriously?”
“The Bible says a venomous snake bit Paul’s hand in Malta. The islanders considered his survival a miracle, and legend says that they decided to convert en masse. The incident is very important to the Maltese, and it’s depicted in many religious artworks. For example…”
Sunrise found Gabe sitting alone in the old Algiers Coffee House, nursing an espresso romano. His clothes were damp and mud-stained. His ankle hurt. He was angry. He wanted to call the police, but couldn’t. If they searched his room, they’d find copious evidence of computer crime. Some hackers got off easy because they were just kids, but Gabe doubted such leniency extended to twenty-seven-year-olds. Still, he needed help. He was in exile, unable to return home and cut off from his network. Absently he scrolled through his iPhone and noticed that his last outgoing call was to a number he didn’t recognize. A 919 area code? Who the hell was that? Then he remembered: durmdvl.
Gabe hit the call button. As he expected, his call went directly to an anonymous voice mail.
“Hello. Sorry to call so early. My name is Gabe. I use the screen name rkngel. We met online and you sent me this number. You said you wanted to discuss things directly. Well, the situation has, um, intensified. I’m currently unable to access my residence and therefore have limited resources. I’ll provide details via a secure mode of communication. Of course, if you don’t want to get mixed up in all this, I understand.”
Monty’s was a tranquil lounge named after Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery. Muted, unobtrusive music kept numerous conversations private. Nick complimented Ava’s dress. The men ordered whiskey; she chose a champagne cocktail.
“How is your suite?” asked Nick.
“It’s great. Thanks again.”
“De nada, amigo.”
For the next hour they went from subject to subject: U.S. politics, the Red Sox, El Alamein, Texas Hold’em strategy. Eventually, Nick smiled and said, “So, why don’t you just ask me?”
Paul laughed. “Is my poker face that bad?”
“No,” said Nick, then pointing at Ava, “but she’s about as subtle as a bulldozer.”
“Do you know someone who can fly us to Malta?”
“Sure. United Airlines? Lufthansa?”
“We’re not eager to pass through airport security.”
“Hmm. I suppose I could charter you a flight. It won’t be cheap.”
“Do you know a good pilot?”
“Several, but few I trust.” He thought a moment and then went on, “Let me ask a question.” Nick lowered his voice and leaned toward them. “You want to avoid airport security. Does this have to do with those two canisters we lugged into your room?”
Paul and Ava exchanged a look. “It might.”
“Well, I don’t need to know details, but does it involve narcotics?”
“No!” Ava shouted, eyes bright with anger. The word reverberated across the quiet bar, attracting attention from several patrons.
“Okay, okay, relax. What was I supposed to think?”
Paul apologized for Ava’s outburst but corroborated her position: “It’s not drugs. You have my word of honor.”
“Good. Because the guy I’d recommend is an antidrug fanatic. He has a personal vendetta against Sheik Ahmed.” At the mention of that name, Ava blanched. Nick caught her expression. He sank down into his chair and moaned.
“Oh, bloody hell! You didn’t cross the sheik?”
Paul said, “It’s a long story. I was working for DeMaj—”
“No, no, stop. I don’t want to hear it. You need to be gone pronto. I was worried about getting fired? Hell, we’ll be lucky if we don’t get killed. I’ll call Sinan right away. Maybe he can meet us first thing tomorrow. Go back to your suite and don’t open the door for anyone except me.”
Paul nodded. He stood, took Ava’s hand, and led her toward the elevator.
Nick sat silently for a few minutes. He took a breath, finished his whiskey in one go, and opened his phone.
Gabe was halfway through a Levantine omelet when his phone chirped, indicating a new text. He keyed in his PIN and opened a message from the 919 number: “Find a public computer. Create an anonymous user account and post a message on the usual site. Create a screen name reflecting one of our common interests, something only I will get.”
Gabe assumed “the usual site” meant the programming group where he’d met durmdvl. He entered the university computer center and followed durmdvl’s instructions. Once on the site, he posted some banal observations about process virtual machines under the screen name Pope_1000. An hour later, a reply from R.Goldberg74 appeared. The response included a line of apparent gibberish, which Gabe recognized as a code. The code revealed a symmetric algorithm. For the initialization vector, he guessed 74. That didn’t work, but his second guess—1974—did, generating a string encryption key. The key enabled a secure protocol by which Gabe and durmdvl could e-mail and IM.
Finally able to speak freely, Gabe composed a long message describing his situation. He explained that he’d installed bots on his phone to see if anyone was snooping. Yesterday, the bots had alerted him to dual traces. The first, a crude sniffer program, came from an Aden-based shipping business. The second, sleek and subtle, had been difficult to detect. After hours of investigation, Gabe tracked it back to the DeMaj Corporation.
The next part was more challenging to write. “Honestly, I’m terrified for myself and for Ava. How can I contact her? The satphone is compromised, she can’t (or won’t) check e-mail, and I don’t even know her current location! I think she’s in Egypt, but I can’t confirm. Suggestions?”