Thorn frowned. Despite Kettler’s demonstrated computer expertise, he was reluctant to trust something so important to someone so flaky. Still, he had to admit the bearded whiz kid knew a hell of a lot more about the strange subculture they were fishing in than he did. He nodded. “All right, Mr. Kettler. We’ll do it your way. You reel him in.”
Kettler hesitated. “There’s just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“This guy won’t do shit for free, Colonel Thorn. He lives on secret knowledge. It turns him on. Makes him feel good. Know what I mean?”
Thorn nodded. He’d seen others in the intelligence game with the same compulsion.
“So we’ve got to offer him something,” Kettler continued. “Trade stuff he’d be interested in for those message files.”
Thorn nodded again. He thought fast. “Does Freebooter usually blab his secrets? Or try to sell them?”
“No.” Kettler shook his head. “At least, I don’t think so. I think he only started posting stuff about the codes because he got so frustrated that he couldn’t crack them. He even dropped out of the Net debate once he realised no one there had the kind of decryption software he needed.”
“Fine. Then you offer him what we just learned about the Midwest Telephone virus. The Bulgarian connection. The fact that we now suspect the terrorist campaign is under foreign control. The whole bit. You emphasise that it’s knowledge that only a very few people in the U.S. government possess. And you promise a first look at whatever our codebreakers come up with if they can crack those messages. Think that’ll make him bite?”
Thorn carefully avoided locking at Rossini as he spoke. What he was proposing was a massive breach of security. But damn it, they needed those message files. Trying to track them down on their own would take too much time.
Kettler nodded slowly, thinking it through. “Yeah. That might do it. Freebooter knows I’ve got some Pentagon connections.”
He sat upright as text began appearing on his display. “Here we go. He’s answering my page.” His hands came down again over the keyboard.
Thorn felt Rossini’s touch on his arm and stepped back. Nothing more would be served by crowding Kettler now. Strange as it might seem, he would have to rely on the oddball computer expert who was busy wheeling and dealing over the ether to acquire illegally obtained information from an electronic Peeping Tom. It was an uncomfortable, if unavoidable, position.
The time dragged by, punctuated only by a steady clicking as Kenler typed in offers and responded to counteroffers.
Thorn paced impatiently, matched almost step for step by Rossini. His mind whirled with the information that might be contained in those encrypted messages. Proof that a foreign government was behind this wave of terror. The hiding places and plans of the separate terrorist cells. A target.
That was what he wanted. What the whole country needed. Something or someone to focus their anger on, to strike back at to destroy. Knowing their enemy would change everything. Maybe.
“Got it!”
Thorn’s head snapped up at Kettler’s triumphant cry. He crossed to the computer expert’s side in two long strides. “Where?”
“There.” Kettler pointed to the blinking red light on one of his machines indicating a hard drive in operation. “I’m downloading Freebooter’s files now. Shouldn’t take more than another minute.”
This time Thorn stood impatiently by, waiting for Kettler to pull up a directory of the files he’d just received. There were more than a hundred of them, some dating back to early October when the mysterious Freebooter had first stumbled across them. Others were more recent.
“Pull that one up,” he ordered, pointing almost at random.
“Right.” Kettler complied swiftly, his own curiosity now clearly engaged.
All three men stared at the message that popped onto the display.
From: magi@univ.london.comSAT NOV 22 00:15:35 GMT Received: from sub-ingul~by by relay7(comnet.com) with SMPT (234.281 778/M8) id AA 314935146; NOV 22 00:15:35 GMT Text follows:
*
The main body of the message was an indecipherable hash of numbers, letters, and characters.
“Go to another,” Thorn commanded. He barely noticed Rossini pulling in chairs so that they could all sit grouped around the monitor as Kettler began dancing through the encrypted messages first at random and then in chronological order.
Even a cursory check of the time/date stamp each message contained began to reveal a distinct pattern. Communications from a single, unidentified, foreign source, “Magi,” were being sent to at least ten separate users in the United States. And those users communicated only with Magi never with each other. More damning still, there appeared to be a rough correlation between the messages from Magi, the deadliest terrorist attacks, and the messages back to Magi.
Thorn felt his pulse starting to accelerate. To his trained eye, the sequence was a familiar one: operations orders and postaction damage assessment reports. He felt the strange elation of seeing a long-sought enemy moving into his sights. He was willing to stake his career on the belief that he and Rossini had found the communications network the terrorists were using to conduct their campaign.
CHAPTER 20
TRACKING
With its navigation lights blinking steadily, an Air Force C20 Gulfstream slid down out of the night sky onto a floodlit runway. Slowing, the aircraft rolled past the control tower and darkened hangar buildings and stopped near a group of vehicles at the far end of the field.
Without ceremony, Major General Sam Farrell emerged from the transport plane, followed by several members of his staff.
Colonel Peter Thorn stepped forward to meet him at the foot of the stairs and saluted.
The head of the JSOC snapped a return salute and shook hands with him.
“How’s it going, Pete?”
“Better, sir.”
Farrell nodded. “You have those encrypted messages ready to go?”
“Yes, sir.” Thorn handed him a computer diskette. “They’re all on that.”
The general handed the disk off to a young captain. “On your way, John. Download ‘em to Fort Meade on a secure line. You know the number.”
“Sir.” The captain headed toward one of the waiting cars.
Farrell turned back to Thorn. “After I got your fax, I got on the horn with the NSA’s deputy director of operations. His people are eager to see if they can crack these mystery messages of yours.”
Thorn nodded his understanding. The National Security Agency was responsible for cryptanalysts and codebreaking. Access to its trained experts and supercomputers was essential. From what Kettler had said, only the NSA had a chance at turning the gobbledygook on that diskette into readable text. If it contained anything worth reading, that is.
“This could still be just a blind alley, sir,” he warned quietly.
Farrell shook his head. “I doubt it.” The taller man put a hand on Thorn’s shoulder. “You’re one of my best officers, Pete. I trust your instincts and judgment. That’s why I’m here instead of still down at Pope. If you’re right, this damned situation could start breaking open fast. And I want to be in a position where I can talk some sense into the Chiefs if the balloon goes up.”
Paced by Thorn and his staff, the general strode toward the vehicles waiting to take him to the Pentagon. “You ready to take this discovery of yours to the FBI task force?”
“Yes, sir. I have an appointment with Mike Flynn early tomorrow.”
“Good.” Farrell lowered his voice. “Be persuasive, Pete. The Bureau’s bound to be pissed-off if they think we’re muscling in on their turf. Make it clear that we know this investigation is still in their bailiwick.”