“Along those lines, we have a request,” the NSA man spoke up. He pulled out a memory stick and tossed it across the table to Kanter. “That drive stores a series of audio files recorded by US Marines in Afghanistan several weeks ago. They were tracking a terrorist training cell, not having too much luck, as it was. One night, their communications team picked up an encoded series of transmissions. Definitely not hostiles — they were using modifications of US military codes.”
He let this sink in. To hammer the point home, the CIA woman spoke. “This only further convinced us that we had rogue US forces involved.”
“The modifications were clever, but we have enough computer firepower to break down just about any code. We did that, with enormous confidence statistically, and generated the audio file I've given you. Drop it in your favorite MP3 player.”
“I don't understand,” said Kanter. “How can we help?”
“This is a bit embarrassing. The audio file contains a series of sharp command-like phrases spoken by a male voice. The problem is that we can't make heads or tails out of what is being said. We have a formidable army of linguists at our disposal, Agent Kanter. We have translators covering hundreds of known tongues. We've gotten nowhere. A brick wall. It's definitely not a common Arabic, Semitic, European, or Asian language. Whatever is being said over those coded transmissions is in a language no one speaks on this earth. It might as well be from Mars.”
“This doesn't make sense,” said Kanter.
“Not one damn bit,” said the NSA man. “You have a reputation for solving puzzles, Agent Kanter. You're not linguists, but frankly, the linguists have failed. I believe there's a puzzle here, something we aren't seeing. Not a code, not a trick, something else. Have your go at it.”
The meeting ended sharply on that note. Kanter was thanked, charged with maintaining confidentiality, and dismissed. He stumbled out of the building into the bright and warm moonlight of June, dizzy and exhausted from the last hour. More than anything, Larry Kanter was very troubled about all that he had heard. Rogue agents on the loose, assassinations, commando raids on terrorist centers, alien languages, and a political ball of radioactive waste. This was a mountain of a mess.
He was going to kill Savas.
9
Disturbed, Savas watched as the uproar of chatter erupted from the members of Intel 1. Only Angel Lightfoote sat apart from the heated discussion, staring out the window, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil.
Larry Kanter threw up his arms in surrender and thundered over the rest. “That's all I have!”
Savas glanced around at the group, at the frustration evident in their faces. He couldn't blame them. Larry was holding back key information, and everyone knew it. Kanter hadn't said a word about the CIA death squads except to stonewall that all the information was classified. Classified! Of course it was classified. What were they, preschoolers? They had obtained classified information before. That Kanter was implying it was anything except an obstacle spoke volumes. After everything they had all been through, it felt a little like betrayal.
“Larry,” said Frank Miller after some moments, “this smells of cover-up. What is the threat level in this hunt?”
Kanter sighed. “The threat level is very high, and we're hunting for the very dangerous perpetrators of these crimes. We've made connections that are potentially very real, and we need to start from there and work our way out. We have a definite lead. There are these audio recordings, which the NSA believes are communications among our bad guys. The language is not known to any translators in the agency. They're likely farming this out to several places. One of those is Intel 1.”
Rideout just shook his head. “This is a weird one, Larry. I mean, what the hell?”
“Look, J. P., this is real. It's also complicated, more than I can, am allowed to, explain. But it's real. We need to put to the side everything else except this case, which we have been asked to solve — however absurd the pieces handed to us appear to be.”
A harsh vibration sounded on the table. Savas reached over and grabbed his cell phone as it slowly rotated on the smooth surface. He glanced at the display, and his eyes widened. He held up a hand and took the call. Kanter and the others waited.
“Rasheed? This better be an emergency.” Savas was silent for a moment, then he exclaimed into the phone, “What? Tonight? That was not part of the deal, Rasheed! You break that deal, and three felony counts will suddenly reappear and net you half a lifetime in jail!” A voice yelled over the speaker, and Savas responded firmly. “You bet your ass I can! And it will be your ass. What? You don't care? Rasheed, this is crazy!”
Savas swiveled his chair and bent over the phone. “Where are you?” The voice could be heard barking out strained words. “We'll meet there. In an hour — I'll be there! If you value your freedom, you'll give me that hour and talk.”
Savas closed the phone and cursed.
“Mother-in-law?” asked Rideout.
“The Sheikh. I don't believe this. He's rabbiting. Spooked to high heaven. I've got to stop him. He's crucial to several operations.”
Kanter studied Savas for a moment. “What's gotten into him?”
“Seen a ghost,” said Lightfoote, staring seriously at the group.
Savas ignored her. “I don't know. Even the threat of jail wasn't touching him. I've got to get up to East Harlem before he changes his mind and decides to skip our little chat.”
Kanter nodded. “Go, John.”
Savas stood up quickly and headed to the door. On his way out, he passed Lightfoote, who continued to stare intensely at everyone around the table, her long red hair offset by the growing darkness outside. Rain began to pellet the window behind her, and deep rumblings of thunder could be felt through the walls.
She muttered. “Seen his own ghost.”
Her words sat uncomfortably in Savas's mind as he walked out the door.
Water pounded the New York streets as Savas slammed the door of the cab and sprinted into the park. Mothers with strollers dashed madly searching for shelter, and large puddles began to form on street corners with failing drainage. Savas dodged several strollers and seemingly unperturbed jogging fanatics as he aimed for the center of the park. He spotted the pedestrian bridge as he rose over a small hill and danced down the steps along its side, finding himself in a circular garden, complete with vacated benches and a central flower bed morphed into a pond by the rain. To the side, a short tunnel ran under the bridge. He headed for it and the dark shape waiting inside.
The Sheikh had looked better. He normally sported a strange combination of tailored clothes that clashed with the reversed baseball cap and multiple earring studs. Today the hat and clothes were soaked, the heavy gold necklace and wrist chains spotted with water yet still bright, even in the dim light against his dark Arabic skin. The white shirt he wore was nearly transparent, soaked through, and Savas could see the blurred shape of a tattoo on his right forearm. What worried Savas the most was the disarray in his face. The Sheikh was always a cool customer, arrogant in his confidence, his ability to play all sides to his advantage. Today, he looked like a frightened punk.
“You'll have me in my grave, G-man.”
“You've been watching too many Capone films, Rasheed.” Savas shook the water from his face. “You're too important to be disappearing on me. I need to know what's going on.”