“Look, Warhaftig, I don’t need babysitting. And I’m not worried about my file.”
Warhaftig stubbed his cigarette out in the saucer by his feet. “I know you’re not,” he said, blowing out smoke. “What I mean is, you have a solid record. That thing in Iowa, for instance.”
Decker was surprised. Warhaftig had just joined the team that afternoon. “What do you know about Iowa?” he asked.
“You were born there, in Davenport,” said Warhaftig, “to a policeman father — John Decker Sr. — and a librarian mother — Louise Carrick. Lost both of your parents in a car crash when you were just fifteen. Spent fourteen hours in surgery, two months in a coma, and a year-and-a-half in physical therapy. Some said you’d never walk again, but I guess you proved them wrong. Raised by your mother’s older sister, Betsy, and her husband, Tom Llewellyn, in nearby Bettendorf. Your father insisted you take up martial arts since you were such a runty little kid, and you took several trophies in long-distance running and Kung Fu in high school, eventually becoming a black belt at seventeen.” He laughed. “Had a growth spurt senior year, I guess. Went to College at Northwestern on a scholarship, where you majored in mathematics; minored in foreign languages. Graduated Summa Cum Laude, Phi Beta Kappa, blah blah blah. Did your thesis on neural network predictive modeling, whatever that is. Have a facility for finding patterns in seemingly random data. It was this skill that particularly impressed your instructors at Quantico where — after college and a two-year stint on the Bettendorf Police Force — you trained to become a Cryptanalyst Forensic Examiner with the FBI. Graduated at the top of your class. Then spent eighteen months with the Racketeering Records Analysis Unit in Washington, D.C., learning the ropes, before being transferred to Chicago.”
Warhaftig paused, drifting on the river of his memory. He took a breath and said, “Had a girlfriend in college named Anne Tierney, a few love affairs in DC. Nothing too serious. A few call girls. Plus a girlfriend in Chicago named Maureen O’Donnell for about four months. Like those Irish girls. She left you when you couldn’t commit. Transferred to the Joint Terrorism Task Force in New York after the McNally case in Iowa, for which you received a special commendation. Now subletting a one-bedroom in the Village, slightly beyond your means. Don’t smoke or drink, except on special occasions. Love chicken and fish, especially Sushi, but you aren’t much of a red meat eater, are you, John? Read the Journal of Cryptanalytics religiously every Tuesday. Brought up a Democrat but you’re largely apolitical. Never been in serious debt. Not much of a dresser, that’s for sure. Oh, and no pets. That about sum it up?” Warhaftig smiled. “You have a facility for numbers,” he added. “I’m cursed with a near photographic memory. Pick your poison.”
Decker was flabbergasted at Warhaftig’s breadth of knowledge. He shook his head. Is that all I’ve become? he thought. Just a page or two in someone’s file.
“How many languages do you speak fluently? Besides Arabic, I mean,” Warhaftig asked.
“Oh, did you forget that tidbit? Actually, I barely speak English fluently.”
“No, seriously. How many?”
Decker scowled. “A few, I guess.”
“A few!”
Decker shrugged. “Born with a good ear. My mother played piano pretty well. My dad spoke French and Italian and Spanish, in addition to English. He was a seaman once, in his teens and early twenties. Is that in the file too?”
“It is,” Warhaftig said. “Must have been pretty interesting with two headstrong parents, one Catholic and one Episcopalian. But I guess you could say Episcopalian is kind of Catholic lite. Me, I’m a Jew. Not a very good one, mind you.” He laughed, until he noticed his stomach wiggling. Then he frowned and said, “Still, I’d say that speaking ten languages, six fluently, is more than just ‘a few.’ You always this modest? What’s that?” Warhaftig pointed at the floor.
Decker’s notebook lay open at his feet. “Nothing,” he said. “Just some sketches of that PC wallpaper.”
“May I see them?”
Decker tossed the notebook over to the Intel specialist. Warhaftig began to flip through the pages slowly. “You did all these?”
Decker nodded.
“Don’t get it. Why make drawings if you have photographs?”
“Sometimes you can see a pattern better when you try and replicate it, rather than just looking at it. You can see the depth. I mean… Okay, for example, I didn’t even notice the number on the bottom right hand side until I drew the arabesque. Then I realized there was a break in the pattern.”
“What number?”
“Here,” said Decker, reaching out. He flipped the pages of the notebook rapidly. Once again, the illustration coalesced into a whole as the pages fanned together. “You see? The wallpaper has three obvious keys: Two lines of text, plus a number.” He turned the notebook to a specific page and pointed at the image. “Those are the words, ‘Pregnant She-Camels,’ in Arabic. See? And here — another phrase.” He flipped a few more pages. “‘When Hell Is Raised Up.’ I know the Arabic script is foliated. It makes it hard to read.” He turned back to the beginning of the notebook. “And, finally, a number. See? 540,000. On the bottom right hand side.”
“What does it mean?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Decker. He closed the notebook. “I’ve examined the words using a number of techniques and ciphers. The phrases are too brief for me to figure out a source.” He dropped the notebook on the floor. “And the number could be anything: A place reference or coordinate; a page, a chapter or verse; a bank account; or a time. Perhaps even a timer to something — an event.”
“What does that mean?” asked Warhaftig.
“The number could represent hours or, more likely, seconds, given its size. You know: A countdown.” Decker reached out for the camera. “That’s the thing about illustrations. I doubt I ever would have found that number using just a camera. Pictures only deliver images two-dimensionally. Unlike illustrations, photographs are… ” He froze. Then he glanced up, horrified. He looked at the rear panel of the camera and cursed under his breath.
“What’s the matter?” asked Warhaftig.
Decker eyed Warhaftig with suspicion.
“What is it?” he repeated.
Decker flipped a switch and a panel on the camera swung open. It was empty. There was no memory stick within.
Warhaftig looked surprised. “Not your day,” he said, after a moment.
“I’m sure I loaded this thing. You don’t think those guys could have come back and… ” Decker rolled to his feet and checked the apartment door. Nothing was out of place. The doorframe was clean. Nobody had tried to force it open. He walked back to the window and collapsed into his chair.
Warhaftig reached into his raincoat. He took out his cell phone and punched a number. “SAC Johnson?” he said. “It’s Warhaftig.”
Decker looked up in surprise. He could hear Johnson’s shrill voice echo back.
“Listen,” Warhaftig said, “for what it’s worth, I just wanted to say that — in my opinion — you shouldn’t be too hard on Decker. The way I see it, Special Agent Bartolo took it upon himself to follow those three suspects across the roof before backup had arrived. Probably would have done the same thing myself, given the circumstances, but you can hardly blame Decker.” He paused, then added, “Anyone can make a mistake, sir. He didn’t have the shot.” He pulled the phone away from his ear as Johnson shouted back. “What I mean is,” said Warhaftig, cutting him off, “I was in the field for almost fourteen years, and you’ll never guess what just happened. I was leaning over, reaching for my binoculars, and — well — I knocked over your Nikon, sir. Yeah,” he added, looking at Decker. “I’m afraid so. I suggest you submit a cross-charge. I’m sure the Agency insurance team will order a replacement. No, sir. Apparently nothing crucial.” He winked at Decker. “Yes, a new one, sir. Of course. Alright then,” he said. “Thank you, sir, for being so understanding. Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone and slipped it back into his raincoat.