Jihad (15 page)

It
looked
that way. About halfway up his legs started to tire, and Dean found it difficult to continue. He told himself he was too far to go back and pushed on another four or five feet. Then his right knee started to give out. He jabbed his foot against the wall, feeling suddenly old—incredibly old now, in his late eighties rather than his early fifties. He pushed his head against the shaft, looking upwards.

The alternative was crawling through the bat guano. And that was if he survived the fall without breaking a leg.

The notion didn’t cure his knee, but it made easier to ignore. He pushed his leg up and shoved himself higher. Just under the planks at the top of the shaft, he wedged himself against the sides so he could push the boards off. As he did, he saw a rope beneath the wood. He tapped at it, then pulled it out, letting it fall into the shaft below. It was a rope ladder, attached to a beam across the top of the hole. Dean pulled at it, not trusting at first though the rope was nylon, and very obviously brand-new. Finally he put his weight on it, standing on one of the rungs as he lifted two boards out of the way and climbed from the hole.

“Charlie, where are you?” asked Rockman in his ear.

“I’m out.”

“I thought you were waiting for Karr.”

“I didn’t.”

“All right. The car Lia ID’d looks like it’s heading around to pick up Asad and his people. We’d like you to join Lia and tail him. She just finished planting the video bugs.”

“I’ll have to change first,” said Dean. “Tell her I’ll meet her at the car.”

He rolled over and got up. As he did, he heard something behind him. Dean turned around and saw a pair of eyes staring at him. These weren’t rat eyes—they belonged to a man who had a large two-by-four in his hand.

Dean ducked. As the two-by-four sailed past, Dean pitched himself into the man’s midsection, tackling him. The other man managed to roll on top of Dean, pushing the side of Dean’s face into the dirt. The other man outweighed him by seventy-five pounds, and all of Dean’s fury barely budged him. Finally Dean squirmed to the side and squirted from his grasp. A desperate, unaimed kick caught his attacker in the ribs; it stunned the man, but he remained on his feet. Dean grabbed the two-by-four; it took three shots to the giant’s head to drop him.

“What’s going on?” Rockman asked. “Charlie?”

“Someone attacked me,” said Dean. “He looks like one of the local bums you told me about. But I’m okay now.”

Then he looked up and saw that wasn’t exactly true—four of the man’s friends, some with rocks in their hands, were gathered in a semicircle nearby.

KARR SPOTTED THE white Mercedes just as it pulled into a bus stop along Kennedy Caddesi. Asad and two other men got in and it pulled out quickly.

The helicopter was going in the opposite direction, and by the time they turned around, the vehicles were heading over the Galata Bridge. The Mercedes made a wide circle, came back over the bridge, and headed back in the direction of the palace. It parked on a street only a few blocks north of the Blue Mosque.

“Must’ve been making sure they weren’t followed,” Karr said. “Rockman, we’re going to fly back over the palace and see if we can find that SUV Lia saw earlier.”

“Tommy, don’t worry about that now,” said Rockman. “Get back over by the water near the mosque—Charlie’s in trouble.”

“ÇTKIL GIT!”
YELLED Dean, waving the wood back and forth in front of him. “Go away! Get out. Go!”

One of the men threw a rock at him. Dean ducked it and feinted toward him, backing the others off. He edged to his left, looking for a path to escape.

“Karr and Fashona are on their way,” said Rockman. “They should be there in a couple of minutes.”

Another rock flew by, this one much closer. Dean waved his board again; this time, the men didn’t retreat more than a step.

“I need the words for I’ll kill them,” Dean told the translator.

“You sure?”

“They don’t speak English.”

“Çtkil git!”
yelled Dean to the nearest man. Then he told the translator, “I need something stronger than ‘go away’.”

The translator gave him a string of curse words and threats. Dean hurried through them, hoping to make up in ferocity what he lost in pronunciation.

The man closest to him stooped to pick up a rock. Dean leapt forward and whacked him on the side hard enough to knock him down. Then Dean jumped back, squaring to face the attackers again.

The men began jabbering together—complaining, said the translator, about this crazy intruder trying to move into their home.

“I’m going to go,” Dean said in English, repeating the Turkish when the translator gave it. “I’m just going to leave. If you don’t bother me, I won’t bother you.”

A path cut through the vines and overgrowth toward a set of stone and dilapidated marble ruins to his left. Dean took a step toward it, then ducked another rock. One of the men let out a blood-curdling yell, apparently their signal to charge—Dean took a swat at the nearest man. Two others lunged at the two-by-four. He poked one in the face, but the other grappled the wood from Dean’s hand.

Retreating down the path, Dean scooped up a large stone as a weapon. But when he turned to face his attackers, they had disappeared.

“Charlie, you okay?” asked Rockman. “Charlie?”

“Yeah, I’m here. These guys are hiding somewhere.”

“Karr and the helicopter should be there any second. Can you get across the road to the rocks?”

Something moved in the underbrush on Dean’s left. He whirled and threw the stone at a thick clump of vines. Whoever or whatever was there yelped and fell over.

Dean scrambled down the path, in the direction of the highway and the coastline beyond. He dashed across to a chorus of horns, then leapt over the guardrail and up onto the rocks at the water’s edge. His pursuers followed. As Dean veered along the rocky, debris-ridden shore, he heard the loud drum of the approaching helicopter’s rotors.

“THERE—LOOK THERE,” Karr told Fashona, pointing at what looked like an overgrown landing near the shoreline. Five men were huddled on the highway side, throwing rocks at another—Dean. “We gotta get him out of there.”

“I’m going to buzz them,” said the pilot. “Hang on.”

The helicopter’s nose dropped toward the ground. Something cracked behind them—it was the banner, snapping like the tail end of a whip. One of the men on the ground turned, gestured at the approaching helicopter, and then threw a rock at them.

The rock missed by fifty feet, but it was exactly the wrong tactic for anyone to take with Fashona. The pilot hunched forward, demanding more speed from the throttle and setting his chin in determination.

“I’m going to bomb the bastards,” he said.

Before Karr could ask how, Fashona put the chopper nearly on its side, banking sharply toward the cluster of rock-throwers. He reached down and pulled the tow-rope release, shrouding Dean’s assailants with the fifty-foot-long banner.

Karr snapped off his seatbelt and leaned out the open door, grabbing hold of Dean as Fashona spun the little helo down. There were only two seats in the helicopter; Karr shoved himself back against the center console, but the best he could do was hold Dean on his lap as they pulled out over the open water.

“We’re going back to the airport,” Fashona said.

“Yeah,” said Karr. “ASAP. Dean smells like a sewer rat. I’m tempted to drop him into the water so he can take a bath.”

CHAPTER 42

COLORED DOTS COVERED the computer screen, a seemingly un-ordered array of Technicolor.

“I fail to see a pattern here,” said Rubens, leaning back from the screen.

“Ha!”
Johnny Bib gave one of his triumphant, semiverbal yelps. “Show him, Gallo.”

Robert Gallo, one of Desk Three’s computer specialists working for Johnny Bib’s analysis team, sheepishly pressed a button on the laptop computer controlling the presentation. The dots began to vibrate, then rearranged themselves on the screen. Three largish circles, one purple, one red, one gold, emerged from the chaos, sliding to the right.

“I hadn’t realized we had farmed out our analysis work to Pixar Animation,” said Rubens dryly.

“It’s not animation,” said Gallo. “I mean it is, but it’s part of the tool. It’s a byproduct, I mean, since, like, the calculation is shown in real time. I didn’t do it on purpose is what I mean.”

“Big circle—Germany,” said Johnny Bib. “Little circle! Qaeda Five!”

Rubens looked at the screen again. The “tool” Gallo referred to was an analysis program that correlated data mined from various sources—e-mail, cell phone transmissions, and the like—with other information about known terrorist groups. It did not directly involve traditional cryptography. Rather it used statistical analysis and inference to make judgments about how data might interrelate.

Say, for example, that the NSA knew that a terrorist organization used a specific class of encryptions. The agency had “tools” that would sift through the mountains of communications it intercepted, looking for such messages. The messages might or might not be selected for decryption. Even the NSA did not have the resources to decrypt every message it intercepted; indeed, only a small portion of those deemed worthwhile were examined in any detail.

But decryption was just only one way of gathering information. Simply knowing that a message was sent and who received it might be infinitely more useful than the text of the message itself, even after it was decrypted. Agency analysts might study the volume of such messages, for example, to determine how many messages the organization had sent within a six-month period leading up to a terror attack. They could build a model based on the message pattern and use it to scan through other data looking for similar patterns—not just in communications, but in other activities, such as money transfers and travel arrangements. Gallo’s tool compiled the results from all of
those
tools and showed possible links graphically.

In Rubens’ opinion, the results were often merely abstractions of abstractions. But in this case, the analysts had used the tool to identify the man Karr had followed from the meeting with Asad as Marid Dabir, an al-Qaeda member who had disappeared and was thought to have died in Pakistan two years before.

At least that’s what Johnny Bib contended the middle circle meant. Rubens himself wasn’t entirely convinced. The real problem was that there were no reliable images of Marid Dabir. The NSA—and the rest of the world, for that matter—knew of him only through a variety of assumed names and the tag Qaeda Five, awarded years before because he was the fifth unidentified but high-ranking al-Qaeda operative discovered by the agency.

“We need more data here,” Rubens told Bib. “This is provocative, but nothing more.”

“Germany,” said Bib. “That’s where he’s been.”

“I can see that, Johnny. Mr. Ambassador, any insights?” Rubens turned toward Hernes Jackson, the other member of the analysis section attending the meeting. Jackson, who’d spent more than thirty years in the diplomatic corps, had come out of retirement at Rubens’ request. The silver-haired former ambassador had quickly found a place as a voice of reason and historical perspective, tempering the flamboyant imagination of Johnny Bib, who was eccentric even for the NSA.

“Only the obvious one that I doubt Germany would be the sole target of an operation.”

“Quite.”

“Mr. Gallo neglected to mention one thing significant,” said Johnny as Rubens got up to go.

“I did?” blurted Gallo.

“The number of dots on the screen is a prime number,” said Rubens, without bothering to look.

“3267000013,” said Johnny Bib, pronouncing each digit triumphantly. “What a glorious number.”

“Indeed,” sighed Rubens as he left the room.

“WE ALWAYS INTENDED to arrest Asad. I’m merely suggesting we move up the time schedule.”

“I designed the operation, Dr. Bing. I am fully aware of its outline, as well as its ultimate goal.” Rubens pressed his hand around the phone handle. “I see no reason to arrest him yet. The device is working perfectly and he has no idea that it’s been inserted. We can track him at will.”

“You’ve gained no new information. The longer you wait, the higher the risk of compromise.”

“And the more useful information we will obtain,” said Rubens. “We’ve already found this connection to Germany, which no one has developed until now. If the president has changed his mind—”

“Carry on as you see fit,” said Bing, finally retreating. “I will contact the German authorities and have someone get back to you.”

Before he could say anything else, Bing hung up the phone.

Rubens pushed his chair out from his desk and took off his shoes. He stepped onto the hand-woven silk rug next to his workspace and bent over, arms together, to begin the
Surya Namaskar
or Sun Salutation, a basic but relaxing yoga movement. He turned his body slowly, stretching, trying to find the calm point of contemplation he needed to deal with the present situation.

Bing was going to be an incredible problem, far more difficult to deal with than he had foreseen. He needed to prepare a long-term strategy, but this was not the time.

Rubens continued his yoga routine, sliding his full body to the floor. He spread up into cobra position, pushing his head back. It was too abrupt a move: “too mad Western” in the words of his instructor. Before he could try again, his encrypted phone rang.

“I understand we had a problem yesterday,” said Debra Collins, the Central Intelligence Agency’s deputy director of operations, when he picked up.

“Debra, good to speak to you.”

“I’ve talked to both of the officers involved,” continued Collins. “It won’t happen again.”

In CIA-speak, that was an abject apology. It was so out of character for Collins, Rubens immediately began wondering what she really wanted.

“For what it’s worth,” she added, backtracking in a much more familiar tone, “they thought he was going to escape. And they weren’t entirely briefed on his importance. The people working on Red Lion have been kept on a strict need-to-know basis, and there are a lot of gaps.”