Authors: Rick Jones
Boston, Massachusetts.
September 24, Early Morning
Team
Leader sat against the wall of his chamber, alone, separated from his team.
Though he did not fit in with the American-derived band of brothers, he knew
they would not question his leadership.
At the onset of his commission as
Team Leader, his authority had been immediately tested by a member of the Force
Elite who went by the moniker Nomad.
Nomad’s rawboned features appeared
more simian than human from steroid use, his forehead sloping from chemical
evolution rather than ancestral inheritance. His brutish attitude appointed him
the team’s Alpha male, and he considered Team Leader an outsider who was
infringing on his right to rule.
At the commencement of training,
Team Leader bore the brunt of Nomad’s derisive remarks, the members of the
Force Elite following his lead. The men mocked Team Leader, letting him know
that Nomad was their true commander.
By the end of the day Team Leader
issued a challenge, offering to pass the mantel of leadership to Nomad if he
should win.
The challenge was accepted.
Nomad removed his shirt, exposing
impossibly large muscles as an exhibition to intimidate his opponent. But Team
Leader remained standing at ease, his hands pressed against the small of his
back. Team Leader knew Nomad’s size was his liability, diminishing his speed
and agility. As the larger man circled and goaded Team Leader, calling him vile
names and spitting at his feet, Team Leader remained in his stance, watching
Nomad, absorbing every detail of his movements, and waiting for the opportune
moment.
Within fifteen seconds of
attacking Team Leader, Nomad lay dead on the ground, his neck broken and his
eyes staring at nothing in particular. From that point on, no one questioned
Team Leader’s authority.
A jingling of chains from the
hallway told him that the members of the Holy See were testing their bonds. He
stood.
The time was early, not yet dawn,
the rooms and hallways still dark. After fitting an NVG monocular around his
forehead, he switched it on.
He easily navigated through the
darkness, stepping over discarded debris that couldn’t have been seen by the
unaided eye. He stood before the bishops and the governor, the captives seeing
only a green phosphorous eye hovering over them.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said
Team Leader.
The bishops stopped rattling their
chains.
“Your propensity for making noise
is quite unsettling.”
Team Leader moved along the
mattresses with his hands behind his back, as if studying his prey. “In a
moment the sun will come up, and you’ll all be fed,” he told them. “And then
one of you will be challenged to a test of faith. Please don’t disappoint me.”
No one dared question him.
A moment later the green
phosphorous eye winked out and Team Leader was gone, swallowed by the shadows.
Outside, the sun barely crested
the horizon.
#
Homeland Security Operations
Center, Washington, D.C.
September 24, Mid-Morning
The
Department of
Homeland Security Center was
a series of brick annexes converted from existing military barracks. The
building she was looking for was one of several unmarked structures on the
government campus, but since the Operations Center was one of Shari’s teaching
venues, she knew exactly where to go.
After parking her vehicle, she
walked through the entrance, flashed her credentials and signed the LEO log.
After politely accepting small talk from the desk personnel, she asked to be
escorted to the decoding terminal.
Within moments she was accompanied
by two officers to a subterranean room bearing three large TV monitors, a PC
the size of a small server, and an ergonomically-shaped chair with a keyboard
attached to a pivoting arm that maneuvered from the chair’s side pocket to an
upright frontal position. Used exclusively for government decoding, this
state-of-the-art machinery had an attached cost of nearly a billion dollars and
had the capacity to out-crunch and out-run any super computer in existence. For
Shari, this installation was the first line of defense in fighting terrorism.
“Well, if it isn’t one of the
FBI’s biggest slackers,” said Toby Hansen of the DHS computer posse. “And to
what do I owe the dubious honor of your presence in my café?”
Shari smiled as she approached
him. “Be nice,” she said, and gave him a quick hug. “So how’re you doing,
Toby?”
“Now that your pretty little face
has graced my laboratory, I’m doing much better.”
Toby Hansen was a portly man who
always appeared unkempt. His face was never clean-shaven and never held a full
beard, but was always somewhere in between. Often he was gruff and sometimes
rude to upper management, but his prowess behind the keyboard was respected and
celebrated throughout the agencies. There was nobody faster, better, or more
knowledgeable when it came to code deciphering or government hacking. Here, he
was king.
“Now I know you’re not here to
sweep me off my feet.”
“Well, yeah, you’re right about
that.”
“So again, to what do I owe this
dubious honor?”
She held up the CD. “This was sent
to us by Mossad.”
He took the CD. “What is it?”
“Dossiers.”
“You can download this anywhere.”
“Not this one,” she said. “They’re
encrypted.”
“Dossiers?”
“My sentiment exactly. You think
you can scan them quickly for me?”
“If it doesn’t take too long.”
“I’d really appreciate it.”
After placing the encrypted CD in
the drive, the two side screens immediately lit up. The symbols on the left
screen differed from those displayed on the right screen.
LEFT SCREEN:
%PDF1.4%âãÏÓ490obj<>endobjxref4911000000001600000n0000000567700000n000000095400000n000000110800000n000000124800000n000000128700000n000000140400000n000000408100000n000010378200000n0000000660D00000n000000093300000ntrailer<<2762c3250372a1bfbb315983df8285b>]>>startxref0%%EO500obj<>endobj580obj<>strendobj5109obj<>endobj520JJobj<>PHOTO/ExtGState<>/ColorSpace<>>>endobj530obj[/ICCBased550RP)/endbj540obj
RIGHT SCREEN:
2ForGKD6dJzT9QowA%0AhnumrRZUvy%2BLV1DjnylkV0vf7KCdPKwVtq5jsDmg7hHuBWZYcx4clAT%2B%2FNCpEJnWgNsAz6GL10qW%0AjwQ%2BEL4o69Zvwb45I1PyFVXr2nnebQliV53ZDboAv1MiatAv%2Fy%2BFYQTxb9aonEsWDeRHwZBd73Jf%0AoCgOklgcitM90M1iVifu%2BftvpJhQkVRRuLascUEzrgGz5F%2B34EibZQZUoUkfaVrmvcPcHIXbq12D%0ATrq5d6WlPRDDsmxV8uE%2ByS%2BfBJpg3QAXxriip%2B2Qmmrs%2F41i9bsaFvVMTBm6ZKQwOkHFnT2DrhNM%0AF0FBrv2AzAS%2B6lptOnP5Q2RGQDPfLFnAzafwKeNI0Aixcn12twrk7baXja7dDEJpBO9tbsl2QI3b%0AtHbbABZgmRBBGk44an02VRlhcv%2FFWNg7jum1%2BXrLsmkKy%2BON2sERIyla55%2FVp%2BvH2VX368%2F7M5nf%0AGYQ3LnJAxdjLRp%2BEYSknuWFOTwt%2B1qg28Nd7dQRCrf3Q6EiCY8ben3KQFdvb9LvzngX%2FoEAEulY3%0AEIiJlcE1qDs7xf4l5paoI%2BZJJ2wgJT8bA3n97bgFG%2Fu1pwyG%2Bj3D5uu69ee4QB0xAzdLQctkIf8X%0Aj4HZuiGuxrsn9CbliKMSOecwUEiNs5Z4pV4sM0%2Bk%2Bg%2Bt%2FaY3T5qc8%2FpaGPRitLV1QZFx4Bu5Ta4Z%0AjmYlUWQt2Sg8fGbMiB3Wu7aGS3MSnsCETQ1u6TkMfoWK2RNybls23d5RK7YEdJHt7MzyCgf48rgI%0APlwfdZTHQiWnWji1beBt18RiJYYJFdIRYg5%2FyETojJr33t%2FqkDMQbdUFZiJvEZSIrRU8OPg%2FXPgm%0Ax50TAUhWpn4v3epCVw4jCMJcAu8yHsuRoJqaaAf1%2Bk2xGcQ72dpsLxvTQWysbV%2
QIBHØ00000n000000093300000ntrailer<<2762c3250372a1bfbb315983df8285b>]>>FlateDecode>>streamVDecodeDecodeDecodeDecodeDec%//20hyohKK00002jgrgj//@^//lm3250372a1bfbb315983df8285b>]>>FlateDecode>>pk00612792]/Rotate0>>endobj520‘MediaBox[00612792]/CropBox[00612792]/Rotate0>>endobj520JJobj<>PHOTO/ExtGState<>/ColorSpace<>>>endobj530obj[/ICCBased550RP)/endbj540obj
The left and right screens
communicated with one another to formulate and display the true message, which
would appear on the center screen. Numbers, letters and symbols finally began
to scroll on the center screen. When the decoder deciphered a character, that
character remained on the center screen until a full message in English was
displayed.
Shari carefully read the screen.
The data gleaned from the CD actually gave little information beyond the
initial dossiers. This disappointed her greatly, but after scrolling down to
the final three pages, she discovered that the data remained partially
encrypted, despite the software’s attempt to break the cryptograms. For some
reason, Mossad had decided to keep the final elements hidden, even from their
foreign associates, the Americans.
But why?
Toby continued to scroll through
the text, illuminating further transcripts. And Shari noted two things. First,
at the end of each coded page was a name: Abraham Obadiah/Restriction Chief
Operator for the Defense & Armed Forces Attaché/Embassy of Israel/WDC. The second was a typed anomaly placed just above the encryptions, a phrase that seemed out
of place: MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE!
Shari cocked her head like a puppy
trying to grasp the meaning of something odd.
After powering down, Toby removed
the CD. “Sorry, but this CD needs to be decoded through hours of manual labor,
which I don’t have time for, Missy.” He tried to give the CD back to Shari.
“Please, Toby, it’s important.”
“It’s always important,” he said
with a brusque air. “But right now I’m working twenty-four-seven on encryptions
from every agency across the globe regarding the kidnapping of the pope.
Dossiers, little lady, are at the bottom of the priority pool.”
“Toby, please, I know these
documents appear low priority, but I believe they may be connected. After all,
the subjects are the Soldiers of Islam.”
“Sweetie, look, if you want me to
decode this CD when I have time, fine. I’d be happy to. Just leave it behind.”
“When can you get to it?”
“When I’m finished with everything
else on my plate.”
“And how long will that take?”
“As long as it takes—days, weeks.
Who knows?”
Shari sighed. Even a day may prove
to be too long. She had to acquire the data immediately. Taking the CD from
Toby, she held it toward the light as if to glean something from it. And
perhaps she did. At least she had a starting point. She had the name of Abraham
Obadiah.
She would contact Obadiah at the
Israeli Embassy in Washington. Perhaps he could enlighten her as to why certain
segments remained encrypted after both nations had readily agreed to share all
information regarding terrorist activity.
She said a quick goodbye to Toby
and placed the CD back into its jewel case.
Judas
waited for the Lexus to exit the DHS parking lot, often checking his watch. It
had been more than thirty-six hours since he had any sleep, going on adrenaline
since being instrumental in the deaths of the president’s Security Detail at
the Governor’s Mansion. He had considered them his friends, having bellied up
to the bar with some and dined at the houses of others. But since Judas was
about to benefit financially beyond his imagination, he had no remorse about
diverting their attention as Team Leader’s men systematically killed them.
After all, money always seems to lessen the effects of a tragedy. If anything,
he wanted to smoke a cigar in celebration.
With an eye on the gate, he saw
the Lexus stop at the guard post, then exit. When Shari turned east onto
Nebraska Avenue, Judas made a U-turn and followed at a fair distance, wondering
if she had discovered anything. If she had, he would gladly kill her, too.
#
Within
the twenty
minutes it took Shari to return
to the JEH Building, traffic had picked up noticeably. Twice she found herself
nodding off, only to snap awake with her fingers white-knuckling the steering
wheel. After that she rolled down the window and turned up the radio, the
station DJs talking about the Soldiers of Islam. Who were they? Where were they?
Why haven’t they made contact? All questions that Shari had asked herself
repeatedly over the past twenty-four hours.
Trying to keep one eye on the
road, Shari grabbed her cell phone and thumbed a number on the keypad. After
three rings the line was connected.
It was the president’s Chief
Advisor. “Al Thornton.”
“Hey, Al, it’s Shari.”
“I know what you’re going to ask,”
he said. “And the answer is no. They haven’t made contact.”
“I know. I’ve been listening to
the news.”
“Then you’re calling to make a
proposal?”
“Absolutely. By not contacting us,
they’re trying to show the world that they’re in total control of the situation
and that the United States has been rendered impotent. We need to show them
that we’re not as powerless as they think.”
“I agree. The staff has been
kicking around a few solutions, but hasn’t settled on anything.”
“We need to broadcast their
photos,” she told him. “We need to let them know that this country isn’t
spinning in panic but motivated to bring down the Soldiers of Islam.”
“We’ve considered that approach,”
he said. “But if we do,
Aljazeera
will spread the news like wildfire
across the Arab world. And that, my dear, would make legends out of the
Soldiers of Islam, most likely fueling tension rather than suppressing it.”
“Believe me, Al, they’re already
legends over there. I think it’s the best, if not the only alternative.”
“I’ll forward your proposal to the
president,” he said. “And for what it’s worth, I agree. I think we need to show
these bastards that they’re no longer without a face. Once they realize that we
know who they are, maybe they’ll reconsider their intent. After all, there
won’t be a spot on this planet where they can hide.”
“Thanks, Al.”
“We’ll keep you posted, either
through Pappandopolous or Hamilton.”
“Good luck.”
Turning into the garage of the JEH
Building, she found a parking stall, grabbed her items, and made her way to the
elevator doors. Judas pulled silently into a spot several stalls away. As soon
as the elevator doors closed behind her, Judas called Pappandopolous to inform
him that Shari was back in the building.
After a few moments of discussion,
Judas was relieved of duty for a much-needed sleep.
#
Shari
was so
tired that she labored in her steps
to the Operations Room, which was now at full staff for the new day. The files
that she carried seemed much heavier, the distance to the office much further.
Lying on a couch in the hallway
with his sports jacket draped over him like a blanket was Billy Paxton, his
slack-jawed features indicating that he was fast asleep.
After dropping the files onto her
desk, she called her husband to touch base with him and ask about the girls.
Everything was fine, he told her. The girls missed her. He missed her. The
family pooch, if they had one,
would
miss her. The goldfish missed her.
The world in general, according to Gary Molin, missed her deeply. And Shari,
being so fatigued, snorted in laughter. It was a wonderful moment, without any
of the tension that had been brewing in their relationship. After a few more moments
on the line, she hung up, placing the phone gently onto its cradle.
Exhausted, she fell into the
chair, looked at the stack of files scattered across her desktop, and released
a sigh that was equal parts frustration and fatigue. Finding the pope’s whereabouts
would be a long, hard process. And with so little time, there was no guarantee
he would be found alive.
Staring at the CD, she picked up
the plastic disc and examined it as if she had never seen it before, turning it
over and over, watching the iridescent streaks of color move across the
surface.
“Abraham Obadiah,” she said to no
one in particular and then picked up the phone.
Fanning herself with the CD, she
dialed the number for Information. The operator then directed her call to the
Embassy of Israel.
“Embassy of Israel, how can I
help you?”
“This is Special Agent Cohen of
the F.B.I. I would like to speak to Abraham Obadiah, please.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Obadiah is out of
town at the moment,” said the receptionist. “But he’s scheduled to return by—”
The sound of tapping on a keyboard came over the line. “According to his
schedule, he’ll be back sometime tomorrow.”
“Is it possible to get a message
to him right away?” she asked. “It’s crucial that I speak with him as soon as
possible. It’s regarding the kidnapping of Pope Pius.”
“Just a moment, please.” And then
the piped sound of Muzak played for nearly a minute before the receptionist
returned. “Agent Cohen?”
“Yes.”
“If you give me a number where
you can be contacted, I’ll make sure that Mr. Obadiah gets the message as soon
as he comes in.”
“Is there any way that you can
contact him today?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Mr.
Obadiah is a difficult man to get in touch with when he’s out of the country.”
“Out of the country?”
“Yes, for the past two weeks.”
Shari released a heavy sigh.
“Well, could you give me the contact numbers so that I can try to get in
touch—”
“With all due respect, Agent
Cohen, Mr. Obadiah’s matters are of a delicate nature. Therefore, we do not,
and cannot give further information. But I’ll pass your number onto him stating
that you need to be contacted immediately.”
“Ma’am, I understand your
position, but you have to understand mine. This is regarding the welfare of the
pope, and Mr. Obadiah may hold information critical to the situation at hand.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But our
policy strictly states that due to the delicate nature of Mr. Obadiah’s
position—”
“—we do not and cannot give
further information,” Shari finished. “Yeah, I know. Can you at least tell me
what time he’s due back tomorrow?”
There was another round of tapping
on the keyboard. “His itinerary states that he’ll be here tomorrow for an
afternoon meeting.”
“Then can you pencil me in for a
morning appointment?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Obadiah makes his
own appointments since his schedule is so erratic.”
Shari clenched her jaw in
frustration. “Just have Mr. Obadiah contact me as soon as possible.”
“I’ll certainly give him the
message.”
“Thank you.” She gave the
receptionist numbers to her cell phone and office line and hung up.
Shari fell back into her chair in
resignation. Of course she could pass the CD onto the NSA, since they were the
cryptographers of the American government, but decoding would most likely take
days, even weeks. Her only other viable option, and one she detested, was to
wait for Obadiah to call.
And with every moment wasted, the
clock was counting down the moments of the pope’s life.