Hunting Savage Page 15

  Abruptly, the woman looked directly at Peter. It was as if she suddenly knew he was scoping her. She dove and rolled to the same cluster of stunted trees that Peter had stopped at earlier.

  He squeezed the trigger, but immediately knew he’d missed. The bullet kicked up a dust cloud where she had been only an instant earlier.

  Peter spun to his left. Gunfire rippled through the thin air, but the bullets were high. He settled the crosshairs on the man who was struggling to cover the distance uphill to his partner. Peter tracked him. Smooth and steady.

  Boom!

  The man plowed forward in a somersault, coming to rest on his back. Motionless. Dead.

  Chapter 22

  Sacramento, California

  April 21

  The bot that Gary had constructed was nothing more than a collection of code. Lines of software following a logical series of instructions to achieve a desired goal. Despite the implications of the name and the way he spoke of bots as if they were mechanical or living beings, nothing could have been farther from the truth. In fact, there was nothing tangible about bots at all—they existing only in the digital world of zeroes and ones.

  After completing a rigorous debugging exercise, the bot was uploaded to his server. Although it housed terabytes of information, the bot would be directed to the specific file of interest. There it would read every digital bit. Its function was simple: find and highlight sections of code that matched essential programming for the file flag to function.

  Gary executed the program and unleashed the bot. He routinely used bots to search his massive digital depository, searching for the presence of malware and viruses. Although the commercial antivirus software was fine for the vast majority of PC users, Gary had rather special needs in his business of cyber security. Plus, he’d made a few enemies over the years fixing breaches for corporate clients, making his own computers something of a tantalizing target.

  The first problem was that his security bots were not programmed to find the lines of code he presently sought. By reprogramming a security bot he’d addressed this first challenge. He was confident the secret files on the USS Liberty did contain a flag, a short executable file that would send the IP address of any computer that opened or copied the file to a third party. He needed to know who that third party was.

  That led to the second problem—how to identify a specific person or persons associated with the file flag. He hoped he would be rewarded with an active IP address. If so, he’d plant a packet of code within the recipient’s email account. That packet would spoof the account to reply to his server with a message that would provide direct connection to a real person.

  Or so he hoped. There were many ways his plan could fail: the email account could be a cover—lacking identifiers of the account holder. Or the IP address could be fake, one of many that would have him chasing a digital ghost around the globe. If the roles were reversed and Gary was managing the secret file and file flag, he’d have implemented these shields in the event someone discovered the flag and attempted to trace it back. But then again, Gary was counting on the file manager being sloppy, or at least not as good at cyber security as he was.

  Gary was leaning back in his chair when a brief message appeared on his monitor.

  Program complete. Suspicious code identified and downloaded to desktop.

  He worked his keyboard and opened the file. Next he copied the IP address from the code and placed it in the program of a spoofing bot. Using a generic Internet-access portal, he sent the bot to the IP address. In a few minutes he’d know whether or not his worries were founded.

  Unlike many cyber security experts, Gary Porter had never used hacking maliciously. He’d never broken the law to illegally gain access to files and accounts that he had no legitimate reason to open. But his ability to think like a criminal was uncanny, and it had earned him a reputation as a genius at solving data breaches. Working mostly for Fortune 500 corporations, he’d earned an enviable income and purchased a large ranch in the gold country of California, east of Sacramento. He lived in a modern ranch house with his wife and business partner, Nancy, and three llamas, two dogs, a miniature horse, and seven goats. Due to the risk of wildfires in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Range, the Porters designed their home to be constructed from concrete and cement block. An added advantage was that his servers were housed in a bunker-like room that offered a high degree of protection from just about any assault, including fire, water, and people.

  A chime sounded, indicating an email message had arrived. Gary clicked on the message, and read the name and email address of the sender. He looked at the time—just after 6:00 p.m. He phoned Jim Nicolaou.

  “That was fast. What did you find?”

  “It was there, as I expected. Whoever programmed this flag was rather careless; they should have attempted to hide the code.”

  “Where you able to trace it to a person?”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell. But the email address is the House of Representatives—the U.S. Congress.” Gary smiled, imagining the surprise that would accompany this revelation.

  Jim eased back in his chair, trying to understand what it meant.

  “Hey, Jim, can you hear me? You still there?”

  “Yeah, still here.”

  “Did you get that? The IP address is a computer at the Capital.”

  “What’s the name on the email account?”

  “Angela Meyers,” Gary replied.

  Jim rolled the name over in his mind. “No, I don’t recognize it, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ll have Lacey or Stephens look it up. My guess is it’s the name of a staffer. Are you certain this is the person managing the secret file?”

  “No. I already explained how the real manager might shield their name from this type of cyber discovery. But then again, this code doesn’t show signs of being written by anyone trying to do something unique. If it were me, you’d never get a name that easily or quickly. So, no guarantees. It could be a diversion.”

  “Well, it’s the only solid lead we have at the moment. And it makes sense that someone within the government would be trying to maintain government secrets.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that it might make too much sense?”

  “You’re paranoid, Gary,” Jim said, refusing to allow his hopes to be dashed.

  “Yes, I am. And it’s because there are a lot of people out to get me. I’m something of a legend, you know. There’s even a rumor that my servers have a bounty on them of fifty grand each if destroyed and one hundred grand each if delivered in operational condition.”

  “Your servers are wanted—dead or alive—is that what you’re saying?” Jim chuckled, finding the analogy irresistible.

  “You may think it’s all fun and games, but this is serious business,” Gary said defensively.

  “No argument from me on that point. Look, is there anything more you can do to verify that information?”

  Gary thought for a moment before answering. “Maybe. I can send a phony email message to Angela Meyers using a government email address, only her reply will be routed to my account. She’ll only see the government address, and if the message is intriguing, she’ll reply—basic human nature. That will tell me the account is real and active.”

  “You can do all that?” The skepticism came through in Jim’s tone.

  “Really? You still doubt me? After all I’ve done?”

  Jim couldn’t hold back the laughter.

  “Ha ha,” Gary said. “Now, if I’m done entertaining you, I have work to do.”

  “Thank you. Really, I mean it. Peter is fortunate to count you as a friend.”

  “Yeah. Just so you know, he’s the brother I never had. Now, you need to do something for me.”

  “And what’s that?” Jim asked.

  “You watch after him. Do what you do best.”

  Lieutenant Ellen Lacey and Mona Stephens were sitting at Jim’s desk. He’d called them in immediately after his call with G
ary Porter.

  “I know it’s the end of the day,” Jim said, “but we have a lead. And it can’t wait until morning.” He went on to share his conversation.

  “I’ll get on it right away,” Lacey said. “It won’t take long to find out if an Angela Meyers truly does work for the House of Representatives.”

  “Thank you,” Jim said. Turning to Stephens he asked, “Was your search at the Library of Congress productive? Did you learn anything about the Liberty incident that might shed light on this mystery?”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “Maybe. I read many reports run in major newspapers and scores of statements given by members of the House and Senate. There was certainly a large population at the time who believed Israel committed an overt act of aggression against the United States, maybe even an act of war. The question was—and still remains—why? Why did Israeli forces attack the USS Liberty with a determination to sink her?

  “The New York Times ran a series on the incident, concluding that the Israeli government had acted in self-defense, fearful that the Liberty had intercepted radio communications just prior to the Jewish attack on the Golan Heights.”

  Lacey added, “Recall that at the time—four days into the war—negotiations were underway to end the conflict and freeze all military forces where they were. Had that diplomacy been successful, Israel would not have captured the strategic Golan Heights creating a buffer with Syria.”

  “And the thinking was,” Stephens continued, “that if the Johnson administration had known of the impending invasion, they would have pressured Levi Eshkol, the Prime Minister of Israel, to stand down.”

  Jim nodded. “So they aimed to sink the Liberty. Dead men tell no tales.”

  Stephens went on. “Only the Liberty didn’t sink. The rest of the story we know.”

  Jim stood and paced behind his desk, arms folded across his chest. “There’s more to the story—has to be. Why won’t the government, to this day, declassify every document related to the incident? And why did the possession of some classified files result in murder?”

  “I’ve been working on that,” Lacey said. She opened a file folder she was holding, and read from the contents. “Both the America and the Saratoga launched aircraft multiple times to defend the Liberty. And every time, the planes were quickly recalled by Robert McNamara.”

  “The Secretary of Defense. Yes, I recall this. But why would he countermand such an order?”

  “Exactly,” Lacey said. “Answer that question, and you’ll have solved the riddle.”

  “That was a question asked by several lawmakers from both sides of the aisle,” Stephens explained, “but no answer is published in the Congressional Record. As strange as it seems, the White House did not put that query to rest. And what’s even stranger is that no one—no journalist, no member of Congress, no one—insisted on an answer.”

  “What about the newspapers?” Jim asked.

  “Not much more. Some editorials stopped just short of accusing Johnson and McNamara of treason. It was a politically-charged time: the Vietnam War was underway and the Arab Coalition was aiming to destroy the Jewish state.”

  Jim rubbed his thumb and index finger over his eyes. They could speculate all night and still not be any closer to solving the mystery. Maybe Lacey would be more successful in her search of Congressional staffers. Sooner or later, they had to get a break in the case.

  Chapter 23

  Eastern Drainage of Broken Top

  April 21

  Nadya stared at the lifeless body, the young man she knew as Joshua. Somewhere, probably in Israel, he had a family. Would they ever know where Joshua died? Probably not. The Mossad was renowned for secrecy—in life and death.

  Her thoughts drifted to her own family. She had a younger sister living in the U.S., but both parents had died years ago. She recalled pleasant memories from her childhood, laughing with her sister on the farm her parents owned in the Golan Heights. She was born on the farm; her parents were settlers who benefited from cheap land—land she knew was captured from Syria. It was a standard practice in her homeland. Settle the captured territory, make it part of Israel, and it will be impossible for the international community to force a return to pre-war boundaries.

  The Jewish state needed buffers all around. The nation was surrounded by hostile neighbors, countries that had recently fought to destroy her homeland. She was taught that her government was justified in settling these captured territories. It was a fair price to extract from the aggressors as compensation for the Jewish lives lost, the millions of dollars and resources simply wasted.

  Nadya was glad she could not see Joshua’s eyes.

  She turned away from her fallen colleague and called out. “Don’t shoot!” She held her rifle out in one hand, the other hand raised. Slowly, Nadya stood.

  “Don’t shoot!” she shouted again. She was scrutinizing the rock fortress.

  “What do you want?” Peter shouted in return. “Why are you trying to kill me?” Nadya was looking directly at Peter’s hide between two boulders, at the left end of the outcropping.

  “You shoot well. Were you a sniper in the Army?”

  “Never served,” he answered. “Why are you trying to kill me?”

  “Can we talk?”

  Peter considered the request. It surprised him, but he did want answers. Plus he had her in the crosshairs and could drop her easily.

  “Very well. You can walk toward me. I’ll tell you when to stop. And if you don’t stop when I tell you to, or if you make any threatening movement, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Nadya stared across the open expanse. She was surprised at his determination. Most civilians would have crumbled under the fear and pressure.

  “Do you understand me?” Peter asked.

  “Yes, I understand.” She started walking forward, hands still raised.

  Peter tracked her step by step. She walked easily, not showing any sign of fatigue. She was composed, remarkably so, especially since he’d already shot dead three of her associates. When she was close enough that they could talk without shouting he said, “That’s close enough.”

  Nadya stopped. She could see Peter’s face now, at least the left side not hidden behind the hunting scope.

  “Now. Carefully place your left hand on the rifle stock.”

  She did as instructed, aware that he could place a bullet in her heart at any moment if provoked.

  “Place your right hand on the barrel, close to the muzzle, and heave that rifle toward me. One handed! I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if you try anything.”

  Nadya slid her right hand to the muzzle and flung the rifle forward. It travelled maybe 20 meters before landing muzzle first in the dirt. Even if she could somehow get to the weapon without being shot, she wasn’t confident it would cycle without first being field stripped and thoroughly cleaned. And if dirt was stuck in the barrel it might even blow up on her if she pulled the trigger.

  “Okay lady, what’s on your mind,” Peter said.

  “A trade. Let me go, and you walk away.”

  “I could kill you now and still walk away.”

  “No, you won’t shoot an unarmed woman.”

  “Why are you trying to kill me? Who sent you?”

  Nadya turned up the corners of her mouth. If the situation was not dire, the naiveté of the question would be humorous. “I suspect you know how this works.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come now, Mr. Savage—”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I was briefed.” She paused. If Peter was surprised, he didn’t let on.

  She continued. “Your knowledge of tactics is commendable. And you seem to take killing in stride, like a man who has killed before and is good at it.”

  For a moment Peter wondered if her assessment was true. Is this really what I’ve become? The thought was disgusting. She was right, of course. He had shot many men, but only when they were threatening him or his fam
ily. He wanted to believe that was the difference—the distinction between being a cold-blooded killer and someone who was only reluctantly forced into self-defense. But was that boundary really as clear as he wanted to believe? In the end, people still died… by my hand.

  “No, that’s not who I am.”

  “Do you really believe that? Your actions here today would argue otherwise.”

  Peter felt his finger brushing the rifle trigger. Why not kill her, too? No. She could taunt him, but he was not a killer. Not like she was. He was defending himself.

  “Who sent you to kill me?”

  “It’s always the same answer, isn’t it?” She sighed. “A government sent me, and my team.”

  “You’re trying my patience. If you really think I’m a killer, remember which end of my rifle you’re looking at.”

  “You know what, Mr. Savage? I don’t think you are a killer.” She took a step forward.

  Peter squeezed the trigger—heard the report and felt the butt stock shoved violently into his shoulder.

  Nadya saw the eruption of dirt an inch in front of her foot. Dirt and gravel sprayed against her boot and leg. She froze.

  “Okay, point taken.”

  “Who sent your team to kill me?”

  “I work at the pleasure of a government. An ally of the United States. Your only true ally in the Middle East.”

  “Israel,” Peter said. But this answer just led to more questions. “Why would the Israeli government want to kill me?”

  Nadya shrugged. Even if she had known, she would not have shared that information.

  “They don’t want the file on the Liberty incident released to the public,” Peter said. “Is that it? But why would they care? That happened so long ago.”

  “I’m a soldier. And like every good soldier, I simply follow orders and don’t ask questions.”

  “So goes the justification for murdering innocent civilians. I’ll bet you sleep well at night.”

  She shrugged again. “I do okay.”