Perspectives, An Intriguing Tale of an American Born Terrorist (20 page)

He was very proud of me and my accomplishment and he greatly appreciated my volunteering to do research for him, using my access to the speedy Cray supercomputer.

The President’s gift gave me a fabulous advantage over my other classmates, who struggled with their personal computers and the university’s other IBM mainframes. I first met Jonathan Anderson in a graduate mathematics class. He was quite a bit older, having spent eight years in the military. The guy was a computer genius and was very interested in my access to the Cray supercomputer for use in his dissertation. I’m not sure what attracted me to Jonathan, but we soon became the best of friends. The guy was amazing! Besides being great with computers, he flew F-18s in the Blue Angels! How many people do you meet in your lifetime who flew F-18s for the Blue Angels? I may have been able to hold my own with the techies on our DNA team, but this guy intimidated the hell out of me.

I took him to meet Dr. Moore who was quite amused with all the, “Yes sirs, no sirs.”

“If you don’t stop all this formality, I’m going to slap you in the head!” said Dr. Moore.

Jonathan didn’t know how to react. Dr. Moore continued, “So do you understand the physics of how that airplane you flew could do all those stunts, without breaking into a million pieces.”

“Power and lift, sir.”

Dr. Moore slapped him in the head. “I told you to knock off the formality. Call me Stan.”

I was shocked because he had never offered me the freedom to address him by his first name. He caught my questioning look.

“Okay Stan,” I giggled. “Teach me how an F-18 flies.”

“For you it’s Dr. Moore, because I’m your mentor and besides, what will my other students think.”

I scowled at his hypocrisy, but was soothed when he put his arm around me and gave me a reassuring squeeze.

The rest of the evening we talked about aerodynamics, stall speeds and G-forces. Surprisingly, Jonathan seemed to know as much about these subjects as Dr. Moore (Stan).

They became instant friends, which also made me a little jealous.

Jonathan helped me with programming for several of my bio-chemistry projects and now I felt like the most blessed person in the world. I had access to a super computer and a super programmer. Who could ask for more? I felt invincible.

The dissertation committee gave Jonathan access to the Cray computer to work on his independent research and then he disappeared for 2 months. I didn’t know exactly what he was doing until the end of the term when he showed me that he had developed a new code that he called B-Scan. His dissertation focused on software protection he used with the giant brain of the super computer to find weaknesses in databases by randomly selecting alpha and numeric access codes, much like a safe-cracker breaking into a safe. He proved that he could eventually break through any firewall and gain access to the most sensitive information by utilizing the b-scan program.

When we showed the program to Dr. Moore, he was amazed.

“With this logic you could predict the likely combinations in a 6 digit lottery,” Dr. Moore explained.

“I don’t think so,” answered Jonathan. “Lotteries are completely random events. Access codes are controlled events, they are entirely different.”

Dr. Moore explained. “Is it completely random? Have you ever seen a lottery won with 111111, or 222222? How about 123456? We can put in all the historical winning numbers and eliminate certain combinations that, although possible, are not likely. Can your program do that?”

“Of course, sir, I mean Stan,” he answered.

Dr. Moore cocked his hand as if he was going to slap him again and then simply laughed.

“Tell me how much money we’d need to reduce the odds to 2/3.”

Jonathan scribbled some notes and answered, “Let me get the winning numbers from last year and I’ll be back.”

Believe it or not it worked. By looking at historical data Jonathan demonstrated that if he had $240,000 to invest in $1 tickets, we would have a 64% chance of winning the lottery. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the $240,000, but the first four times we simulated the computer’s picks we came up with the winning number. The fifth and sixth time we weren’t so lucky.

Dr. Moore simply laughed, “When you figure out the economics behind this, we’ll submit it for a Nobel Prize.”

One night when we were chilling in my room, completely bored, a Hillcrest nerd challenged Jonathan to hack into the Tech administrative computer.

“Too easy,” answered Jonathan.

“We won’t change anything,” said Susan Griffin. “I just want to see if you can do it.”

Jonathan was inside the Tech computer within 5 minutes. I don’t know why we did it, except for the challenge, and we never did any damage or any self-benefiting things like changing grades. I never needed to, because my GPA was always over 3.9, well above the 3.5 required to stay in Hillcrest and Jonathan was only concerned with his dissertation. Unfortunately our wanderings were detected by a security program developed by the Computer Engineering department. No one believed that it was done without malice and Jonathan was suspended from the university for a full semester. I believe if it hadn’t been for Dr. Moore’s interceding as a character witness, Jonathan would have been permanently expelled from the University. The most difficult thing for me was facing my mentor.

“You were part of this, weren’t you?” he asked.

I nodded my head, “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m greatly disappointed in you,” he said with sadness in his eyes instead of anger.

“I’m disappointed with myself.”

“I know you are. Do you want to know my honest opinion?”

I was afraid to answer.

“I’ve done worse. Let’s move forward, shall we?”

I didn’t see Jonathan for the rest of the semester. When he returned, the head of the Computer Engineering department gave him a stern lecture concerning the program and explained how he had violated the confidentiality agreement he had signed when he was given the access privileges to the supercomputer. He threatened to make his suspension permanent if he didn’t destroy the code and promise he would never recreate it or share it with anyone. He agreed, because without the aid of the Cray, the code was worthless anyway. About four weeks later Jonathan was contacted by the CIA who wanted him to begin a mandatory cooperative assignment (COOP) with their agency in Langley, Virginia, for a year, starting immediately. I never realized that COOP’s were mandatory, but I soon learned that whatever the CIA wants becomes mandatory. Jonathan had taken Dr. Moore into his confidence because he was afraid of what the CIA would want from him.

“Now it all begins,” explained Dr. Moore. “The walk to the light is always preceded with a walk through the darkness. Make sure you walk in the right direction.”

“Will you stop talking in your crazy parables?” I said, embarrassed for him in front of Jonathan.

He laughed, “It’s just that you two are so much like me it’s startling. And I don’t know how to protect you from the pain, because there is no other way to learn.”

“It’s just a COOP. Why do I feel so strange,” Jonathan replied.

“We’ll see,” he answered. “Jonathan, call me if you can. I’m guessing that they won’t want you to talk to anyone, but I’m here if you need me.”

The next time I saw Jonathan was nearly a year later at my graduation. I was heading to MIT and somehow the work he did at the CIA counted for his dissertation and he received his PhD the same day I received my BS.

Jonathan went to work for the Government and disappeared. I tried several times to contact him but no one would even acknowledge that he worked for the agency.

It took me four years to complete my PHD and at the ripe old age of 28, I was ready to enter the work force. I received word from my uncle that my Aunt Sonda had been diagnosed with stage-four lymphoma so I decided to take a gap year and spend some time in Iraq, to see my aunt, and reacquaint myself with the rest of my family. Jonathan had taken a job with the government and was on special assignment, so my absence was not a problem. I was so happy to be in Iraq because it was a special time helping to take care of my aunt and uncle with Islee. The effects of the chemotherapy had weakened my aunt considerably and she seldom spoke, but her eyes lit up when I was in the room with her.

“It means a lot to her that you have come to see her,” said my uncle putting his arm around my shoulder and giving me a warm squeeze. The hard circumstances of life had bled his optimism. He no longer went for his morning walks, spending all his hours at home by Sonda’s side. The weight of her sickness had aged him and he seldom smiled. There were dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and his hair had become virtually all gray.

“I’m so sorry,” I replied putting my arm around his waist and squeezing back.

“I am too,” he answered.

We walked outside the room. “How long?” I asked.

“Two, maybe three months if we’re lucky.”

I started to cry and he grabbed onto me and hugged me even tighter. Soon he broke, and we both cried together.

On February 16, 1991, my Aunt Sonda left us.

During my stay in Iraq the relations between the United States and Iraq were at an all time low. Desert Storm was in full swing and the United States was intent on removing Saddam from power and there were several assassination attempts.

One night, Islee and I were in her living room catching up on the past year. It was 1:45 in the morning and we were drinking tea, talking of dreams, loves and jobs. Uncle Tariq had gone to bed earlier.

“I’m going back with you,” said Islee. “You need to help me get a worker’s visa and maybe I can get married. Everyone in America is happy.” She sat on the couch in her striped pajamas, legs crossed hugging her pillow.

I laughed, “Yeah that’s just what you need, to go to America and get married. That will solve everything.”

As I looked over at her, I was startled by how beautiful she had become. Her olive complexion was a perfect setting for her gorgeous hazel eyes. Even without make-up her high cheek bones and full lips made her appearance almost magnetic. She caught me staring.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

“I was just thinking how pretty you’ve become.”

She blushed.

I returned to the subject at hand and gave her a light punch on the shoulder.

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” I replied. “You’d marry an American just to become an American citizen?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Well maybe. I could divorce him and still be a citizen, right? I hear that’s what all the Korean women do.”

“You sound desperate,” I answered.

“If you lived here, you’d think the same. You don’t understand. In America you can come and go as you please. It’s not fair! I just want to live in America! I’m tired of living here, in this backward place of sand and camels and Abayas. We don’t have any fun, and there aren’t any decent paying jobs for women. My dad got me a job at the refinery, but it’s a no brain secretarial position and even though I have more education than most of the men, I only make 25% as much.”

“Do you still practice Islam?” I asked.

There was a long hesitation before she answered. “I don’t know. I still go to the Temple, but everything is different since mama died. I just do it for papa. He’d be so disappointed if he heard me talk like this.” She stopped. “Listen, do you hear that?”

“No, I don’t hear anything,” I answered.

“There it is again, it’s a whistling noise, it’s getting louder.”

“I hear it now; it sounds like something is falling out of the sky.”

We raced over to the window to see what looked like a falling star, trailing toward the city.

“It’s beautiful. What is it?” said Islee.

“Maybe a meteor, look there’s another,”

The first concussion threw us both to the floor and blew out all the windows in the house. The second removed the roof. And the third opened up the earth and swallowed us whole.

The dust and sand were so thick that I couldn’t see or breathe. I had been submerged in a giant sand box. I ripped off my shirt and tied it over my mouth and nose to keep from smothering. I worked my way through the rubble that had once been my uncle’s house feeling for any sign of life. I dug and I dug until I felt an arm. I grabbed hold of it with all my strength and followed it to a hand. I clenched the hand with both of mine and pulled with all of my might until a portion of a body emerged from the earth. It was my uncle.

“Uncle Tariq, are you okay!” I screamed.

There was no reply.

I crawled over him and saw that his waist and legs were still submerged. I scraped away more sand and then rolled him onto his back, checking for vital signs, but there were none. I forced open his mouth and stuck my hand down his throat and started pulling out handfuls of dirt. I began administering CPR. After about 60 seconds he convulsed and then coughed, spraying me with sand and phlegm. He started breathing.

“Tariq can you hear me!” I screamed. He slowly came around. “Sonda, Islee?” he asked in a dreamlike daze.

“I don’t know.”

The thought of her lost in the sand seemed to revive him.

I laid him down gently and began screaming for Islee.

After a few seconds I heard the most beautiful words in my life, when a soft voice answered, “I’m up here.”

I looked up and through the dust and sand I could see the image of a young girl standing at the mouth of the hole, the explosion apparently had thrown her clear of the house.

“Are you okay?” I yelled.

I scrambled up the bank to see her.

The commotion in the streets was worse than any nightmare I could have ever imagined. There were cries of pain from the injured, cries of anguish from those who had lost their loved ones, ambulance sirens, police sirens, antiaircraft horns and moans from the earth itself. Mothers were running without direction looking for their children, husbands were carrying dead wives and dogs ran in circles looking for their masters.

I ran to Islee and hugged her with all my might. “Are you okay?” I repeated.