One Rough Man (16 page)

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I don’t speak Spanish, so I’ll talk slow as well. It’s not my uncle and I don’t give a shit about him.”

I saw Jennifer snap her head around, looking at me like I was a piece of dog shit on her shoe. I held up a finger and continued. “The package is probably at her house in town. We’ll go see if it’s there.”

I waited a beat, hearing only silence. “You still there?”

“Yes. I’m now trying to decide if I want the package more than the pleasure of killing you. Let’s get something straight: I will slaughter you and anyone you have ever known if you speak to me in such a manner again. Do you understand?”

Oops. I guess that wasn’t so smart
. “Yes.”

“You and Jennifer call me when you have the package. If you don’t call in the next six hours, you can start the clock ticking on your life. Tell the girl her uncle will be skinned alive.”

I hung up the phone and looked at Jennifer’s ashen face.
Yeah, I’ll be sure and relay that bit of sunshine.

I
t took relatively little time for us to determine that there was no package waiting at Jennifer’s apartment. She went to her computer to see if she had a FedEx tracking number, or anything to indicate something was on the way, but came up empty.

Jennifer said, “What the hell am I going to do now? I don’t even know what’s supposed to be in the package, so I can’t even fake it.”

I needed to get some background before I offered any advice. “What was your uncle doing in Guatemala? I mean for real, no bullshit?”

Jennifer sighed again, like she didn’t think I would believe what she had to say, which was smart, because if it was some sort of Indiana Jones bullshit, I wouldn’t.

“My uncle has a theory about the demise of the Mayans. He thinks the Mayan priests created a weapon a long time ago that got out of control. For the last twenty years he’s gone down to Guatemala to find a temple that he thinks will prove his theory.” She saw the skepticism on my face and raised her voice. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. That’s what he’s doing in Guatemala.”

This was getting downright stupid. “So, your uncle believed that the Mayans had invented or found the world’s first WMD? Did he look for crop circles during Christmas break?”

Jennifer’s eyes clouded with a scowl. “I never said anything about WMD. I said a weapon. Many, many respectable scholars believed his theory.”

I chuckled and held up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “WMD stands for weapon of mass destruction. It’s a military term meaning any weapon that can kill a lot of people, like a nuke, or biological weapon. They’re pretty hard to make. I’m not trying to get you mad, but is there a chance that your uncle was doing something besides looking for this temple?”

Jennifer shook her head adamantly. “No. No way. He was obsessed with the temple. He spent all year using every spare minute to research possible new sites. Nobody was paying for the trips anymore, so he had no reason to pretend.”

“Was there anything about this trip that was different from the other trips? Did you talk to him at all?”

“Not really. He didn’t have the money for a satellite phone. The only contact I had with him after he went into the jungle was an e-mail he sent a couple of days ago.”

Jennifer paused a moment as a look of realization crossed her face.

“Actually, I did think it was a little odd, because it came before he was supposed to be out of the jungle. I just figured it meant he hadn’t found anything.”

“What did it say?”

“It was nothing. He had found some local music and sent it to me. He didn’t even say anything about his trip.”

“Let me see it.”

Jennifer pulled up the e-mail. “See, it’s nothing. The music isn’t even that good. It sucks.”

“Did he send you music on every trip? What was special about this music?”

“Nothing, now that you mention it. It was just some local music.”

“Yet he’d been going to the same place for years and just now noticed the local music? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, it might not make any sense, but that’s what it is. My uncle is eccentric, so I wouldn’t put it past him. The bottom line is that it’s just a bunch of MP3 music. Nothing more.”

“Pull up the properties of the music. Right-click on it.”

Jennifer did as I asked, showing that the song she clicked on was about ten megabytes.

“Click on the next one.”

It was nine megabytes.

“These files have been altered.”

I was pretty well versed in various terrorist communication methods. I had come across steganography on multiple occasions from the computer equipment my team had confiscated, usually because some analyst with a fifty-pound head deep in a basement found it.

“I think your uncle sent you something hidden in these songs. The average MP3 song is about three to five megabytes. These songs are all twice that size, but not twice the length. I think he hid something in here, and whatever it is, it’s what the man on the phone wants.”

“Are you serious? How do we get it out? What do we do?”

“Whoa. Calm down. It might be nothing more than a bad copy of an MP3. If he got it from some corrupted server in Guatemala it could just have a bunch of extraneous stuff attached, or even some malicious software like a virus or Trojan horse. I’m just saying that steganography is a possibility. He might have embedded some message inside the songs.”

“How can we tell?”

“We can’t, without the program that created it. Whatever is in there will be encrypted and hidden.”

I watched Jennifer deflate again. She said, “So what do we do now? That doesn’t help us out at all.”

What do you mean, “we?”
I wanted to ask.

Instead, I thought about it for a minute, then said, “This might be enough. What we know is that the guy on the phone thinks your uncle mailed something. We also know he doesn’t understand how it was sent or exactly what it was. I’m going to assume that he knows it was some sort of computer data, and he just doesn’t know the form it’s coming in.”

“Okay, so? How does that help my uncle?”

“Well, you could plausibly tell the guy on the phone that you got the package, and that it was an MP3 player. You can see where it goes from there. If he seems to think that’s okay, you take it to him, then use the stego portion as leverage to get your uncle back. In other words, let him get the MP3 player and see if he honors his part of the deal. If he doesn’t, tell him the stuff is encrypted and you’ll decrypt it when you get your uncle back.”

“What do I do if I can’t decrypt the files? This sounds like a dangerous game you’re playing with my uncle’s life. We don’t even know if this is stegocryptography or whatever you called it.”

“Yeah, it’s a game, but the alternative is to say, ‘I don’t have the package. Feel free to send me my uncle’s skin when you’re done. I’m making some boots.’ I’m offering some alternatives. If it is stego, your uncle made it and should be able to decrypt it. If it’s not stego, you don’t have a hand to play anyway. The fact remains that he thinks you have a package from FedEx, and you don’t.”

Jennifer looked at me in disgust. “Jesus, do you work at being such a jerk, or does it come naturally? I’m just trying to figure out the best thing to do, not questioning your manhood.”

I let that go and watched her pace back and forth for a couple of seconds.

She said, “Trust me, it’s painful to say this, but I can’t see a better way.” She stopped pacing and looked me squarely in the eyes. “Will you help me with this? Will you fly to Guatemala with me and help me get my uncle back? I’ll pay the way. I have money. Please . . . I don’t have anyone else to turn to. My uncle’s a good person.”

Shit. I knew that was coming
. She didn’t stand a chance in hell of getting this done. If left on her own, she would be eaten alive. Even so, getting involved was sure to be a dead end. I figured that if I left right now I could get out of here clean. I had dumped the bodies in the woods behind the marina Dumpster, so they probably wouldn’t be found until morning and wouldn’t be tied to me, at least not right away. The problem was that I didn’t have the means to just up and leave. On top of that, I had the asshole on the phone who just might try to track me down. If I left now I would be looking over my shoulder for the next few years.

I felt squeezed by my lack of choices. I wanted to punch a wall again.
Maybe I should just dial 911 and haul ass.
That wouldn’t do the uncle any good, but it would keep Jennifer from getting killed, no matter how much she thought otherwise. The uncle probably deserved what he got. It would also probably dissuade the man on the phone from hunting me down.

I prepared to give her the bad news. She was staring at me like I was a firefighter that was going to pull her baby from a burning building.
Jesus. Did she practice that look?

I steeled myself, thinking that this really was in her best interest, and said, “Uhh . . . Yeah. I’ll help you.”

Jennifer’s face broke into a radiant smile. “Should I call or you?”

I thought about retracting my statement but didn’t have the courage. “I’ll do it. Let him know you aren’t coming alone. Maybe he’ll rethink any shenanigans he’s planning.”

I pulled out the cell phone, said, “Here goes nothing,” and hit the last-call button.

I
nside the guesthouse, Bakr turned off the police scanner. He had heard the entire conversation between Pike and Miguel and was puzzled by it. He gave Sayyidd a questioning look. “Are you sure there wasn’t a FedEx location in Flores?”

“I’m sure. There was nothing like that, DSL, UPS, anything. I searched for all of them.”

“Then what was that all about? Why are they talking about an MP3 player? What do you think’s going on?”

Sayyidd thought about it, then decided it didn’t matter. “The answer is simple: Allah is leading the way, praise His name. The explanation is irrelevant. We may not know why, but we do know what. The MP3 player has the data. We have the key. We just need to get the player and extract the data. It is being delivered right to us.”

Bakr didn’t really care for Sayyidd’s blind faith but let it go. “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, we need to inform The Sheik that we might be altering the plan. He should know that we’ve come upon an opportunity that we wish to seize. Let him give us further guidance.”

Bakr was concerned that this new direction was outside the intent of his masters, and thus wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be blamed for acting irresponsibly. To do so would endanger his status as a martyr when he died. As much as he mistrusted Sayyidd’s simple belief in God’s will, he still dealt in the world of religious fervor and wanted the blessing before continuing. This meant a risky message, something that was specifically forbidden on this mission. They had a file of six different e-mail accounts that could be used only once. Al Qaeda didn’t know what was being monitored or who was being watched, and thus were treating every communication as compromised as soon as it was sent.

Bakr scribbled a message onto a notepad.

“Boot up the M4 and send this to the first address. You remember it, correct?”

“Of course. I’ve memorized all six.”

Once the connection was established, Sayyidd typed in the message:

The message went out to a Yahoo! address, where it would sit for a day, then be forwarded to another address, then another, before being transferred to a thumb drive and driven across a border to another Internet café, sent again to another account, transferred via cell phone verbatim, then copied to a CD, and eventually find its way into the hands of Al Qaeda leadership. Just as Al Qaeda feared, along this path it would be intercepted by U.S. intelligence, and end up in a massive pile of “chatter” to be sorted through for relevance, where it would sit at the bottom, waiting to be viewed by some low-level analyst in the depths of a windowless building.

A
fter hanging up the phone with Pike, Miguel said, “They’re bringing the package down here. They’ve agreed to meet us to deliver it, but I don’t trust that. Get in touch with our people at the department of immigration. Have them be on the lookout for Jennifer Cahill from the United States.”

“There’s no visa requirement to get here from America if they come as tourists,” Jake said. “We won’t get any warning before they land.”

“I know. We’ll only have a small window to control the situation, but luckily all flights from the U.S. fly straight here into Guatemala City. We should be able to blanket every flight coming from America for the next three days.”

Jake agreed, then added, “Should we build a net inside the local hotels as well? There’s a small chance that they could get through customs without us being alerted.”

“Yeah. That makes sense. Have it done. Stick to the tourist hotels.”

“What do you want me to do when I find them?”

“Whatever it takes to bring them in to me. I want to get them in our hands before they have a chance to make any sort of plans or change their minds and talk to the authorities. Let’s not inadvertently kill anyone else before we have our information.”

Jake grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

 

 

THE HUMIDITY HIT ME LIKE A WET RAG as soon as we exited the airplane, causing immediate sweat to pop out. It did little to add to any misery. I had tried to get as much sleep on the plane as I could, but thirteen hours of flying or waiting around airports for connecting flights did nothing but make you feel tired. My mouth felt like someone had polished my teeth with dryer lint, my hair had a greasy feel, and I was dehydrated from the in-flight dry air. Jennifer didn’t look that much better.