“What’s that?” Peter interrupted.
“I maintain a dictionary of all known English words, many common foreign language words, and other passwords I’ve come across over the years. My first step is always to run the dictionary past the password challenge. It takes about two minutes and you’d be surprised by how often it works.”
Peter nodded. “Hence your insistence on strong passwords. I get it.”
“Since that test failed, I used a special program that accesses the back door built into standard ISP email hosting software. It bypasses the password challenge and allows access so the account can be reset if the password is lost.”
Peter was looking over Gary’s shoulder, watching a list of email messages scroll by. “These are the messages in her inbox. Does anything grab your attention?”
“No. But I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“It all looks pretty routine to me. Let’s see what’s in her sent box.”
Again, they scrolled through the emails but didn’t see any that looked unusual. Certainly nothing that would justify murder.
“Well, I really didn’t expect to find any clues since the police have supposedly already checked her email,” Peter said.
“Okay. Here’s where I earn my pay. Let’s see what deleted messages we can find.”
While Gary was focused on his work, Peter returned from the kitchen with the coffee pot and refilled the two mugs. Then he threw another section of cordwood on the fire and gave it a couple pokes for good measure.
“Now we’re talking!” Gary said, drawing Peter’s attention.
“What do you have?” He moved close so he could see the screen.
“Several messages from someone named Jon Q.” They both read the emails, although several were fragments rather than complete messages.
“Emma was definitely looking for classified information,” Peter said. Then he pointed at a particular passage. “Look, the information she wants is related to a ship. The USS Liberty.”
Gary moved his cursor to the next message and clicked on the attached PDF file. When the file opened, he let out a whistle. “We hit the jackpot. We’re lucky the file still appears to be intact.”
“You’re not kidding.” The PDF document contained about a hundred pages, and Gary was scrolling through, occasionally slowing, then moving fast again.
“This appears to be a collection of memos, reports, letters—all from various branches of the government,” Gary said.
“Yeah, and they’re all stamped top secret.”
“I don’t think Emma Jones was supposed to have this file. This information is radioactive; it could easily be why she was killed.”
“It’s all related to the USS Liberty…” Peter mumbled, deep in thought, while Gary continued scanning through the pages.
“Gary, where’s this information going? Not the cloud, I hope.”
“Honestly? It hurts that you would even think that. You know nothing is safe in the cloud.”
“So, you’re sending this to your server, right?”
Gary frowned. “Do I need to answer that? Of course.”
“Good, I knew I could count on you.” Peter entered his study and returned with a small memory stick in his hand. The solid-state device was as wide as the USB male connector and only half as long as his thumb. He gave the memory stick to Gary.
“Copy everything onto this drive and delete the files from your server.”
“Why would you want me to do that?”
“This information is top secret and dangerous; you said so yourself. If someone from the government comes looking for it, and somehow they trace it to you, you’ll go to prison for a long time.”
Gary frowned. He couldn’t argue with Peter on this one. “Alright,” he reluctantly agreed.
“Promise me you’ll do it.”
“Yeah, I will. My number one rule in life is ‘Stay out of prison.’”
Peter grinned. “That’s a good rule to follow. Oh, and then send that PDF file to my printer. Looks like it’s gonna be a late night.”
It was well past midnight and several mugs of coffee later when Peter and Gary, with leaden eyes, finally finished with the hardcopies.
“It’s no wonder these documents are still stamped top secret,” Peter said. “I don’t think the American public would be too pleased to learn what really happened to those poor sailors on the Liberty.”
“You mean how they were sold out and abandoned by their government and then left to die in the Mediterranean?”
“Only they didn’t all die.”
“Hence the cover up. They couldn’t afford to have anyone talking.”
Peter set his stack of papers down and slumped back in his chair. “Whoever they is.”
“Well, of course it had to be the President and his administration. Who else?”
“I suppose you’re right. But why is this information so important now? Why haven’t all these documents been released to the public? This incident happened in 1967. LBJ has been dead for decades.”
Gary silently eyed his friend, his lips downturned.
“Who would commit murder over this, and why? That’s the question.”
Gary had no answer.
“I need a Scotch,” Peter said.
“Me too.”
The wall opposite the enormous fireplace was covered floor to ceiling with a bookcase. In the center of the bookcase was an opening that connected the great room to the kitchen and dining area. Peter rose and removed a bottle of Oban single malt from a shelf between rows of books. He poured a generous portion into each of two narrow shot glasses.
Gary stood, careful not to spill his drink or step on Diesel, and turned his back to the fire, letting the heat radiating from the coals and masonry soak into his back. As he held the shot glass, the warmth from his grip enhanced the aroma from the West Highland whiskey. For a few minutes the room was silent save for an occasional crackle from the dwindling fire and the rhythmic breathing from Diesel. The muscular pitty was stretched out on the plush area rug, sound asleep, immune to the intrigue unfolding in his company.
“There’s so much in these documents,” Peter finally said. “It’s going to take some time to piece it together. But it seems that President Johnson didn’t want to alienate the Israeli lobby and possibly lose their political support. That’s why he didn’t come down hard on the Israeli government after they attacked our ship.”
“But Johnson didn’t run for re-election. Remember? He refused to accept the nomination from the Democratic Party.”
“Yeah, but remember the time. This incident occurred in the summer and early fall of 1967. Johnson had not yet made his decision. He was still in play for re-election to the Presidency.”
Gary nodded. “Makes sense. So he was thinking he’d like to do another four years. Many of his top advisers were Jewish.”
Peter took another sip of Scotch. “Yeah, but it still doesn’t make sense.”
“Are you trying to confuse me? You just said this was about Johnson trying to maintain support from the Israeli lobby.”
“That’s right, after the fact. These White House memos clearly prove that Johnson was being advised to go easy on Israel on the matter of reparations and public statements, referring to the incident as an accident. But the evidence presented at the Naval Court of Inquiry, including eyewitness testimony by the officers and crew of the Liberty, indicates that the Israeli military clearly knew they were attacking an American ship. And this evidence was confirmed by communications with the Israeli Ambassador.”
“You’ve lost me, buddy. Where are you going with this?”
“Simple. Once the attack was over, Washington did what it always does: it went into cover-up mode. But that ignores the bigger question.”
“And that would be?” Gary said.
“For hours, in broad daylight, the crew fought off wave after wave of aircraft and torpedo boats. At first, their antenna was destroyed, but somehow they managed to
get it repaired and a mayday was sent out. It was received by the Saratoga, the flag ship of the Sixth Fleet.”
For a moment Peter paused. He tipped his shot glass, taking in the last of the Oban. His countenance was like stone; eyes forward, seemingly mesmerized by the flickering fire. “According to the Naval investigation, we had two carriers—the America and the Saratoga—steaming 400 miles west of the Liberty. When the distress call was received, Admiral Geis launched strike aircraft—not once, but twice—and both times they were recalled by none other than Defense Secretary McNamara. Those planes could have arrived in time to stop the torpedo boats and save 26 lives.”
“Yeah, I got all that. But you haven’t said what’s nagging at you,” Gary said.
“McNamara recalled those planes, presumably at the direction of the President. They abandoned our sailors; left them to die. So, the question is: was that treason, or murder?”
Chapter 8
Bend, Oregon
April 18
It had been a late night. After Gary retired, Peter took the memory stick and approached the bookcase. He pulled a horizontal latch underneath a low shelf in one panel, unlocking a secret doorway. He swung the panel open and entered his safe room. Except for the vintage weapons displayed artfully on wall mounts, it could almost pass for a modest armory. His eyes skimmed over the replica flintlock and percussion rifles, muskets, and pistols hanging from brass hooks. In another era, these weapons were state-of-the-art and represented formidable firepower. But those days were gone.
His eyes settled on a Brown Bess musket. The smooth-bore weapon, so named for the corrosion-resistant brown patina on the long barrel, was the standard gun by which the British Army once controlled a far-reaching colonial empire. The large flintlock held a square flint the size of a postage stamp, and if Peter chose, he could load and fire a .75 caliber lead ball. With one hand he removed the long weapon from its mounts and held the memory stick in his other hand. Tonight, he had a different use in mind for the antique musket.
The last thing Peter did before retiring was to throw the paper copies he and Gary had been studying onto the glowing embers in the fireplace.
The black sheet-like ash was still visible in the morning, though none of the writing was discernable.
“Coffee?” Peter said by way of greeting Gary as he wandered into the kitchen. His eyes were a little puffy, no doubt a result of too much Scotch and not enough sleep.
“You need to ask?”
Peter smiled and then sipped from his mug. He enjoyed Gary’s dry, sometimes sarcastic, way of communicating. They had met in high school and spent a good portion of their youth together camping, fishing, and hunting. For several years, before either settled down and married, they were inseparable and often confused as brothers.
“The cups are in the cabinet,” Peter motioned with the mug in his hand.
After Gary filled his cup, Peter asked the obvious. “Any new thoughts about our discovery last night?”
Before Gary answered, there was a knock at the door. Mug in hand, Peter passed through the great room, Diesel at his side. Ten feet from the door, he commanded his pit bull to stay.
When Peter opened the front door he was surprised to be greeted by Detectives Colson and Nakano, plus two other police officers in uniform. Detective Colson thrust folded sheets of paper at Peter. “We have a warrant.” She started to push in, and then abruptly stopped when she saw Diesel, muscles tensed and ready to spring, eyes locked on her.
“Is that dog safe?” she asked.
Peter turned and said, “Diesel. Fireplace. Stay.” Obediently, the dog sauntered to his spot in front of the hearth and dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
“What is this about?” Peter asked.
Colson, followed by Detective Nakano and the two patrol officers brushed past Peter and entered the great room. They turned around, taking their bearings. Detective Nakano directed the patrol officers to explore through the kitchen. She noticed the black ashes from burned paper in the fireplace and turned to Peter. “Looks like you burned some documents.”
“So what?” he replied. “Old tax returns.”
“Carefully collect what you can,” Colson instructed her junior partner.
As Detective Nakano proceeded to collect evidence, Colson addressed Peter. “What’s upstairs?” indicating the spiral staircase reaching upward from the great room.
“A game room, and the master bedroom.”
“This warrant authorizes our search of your residence and car, plus your business—EJ Enterprises.”
Gary had left the kitchen and was standing next to Peter. “Search for what?” he asked.
“What is your name and relationship to Mr. Savage?” Nakano asked.
“Gary Porter. I’m his friend. And who are you?”
“Let’s see your ID.”
“You first,” Gary said waspishly. “We have rights, you know.”
Detective Nakano rolled her eyes. She and Colson extended their shields for Gary to inspect, which he did in a most methodical fashion, serving only to further irritate the detectives.
“You still haven’t said what this is about,” Peter said, his voice even.
“Computers, data storage devices. We have a federal warrant for your arrest on charges of espionage and violation of the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act.”
“What? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Save it—not my call,” said Colson.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Nakano was reciting Peter’s Miranda Rights when the patrol officers emerged from the guest rooms with Gary’s laptop and another laptop taken from Peter’s office.
“Didn’t find any portable memory devices—no server either,” one of the officers reported.
“Okay,” Colson said. “Search upstairs. When you’re done here we’ll move on to his business. It’s on the ground floor below the residence.”
“Hey, that’s mine!” Gary said, referring to one of the laptops in a black nylon carry case. “You can’t take that!”
“This warrant says we can. Now, Mr. Porter, stand aside or I’ll arrest you for interfering with police business.”
“Relax, Gary,” Peter said. “I have no idea what this is really about, but we both know I didn’t break any laws. Call Martin Hanson; he’s my attorney. You’ll find his card on my desk. Tell him about our conversation last night.”
“What conversation?” Colson asked. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Dream on, Detective. Looks to me like playing nice is over.”
It took all day, but Martin Hanson had bail posted shortly after 4:00 p.m. An hour later, Peter was released from detention with orders not to leave Bend.
“The charges are serious, Peter.” Martin leaned back in his chair. His office was across the street from the jail. “I had to call in a huge favor from Judge Sullivan just to get you bailed out today. Fortunately for you, the jail is full and since you are a first-timer and non-violent, the judge agreed to expedite my request. The espionage charge is the most serious. The Government alleges you accessed secured data files and removed highly classified information. For the moment, they only filed charges for one count of espionage. But, in theory, they could charge you separately for each document that was illegally taken. If convicted, you could be sent to Federal Prison for the rest of your life.”
Peter’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“This is usually where my clients tell me they didn’t do it, and explain why.”
“Of course I didn’t access classified documents. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to do that, even if I wanted to.”
“That’s well and good, but you did end up in possession of the documents. Gary Porter explained everything to me this morning after the police arrested you.”
Peter shook his head. “That’s the weirdest part of this. We didn’t see those files until last night, about 11:00 p.m. or so. We were still reading them
into the early morning hours.”
“You didn’t access those files from a government site? Gary Porter said he hacked into the email server and recovered deleted messages between Emma Jones and a Mr. Jon Q. Is that what happened?”
Peter told his story, confirming what he was certain Gary had already shared with Martin. “So, how come the police are knocking on my door with a warrant less than 12 hours after we gain access to these files from a deceased person’s deleted email? How did they even know that we were reading them? I’m not the one who stole them from a government website. That was probably Jon Q—whoever that is.”
“Is there a copy of those files on your computer?” Martin asked.
“No. And before you ask, Gary doesn’t have a copy either. We printed out copies and read those, then burned them in the fireplace.”
Martin folded his arms. “Well, if you didn’t make any electronic copies, and the only paper copies have been destroyed, the DA won’t be able to prove possession. And since you didn’t hack into whatever site was breached, it doesn’t sound like they’ll have a case. In the morning, I’ll file a motion to dismiss. The judge won’t rule on the motion until the DA has enough time to review the evidence. That could take a few weeks.”
Peter felt a pang of guilt for not telling Martin the whole truth. Sure, the files were not on his computer, but he did have a copy hidden away on a memory stick.
“In the meantime, stay out of trouble. And don’t leave town. If something comes up—family emergency or something—talk to me first. Understand?”
“Sure. Thank you Martin; I appreciate your help.”
Martin wrote a number on the back of one of his business cards. “This is my cell phone. If anything comes up—day or night—call me. That’s my job.”
“Thank you. Look, there’s one more thing.”
Martin raised an eyebrow.
“If anything should happen to me, contact Gary Porter. There’s an item hidden away—think of it as an insurance policy—anyway, Gary will tell you where to find it.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this item?”
Hunting Savage Page 6