The Jason Betrayal

by Jack Bowie

  He did, on the other hand, have to give White a lot of credit. His friend had discovered that the house across the street from Turner’s was for sale. So he had taken one of his cargo vans, painted “Freddie’s Handy Helper” in tall script on the side, filled the back with random power tools, and parked it in the house’s driveway, facing toward the street and Turner’s house. It was an ideal surveillance roost. And one that didn’t raise the attention of every neighborhood-watch police car that drove by.

  Then there was tonight’s surveillance partner. His name was Darius O’Shea and he had been with White for about ten months. Fowler tried his best to ignore the fact he was younger than Fowler’s sons. O’Shea was dressed neatly, tan cargo pants and a D.C. United soccer jersey. He had been trained well: he didn’t talk a lot, he didn’t eat disgusting food, and he didn’t fart. Much.

  But what really made him special was that he had picked the lock on the back door of the house giving them access to a bathroom.

  Maybe this duty wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  “What’s his schedule, Darius?” Fowler asked after he and O’Shea had gotten through the preliminaries.

  “Various lights on the first floor through most of the evening, Detective Fowler. They go out around ten and a light in the upstairs comes on. Probably his bedroom. That goes out a little after eleven.”

  At least O’Shea had been brought up to respect his elders. It was a nice change from most of the kids he ran into these days. “Sam will be fine, Darius. It’s much too close in here for formality.”

  Fowler pulled a Bushnell monocular spotter’s scope out of his bag and scanned the property. He couldn’t see anything inside the house.

  “Anyone taken a closer look around?”

  O’Shea nodded. “I went over a couple of nights ago. It was raining and no moon. Didn’t figure anyone would be looking. Couldn’t see a damn thing inside though. All the curtains were closed.” O’Shea paused, then anticipated Fowler’s next question. “No one has tried to go in. Mr. White said he didn’t want to take that step without your approval. Too risky.”

  Ricky had been right about that. No telling what gadgets the crazy scientist might have around.

  “I agree. And after finding the storage locker, I doubt anything funny is going on inside his house. Guess we just wait and watch.”

  O’Shea reached into the door pocket and pulled out a laptop.

  “What are you doing?” Fowler asked. “Watching videos?”

  “Nope. Can’t do that on duty. But I can work on my calculus homework. Aegis pays my tuition at ASU.”

  Calculus? On a stakeout? I am getting too old.

  Chapter 25

  Budapest Marriott, Budapest, Hungary

  Saturday, 8:00 a.m.

  Walker’s internal clock was getting used to the new time zone. She had awakened at six-thirty rested and alert. She had extended her workout to forty-five minutes and was enjoying her breakfast by eight.

  The webcam was still in place and had produced the same boring image of Donnelly’s door as the previous night. She had even scanned back through the day to see if there had been any unusual activity, but all she saw was a single visit by housekeeping. Not irrefutable proof, but another piece of evidence.

  She finished breakfast and checked her cell. That’s when she saw the message from Fowler. Now the CIA was involved.

  Crap. What else could go wrong?

  Hopefully, they hadn’t discovered her involvement.

  It was time to get down to the conference and find Donnelly.

  * * *

  Walker stood in a long, winding queue outside the Ballroom, shifting her weight, turning around and flipping her hair. Anything to stay calm. Apparently, the “Innovative Cryptographic Techniques” session was one of the most popular of the conference, and she had arrived either much too late or much too early.

  Would have been nice if someone had told her.

  Donnelly’s paper was the last of the session, but she had decided she needed to get a seat in the front of the room, both to keep an eye on her target and to keep up appearances as the eager Product Manager.

  The doors finally opened and she raced into the room. The informal layout used for the reception had been replaced by the sterile regularity of a classroom. Narrow tables were set in precise rows across the breadth of the room with familiar conference chairs—were all these uncomfortable chairs made by the same sadistic company?—placed behind. Curtains had been drawn across the doors to the terrace, hoping to keep the attendees’ attention on the session’s presenters.

  A speakers’ platform had been placed at the front of the room. On it was another table, four chairs and a speaker’s podium. Two large projection screens hung on the wall behind the platform.

  With only a little bit of jostling, she managed an aisle seat in the third row. As good a balance between escape and prominence as she could find.

  Once she had settled in, she replayed her lunch with Donnelly. He still seemed the friendly, honest, self-possessed Jason that she had seen at MITRE. He was either very innocent or very clever.

  But the discussion of the GPS vulnerability was scary. If he was the traitor, and this tech was released, it would be a major threat. She had to speed up her evaluation.

  The session moderator stepped to the podium, and the room became quiet. The first speaker’s topic was “An Update on Quantum Cryptography”.

  Walker settled in for a long morning.

  * * *

  Braxton arrived in Nuremberg mid-morning. It had been a long twelve hours, but he had managed some sleep on the flight over the Atlantic. Hoch had suggested he stay at the Holiday Inn in Nuremberg City Centre. It was economical and convenient to their meeting place. As it turned out, it was only a few blocks from the restaurant Hoch had suggested.

  He checked in, dumped his bag in the small, but comfortable, European room and immediately set out. The weather was mild and a bright sun shone through wispy white clouds. It was a good day to walk.

  His first stop was a small telecom store down Engelhardsgasse. When he had landed in Frankfort, he had turned on his cell and found a text message from Fowler. His friend had described his conversation with Slattery and the threats, indirect or not, that had been made. Braxton didn’t know what the spook was up to, but he didn’t need, or want, any interference.

  He turned off his cell, took out the battery and bought a new phone from the store. Then he sent a text to Fowler with his new number, asking him to share it, and explain his situation, with Walker. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but he doubted Slattery would think to investigate the ex-cop’s messages. At the least, it would give him a day or so of freedom.

  His communication needs resolved, he continued down Engelhardsgasse, being drawn into the magic of the old town. Buildings lined the narrow street, none taller than five stories, all topped by steep red tile roofs, and squeezed together as if by a massive vise. Tiny windowed dormers emerged from the rooftops like the eyes of some mystical creature.

  The ground floors housed all manner of stores: pastry shops with trays full of delicious-looking tarts, cakes and streusels; kitchen suppliers displaying every type of knife, fork and spoon imaginable; and tailor shops with shelves laden in bolts of wool, cotton and silk waiting to be transformed into elegant garments for the citizens of the city.

  Nuremberg was ancient, dating from the ninth century, its central location in the state of Bavaria creating a center for education, music and literature. For centuries, it had been called the unofficial capital of the Holy Roman Empire because it was the home of the Empire’s administrative and judiciary bodies. This long and distinguished history was now overshadowed, at least by many in the rest of the world, for its hosting of the Nuremberg War Crimes trials.

  Braxton turned left onto Ludwigstrasse and walked down to The Scottish Castle, his meeting place with Hoch. He had been expecting a dark, seedy pub, appropriate for a clandestine meeting between hackers. He couldn�
��t have been more wrong.

  Instead, The Scottish Castle was a high-end bar and restaurant, all polished wood and shiny brass, filled with what appeared to be affluent lawyers and financiers having three-martini, or single-malt Scotch, lunches.

  Braxton introduced himself to the attractive young hostess at the entry, and she led him to a booth in the rear of the restaurant. A man, about Braxton’s age and dressed in a starched white shirt and tweed sports jacket, sat alone at the table. He had blond hair and deep blue, penetrating eyes.

  “Mr. Braxton,” he said, “How nice to meet you.”

  “Mr. Hoch. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  “Well, you were quite insistent.” He smiled. “And I do owe Trevor.”

  Braxton sat down and continued to scan the space.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Braxton?”

  “No. It’s just … well, this is not the kind of place I expected.”

  “Ah, you were expecting some dark alley or out-of-the-way pub. That is the way of spy thrillers. In my experience, if you have to meet someone face-to-face, then it really doesn’t matter where it is. These days, there are eyes and ears everywhere. Is it not so? So one may as well have a good meal.” Hoch smiled broadly. His English was excellent, with a slight British accent.

  “Are you from the U.K.?” Braxton asked.

  “Yes and no. I am German by birth, but my father was a diplomat in London. I received my education at British boarding schools and Cambridge. I suppose that is one reason I have a passable relationship with MI6 and Interpol. Relationships I’m sure Trevor mentioned. How do you know him, Mr. Braxton?”

  Braxton paused. It could be a casual question or he could be testing Braxton’s bona fides.

  “Without getting into too much detail, we were both in the Army. He was my instructor for a time. We’ve kept in touch over the years.”

  “Ah, so you are that other trouble-maker from Boston College? He has mentioned you from time to time. How can I be of assistance?”

  “I’m looking for a hacker.” Hoch grimaced at the term, but Braxton continued. “He’s known by the name Scheherazade.”

  Their waitress stopped and asked if they wanted anything to drink. Hoch selected a glass of Reisling from the menu. Braxton considered his options. It was going to be a long day. “I’ll take a Talisker on the rocks.”

  The waitress left with their orders and Hoch continued. “Well, you do travel in rarified circles. Scheherazade is indeed a legend. Someone with unique skills.”

  “As are you, according to Trevor.”

  “Ach. He is too kind. Yes, I am familiar with Scheherazade. What can I tell you?”

  “Someone Scheherazade is working with wants to hurt me. He has already hurt someone very close to me. And I believe he is selling my country’s secrets. I have no quarrel with Scheherazade. But to find this person I need to find him.”

  Hoch leaned forward across the table. “Well, there you are wrong, Mr. Braxton.”

  Wrong? Wrong about what?

  “Scheherazade is not a ‘he’, but a ‘she’.”

  “Scheherazade is a woman?”

  “Yes, and a quite young one. Her skills are exceptional. Are you not familiar with exceptional women?”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Hoch, I know one very well. But I guess I made an unfortunate assumption.”

  “As do many, Mr. Braxton. And often to their personal detriment.”

  “Trevor mentioned Scheherazade had been involved in some intrusions in the Bundestag?”

  “Yes. That was quite a remarkable set of hacks. But she was careless. The resulting investigation was very public and exposed her to more notoriety than was appropriate. She has kept a much lower profile recently.”

  The waitress brought their drinks and asked for their orders, but Hoch waved her away.

  Hoch raised his glass. “To finding the answers we seek.”

  “To resolution,” Braxton replied.

  They clicked glasses and Braxton took a long swallow. The cold amber liquid slid down his throat. He relaxed. Just a bit.

  “Can you help me find her?” he asked.

  “No. I cannot. But I may know someone who can.”

  * * *

  Donnelly’s paper had seemed well received. He had garnered an above-average level of applause, and the moderator had had to cut off questions at the end of the session.

  Walker had even been able to follow some of the Jason’s explanations. Apparently, scientists could now “build” crystals in the laboratory, atom by atom; adding impurities and internal surfaces, or fault planes, at will. Since each of these defects subtly altered incoming light, light exiting the crystal could be said to have been encrypted by the solid. This was usually an interesting but inherently useless phenomenon, but Donnelly had then described using such a crystal, and its man-made identical twin, as a new type of “one-time pad”: an unbreakable method of message exchange whose key looks like a piece of window glass. If Alice and Bob both had instances of the same crystal, they could communicate securely. And Eve would be unable to decipher the message.

  Donnelly had, of course, provided extensive details of the technical challenges, dangers of preliminary results, et cetera, et cetera, but it had still been an insightful look at how much work was going into keeping secrets.

  The audience questions, on the other hand, had been entirely incomprehensible and Donnelly’s answers even more so.

  Walker stepped into the aisle and let her row-mates leave. Then she walked to the front of the room and waited as Donnelly stepped from the stage and was accosted by a line of yet more questioners.

  As the room emptied, Walker studied the diversity of the audience. There were middle-aged professor-types, or perhaps intel community bureaucrats, in off-the-shelf suits; thirty-something professionals, probably researchers from both the private and public sectors, in business casual; and young anti-establishment turks, perhaps hackers or hacker wannabes, in t-shirts and faded denim jeans.

  There was even a waif of a girl in full Goth, furiously typing into a laptop in the back of the room.

  Guess it takes all kinds.

  Donnelly finally broke from his groupies. Walker moved to join him, ready to continue her surveillance.

  She was really looking forward to tomorrow’s dinner and getting out of this damn hotel.

  Chapter 26

  Nuremberg, Germany

  Saturday, 3:25 p.m.

  After they had finished their lunches, Hoch had said he would get in touch with someone who might be able to help find Scheherazade. Braxton had thanked him and headed back up Ludwigstrasse to do some sightseeing. It was better than sitting in his hotel room worrying about what Singer would do next.

  An hour later he had received a text from Hoch asking him to meet the hacker by the playground in Rosenaupark at 4:00. Braxton checked his map and discovered this was a small park in the Himpfelshof neighborhood just outside the old city.

  As he walked back down Ludwigstrasse to the city exit, he thought about the upcoming meeting and decided it would be prudent to have some type of protection. There was too much at stake and Singer could be anywhere. He stopped at a mountaineering store and purchased a lightweight Gerber climber’s knife. It had a razor-sharp, folding three-inch blade, just like the ones he had used when rock climbing in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. A time before Cerberus, Slattery and Fowler. It seemed like a lifetime ago but was only five years.

  He slipped the knife into his back pocket.

  Braxton continued down Ludwigstrasse, past The Scottish Castle, to Spittletor Tower. The tower was a massive brick cylinder with a conical red metal roof, topped with a verdigris copper lookout cap. In medieval times, it had guarded the Spittletor Gate which stood on the road that led from Nuremberg to the next town of Schwabach. Today, it was simply another tourist attraction, home to a garrison museum.

  Braxton left the old town through the gate and was immediately transported back to the twenty-first c
entury. Facing him was Spittlertorgraben, a modern, four-lane highway filled with trucks, cargo vans and passenger cars. He walked along the road for two blocks, then crossed and turned right onto Dennerstrasse, a narrow street that led to Rosenaupark.

  It was a small park, only about five or six acres, roughly in the shape of a circle. It must have been old; stands of tall, gnarled oak trees covered the well-worn meadow grass. Braxton saw a playground near the center of the circle, but no one seemed to be present, so he walked off along the perimeter, wanting to get a sense of the area. About a third of the way around, he saw a stone fountain. It featured a central spire with some kind of figure at the top and three lower sculptures, animals he didn’t recognize, perched on arches over the bubbling water.

  Braxton spent a moment admiring the craftsmanship. Whenever he visited a new city, he was more interested in studying the buildings and structures than he was in the people. It was something that had driven his ex-wife crazy. She had called it the curse of the engineer.

  He checked his watch. It was time.

  Braxton took one of the radial paths into the center of the park and walked down to the playground. He saw Hoch sitting on one of the benches.

  The sky had turned an angry gray, dark clouds blotting out the sun. He heard the rustle of leaves as the oak trees swayed in the cool, damp wind. Braxton wished he had brought an umbrella.

  He took a seat next to Hoch and nodded.

  “We will wait,” Hoch said.

  A few minutes later, Braxton saw another man approach them. Younger than Hoch and slim, wearing a faded green sweatshirt, torn jeans, and jogging shoes. Long black hair hung limply to his shoulders.

  The man took a seat on the other side of Hoch.

  “Hallo, Dieter,” he began. “It has been a long time.”

  “Guten Tag, Wilhelm. It is good to see you.”

  “This is the man who wants to find Scheherazade?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” replied Hoch. “He is a friend of a friend from America.”

  “He can be trusted?” The man spoke as if Braxton wasn’t even there.