Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  Arnold said to Fisher, “You mean to tell me you guys—meaning all the governmental intelligence agencies—haven’t been able to infiltrate that group?”

  Fisher nodded vigorously. “Exactly. And this shouldn’t be any big surprise. Not after your mini-lecture a minute ago.”

  “I don’t get it. Isn’t infiltrating communications networks what the NSA and other intelligence agencies do for a living?”

  “Absolutely. But they’ve tried and so far haven’t been able to get to first base. But these guys are sophisticated, they know everything you just described, probably even better than you do. We’re not talking about a bunch of primitive village hicks anymore. These guys are extremely technologically sophisticated, they know all about communication tracking. That’s exactly the reason bin Laden used a courier instead of digital communication.”

  Arnold opened his mouth to ask if they had the Jahandars’ cell phone numbers when he realized how stupid that would sound, considering there was a huge market for disposable cells that could be easily purchased at any of a number of retailers like Walmart, Rite Aid, that would never be traceable. Use one to link a cheap notebook computer to the Darknet and no one would be able to trace you.

  Fisher had a point. Besides, there was his own neck to consider here. Unless the Jahandars were permanently gotten rid of, he’d be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Might be best, after all, to have the feds on his side. At least for the moment. “What exactly are you proposing I do?”

  Fisher didn’t hesitate. “We want you to work for them.”

  Boom! A thousand thoughts converged at once: Karim in the archway, gun in hand, the detonation of the discharge, an unnecessary, cold-blooded murder. A wave of revulsion came over him, forcing a swallow of bile. “How could you ask me to work with the people who killed my best friend? The same ones who want to kill me?”

  “You’d love some revenge, wouldn’t you?” A slight smile played at Fisher’s lips.

  “Absolutely. But they’ll kill me the moment they lay eyes on me.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I really don’t think so. Depends how things play out. Think about it this way,” Fisher said. “At the moment you’re basically screwed, a dead man walking. Why? Because they know you can eyewitness them for your friend’s murder. Until yesterday, they’ve been able to live in this country without being charged for any crime in spite of our suspicions. Okay, we’re one hundred percent certain they’re members of a terrorist cell, but just like the Boston Marathon killers—the Tsarnaevs, the kids who couldn’t be arrested before detonating those bombs—there is nothing we can do about them simply because we suspect they’re on the cusp of doing something huge. But there is something we can do if you testify. Don’t testify, and they remain free. Simple as that. And believe me, they know that. Based on that alone you’re extremely important to them. But you need to also consider that you have something they’d love to have. I’m not sure exactly that I understand what that is, but it’s obvious it involves your computer. Am I on target about that?” Fisher looked at him closely.

  Arnold couldn’t help steal another glance at Davidson, who wisely ignored him. Arnold didn’t answer, which was probably answer enough.

  “As if that weren’t enough, you now have us breathing down your neck. Either way, you’re up against it. You like to gamble? Fine. Say you decide to take your chances and have us prosecute you: you lose. Why? Because if you end up in prison, you can bet your ass Firouz can and will eliminate you there, because at that point you have nothing to keep you alive. Realistically, you’re safer out of prison than in, meaning it all boils down to one chance at redemption, at making it all go away. That one chance is if you work with us on this.”

  Davidson stepped between Fisher and Arnold, his hand on Arnold’s shoulder. “My client and I need to talk privately outside of this room. Preferably outside of this building.” He made a show of glancing around at places where a microphone might be concealed.

  Fisher stood. “You’ve got four hours. Then I want a decision, a definitive decision. In the meantime, that’ll allow me sufficient time to touch base with Justice and explore their thoughts on offering the witness protection program. I broached the subject with them earlier, so it’s not like it’ll be a complete shock. But at the time I wasn’t sure what you could or couldn’t deliver, so they were hesitant to deal. We good?”

  Arnold nodded. “Yeah, we’re good.”

  As they headed toward Davidson’s car, the lawyer was weighing his earlier trepidation about continuing on as Gold’s attorney. On one hand he despised hackers. But Gold didn’t seem like the type to maliciously destroy others’ computers for kicks. Was he simply influenced by bias? If so, what did that make him? And wasn’t there more on the line here? Food for thought, that was for sure. There was also the terrorist angle. If those bastards were planning an attack possibly on the scale of the Twin Towers… well, that was something to consider…

  20.

  Davidson suggested they’d do best to completely leave the building and get into some fresh air, someplace completely away from the Federal Building’s influence, so they could talk openly without risk of being monitored. They walked back to Davidson’s Benz and he drove them to Alki Beach, a hugely popular area along the southwest coast of Seattle with panoramic views of the harbor and city skyline. Historically, this location was notable as the spot where Seattle’s first settlers homesteaded when founding the city.

  They now plodded through sandy beach cluttered with kelp-scented driftwood, eye level with a concrete bulkhead and street to their left, the downtown business district at their backs and the harbor to their right. Overhead, seagulls—fattened on handouts of scraps—circled, screeching shamelessly for food. Crisp 68-degree salt air carried a potpourri of seaweed, creosote, and rotting wood. A white Washington State ferry slid past on its way to the downtown terminal.

  “What are you thinking?” Davidson asked. They hadn’t spoken during the ten-minute drive here.

  Arnold responded with a sarcastic laugh. “I feel pretty much like what Fisher said: unquestionably and totally fucked.”

  Davidson nodded pensively. “At the moment things might seem dismal, but there is a way out of this mess. Might not seem all that clear to us right at the moment, but we will figure out something. There are limited options, so that simplifies it a bit. But I guarantee we’ll get you out of this. Let’s start by throwing out some ideas, no matter how ridiculous they sound. Never know, we might brainstorm a solution we haven’t considered.”

  Arnold waited for Davidson to continue.

  Davidson started walking again. “Option one: we make you disappear. The downside, of course, is you’ll have both the FBI and Firouz searching for you. Which brings up a point I’ve intended to ask: how portable is your…”

  Arnold finished the thought for him. “My system?”

  “If that’s what you call it.” They continued moving, slowly kicking through sand, their arms and faces soothed by a refreshing breeze off the water.

  “My software is stored in chunks across several ‘clouds’,” Arnold said, using finger quotes. “I do this for obvious reasons. It’s a great way to protect it from someone like Firouz. Turns out it’s a good strategy. If I were to disappear, all I’d have to do is buy new hardware, network it together, and rebuild it. It’d be a ton of work, but it’s certainly doable.”

  “Very good. That’s one issue solved. But then you’d still have Firouz and the feds hunting you. What are the chances you could stay hidden the rest of your life?”

  Arnold hadn’t had the time to consider that in detail, but the thought had crossed his mind. “Oh man, I see some huge problems, especially considering how I screwed up so badly with Breeze.”

  Davidson kicked at a piece of driftwood. “True, but you’re pretty sure you know what went wrong there. If you were to vanish, it’d mean destroying any trace of Arnold Gold. I doubt you’d make the same mistake again.”


  “True. But here’s the deal, I don’t speak another language, so moving to a foreign, non-English-speaking country won’t work. Canada’s a very good possibility. And I’ve already thought about that, but I’d need to get a fake passport. Might take some time.”

  “Sure, but it’s something to consider.”

  Arnold paused to glance out across the harbor, amazed that Davidson, a person tasked with upholding the law, was suggesting he break it. How did that square? It didn’t.

  Davidson cleared his throat. “Moving on, there’s always the option of making a deal with Firouz to either work for him or have him buy your system.” Davidson raised his eyebrows at Arnold.

  Arnold shook his head. “Thought of that, too, but once he has it, he’d kill me. Besides, I can’t stomach the idea of selling it to anyone.”

  Davidson picked up some sand and slowly let the grains slip through his fingers. “Afraid you might be right. Okay, then, this leaves only one option: spy for the FBI. The downside to it is, of course, it puts you in imminent risk from the Jahandars. On the other hand, the upside is you’ll have the Bureau watching your back. Then, once that cell is neutralized, they can squirrel you away in the witness protection program. Sounds like your best option, unless you’ve thought of another one we haven’t covered.”

  “There’s a downside to the last one you missed: if I work for them, they might just end up with my system and use it against us. That’s a huge risk. You willing to chance it?”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Okay, say I’m analyzing a situation for Firouz. I guarantee that if his people are smart enough to keep hidden from our intelligence people, they’re slick enough to penetrate my security and steal my software. Once they have it, they’ll pick it apart and put it back together to make it functional. Soon as that happens, I’m dead. Don’t think for one minute they’d keep me alive. I’m never going to be one of them, and they damn well know that.”

  Davidson stooped to pick up a small, smooth piece of driftwood. “All that means is you have to be smarter and quicker than them. All the more reason to help Fisher take them down and do it before they can get you. To me, that seems like another strong argument in favor of siding with the Bureau. Bet you ten to one Justice will agree to relocate you with a new identity. Once that happens you’re right back in business.” He inspected the driftwood more closely, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the surface smoothed by years of being buffed by sand and wind, brushing away grains of sand and salt.

  “Naw, that’s not going to work. I don’t trust the feds all that much. There’s always the risk of a leak or, worse yet, someone hacking their files. That happens, I’m toast.” Arnold watched Davidson inspect the wood. Almost seemed as if his lawyer was grappling with a decision. He dismissed the thought. “No, if I do this, I need to do it on my own.” He let the word hang as he gazed across Puget Sound to the distant islands, thinking back to his plan, working out the finer details, finding it difficult to stay on any subject for more than a minute. “There’s one thing you’re forgetting.”

  Davidson tossed the driftwood toward the water. “What?”

  “I have limited skills. In fact, I only have one: computers. Right now, I’m making good money. I’m not about to throw that away and start over by having to go to school, and I’m not planning on doing unskilled labor for a living. If I somehow work my way out of this mess, I’m still going to have to gamble. Firouz and company know that, so unless they’re taken totally out of play, it’s possible they could track me down by discovering where I bet. Any plan I finally come up with has to completely eliminate any link back to the Jahandars or the FBI. I have to cease to exist.”

  “Not sure I buy your suggestion they could track back through your bets, but I won’t argue that.” Davidson appeared to mull things over. “With a totally fresh identity, you should be able to work around that. But until we come up with a better plan, your best shot is to ally with Fisher.”

  21.

  Davidson, Arnold, Fisher, and an attorney from Justice sat around an eight-chair walnut conference table with Arnold and Davidson on one side facing the feds on the other side. The room had no artwork other than a picture of the President and another of the head of the FBI. A wall of windows showcased a view across First Avenue and out over the tar roofs of smaller buildings. The room smelled faintly of stale coffee and the Justice lawyer’s deodorant.

  The Justice Department lawyer, a sour-faced woman in her late thirties with short hair and horn-rimmed glasses, said, “It’s crucial for Mr. Gold to testify in court that both Jahandars were involved in the homicide-assault. And his testimony must be unequivocal.”

  Davidson said, “We understand that part. What I want clarified is what happens if it becomes impossible for Arnold to provide you with access to the Jahandars’ computers?”

  The Justice Department lawyer closed the manila folder on the table in front of her. “That’s Mr. Gold’s problem. Our offer becomes effective only if he provides us with access to their communication system in addition to testifying in court. In person, I might add. A videotaped disposition isn’t going to cut it. Offer’s non-negotiable. And before you object, try to see it from our side. Say he can’t come through with the access. If so, how do we know he made a good faith effort? What’s to say he decides it’s too risky and simply claims he can’t do it but tried? We can only judge results, not performance. So if he delivers, great, problem solved. And don’t forget, we’re under the threat of attack within the next couple weeks. Meaning, we don’t have time to play games here. We can’t do this any other way. Mr. Gold?”

  All eyes turned to Arnold.

  Arnold, looking down at his interlaced fingers, shook his head slowly from side to side. Fucking bastards. Miss Legal Brilliance had no clue of the risks involved. Or, if she and Fisher did, they really didn’t give a damn what happened to him. To them this was just a job, and he was the quickest way to perhaps finish it. He wanted to scream at them, tell them they were… what, exactly? What would he do differently if he were in their place? Probably exactly this. Still, he resented the hell out of them strong-arming him.

  Davidson filled the verbal void by telling Fisher, “I believe my client is willing to work with you. Isn’t that right, Arnold?”

  Arnold shot him a look of disgust and squelched saying, “whatever,” because that would sound too much like a petulant, sullen. Whiny teenager. “Right.”

  Fisher said. “In that case, I’ll introduce you to our head of forensic information technology, John Chang.”

  Chang’s office was on the fourth floor in a different building two blocks from the Federal Building on Second Avenue. The halls to his office, as well as the room itself, were painted in greenish-beige, a look that struck Arnold as stereotypical government. No artwork on the taxpayers’ dime, two windows with northern views up Second Avenue toward the city’s main retail district, and three banged-up metal desks. The thing that caught Arnold’s eye and evoked pangs of envy was that each desk was outfitted with two ultra-cool high-def 27 inch monitors side by side, forming a wide V. Slick!

  Chang was an Asian scarecrow with jet black glossy hair, thick puffy lips, and bushy eyebrows so close together that they resembled a caterpillar crawling across the bridge of his nose. Instead of standing when they entered the room, Chang simply leaned back in his rolling chair, fingers interlaced behind his head, to squint at Arnold. “You the computer guy?” As if surprised by something.

  Fisher said, “John, like you to meet Arnold Gold. Arnold, John.”

  Arnold extended his hand, but Chang didn’t make the slightest effort to stand or to shake it. “You tell him what we need?”

  Fisher said, “I did, but you need to go over it again in computer-speak.”

  Chang leaned forward, eyes on the screens, and began playing with a wireless mouse. “My team’s been tasked with infiltrating the Jahandar network for the past three months but hasn’t found any evidence that one exists, muc
h less tried to penetrate it. We believe the Jahandars, the three people you met in Vegas, are members of a much larger organization with cells throughout the United States and Europe, possibly Asia. Because we don’t have access to their communications system, we have no idea of their size other than some miscellaneous intel. But it’s clear that a group this large must communicate and do so rapidly. We have reason to believe they’re not using a courier or one of the parcel shipping agencies. Which leaves us the Internet. But we have no evidence to support that idea, either. Personally, I’m convinced that’s exactly how they communicate. We also haven’t been able to insert anyone into any of their cells, so in this regard, you’re unique. We believe you might be our best hope. In fact, we’re counting on it. Once you have access to them, we want you to provide us with a portal. Do that, and we’ll take it from there. That’s your job,” he said, pointing a finger at Arnold’s chest.

  The mouse didn’t seem to be doing anything and, far as Arnold could tell, Chang was fiddling with it only as an excuse for not making eye contact. Arnold could relate to this tactic, having been guilty of the ploy numerous times himself. Arnold figured the guy was probably embarrassed at being one-upped by a group of terrorists. Made Arnold wonder if the terrorists handled their own communication system or outsourced it.

  Arnold threw up a question for either Chang or Fisher: “You guys sure they’re communicating electronically? I mean, we already mentioned bin Laden using a courier because they knew the NSA and other intelligence agencies were all over electronic communications.

  Chang answered. “We investigated that angle and think it’s highly unlikely.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Fisher said, “Good question and, obviously, one we’ve already considered. Simple answer is that intense physical surveillance doesn’t support it. If they are couriering information, they’ve figured out a way to do it that we haven’t been able to spot. Especially since they’re undoubtedly aware that’s the way bin Laden was finally located. Bottom line, I seriously doubt they’re using that method. Besides, we estimate an eighty percent likelihood they’re passing files too big to fold into small envelopes. Copies of blueprints, information like that. Much more likely is that files large as that are being transmitted electronically.”