To Hunt a Sub

by Jacqui Murray

  “Thanks. I’ll find my own seat.”

  The only chair she found not buried in books listed so dangerously, she decided to stand. She scrutinized the polished wood shelves that ran wall to wall and floor to ceiling. They contained everything from archaeology monographs to the Zionist history of Israel. The current issue of Nature, corners dog-eared and post-its stuck out like playing cards in bicycle spokes, lay open to an article on dating bones.

  “Is this a good time to singalize the aDNA?” she asked, indicating the box still under her arm.

  “Give me one second. I’m finishing an expedition update.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “If you like driving in traffic jams.” As she started to open the box, Rowe stood. “Done. How’re Sandy and Sean?”

  Kali chuckled. “Sandy prefers Mr. Winters’ food, and Sean loves Juilliard’s summer program.”

  “And Cat? Your office mate?” He held her gaze long enough to make her uncomfortable.

  “Nothing new unless you count meeting the man of her dreams. Again.”

  Kali gawked at Rowe in dark pinstripe slacks, a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a blue paisley tie. “You look so—professional.” She wanted to say handsome or sexy, but stopped when she felt her face start to burn. He saved her by briskly moving to the far corner of his lab as though he hadn’t seen her blush.

  “Let’s get started.”

  He donned a mask, gloves, and lab coat, handed her the same, and gathered disposable tubes, filtered tips, and sterile solutions. He washed the bones with an acid solution, cleaned them with deionised distilled water, drilled out the bone powder, and prepared the DNA singalization and identification.

  An hour later, they tossed their lab clothes into an industrial laundry pouch. “Now, we wait. Hungry?” Rowe motioned her to follow him.

  He picked the popular Carleton Lounge in the Mudd Building. If Delamagente was like most people, sharing a friendly meal would lower her defenses. James was worried this undercover assignment might be another dead end. There hadn’t even been a nibble on Stockbury’s research in the two weeks since the conference. Rowe didn’t agree. Keregosian’s arrival immediately after DARPA was more than coincidence. When James tried to clear him, his emails led back to overseas remailers with anonymous identities, which was tantalizing

  Why hide his identity if there wasn’t something to hide? And how was that tied to Stockbury?

  “Stockbury’s a true whiz kid, huh?”

  “She has a 4.0 GPA and is one of six GIGA members.”

  “GIGA’s the MENSA of MENSA?”

  “The average IQ of the world’s population is around 90, which means Cat can accurately tell people she’s twice as smart as they are.”

  “Porter told me about a run-in between Cat and a thermodynamics professor. She disagreed on a minor point, which the teacher declared ‘balderdash’. She seemed to acquiesce with grace, but the next day, every time he spoke, his display went black. He fiddled with it, rebooted, and called Tech Support, to no avail. He ultimately replaced the laptop, never realizing Cat hacked it.”

  Delamagente laughed. “Cat loves a good fight, but you better be ready. She lives for Voltaire’s axiom: ‘No problem can stand the assault of sustained thinking’.”

  He chewed through half his hamburger before nonchalantly asking about Keregosian. Delamagente bubbled with excitement about the man’s serious interest in her work, the daily communications, and their shared mutual trust. Rowe was stunned by how quickly Keregosian had wormed his way into Delamagente’s confidence for a relatively small sum of money.

  “I assume Mr. Keregosian is the man you were concerned about when we discussed sharing the results of the aDNA tests?” He paused and she offered a tight nod. “Have you met him?” If so, campus surveillance might have a picture.

  Delamagente took a long sip of sugarless tea and shook her head. “Why would we?”

  To eyeball him, HUMINT, see if he’s as suspicious in the flesh as digitally, Rowe wanted to yell, but instead asked with all the calm he could muster, “Was he at the presentation?”

  James matched sign-ins to attendees, but the only person unaccounted for—and on no security camera—was the young student Rowe identified. If that was Keregosian, he used a fake name, knew how to avoid surveillance, and might be a kidnapper and murderer.

  “I have no idea what he looks like. All I know is he’s the rare academic.”

  Terrorists were neither rare nor academic.

  “I laymanned my theory at first, but he asked so many questions, I gave him the technical version, which surprisingly he understood.”

  Rowe struggled to keep his face neutral. As part of the investigation, he read every communication between the two, and the level of detail Keregosian requested made Rowe cringe. Why did he want such minutiae? Rowe chewed his roast beef sandwich to hide his irritation.

  No logic connected Keregosian to the attack in Israel, though the possibility tickled like the barometer before a hurricane. James found no fingerprints or trace on the map Evan dropped. It was torn from standard 8.5 x 11 20 pound paper, available anywhere. The car was abandoned in a grocery store parking lot, wiped clean. Israel had CCTV cameras everywhere, but this corner was dark, like the driver knew it.

  Until Devore returned, Keregosian was the only lead. “Does he push you?”

  “Who? Boah?” Delamagente focused on Rowe, her sandwich halfway to her mouth.

  “Mr. Keregosian.” I guess she changed topics.

  “Nooo. He says he’s an amateur scientist thrilled to be on the cutting edge of research such as mine.” She nibbled a corner of her sandwich and kept her eyes on Rowe.

  “Is his background related to your work?”

  Rowe tried to make this sound benign, but Delamagente stiffened.

  “I never asked. Is it relevant?” Her words were short and her tone defensive.

  “Just curious.” His phone hummed. “Time to go.”

  When they reached the sample tray minutes later, three test tubes showed the distinctive DNA band. Rowe completed the analysis and smiled at Delamagente.

  “Congratulations. You have a canis, an australopithecine and a Homo habilis.”

  Delamagente beamed as she packaged the samples to return to her lab, but paused to toss a baggy to Rowe.

  “Would you identify this DNA, too?” She left before Rowe could ask questions.

  Chapter 17

  Salah Al-Zahrawi enjoyed Delamagente’s missives. She wrote with an eloquence unusual in Americans. Praise be to Allah for delivering such a useful tool into Zahrawi’s hands. He felt unworthy, but if Allah thought him capable, he would succeed.

  Masha’a Allah

  His project was proceeding well. Soon, he would possess Catherine Stockbury’s research, then his scientists would rework their DNA virus and he could re-infect the Tridents with the updated strain. As far as he knew, the Americans had not found the downed sub and did not suspect foul play.

  Only three weeks remained before the auction. The website would soon go live. The promise of a Trident would significantly increase interest, but he still did not know if Delamagente’s Otto could find them.

  He pecked out a reply to her last email. “I am captivated by the way you anthropomorphize Otto’s complex behavior. Is it useful to consider—him—more than the perfunctory result of algorithms and programs?”

  So contradictory to America’s dehumanization of the living.

  Al-Zahrawi forwarded a copy to Dr. Fairgrove and shut down the connection with ten seconds to spare. His message would be encrypted and bounced around the world. Anyone who successfully traced him got a surprise.

  Inshallah. It was time for daily prayers.

  A half hour after Delamagente left, James called. “She made contact. We’re tracking Keregosian’s data shadow—”

  “English, Bobby. I don’t speak geek.”

  “I’m linking in Raj Ajit, one of our senior ciphers. He liaises with the
other government geeks.”

  The CIA recruited Raj Ajit, listed as one of ‘the top ten hackers in the world’, but quit when they wanted him “suited and booted”. When James heard that, he drove out to his home with a smorgasbord of snacks Eitan Sun said Ajit would love, and promised he could wear whatever he wanted as long as he kept thinking. Now he worked in the basement of the NSA’s Fort Meade complex behind a door with no name on it. Just the way he liked it.

  Ajit chimed in, “A data shadow is like your car’s GPS map of where you drove. In this case, it includes dozens of remailer accounts spread throughout the world. All I do is follow the trail.”

  “How long to find him, Raj?”

  “Well, it depends… If he logs on again…” Rowe had a feeling Ajit was talking to himself.

  “Do you think you’ll break this in the next few days or not?” Impatience crept into James’ voice, but he bit it back.

  The muttering stopped. “Yes.”

  James sighed. “Well, that’s good news. Thanks, Raj.”

  James picked up his handset. “Never ask a yes-no question when what you really want is a discussion. On a more positive note, your instincts are right about Carl Hamar. His real name is Laslo Hemren. His NCIC— National Crime Information Center—profile reads: Member of radical Islam groups and minor figure in low-level terrorist activities. Thankfully, he’s not as cyber-savvy as Keregosian. We traced several emails between the two. Plus, every week Hemren contacts someone with the code name ‘sisters’. It could be a drop box.”

  “Any chance Hemren and Keregosian are the same person?”

  “According to analysts, both write like non-natives, but their word choices indicate dissimilar educational and cultural backgrounds.”

  “Let’s assume for now they are different people, Bobby. Hemren emails Keregosian and Fairgrove recommended Hemren for my dig. That connects Fairgrove and Keregosian.” Rowe chewed on this for a beat and moved on. “What about Demsky?”

  “No record, no radical acquaintances, no missing blocks of time in his background. No travel to suspect nations. Investigators blame his accident on drunk driving, but friends insist he was a tea totaler. Plus, stomach contents include no alcohol. Blood tests found Rohypnol. Our working theory is he was killed to free a spot for Hemren.”

  Rowe paused as a student poked his head in the office. When he saw his professor on the phone, he mouthed an apology and withdrew to a position outside the door. There, he shuffled from one foot to the other, raked his fingers through his hair, and started bouncing to a rhythm only he heard. Rowe lowered his voice.

  “Kali joined only days before the field study began. How’d they find out?”

  James humphed. “Who’d she tell about going?”

  “Her son, next door neighbor. Stockbury…”

  “Keregosian?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tess! Where’s the report on the members of Zeke’s dig?”

  Tess was James’ assistant and a two-hundred-pound force of nature. She could turn an Army General into a quaking bowl of Jell-O if she was in the mood.

  “No one tied to anyone suspicious with the exception of Hemren, who knew Fairgrove and Keregosian.”

  Why would Fairgrove be involved? “Gotta student here, Bobby,” and Rowe disconnected. He snatched his briefcase, told the student to come back later, and left. He had an errand to run.

  Delamagente spent two hours digitizing the DNA Rowe collected. While it rendered, she replayed her conversation with Mr. Keregosian. He always lifted her spirits. Partly because of his delving questions, he became a sounding board for her project. Today, she asked what he thought about expanding Otto’s capabilities beyond research. If Otto could establish a temporal connection between Lucy, Boah, Ump and the Israeli artifacts, it would be huge. Keregosian encouraged her, saying he believed in a strong military and surely this tool would assist the American defense.

  Skype bonged and a round, bespeckled face popped up. “Eitan!”

  She beamed at one of the few people she considered a friend. Honest and straightforward, he never failed to live up to his surname. He typed on two keyboards at once because no single buffer could keep up with his fingers. He and Otto were in a race to see who could unravel the baffling Birch and Swinnerton-Dyer conjecture. Solving it required a solid mix of intelligence, intuition, and machine computation. Plus, the correct proof won a $1 million prize.

  Before she said another word, Sun blurted, “The sensors at your apartment alerted.”

  Kali’s house was connected to his campus security network. Profiles of Sandy, Sean, Mr. Winters and Kali were given a pass, but anyone else triggered an alarm.

  “Someone is in your house.”

  Chapter 18

  Wednesday

  Kali collided with Rowe as he limped up the stairs, scattering an armload of magazines and documents across the concrete. Her throat was so tight, she squeaked an apology.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Rowe kneeled awkwardly, retrieving the scattered papers with Kali’s help.

  “Someone broke into my house!” Her voice cracked and tears welled, almost blinding her as she bent to help him. ”I’m worried about my dog,” she sniffed, shoving handfuls of wrinkled sheets into Rowe’s arms before scooting around him.

  “Wait.” He poked his chin toward a curbside handicap spot. “I’ll drive.”

  She swiped at her eyes and accepted his offer with a nod. Faster was good. She jumped into a big old Mercedes sedan, exterior sparkling, wheels spotless, and dashboard an iridescent black wafting the perfume of Armor All. Before she could give directions, Rowe turned onto her street.

  “How did—” A white shape darted into the path of the car and froze. “Sandy!” Kali screamed as Rowe slammed on the brakes.

  The Lab stared doe-eyed at the mechanical behemoth, front legs splayed under his shoulders, hackles up like a punk hairdo, tail glued to his one shaking leg.

  Kali threw open the door and raced to his side. His head jerked toward her. The flattened ears perked and tail wagged low on his backside as she locked her arms around his trembling neck, breathing in the musky smell of terror.

  “It’s OK, boy,” she whispered over and over. “It’s OK.”

  Rowe pulled over and was guiding Kali and Sandy to the curb when Mr. Winters hobbled over, mouth tight in his kind face. Rowe said something Kali didn’t hear and disappeared.

  “Don’t you worry, kitten. Sandy would never run away. All his hunting’s done in our kitchens.”

  Kali tried to answer, but couldn’t focus. Mr. Winters patted her hair as though protecting her. “Did you leave a key for the utility man? He got in with no trouble. Probably who let our Sandy out.”

  Rowe trotted back. “Hello—Mr. Winters, right? Kali mentioned you. I’m Zeke Rowe.”

  Kali rose, but kept one hand on Sandy. Mr. Winters eyed her tenderly while Rowe scanned the surroundings, lips set in a hard line.

  “Zeke, this is Mr. Winters. We watch out for each other, although he usually carries the heavier load.” Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away.

  “We’ll be even when the hourglass is empty, kitten.” Mr. Winters nodded in agreement with himself.

  “Can you describe the man you saw, Mr. Winters?”

  “My eyesight’s going so I use this.” Mr. Winters plucked a camera phone from his pocket. “My granddaughter gave it to me. I take pictures of the neighborhood and check them later. It’s how I know what happens all day. This,” he tapped the image, “is the same gent from when you two were off in Israel, but he didn’t wear his uniform today. See,” and he pulled up another. Both showed a medium sized, muscular man with a deep tan. In one, he wore a blousy grey shirt, an Aussie hat and wrap-around shades. In the other, it was tan with an unreadable water company logo, dark brown Dockers, and work boots. “Same guy.”

  Rowe chuckled. “You remind me of a gunny I served with.”

  Mr. Winters eyed Rowe. “Yeah, lots of
us like that. We figure things out with nothin’ but spit and shinola.”

  Rowe waved at the door. “Wouldn’t take much to crack these locks.”

  Mr. Winters scowled. “If he can write Seabee with two letters, he could break in. Landlord’s promised for years to fix them. Morals of a turpitude, that man.”

  Rowe turned to Delamagente. “Who has a key?”

  “Mr. Winters, Sean, me. Cat. University Housing.” Her right leg started vibrating.

  “Would Cat lend her key to anyone?”

  Delamagente shook her head. “She isn’t trusting,” but Rowe saw something ping.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Saturday before DARPA, a Fred Kaczynski showed up at my lab. He didn’t enter through security, which means he had a key, but the guard says no.”

  “Why was he there?”

  “Meeting a friend he said, but there’s no record of her, either.”

  “That picture you took—is this him?”

  “No. Fred was more doughboy than GI Joe.”

  “Was Fred tall—six and a half feet?”

  “No, about my height.”

  “Gunny, can you send it to me?” He’d compare it to Kaczynski.

  “Yeah, I know how to do that. My granddaughter again. They’re smart these days.”

  “Email it to Eitan Sun, Zeke. He can grab Fred’s photo from the onsite cameras.” Rowe’s stomach tightened, but he said nothing.

  Small world. A geek named Eitan Sun had once saved Rowe’s life.

  As Delamagente called Sun, Rowe considered the intruder. If this was the thug who attacked him in Israel, then Delamagente was the target, not himself. He wished he’d asked Duck’s friends to stay.

  “Eitan—” Delamagente paused to listen. “I’ll explain later. Zeke Rowe sent a snapshot to you… Can you match it to the man who came to my lab three Sundays ago?” Her face tightened as she listened. “I’m not sure—” She frowned and continued. “OK. Just see if it’s the same person. Please?”