To Hunt a Sub

by Jacqui Murray

  “Go deeper,” and he shared the rumors that Fairgrove used grad students to fuel his research. “Delamagente or Stockbury could be next. If we can catch him, we have leverage to force him to turn on his partners. Get me his published writing. I’ll look for a pattern.” He waited silently as a student walked by. “Has Ajit traced Keregosian’s emails?”

  “When I ask, he says ‘meh’, which is half-way between ‘Hell yes’ and ‘No way’.”

  Chapter 21

  Damn Zeke and his dual personality. In Israel, Kind Patient Zeke labored beside her, one of the crew. With that Zeke, Kali imagined a future where they researched a forgotten corner of the world together. No politics. No distractions. No hidden agendas. For Kind Patient Zeke, she’d crawl to the narrow tip of that emotional limb sure the fruit would be worth it.

  But lately, all she saw was Preoccupied Distracted Zeke. This automaton always worked an agenda, never noticed her discomfort, asked her advice, or listened to her ideas. For this Zeke, she wouldn’t even climb the tree much less reach for the fruit.

  Still, there were the rare appearances of Cerebral Zeke which invariably tweaked her imagination and explained his worldwide reputation. After he mentioned magnetic signatures, she researched for hours and decided tracking them was possible with clever programming, unique scripts, and a lot of work. She texted Eitan and sat back to await his answer.

  Shouts interrupted her. A crowd gathered below on the Engineering Terrace. Cat wandered into Kali’s narrow field of vision, eyes fixed across the patio on Wyn. His back was hunched, arms tight against his body, head shaking as he talked on his phone. Kali was about to turn away when a figure caught her attention. His carriage was familiar, but hair and clothes were wrong. Hands in his pockets, he zig-zagged through the crowd toward Wyn.

  Before Kali could make sense of it, an alarm clanged and the acrid stench of smoke reached her senses. In moments, two firefighters were in her lab, shouting Leave everything ma’am. Get out! Kali grabbed her briefcase with the portable version of Otto and fled.

  A fireman shouted into his comm device, ‘Start with the third floor’—Kali’s floor. Rowe almost raced into the building, but something made him stop. He pulled back, letting his brain automatically sort through the scene. It didn’t take long to realize something was wrong. Firefighters in tennis shoes… Non-FDNY uniforms… Carrying equipment like it was their first time…. How’d they get here so soon?

  And why was Fairgrove calmly smiling into his phone?

  Now he got it. This was the plan to steal NEV. Rowe did a full circle and another, searching the crowd for the contact that must be there. He stopped at a man with coffee-colored skin, a punk cut, blue eyes and a boyish face. The beard was a nice touch, but the gait gave him away. Rowe uploaded the image to James.

  Kali’s headache rumbled awake. Her purse was up in her lab, hopefully not being destroyed in the fire, so she dug through her pockets for aspirin.

  “Does he look familiar?” Rowe nodded toward the figure she’d seen from her window.

  “Yes! I feel like I know him.”

  “Carl Hamar. He dyed his hair, grew a beard, and added colored contacts.”

  Kali squinted. “Why would he do that?”

  “To create a lousy disguise.”

  Kali started toward the man who a week ago she considered a soulmate, but turned when she heard her name.

  “Dean Manfried. Hello.”

  She had left him two messages since returning from the dig, but he’d been ‘busy’. All she knew was he had questions about Otto. The Dean whined chronically about Otto’s massive electricity costs. Each time he brought the subject up, she wondered if this was the day his patience ended.

  He waved a pudgy hand as he bumped through the crowd. His rotund figure strained at the buttons of his charcoal suit. Perspiration dotted his domed forehead and his neck spilled over the collar like a frosted red donut. He offered Rowe a perfunctory nod, but focused on Kali. Whatever he wanted to say wouldn’t be good, so Kali jumped in first.

  “I trust you received the check from Mr. Keregosian. I’m assured his support will continue.”

  The Dean mumbled. “Yes, quite munificent.” He tightened the knot on his tie, squeezing another inch of florid neck over his collar, and fingered the thin layer of hair on his freckled dome. “No surprise, though, now that Dr. Fairgrove is working with you. He believes with guidance, you can become an excellent researcher. I hope you appreciate his kindness.”

  Kali bristled and started to snap a reply, but Manfried dismissed her with a truncated flutter of two fingers and tottered off.

  “Kissinger once said University politics made him long for the simplicity of the Middle East,” Rowe said as he pulled an envelope from his pocket. “My friend arrives today. This covers room and board. Let her pay whatever else she wants. She has a grant.”

  “Sure.” She took it and turned to find Carl, but he’d disappeared.

  Chapter 22

  “Mr. Al-Zahrawi would like to talk to you.”

  Fairgrove glared at the obsequious individual who stood inches from his side. His bleached hair shone with grease. Crumbs of food clung to a scruffy beard. Dirt ringed his cuffs, and an unsavory odor drifted from his body. Fairgrove edged away, fearful it would leech into his $2,500 suit.

  “Give me the phone.” Where did Salah find such pedestrian help? “Who is this creature?” he hissed.

  “He represents me. That is all you need care about.”

  “How do I know I can trust him?”

  Al-Zahrawi laughed. “Ms. Delamagente considers him a friend.”

  He sighed heavily. “Salah. I worked tirelessly constructing this fire drill. You will own Stockbury’s research shortly.”

  “We need Ms. Delamagente’s also. We could not penetrate her firewalls and she took the back-up with her.”

  “That’s not my fault—”

  “My people failed three times to steal the Otto she carries so resolutely. I have reprimanded them appropriately. You must retrieve the AI for me. If you cannot, her son will provide the requisite leverage.”

  Fairgrove cringed. How far he’d fallen. At seventeen, he had everything: movie star looks, charisma, a brilliant girlfriend. When she unexpectedly died, he published her revolutionary research under his name. To his surprise, the work earned him the Presidential Young Investigator Award and a reprint in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. His striking appearance, vibrant youth, and consummate humility made him a favorite on the talk show circuit. They called him the brightest new star in the scientific sky. The glow faded when his next project failed abysmally. Frantic to quell rumors his early success was a fluke, he decided to see if what worked once would again.

  It took so little to steal Haddith’s heart. Intimate dinners, stories about his sad past. He must have been the first man to love her chunky body as well as the genius of her mind. They became engaged. She excused the omission of her name from their pioneering research because his triumph was theirs. He ticked off the days to their nuptials, desperate for a way out.

  Enter Salah Al-Zahrawi. Fairgrove met the earnest, polite young man at a local bistro. He immediately understood Fairgrove’s bright future would be crippled by this dowdy female. He offered to help for free, collect the debt later. Fairgrove bought the man a drink to seal the deal.

  Within a week, she vanished. Wherever Fairgrove went, sympathy for his loss found him, until once again, his research failed. He wasted no time selecting another wunderkind grad student, eager to participate in Dr. Wynton Fairgrove’s next project. But when he suggested she include his name when she published, she refused. When Fairgrove slapped her (on the recommendation of Al-Zahrawi), she swore to tell authorities her suspicions about Haddith. Al-Zahrawi again solved the problem.

  Looking back, that was when power passed. Now, the man was a leech, riding on Fairgrove’s notoriety like so many others, sucking life from him bit by bit.

  Still, he needed
this thug one last time.

  Al-Zahrawi interrupted his thoughts.

  “I know about your money problems, Doctor.”

  “They are none of your business.” Al-Zahrawi had no right intruding on his finances.

  “But I respect a man who lives on the edge.”

  Fairgrove started to stutter a response, but settled on, “Huh?”

  “One more thing. You must get rid of Dr. Zeke Rowe. People like him, they are bulldogs. Once they catch a scent, they never let go. Do you not agree?”

  Fairgrove remained silent. Maybe he’d disagree.

  Maybe next time. “Yes, I see your point.”

  “Can you arrange he lose his professorship?”

  Fairgrove doubted it. “Of course I can.”

  He felt power shift back. His firm response put Al-Zahrawi in his place. This spy business was easier than it sounded.

  Chapter 23

  Rowe edged in front of Stockbury and Delamagente as they approached the lab. The hall reeked of saltpeter and potassium. The closer he got, the tighter the skin on his neck puckered. He picked up a burnt fuse, probably from a candle or homemade smoke bomb and certainly what convinced Delamagente the building was on fire.

  He held an arm out like a bar. “I’ll go first.”

  He inched inside, slowly studying every surface, not looking for anything in particular, just whatever caught his attention. Stockbury’s side still resembled Martha Stewart on steroids and Delamagente’s a mad scientist. Same open books. Same cupboards ajar. The light had been turned off, but Delamagente might have done that as she left.

  Something was missing. Rowe mentally ran through an inventory of the room. “Your sweatshirt is gone, Kali, the one you keep on your chair.”

  Delamagente said nothing as she deposited herself in front of Otto and started typing.

  Stockbury wrinkled her nose. “I’ll give your regrets to Wyn, Kali. His heart—or ego—will be crushed.” She blew Rowe a kiss and left.

  “Someone tried to hack my computer.” She entered a password, and then stared at a logo in the corner of the screen. “I installed a retinal scanner and a weight sensor. Whoever sat here failed both so Otto loaded a spoof of my desktop, activated a keystroke recorder and taped him through the webcam. If he uploaded malware, Otto will attach a RAT—Remote Access Trojan to the outgoing message. It grabs the IP address and gives me access to the system.” She shook her head. “They’re either too dumb or too smart for that. Darn.”

  Her security page booted up. “Here’s the recording.”

  A masked firefighter sat in front of the camera. Kali checked the log. “He—or she—used the password I hid under my keyboard.” She rattled through a series of keys. “He searched ‘Otto’, ‘Trident’, ‘DARPA’, ‘research’, and the directory. When those came up empty, he gave up.”

  Rowe whistled. “How do I get this security set-up?”

  When Zeke departed, Kali collected her briefcase and left, too. Her head throbbed and she hoped playing with Sandy, watching TV, and going to bed early would ease it. As she approached her building, she found a wholesome twenty-something honey blonde stretched out on the stoop. She wore a lightweight denim jacket, faded jeans and a t-shirt that said, ‘I have a Ph.D. in Anthropology. Do you want fries with that?’ A duffle back rested on the toe of a hiking boot and a tartan backpack leaned against the step.

  And then Kali remembered.

  “Annie—Zeke’s friend! I’m so sorry.”

  “No worries—Kali, right? Annie Sams. I’m glad Zeke mentioned me.” She grinned as she stuck out a chapped hand. “I’m so appreciative I can crash here. I won’t be any trouble—in and out like a ghost.”

  Kali laughed. “That’s two of us, and Sandy—my dog—will love the company. With my son gone for the summer, I think he’s lonely.”

  “They do thrive in a community, don’t they? I get furious at people who stash their dogs in the backyard.” Annie shared a few choice words about those people and then whooped as Sandy landed smack on her chest when Kali opened the door.

  “Sandy! Down!” Kali yelled as she grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. “Allow me to introduce Sandy, Defender Dog, although he has a lot of bed lab in him. No yard dog here.”

  Annie crouched and let Sandy sniff her hand. “Dogs and wolves have nearly identical DNA, yet a dog would kill a wolf, or give his life in the effort, to save us.”

  Sandy panted in tempo with the thump of his tail. Kali thought of Ump.

  “A dash of gray, huh, Sandy?” Annie scratched his neck. “What is he, eight years old?”

  “Nine. The pound planned to euthanize him. I got there just in time.”

  “I move too much to own a dog. Can I adopt Sandy while I’m here?” The honest enthusiasm in Annie’s voice overwhelmed Kali.

  “He’s all yours, but avoid the landlord. My lease forbids pets.” Kali pointed toward Sean’s room. “Towels and linens are in the closet. Make yourself at home.”

  Annie dropped her duffle in the bedroom and poked her head in the bath, then plopped down on the living room floor and leaned forward, straight-legged, grabbing her toes with her fingertips. Kali brought ice water for both of them and asked, “Zeke said you’re finishing a Ph.D.?”

  “He’s being nice. I’m a tenured grad. The ten-year plan. Every time I get close to completion, I start more research.”

  They talked for a while about the neighborhood and Columbia’s library. Kali wanted to ask how Annie knew Zeke, but decided it was too nosy for their first night.

  Annie yawned. “I like a bit of exercise before going to sleep. Do you mind if I walk Sandy? Check out the area?”

  “Sure.” Kali bit her lip. “There’s a guy hanging around. He’s harmless, just wants info on my son.” She shook her head. “Actually, I’m not sure what he wants.”

  “I’ll lock the doors when I return.”

  Kali walked them out and laughed as a jet of warm air from the sidewalk vent sent Sandy into a frenzied circle. After they faded into the evening, she phoned Sean’s father.

  “Whoever you asked to spy on me broke into my apartment and let Sandy out, Fletcher. Tell him to leave me alone or I call the police.”

  She held the phone away from her ear as Fletcher shouted.

  “Of course it’s you. Who else would it be?” She raked through the mail, not listening to the angry retort. She didn’t understand what she’d seen in him.

  “I got his picture, Fletch. If you continue to stalk me, I turn both of you in,” and she placed the phone back in the cradle.

  Annie listened to the conversation. Delamagente was tougher than she seemed. The man sounded like he had no idea what she was talking about. Plus, Annie would bet Fletcher still loved his ex.

  To anyone watching, she was just another Columbia co-ed on her phone walking the dog. When Delamagente hung up, Annie lowered her voice and said, “Cloned Delamagente’s phone. She called her son’s father, Fletcher, at 9:06 pm. He denies being the intruder.” She logged into a secure FBI server. “A search for Fletcher bio…” She tapped through several databases. “…turns up no record, no arrests, no legal problems. He’s thirty-two, graduated from the same high school Kalian Delamagente attended. He passed up a partial scholarship to work for an Uncle in a garage. Still works there. Taxes filed and paid on time as Single. Excellent credit rating.”

  Everything she taped was shared immediately with her cloud back-up. If anything happened, her team could access her latest notes on the case.

  Annie sauntered onward, cataloging everything—cars parked along the street, houselights, and neighbors taking trash out. She greeted other dog walkers and checked cars trolling by. A deli delivery boy almost knocked her over as he raced to an apartment.

  Everything looked fine. It was her job to keep it that way.

  That evening, Eitan Sun alerted Rowe to the first overstuffed email. A malware program invisibly attached a piece of Stockbury’s research to a note she sent, blind copying a rem
ailer who bounced it around the world before dropping it off a digital cliff in Bulgaria. Rowe told Stockbury. Within eighteen hours, Stockbury sent twenty more emails, each with pieces of her research hidden in the signature. By Stockbury’s calculation, the hijackers now possessed the entire revised NEV program with its hidden backdoor. All they needed to do was turn it into goo.

  What continued to confuse Rowe was why they would jeopardize their hijacking plan to spy on Delamagente. Laslo Hemren’s subterfuge, breaking into her apartment, the attempt to hack her computer—it made no sense.

  Unless Otto had become important to their goals.

  He rolled it around in his head, testing scenarios. Only one worked: The first submarine was successfully hijacked but the terrorists had been unable to find it. They hoped Delamagente’s Otto would solve that. But how? Sure, Otto showed potential, but the skill they required could be months—years—away.

  Rowe tracked a smattering of clues that ultimately proved worthless. The burnt wick could be bought on numerous internet sites. The fingerprints from the keyboard weren’t in the system. Worse, nothing fit with any other pieces of the case. The only good news was Sun matched the fake utility man’s height and build to the Volvo driver last seen with Devore.

  While Roe got nowhere, the Navy reached out to the Trident Refit Facilities—TRF—to warn them of the potential breech. The TRFs were tightly-controlled, but populated by dozens of government contractors fixing, repairing, swapping out, and advising. That was a weakness Al-Zahrawi could exploit by blackmailing a freelancer with a gambling problem or a drug addiction, or simple money lust.

  Most of the Tridents were deployed, so the Navy sent a message that would download when the sub made a routine contact with the satellite-based Submarine Satellite Information Exchange Subsystem (SSIXS). Since they couldn’t transfer Catherine Stockbury’s patch in that way, it instructed they re-install the entire system from back-ups to correct a possible compromise. The problem was the Navy didn’t know when they would call in, or if it would be in time.