by Saad Hossain
“Really, Dagr, you’re deliberately boring us now.”
“You wanted to know.”
“About the watch, professor, the watch.”
“Ok, here are my conclusions. First, this watch contains a code. Second, it is a mechanical code. By this, I mean that the code is controlled by a machine inside the watch. There are modern equivalents of this, such as the enigma rotor machine used in WWII, to encrypt data.”
“So this thing is at least 60 years old,” Kinza said.
“It should be pre-computer age, certainly,” Dagr said. “Now, it actually might be very much older. I can narrow the range. We’ll touch on that later. The oldest it can possibly be is from Al Kindi’s time, which is around 850 AD.”
“This ancient mathematician?”
“The father of cryptanalysis, among other things,” Dagr said. “He noticed that languages all use different letters and letter combinations in greater or lesser frequency. For example, in English, the letter ‘E’ is used most often, whereas the letter ‘X’ is hardly ever used. Ciphers were primitive at that time. People simply replaced one letter with another or with a number. For example, say in my cipher, the letter ‘E’ is replaced with the number ‘9’. Now Al Kindi realized that by counting the frequency of the number ‘9’ in a message, he could reasonably guess which letter it represented. This is called frequency analysis and is still one of greatest tools in cryptanalysis. Incidentally, he also invented the study of probability and statistics, although he never gets credit for it.”
“So have you figured out the code yet?”
“It’s not that simple,” Dagr said. “Al Kindi himself started making polyalphabetic ciphers to get away from frequency analysis. Essentially, this uses a key or algorithm in the middle, to encrypt the letters. Thus, in this kind of cipher, ‘9’ is not always equal to ‘E’. ‘E’, in fact, will be represented by different alphanumerics in different parts of the message, depending on the key being used.”
“So the only way to decipher this is to know the key.”
“Not quite,” Dagr said. “The person receiving the message has to know the key as well. Normally, a key has to be something easily transferable. Say I’m using a key that is repeating. If I figured out the length of the key, I’d be able to break down the message into intervals. For example, the first ‘E’ and the tenth ‘E’ might use the same encryption if my key is nine alphanumerics long. Once I know this, I can start using brute force frequency analysis by simply trying different combinations until I start getting some words out of the gibberish.”
“So what did Al Kindi do?”
“He created algorithms, mathematical functions, so that the key was nonrepeating and as close to random as possible. Essentially, the other person had to know the algorithm. In order to decipher it, he would apply his part of the algorithm to the code and reduce it back to some kind of plain text. The Druze code is probably something along those lines.”
“So can you break it?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Dagr said. “I wouldn’t count on it. It could be a one-time pad type of thing too.”
“Do you enjoy annoying us?”
“Er?”
“Talking at length about stuff we have no interest in or idea of.”
“Well if you don’t want to know, then fine…” Dagr began to pack up his things, which, as it amounted to a pen and several sheets of paper, did not take much time, whereafter he sat back with an injured air. Then, glancing at his companions, he saw that they were laughing at him, which embarrassed him further.
“Alright, alright, don’t sulk.” Kinza held his hands up.
“One-time pad—what is it?” Mikhail asked.
“It’s a completely random key for one-time use. The sender and the receiver have it, and that’s it. They were used mostly during WWII. Since it’s meant to be just used once, it can’t really be cracked. If the key is truly random, we won’t get anywhere. It’s useless. Of course, what I know about cryptanalysis can be fit onto a single piece of paper.”
“You’re approaching this wrong,” Kinza said. “Put yourself in their shoes. Imagine you’re the Grand Druze, or whatever, and you wanted to encrypt a message for your descendents. How would you do it?”
“What the hell is a Grand Druze?” Dagr asked, irritably.
“The Chief. El Presidente. The Grand Turk. The Prince of Persia. Whatever.”
“Who is the message for?”
“Your successors let’s say.”
“Hmm. Well obviously I have something to hide. Some kind of advantage I imagine, some secret knowledge or treasure or whatever.”
“Don’t forget, Druze are cunning and secretive.”
“You really are a bigot.”
“No, I’m just anti religion. All religions. Which includes fucked up ones.”
“Nice. Very PC.”
“PC is the invention of the Great White Satan.”
“Anyways, I’m the Grand Druze. Let’s say I’ve amassed a great treasure, and it’s hidden.”
“Persecute. Druze always persecuted,” Mikhail said.
“Right, Mikhail,” Dagr said, “Say the Druze are being persecuted and cannot avail themselves of this treasure. Now, logically, we can narrow down these time periods by looking at their history.”
“Library. We have books.”
“Extremely fortuitous, then, that we are in this excellent library,” Dagr said, about to clap Mikhail on the back and staying his hand at the last minute as he realized that poor Mikhail would in no way cherish this physical contact. “Guided by a most excellent librarian. As such, perhaps we might find a book on the Druze detailing the vagaries of their fortune. Insofar as I recall, Druze history is rather turbulent in that they enjoyed periods of extravagant power, such as the time of the Fatimid Caliphate, and then the more recent episodes in Syria, when they occupied Damascus.”
“These digressions, while charming…”
“Right, I, the Grand Druze, have some vital information I must pass on. I need to hide it from my persecutors, however, so I have devised a tool that uses both steganography as well as crypotology.”
“What?”
“Steganography is the art of physically hiding the information such as using invisible ink to write a message. In our case, hiding the message in a mechanical watch, which vibrates in a seemingly random sequence over a period of 72 hours; Even if the watch is lost, it is unlikely a random person will even realize that there is data hidden here.”
“Unless it falls into the hand of a blood-minded mathematician who has a lot of free time.”
“Precisely. Now having hidden the data using steganography, I have further used cryptology to make the data illegible to all third parties, even were they to accidentally stumble onto it.”
“So this information is really valuable then.”
“Well it is valuable to me, as the Grand Druze. It could be something totally useless: like some kind of alchemical rubbish, or some pseudoreligious nonsense,” Dagr said. “Now, I have used this method to pass on the information to my successors. I know that it gets as far as Fouad Jumblatt, but after that, things are murky.”
“But how are your successors supposed to unlock this code?” Kinza objected. “Where is the key?”
“Someone might have it,” Dagr said, running his hands through his hair. “Or it could be lost. We do not know the state of the Druze in Baghdad. Or even if they are here, which is in doubt.”
“Well, since they’ve lost the watch, it would follow that the Druze have also lost the key,” Kinza said. “And maybe even knowledge of what the secret is to begin with.”
“We need to know more about the story of this watch. If I can guess what this is about, what kinds of words might be encoded in this message, even what era the encryption is from, I will have a much better chance of breaking it,” Dagr said. “We are almost blind now. I hope that Xervish will be able to improve our vision.”
“Well how old is the watch?
You said you had an idea.”
“Look at the thing. What is it exactly?”
“It’s a wristwatch, right?” Kinza said. “Earliest wristwatches are around 1920s I’d say. So it’s between 1920 and the computer age, then.”
“And that is around when Fouad Jumblatt lived. Or died, rather. He was assassinated in 1920,” Dagr said. “But your hypothesis is wrong. Take a look at the case with the magnifying glass.”
“What am I looking at?”
“Some notches on the surface,” Dagr said. “And look also at the joints where the wrist bands attach to the case.”
“Seems like some kind of wear and tear. Hardly surprising….”
“You’re not looking at it right,” Dagr said, irritable. “As I spent the last three days holding this bloody thing in my hand counting vibrations, I came to some hypotheses.”
“Can you just spit it out?”
“It’s a hypothesis because I am not sure, which is why I am telling you my reasons. First, this thing is kind of heavy. Too heavy for a wristwatch, almost. Second, it’s a little bit bulky. Too bulky for a wristwatch? Then I started peering at it with the magnifying glasses. What I really needed was a microscope, so I built a makeshift one.”
“You built your own microscope?”
“Well it’s not that hard. I’ve got it in my room,” Dagr cast a significant look toward Mikhail, who had just slipped away to make some tea. “It’s hidden.”
“Why are we whispering?”
“I had to break things to make it. A lot of his things actually.”
“Ok, so you what did you see in your microscope?”
“I saw notches on the casing and signs of soldering on the side handles. The handles themselves are a little bit crude, compared to the rest of the thing. My belief is that this used to be a pocketwatch. Well, that’s wrong because it’s not actually a watch—what I mean is, it used to be disguised as a pocket watch. Then, when wristwatches came into use, it was made into a wristwatch.”
“That’s a lot to tell from a few notches.”
“Look at the inscription. Compare the writing of that to the flag imprint. See anything?”
“It’s messy,” Kinza said finally, after a long moment.
“It’s amateur,” Dagr said. “It was almost certainly done later. And if you look really carefully, using a microscope—which I happened to have done—you can see that the Fouad Jumblatt inscription is actually on top of an earlier inscription. And there might be another one under that one.”
“So it’s really old.”
“It’s really old.”
20: TELOMERES
THE ROADS SEEMED TO EMPTY AND FILL WITH A PECULIAR MAGIC, at times eerily empty and war torn, other times bustling with normalcy, reverberating with snatches of conversation, people hailing each other from across the street, loud voices that sounded aggressive but were in reality gregarious, good natured. Hoffman figured that people were just tired of staying home scared. Suddenly in front of them was a lablabi stall, a food cart selling boiled chickpeas, redolent with lime and chili, people jostling in an irregular line, and beside it another crowded stall selling wood-grilled burgers, and as they paused beside it, the smell drove him wild. He stuck his head out of the window like a dog and took three large lungfuls. Strangers waved at him, and one fashionably scarved middle-aged woman gave him a little newspaper cone of lablabi with a big smile.
Sabeen had changed her spots in the course of the drive, like some kind of leopard shaman, able to transverse identities at will. Stopped by a bored policeman, Hoffman had been about to strut his documentation augmented bluster when he was blindsided by her sudden outstretched arm swathed in medical white, proffering a plastic laminated card that he clearly saw carried the name of Dr. Sabeen Ibn Sina, followed by unintelligible Arabic squiggles. His eyes, following up the arm, took in a head coiffed demurely in a scarf, not the riot of silk he normally associated with her glorious skull, but a blue cotton number that he instantly knew was a doctor kind of thing.
Some moments later, they were waved through into a crowded parking lot and then a crowded hallway filled with the normal chaos of Iraqi hospitals.
“You’re a doctor now?” He managed finally.
“It’s real,” Sabeen said.
Behruse had shouldered his way through the press of sick people, of which there were many, and gunshot victims, of which there were fewer, an expressive ratio, one of many, which could well be used to gauge things in the city for the day. Here they arrived at a different checkpoint where armed military men in gauze facemasks blocked the hallway. Their job was to protect the doctors and equipment, which were both housed securely beyond this point, along with the occasional VIP patients, all of whom were nice targets for insurgent types.
At last, Hoffman had the opportunity to practice his art, consisting of rapid fire, clipped, nonsensical statements he had gleaned largely from his interactions with Col. Bradley accompanied by belligerent thrustings of his writ, which was for once legitimate. Several arguments and some rapid body searches later, they were ushered through into a slightly calmer segment of the building.
They were here because of a name in a file. Dr. Sawad had been eagerly awaiting test results from a colleague. His excitement had been evident even through the dry language of his notes. In his paranoia, he only ever referred to him as Dr. J. This Dr. J was apparently a cunning man well capable of stealing all his research and hogging the credit.
“There are four Dr. Js here: radiologist, urologist, GP, and neurologist,” Behruse read from a board. “Could be any of them. Unless J stands for the first name. Sawad really was a miserable bastard.”
The GP was a woman who took one look at Behruse and shut the door in his face. The radiologist was in the linen closet with a nurse and therefore unavailable for comment. The urologist had fled abroad. The neurologist, it turned out, was an old man who didn’t really see any patients but through cunning hospital politics had managed to occupy a very nice fiefdom consisting of a large office, a waiting room complete with nurse cum receptionist, and even a small lab.
“Good evening, doctor,” Sabeen said, barging in over the faffing nurse. “We are friends of Dr. Sawad.”
“Dr. Sawad the prick?” Dr. J asked helpfully. “Or Dr. Sawad the heart specialist?”
“The former, I imagine.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He gave you something to research,” Sabeen said.
“Who are these guys?” Dr. J looked around. “They don’t look like doctors.”
“They are Mukhabarat and CIA,” Sabeen said.
“Oh my. Recruitment standards have fallen since the old boy left, eh?”
“You don’t want to get mixed up in this, really.”
“I can see that.”
“Going back to Dr. Sawad.”
“He was a prick.”
“So you did know him?”
“Briefly.”
“What did he give you to research?”
“Don’t drink that you oaf! It’s not coffee!”
Behruse, sniffed, made a face and put down the beaker.
“Dr. J, allow me to inform you that we have the authority to take everything in your office,” Sabeen said, sitting down forcefully. “Including you.”
“Close the door, please, Mr. CIA, be a dear.”
“Should I start smashing things up?” Behruse, having found nothing edible in the room, was now growing irritable.
“Dr. J?”
“Two weeks ago Dr. Sawad the prick popped in and asked me to look into some DNA samples.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I didn’t bother doing it.”
“Really?” Sabeen unbuttoned her coat and withdrew a sleek looking gun.
“Oh alright, I had a peek.”
“And?”
“Most peculiar stuff.”
“Explain.”
“Very technical, you lot probably wouldn’t understand.”
&nb
sp; “So everyone keeps telling us,” Sabeen sighed. “I happen to be a physician and I do understand some fairly big words. The other two, well you might be right there.”
“I also know lots of big words,” Hoffman said, offended.
“It’s about telomerase,” Dr. J said, peering at them under bushy white eyebrows. “And senescence.”
“I also know calculus,” Hoffman said. “The difference-type calculus thing. Ask anyone.”
“You see, I study diseases caused by old age,” Dr. J said. “And regeneration at a cellular level. Why, for example, cells will repair themselves when you are young yet stop doing so when you’re old. Senescence.”
“I imagine that’s a matter close to your heart.”
“At this age, it’s the only thing worth studying, really,” Dr. J said. “How to cheat death.”
“I also know all the countries in the UN, and most of their capitals,” Hoffman said.
“What did Dr. Sawad want to know?”
“He gave me some DNA samples from a patient he had,” Dr. J said. “A most curious case. If I didn’t know Sawad better, I would have thought he was trying to hoax me.”
“Was it Afzal Taha?”
“I don’t know the patient name. Sawad wouldn’t tell me.”
“What was so curious about it?”
“Most people, doctors included, think DNA is the be-all and end-all of genetics,” Dr. J said. “It’s not the case, of course. DNA is like a very large, very redundant instruction manual: in several different languages, with a bunch of gibberish thrown in for good measure. What gets translated, what gets activated, is a matter of complex interactions between proteins.”
“Was the sample DNA special?”
“The DNA? No. At the time, I found it perfectly normal,” Dr. J said. “What struck me was the peculiarity of the telomeres.”
“The excess stuff at the end of chromosomes?”
“Precisely, dear! You are a doctor,” Dr. J looked faintly disappointed. “Telomeres are excess DNA attached to the ends of chromosomes. They are repetitive chains. Do you know precisely what happens during cellular replication?”