by Leslie Wolfe
“That flight is boarding now, and you’re not going to be on it,” she said. “So you can relax. The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner you’ll be on your way.”
His jaws clenched the moment he heard he wasn’t going to make his flight.
“You can’t hold me here,” he protested, starting to get up from his chair. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said in an escalating voice.
“Sit down,” Jeremy said, pushing him back into his chair with a firm hand on his left shoulder.
“Who is Evgheni Smolin?” Alex asked.
“Who?” Novachenko replied.
“Cut the bullshit, will you? Or else we’ll be here ’til midnight,” Alex said, feigning anger, and slammed her hand on the small table. “I’d rather be elsewhere, you know. Smolin, who is he? He lives in your house, so you better know who that is.”
“He’s my father-in-law,” Novachenko replied, stealing another quick look at the clock, and wringing his hands.
“Wrong answer, Novachenko, think again. This time why don’t you try the truth for a change? Don’t dig yourself into a bigger hole than you can manage.”
“No, I swear, he’s my father-in-law,” Novachenko replied, turning a little pale and biting his lip.
“That’s not gonna fly,” Alex replied, opening a file and reading from it. “Smolin is from Moscow and has never had any kids. Your wife is from Kiev.”
Another quick look to check the time.
“No, no, damn it, your information is wrong. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Let’s check the facts, one by one,” Jeremy intervened. Novachenko checked the time yet again and slouched a little in his chair, more relaxed.
Alex frowned slightly, then looked at the flight schedule. The flight was still boarding. Why was he relaxing now? Made no sense. She had a strong feeling that they were missing something, something of crucial importance.
“Is your wife from Kiev?” Jeremy asked, pushing in front of Novachenko a couple of pictures, one showing Olga’s graduation from a Kiev school, the other showing the frontage of a house.
“Y–yes,” he stuttered, then glanced quickly at the clock. “Yes, she is.”
He had stopped wringing his hands, and his pallor was almost gone. Either the man was an expert in dealing with stress, or something was very wrong.
“Oh, no . . .” she whispered, feeling her blood drain. “What else did he have on him?” she asked Jeremy with an unspoken urgency in her eyes.
“That,” Jeremy pointed at a duffel bag left on the floor, in the corner. “And some pocket change.”
She grabbed the duffel bag from the corner and made a quick hand gesture to Jeremy to follow her. As she exited the room, she caught a glimpse of Novachenko’s pallor returning, together with his upper body tension and hand-wringing habit.
“What’s up?” Jeremy asked as soon as they closed the door.
“He was getting calmer with time,” she said, going nervously through the contents of Novachenko’s duffel bag. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“What do you want to do?”
“You keep on drilling him. I wanna run to the mobile lab; they must have some result on that sandwich by now. And I want to give them this,” she said, holding a travel-size can of hair spray, “maybe it’s got something to do with that sandwich, or maybe it has something to do with time.”
“Huh? Do you know you’re not making much sense?”
“Yeah, I do,” she replied and turned to leave. “But neither does a short-haired man carrying aloe vera hair spray on a flight.”
...66
...Saturday, June 4, 2:07PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Norfolk International Airport
...Norfolk, Virginia
The tractor-trailer took seven parking spaces along the white curb marked drop-off zone only. Black and windowless, the trailer bore the inscription “Federal Bureau of Investigation—Mobile Forensics” in gold lettering.
Alex didn’t waste time knocking; she hopped up the two steps and opened the door.
“Ah, Agent Hoffmann,” the female lab technician said, “I was just about to call you.”
She started to say she wasn’t an agent, but curiosity took precedence.
“What did you find?”
“You were right, there was something in that sandwich: E. coli SPAM.”
“Eww . . . gross. It looked like ham and cheese to me. How is this helpful?”
“No . . .” she chuckled. “SPAM as in steganography by printed arrays of microbes,” the technician clarified, smiling briefly and turning toward an LCD showing luminescent microorganisms, resembling little hot dogs piled on top of one another. “SPAM is an information encryption and transport technique, using fluorescent strains of Escherichia coli treated and arranged a certain way to represent the letters of the alphabet. In these microbe arrays, there are enough colors for anything you’d want to write.”
“How would someone grow these microbes and transfer them to a sandwich?”
“You arrange the microbes to represent the message, then grow them in a Petri dish.”
“Ahh . . . Petri dishes, now it makes sense. I’ve seen those at our suspect’s home,” Alex added, seeing how confused the tech seemed. “Please continue.”
“Then you transfer the cultured microbes to film, and ta-da! Your biofilm is ready for transport.”
“But I saw Smolin take a bite from one of these sandwiches,” Alex pushed back. “Why isn’t he sick, or dead?”
“These E. coli are genetically modified to be entirely safe. In case of trouble, a spy could eat all the evidence and be fine.”
“Great,” she grumbled. “Tell me please, how does one generate a message, exactly?” Alex asked.
“Seven different strains of E. coli were engineered to glow a different color under the right chemical and light conditions, by triggering fluorescence in a certain protein. The microbes are grown in rows of paired spots, each combination of two colors representing a letter or a number. For example, a yellow and an amber spot could represent the letter A. Here’s a sample decoded microbe array I found on the Internet, to give you an idea,” the technician said, pointing to a different screen, where chains of little colored circles lined up row after row in a matrix distribution.
“How does one do this? I’m guessing they’d need access to a sophisticated lab, right?”
“Maybe, maybe not. If you want to take the grassroots approach to generating SPAM biofilm, you wouldn’t need much; just some Petri dishes, a carefully modified antibiotic solution, culture medium, some LEDs, and . . . that’s about it,” the technician clarified, counting on her fingers.
“So how can we decode the message?”
“We can’t, not without the original growth environment. We’d need to regrow the bacteria in the same environment, or we would not obtain the right colors and the message would be completely indecipherable.”
“What?” Alex said, almost growling. “There must be something we can do to nail this bastard.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. Again, if we use the wrong growth medium, the array will light up in the wrong sequences, and that won’t mean anything.”
“Could this type of message self-destruct?” Alex asked, suddenly remembering the small can of hair spray she had brought with her from Novachenko’s bag.
“Yes, it’s time sensitive; the microbe luminescence fades with time if not preserved, or fixated.”
“Could this be the fixating agent?” Alex asked, handing the technician the hair spray.
“Let me check,” the young woman said, cocking her head to the side and spraying a small amount of substance into a test tube, then inserting it into a gas chromatograph. A minute later, the machine chimed and displayed a chart filled with numbers.
“Yes,” the technician confirmed, “this is the fixating agent, that’s for sure. I’ll treat the biofilm with it and hope it will last enough for us to figure out how t
o decrypt it. We need to find its culture medium.”
“How would that look?” Alex pressed on.
“It could be anything. I’m guessing some kind of liquid or emulsion,” the tech added, “although he might not have it on him, that’s why SPAM is so secure.”
“What are you saying?” Alex asked in disbelief.
“You could have the encoded bacteria here, and have matching controlled growth medium on the other side of the border. No one would be able to grab it and decode it.”
“Still, we have to try,” Alex replied.
She pulled out her cell and called Jeremy.
“Hey, I need you to bring me everything this guy had on him, and I mean every—”
The trailer door opened and Jeremy walked in, carrying the rest of Novachenko’s luggage.
“That what you’re looking for?
The technician made room on the table for the luggage, and they all started going through the stuff, piece by piece. Alex almost disregarded a commercially wrapped gift set of cosmetics, containing makeup, lipstick, nail polish and clear coating, all with brand labels. Then she changed her mind and looked at that package in detail.
Alex picked the clear nail protector bottle, opened it and sniffed it. It stunk of acetone . . . no, that wasn’t it. No microbes could live or glow in acetone. She then smelled the nail polish. This one was almost odorless, except a faint, nearly imperceptible fruity smell. She handed it over to the tech.
“Is this it? Could this be it?” she asked impatiently.
The young technician tested it quickly and confirmed it had the chemical makeup of a bacterial growth medium.
“Yes!” Alex said. “Please tell me we can read the message now,” she said, clasping her hands in a pleading gesture.
“Yes, we can, if this is the right growth medium, and it is logical to assume it is. Now we can overlay the biofilm on the growth medium and the bacteria will light up, allowing us to read the message.”
“But isn’t the message encrypted?” Jeremy asked.
“Yeah, it is, but now it’s easy, it’s a simple alphabet encryption. Any deciphering software will be able to read it. We have CrypTool installed right here,” the tech said, turning toward another computer. “It will take an hour or so, Agent Hoffmann.”
“It’s Alex,” she said. “I’m not really an agent, you know.”
The technician smiled, a little confused.
“OK, then, let’s pick up a Russian spy,” Alex said, smiling widely for the first time in days.
“Hey, wait a second,” Jeremy said, “weren’t you opposed to picking up Smolin until we identify the backup asset, and his entire uplink network?”
“Yeah, I was. But today we almost missed that sandwich. We got lucky, and that’s the only reason the stolen intel is still contained. Leaving Smolin out there, regardless of how much surveillance we plant around him, is too much of a risk. We have no choice, they’re too damn good,” she ended her argument with frustration in her voice.
Jeremy looked at her intently, then nodded and replied, “OK, let’s pick him up.”
...67
...Saturday, June 4, 5:29PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Norfolk Botanical Garden
...Norfolk, Virginia
“Gotta hand it to you,” Jeremy said as they were arriving at the Botanical Gardens, where surveillance had told them they could find Smolin, “you got some serious skills.”
“Thanks,” Alex said modestly, then decided to take advantage of Jeremy’s state of mind. “That means you’ll let me interrogate Smolin?”
“You know I can’t do that,” he said apologetically. “Nothing changed in our procedure book since the last time we had this argument.”
They walked silently for a few yards, then he continued, “Oh, and you need to stay here. You can’t come any closer to where he is.”
“The hell I can’t,” she snapped at him. “Yesterday I was able to come within fifty feet of him, today I can’t?”
“It’s procedure. In case he pulls a gun, or fires it. You could get caught in the crossfire or get hurt. You haven’t gone through our gun proficiency. You’re a civilian, after all. How about you start behaving like one?”
“We’re supposed to be partners; for Christ’s sake, Jeremy, don’t be such an ass. Can’t you just bend the rules a little? There’s enough manpower here to arrest a dozen Russians.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I won’t risk it; it’s not worth it. You either stay here, or I’ll lock you in the back of the car.”
“Fine, whatever,” she grumbled angrily, splitting the word in half as to make it more powerful.
She watched the three men approach Smolin’s backgammon table. He was alone, reading a newspaper. He sensed their arrival and put the newspaper down on the table, then stood slowly, assessing his options. He knew what the three men wanted even before they spoke.
She felt her hair stand on end; there was something about Smolin, something feral. She started walking toward him in a brisk pace, almost running, discreetly clasping the handle of her gun under her jacket.
“Evgheni Smolin?” Jeremy said, wielding his badge. “I’m Agent Weber with the FBI. We’d like to speak with you, ask you a few questions.”
As if in slow motion, Alex saw Smolin check his surroundings quickly, looking left, then right, making an assessment of the environment. Then he pulled his gun, lightning fast, and pulled the trigger, aiming for Jeremy’s head. But Alex had already fired her PPK, and her bullet hit Smolin in the right shoulder, causing him to swerve his gun and miss the target.
Smolin’s bullet whistled past Jeremy’s head, missing it by less than a foot and hitting the old oak tree behind him. The other two agents approached Smolin and disarmed him, then started reading him his rights.
“Whew,” Jeremy said, wiping his sweaty forehead, “what kind of consultant are you?”
She smiled and holstered her weapon. “You’re welcome.”
...68
...Saturday, June 4, 6:42PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Norfolk Botanical Garden
...Norfolk, Virginia
“I’m getting used to this place,” Alex said, looking at the familiar entrance to the Botanical Gardens and following the silhouette of a roaring jet taking off against the sunset sky. “I’m starting to like it,” she added, hungrily chewing a bite from a slice of pizza.
They ate near the hood of Weber’s car, standing on the sides with the extra large, extra cheese between them, eating as if there was no tomorrow.
“I think we’re done with this park,” Jeremy said. “With Smolin locked up, there’s no reason to visit anymore. Oh, and they’ll have your gun returned to you by tomorrow.”
His phone rang. He took the call hands free, recognizing the number.
“Weber here, go ahead.”
“This is Moore. The team finished reviewing the surveillance tapes again, and there aren’t any sandwiches starring in all those hours of film; none whatsoever.”
“But did you notice anything out of the ordinary at all? With anyone? I know you’ve looked before, but now we know more than we did back then. Pull older street video feeds,” Weber insisted.
“OK, give me a few,” Moore said and hung up.
They sat quietly, admiring how the sunset colors lit the sky, creating wondrous colors and shapes in the exhaust of passing jets.
“You hanging in there?” Alex asked quietly.
“Yeah . . .” Jeremy replied in his typical manner, after hesitating a little. “It’s not every day you hear the bullet coming, you know.”
“Yup,” she replied.
“And when it did, when I heard it coming, it was like it took forever, and all I could think about was my son. He . . . he needs me to come home every day. He needs me, so I gotta live,” he said, watching intently another jet gain altitude.
“And you will,” Alex said.
Moments of silence slipped by, as the sky turned darker and the first
stars appeared.
“Thank you,” Jeremy said after a while.
“Don’t mention it,” Alex replied.
The phone rang again, almost deafening in the peaceful evening.
“It’s Moore.”
“Go ahead,” Jeremy said.
“We’ve seen occasional bike messengers pick up and drop off from Smolin’s residence, maybe two or three times in the past month. Then one of the agents remembered he’d noticed a couple of bike messengers pick stuff up from Bob McLeod’s residence, but didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Oh, God . . .” Weber said, and hopped behind the wheel of his Charger.
...69
...Monday, June 6, 12:01PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...FBI Case # 174-NR-24578—Norfolk Division
...Norfolk, Virginia
FBI Case # 174-NR-24578
Content of decrypted message on SPAM biofilm
[start message]
Laser weapons system (LaWS) functional and ready to be deployed on naval warships. First hull #DDG1005 in Norfolk. On schedule: DDG136, DDG105. More hull #s to follow.
Technical solution for power source and power storage for LaWS is small enough to allow installation on planes, drones.
Prototype on drone scheduled for early next year. Deployment on fighter jets by mid next year.
Installation schematics, cannon capabilities will become available soon.
Engagement protocol recommends use LaWS to disable, not destroy. Target weapon systems, propulsion, and communications. Keep casualties to minimum.
Recommend effort to obtain power source and storage schematics ASAP.
[end message]
...70
...Monday, June 6, 7:21PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Bob McLeod’s Residence
...Norfolk, Virginia
Several Dodge Chargers were parked on the adjacent streets leading to Bob McLeod’s street. Two surveillance teams had kept eyes and ears on McLeod constantly since Saturday night, waiting for him to make a move. Finally, he made the anticipated move. He placed a call to FastLite Messenger Service.