Dead or Alive

by Tom Clancy

  “How long?” Jack asked.

  “No idea. I’ll start feeding the monster and get back to you.”

  At three a.m. the phone rang. The three of them were awake instantly. “Biery,” Jack said, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the cell phone’s ID screen. He put the call on speakerphone.

  “I might be popping the cork a little early,” Biery said, “but I think we’ve hit the mother lode. That’s the good news. The bad news is it looks like they’re using three different encryption methods, so it’s going to take some time.”

  “You have our attention,” Clark replied.

  “First thing: The banner image we saw on the URC website showing Dirar’s murder—I think it’s a digital onetime pad. Essentially a decoding grid for plain-speak messages. Whether it’s outdated or current I don’t know yet.”

  This was no surprise to Jack. What was old is new again, he knew. The OTP system was ancient—how ancient was a topic of debate among cryptography scholars, but its birth into the modern age was in 1917 with an AT&T engineer named Gilbert Vernam—and while there were a variety of OTP flavors, at its core it is a substitution cipher, most simply arranged in the form of a random alphanumeric grid: combing a character from the left-hand margin with a character from the top margin, and where they intersect in the grid’s body is the single character substitution. Encoding and decoding was time-consuming, but providing the OTP was restricted to only the sender and the receiver; it was virtually unbreakable. In this case, certain URC members would know to check certain websites on certain days and download certain images, which would then be steganographically decrypted, revealing a onetime pad with which plain-speak phone calls, letters, and e-mails could be securely transmitted.

  The question was, Jack thought, how often did the URC rotate its online OTP? The only way to find that out was to try to match known URC messages with onetime-pad images in the same time frame.

  “This could explain why the baby announcement e-mail has dead-ended,” Jack said. “They switched pads and we’ve been a step behind.”

  Clark nodded and said, “Go ahead, Gavin.”

  “Second: One of the larger image files on Nayoan’s DVD—didn’t have a match on any we pulled off URC sites. The algorithm’s still chewing on it, but based on what I’m seeing so far, we’ve got a whole lot of credit card and bank routing numbers.”

  “Nayoan’s a URC treasurer,” said Chavez. “Sure as shit.”

  “You’re checking the numbers?” Clark asked Gavin.

  “Not yet. Which do you want first?”

  “Credit cards. Easier to get and easier to dump than a bank account. Start with stuff in San Francisco and West Coast accounts. Might as well make hay while we’re out here.”

  65

  IF THEIR ENTRY into the Medina caused any curiosity it was well disguised, the Caruso brothers decided. It was not yet dark, of course, so there were plenty of obviously white and Western tourists still milling around vendors’ stalls and wandering through the switchback narrow alleyways; their presence was of little consequence. The sun was dropping below the horizon, however, and with the dimming light the Medina would slowly empty of outsiders, leaving behind only locals and those few-and-far-between tourists who were either familiar enough with Tripoli or ignorant of its hazards. There were few murders of tourists in the Medina, Archie had assured them, but nocturnal muggings and purse snatchings were almost considered a sport here. Thieves had a discerning eye for the unmindful and the weak. Brian and Dom would appear neither, Archie had observed, so they had little to worry about. The Aussie’s brown-bag present in the trunk—a pair of Browning 9-millimeter Hi-Power Mark III semiautomatics, sans serial numbers, and four magazines of low-velocity hollow-points—made doubly sure of this. The noise suppressors Andy had provided were bench-made from PVC piping, each about the size of two soda cans stacked atop each other and spray-painted black. Neither would last more than a hundred rounds before losing its effectiveness, but since they had only forty rounds between them, the point was moot.

  For twenty minutes they wandered through the stucco- and brick-walled alleys, stopping at portable vendor stalls and shops to look at the merchandise, all the while following Archie’s map, which Brian folded in his hand. Archie had given them several routes to Rafiq Bari’s apartment, and several routes out, including two E&E—escape and evasion—paths, an addition that had solidified their hunch that their contact was ex-military, probably Australian SASR, or Special Air Service Regiment. It was an insight of no small comfort: The Aussie’s mind-set was aligned with their own.

  “Something smells good,” Dom said, sniffing.

  The air was full of scents: burning charcoal, broiled meat, spices, as well as the stink of a thousand sweating bodies packed into enclosed spaces. The noise, too, was at first disorienting, a cacophony of Arabic, French, Maghrebi, and heavily accented English. The throngs seemed to move as if guided by some unseen traffic cop, sidestepping around one another and into and out of alleys with only the occasional eye contact or hesitation.

  “Dog meat, maybe?”

  “That’s Asia, bro, and less common than you’d think. Maybe a little horse here, but mostly lamb, I’d bet.”

  “Been reading brochures again?”

  “When in Rome.”

  “Something tells me cleanliness ain’t high on their list of priorities,” Brian said, nodding at a vendor who was cutting up raw chicken on a cutting board; his canvas apron was speckled with blood.

  Dominic laughed at this. “Hell, didn’t they have you eating bugs at SERE?” referring to Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape school.

  Like all Marines, Brian had been through recruit, entry-level A SERE, but he’d also been pushed through the remaining B and C levels, reserved for forward operating combat units and aircrews.

  “Yeah, bugs at Bridgeport, snakes at Warner.”

  Navy and Marine Corps B and C SERE was held at a number of sites, including the Mountain Warfare Training Center in Bridgeport, California, and Naval Air Station in Warner Springs, California.

  “So what’s a little horse meat?”

  “Maybe on the way out, okay? We getting close or what?”

  “Yeah, but we got time to kill. We’ll make a pass of Bari’s place at dusk, get the lay of the land. Wait for dark to go in.”

  “Sounds good. What time is—”

  As if on cue, a loudspeaker down the alley crackled to life and emitted the muezzin’s call to prayer. Around them, the alleys slowly went silent as locals stopped what they were doing, unfurled their prayer rugs, and knelt for the ritual. Along with the other non-Muslims, Brian and Dominic stepped aside and remained quiet and still until the ritual was completed and normal activity resumed. The Carusos started walking again. Dusk was fading quickly, and lights were glowing to life in windows and outdoor cafés.

  “Can’t say Islam is my cup of tea,” Dominic said, “but I’ll give them this: They’re dedicated.”

  “Which is the problem when it comes to the radicals. That kind of dedication is the first step toward suicide bombing and flying planes into buildings.”

  “Yep, but I can’t help wondering sometimes if we’re talking about the bad-apple theory.”

  “Say what?”

  “One bad apple in the barrel. In this case, there are plenty of really bad apples, but probably still a pretty small minority.”

  “Maybe so, maybe not. Kinda above our pay grade, though.”

  “I mean, think about it: How many Muslims in the world?”

  “Billion and a half, I think. Maybe two.”

  “And how many of them go around blowing themselves up? Better question: How many are radical terrorists?”

  “Twenty or thirty thousand, probably. I get your point, bro, but I don’t worry about the good apples. Who and how you worship is your own business—up until you start getting divine messages to blow the shit out of innocent people.”

  “Hey, no argument here.”

&
nbsp; They’d had this discussion before: Was broad-brushing a whole people or religion merely a mistake of morality, or was it also a tactical mistake? When you see whole chunks of a demographic as the enemy, does that keep you from not only spotting the real bad guys but also recognizing an ally? Like almost every country on earth, America had had enemies turn to friends, and friends into enemies. The Afghan mujahideen was a case in point that Dominic had often cited. The same rebels the CIA had helped drive the Soviets out of Afghanistan had morphed into the Taliban. The history books would forever be debating how and why that had happened, but there was little arguing the truth of the thing itself. One issue the Caruso brothers agreed on was the similarities between a soldier’s perspective and a cop’s perspective: Know your enemy as best you can, and be flexible in your tactics. Plus, both of them had seen enough shit in their lives to know there was no such thing as black-and-white in the real world—and that was especially true of their roles at The Campus, where gray was the norm. There was a good reason why spooks and special operators were often referred to as “Shadow Warriors.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Dominic added. “I’m only too happy to pull the trigger on any mutt who threatens my country. I’m just saying, the guy who fights the smart war is usually the winner.”

  “Amen to that. There’s probably a few million Soviet soldiers who’d argue that, though. Stalin shoved them into the meat grinder of the Eastern Front like they were cattle.”

  “Always an exception to the rule.”

  Brian stopped to check their map. “Almost there. Next left, then right down an alley. Bari’s apartment is the third door on the left. Painted bloodred, according to Ghazi.”

  “Let’s hope that ain’t a bad omen.”

  They found the right alley ten minutes later and ducked through the arch. Soldier that he was, Brian’s night vision was better tuned than that of his brother, so he was the first to realize the man walking toward them down the alley was none other than Rafiq Bari. He was not alone but rather was flanked by a pair of men, each dressed in dark slacks and long-sleeved white shirts open at the neck and untucked at the waist.

  “Local heavies,” Dominic muttered.

  “Yep. Let’s let them pass.”

  Bari was walking fast, as were his bodyguards, but both Bari’s body language and that of the two bodyguards told the Carusos that Bari wasn’t under duress. The relationship was clearly of an employee-employer nature.

  Brian and Dom reached the red door first and kept going, letting Bari and his party pass on their left. Brian cast a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Bari slipping a key into the door’s lock. Brian turned back forward. The door opened, then slammed shut. The Carusos turned left at the next corner and stopped.

  “Never gave us a second look,” Dominic said. Bari’s bodyguards were probably street-level thugs who assumed a familiarity with violence was training enough for the job, and they’d probably be right in most circumstances.

  “Bad luck for them, good for us,” Brian replied. “He was moving quick, though. He’s either in a hurry to catch Wheel of Fortune or he’s on the move.”

  “Better assume the latter. Time to improvise.”

  “The Marine way.”

  Twenty feet down the alley, they found an open archway on their left and stepped through into a small courtyard with a dry circular fountain in the center. It was almost fully dark now, and the corners were cast in deep shadow. They took a few moments to let their eyes adjust. Leaning against the far wall was a trellis covered in dried vines. They walked over and tested the wood; it was brittle.

  “Boost,” Brian said, then stepped to the wall and formed a saddle with his hands. Dominic stepped into it, reached high, and snagged the top of the wall. He scrambled up, then looked down and gave Brian the wait one-hand signal and crawled away. He was back in three minutes. He gave an all okay nod, then leaned over and helped Brian up.

  “Bari’s door leads to an inner courtyard. Open doorway on the east wall. One bodyguard there. Bari and the other one are inside. I can hear them banging around. Sounds like they’re in a hurry.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They loaded their Brownings, affixed the suppressors, and started across the roof. To their left, in the alley, there came the sound of a dog barking, then a dull thump. The dog yelped and went silent. Brian held up his closed fist, calling a halt. They both knelt down. Brian crept across the roof, peeked over the edge, then returned.

  “Four men coming down the alley,” he whispered. “Moving like operators. Or police.”

  “Maybe the reason Bari’s in a hurry,” Dominic observed. “Let it play out?”

  “If it’s the police, we got no choice. If not ...”

  Dominic shrugged, nodded. They’d come a long way for Bari; they weren’t going to give him up unless they had no other option. The question was, if these new players had come to kill Bari, would they do it here or take him somewhere else?

  Brian and Dominic moved closer to the eaves overlooking Bari’s courtyard, then dropped to their bellies and eased forward until they could see. The lone bodyguard was still standing beside the door, a mere shadowed outline in the darkness. A cigarette’s cherry tip glowed to life, then dimmed.

  To their left the footsteps grew louder, scuffing along the sand-and-dirt alley before stopping—presumably at Bari’s door. The Carusos knew the next few moments would tell them all they needed to know about their competitors. The police would go in shouting; anyone else would go in shooting.

  Neither happened.

  There came a soft knock at the courtyard door. Bari’s bodyguard tossed his cigarette away and leaned into the opened doorway, said something, then headed toward the courtyard door. His body showed no signs of tension; he made no move to draw the weapon that Brian and Dominic assumed was tucked into a belt holster. They exchanged glances: Bari expecting company?

  The bodyguard threw back the sliding latch and pulled open the door.

  Pop, pop.

  The gunshots were soft, no louder than a palm being slapped on a wooden tabletop. The bodyguard stumbled backward and sprawled onto the ground. Three figures rushed past him toward the inner doorway. A fourth followed, paused beside the bodyguard’s body to put a final round in his forehead, then kept walking.

  Two more muffled pops came from within the house, then a shout, then silence. Ten seconds later Bari came out with his hands clasped behind his head, being shoved from behind by the three intruders. He was pushed to his knees before the fourth man—the leader, it seemed—who bent at the waist and said something to Bari. Bari shook his head. The man slapped him.

  “Looking for something,” Dominic whispered.

  “Yeah. URC, you think?”

  “I’d say. Unless he’s freelancing for someone else.”

  The questioning went on for another two or three minutes, then the leader gestured to the other men, who pinned him to the ground. His hands were bound with duct tape, and a rag was stuffed into his mouth. They dragged him back into the house.

  “Mr. Bari’s going to lose some fingernails,” Brian observed.

  “If he’s lucky. Best we get to him before they fuck him up too much.”

  “Give it a few minutes. He’ll be all the happier when the cavalry arrives.” This Brian said with a grin Dominic decided was halfway evil.

  “Shit, Bri, that’s hard-core.”

  “That’s leverage.

  The muffled screams from inside the house started almost immediately. At the five-minute mark, Dominic looked up from his watch and nodded. Brian went over the edge first, hanging from the eaves, then dropping lightly to his feet. Hunched over and Browning pointed at the door, he sidestepped to the far wall, then knelt down and gave his brother a nod. Dominic was down ten seconds later and crouched beside the near wall.

  Together they started forward, sliding along the wall in the shadows until Dominic gestured for a halt. He crept forward until his angle allowed him a glimpse through t
he door. He gestured to Brian: Three men visible; room to left through the door. Short hall straight through the door. Two unaccounted for.

  Brian nodded, then signaled back the entry plan and got a nod in return. Dominic crossed the last ten feet to the door-side wall, then sidestepped along it until he was pressed flat beside the doorjamb. Brian moved forward and crouched beside the other jamb. Dominic took one last look, leaning out just enough to see through the door. He nodded.

  Brian nodded one . . . two . . . three, then stood up, stepped through the door and turned left, the Browning up and leading him. Dominic was a step behind.

  Two of the men had Bari pressed face-first into a wooden trestle table; the surface was slick with blood, which glistened blackly under the glow of a floor lamp in the corner. The leader sat across from Bari, a paring knife in his right hand; the blade and his hand were wet.

  One of the men holding Bari looked up, saw Brian as he sidestepped into the room. Brian’s first shot struck the man in the throat, the second in the center of the forehead. Brian adjusted aim, put down the second man. The leader spun around, a gun in his hand. Dominic was already there. He slammed the butt of the Browning into the man’s temple, and he slumped sideways to the floor.

  “Clear.”

  “Clear,” Brian whispered. “Him?”

  “Give him a nap.”

  Brian rapped Bari behind the ear with the Browning’s butt, then checked him. “Good.”

  They both turned, stalked back down the hall, glanced right through the open door and saw nothing, so they turned left, down the short hall. A silhouette appeared in the doorway at the end. Dominic fired twice. The man went down. From the room they heard the screeching of wood on wood.