by Tom Clancy
Dominic simply nodded.
“I’ll get a car to take you home.”
“No, I’m just going to find a couch and crash.”
Granger said, “If you’d like us to make arrangements for Brian—”
“I’ll do it.”
Dominic left, shutting the door behind him. Hendley said, “Jack?”
“Hard to say. I’ve never seen him like this, but then again, it’s not exactly common. For anybody. I think he’s just numb. He’s exhausted; he watched his twin brother die in his lap; and, right or wrong, he’s probably feeling pretty damned guilty about it. Once it all sinks in he’ll fall apart, then pull himself back together.”
“You agree, John.”
Clark took a moment to answer. “For the most part, but he’s a changed man, that’s for sure. Some switch got flipped.”
Bell said, “Explain.”
“He was on the fence about taking out Fakhoury. Brian had to talk him into it, and probably did the job himself because he knew Dom wasn’t ready for it. Three hours later, they’re at Almasi’s house. Brian gets shot, and before Dom leaves the house, he’s finishing off wounded men. That’s day to night in pretty short order.”
“So assume you’re right about the flipped switch,” Hendley said. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Don’t know. Depends on how or if he rebounds. Right now he’s got that thousand-yard stare in his eyes. This is usually where operators take one of two paths: learn to deal with the job and put it into perspective, or let it eat you up.”
“Is he okay for the field?”
“This isn’t an exact science, Gerry. Everybody’s different.”
“Best judgment. Is he okay for the field?”
Clark thought it over. “Not by himself.”
Hendley asked Rick Bell, “What do we know about what Dom brought home?”
“A flash drive full of Almasi’s computer files, and one CD-ROM. The files are gonna take a while to sift through; the CD was a gold mine: three hundred sixty five JPEG images of onetime pads—nine square by nine square grids with alphanumeric substitution characters. I don’t know how the math works out, but we’re talking about millions of different combos.”
“About a year’s worth,” Hendley said. “One for every damned day. Please tell me they’re dated.”
Bell smiled. “Bet your ass. They go back almost ten months, which means unless they pull the plug, we’ve two months of future OTPs in our hands.”
“That’s how they’re doing it,” Jack muttered.
“What?” Clark asked.
“They’re doubling up. They use steganography to embed the OTP into website images. Recipients pull an image off the site, use a program to peel away the stego layer, and they’ve got the daily OTP. After that it’s just numbers: Go into a forum on a URC website, find the post with a string of a couple hundred letter-number combinations, run them through your OTP, and you’ve got your marching orders.”
“I’m with you on most of that,” Granger said, “but not the forum idea. I don’t think the URC would shotgun a message like that. They’d want to make sure it reached only the recipients they wanted. We know it’s not e-mail, right?”
“Doubtful. URC traffic is all but dead.”
“How about online e-mail?” Bell suggested. “Google, Yahoo! ... Agong Nayoan had a Google account, didn’t he, John?”
“Yeah, but the IT nerds sifted through it. Nothing there. My guess is, if the URC went radio-silent with its regular e-mail accounts, they probably banned online accounts as well.”
“So what they’d need,” Hendley said, “is a hub. Someplace a guy could check every day and get messages meant only for him.”
“Holy shit,” Jack said. “That’s it.” He started typing on his laptop. “Online file storage.”
“Come again?” said Clark.
“They’re websites that offer backup file storage. Say you’ve got a bunch of MP3 songs and you’re worried about losing them if your computer crashes. You sign up at one of these sites, upload the files, and they sit there on the servers.”
“How many of these sites are there?”
“Hundreds. Some you have to pay to use, but the majority of them are free if you’re dealing with small file sizes—anything under a gigabyte of data.”
“Which is how much?”
Jack thought this over for a moment. “Take a standard Microsoft Word file.... A gigabyte could hold maybe half a million pages.”
“Damn.”
“But that’s the beauty of this. Some URC mutt in Tangiers logs in to one of these sites, uploads a text document with a string of a couple hundred numbers, then another mutt in Japan logs in, downloads the file, erases it from the site, then plugs the numbers into a stego-embedded onetime pad he got from a URC site, and he’s got his message.”
“What’s it take to sign up on one of these sites?” This from Hendley.
“The free ones ... an e-mail address, and those are a dime a dozen. Hell, there are places on the Internet that’ll give you an address that self-destructs after fifteen minutes.”
“Talk about anonymity,” Rick Bell said. “Listen, I can buy all this. It makes sense, but what do we do with it?”
The conference door opened, and Chavez walked in. “There’s something you’re going to want to see.” He grabbed the television remote, powered up the LCD flat screen, and switched to CNN. The anchor was in mid-sentence.
“... Once again, this is a live television feed from Record News helicopter in Brazil. The conflagration started just after eight p.m. local time. ...”
Jack leaned forward in his chair. “Christ almighty.”
The helicopter appeared to be filming from a distance of five miles or more, but still two-thirds of the screen was filled with roiling flames and thick, black smoke. Through the smoke there were glimpses of some kind of vertical structures and crisscrossing pipes, and round storage tanks.
“That’s a refinery,” said John Clark.
The anchor was talking again: “According to Record News, the location of the fire is a refinery run by Petrobras, known as the Paulinia REPLAN. Paulinia is a town of sixty thousand people and is located some eighty miles north of São Paulo.”
Hendley turned to Jack. “Can you—”
Jack already had his laptop open. “Working on it.”
“... The Paulinia REPLAN is the largest refinery in Brazil, covering almost eighteen hundred acres and with an output of almost four hundred thousand barrels a day. ...”
“Accident?” Rick Bell suggested.
“Don’t think so,” Clark replied. “Eighteen hundred acres is almost three and a half square miles. The complex is almost totally engulfed. Look, back when I was still getting wet for a living, we war-gamed this stuff all the time. Refineries are juicy targets, but just about anything short of half a dozen Paveways wouldn’t be enough to light up a whole complex. Hell, our refineries here are almost thirty-five years old and you can count on one hand how many accidents there’ve been. Too many backup emergency systems.”
Typing at his laptop, Jack said, “Paulinia’s pretty new. Less than ten years old.”
“How many employees?”
“Could be as many as a thousand. Maybe twelve hundred. It’s the night shift, so less staff on duty, but we’re probably talking about at least four hundred people in there.”
“There,” Clark said. “Right there ...” He stepped up to the television and tapped an area inside the refinery complex. “Those flames are moving; that’s liquid, and a lot of it.”
As they watched, the Record News helicopter moved closer to the blaze, swinging around the refinery until the north side came into view.
Jack said, “Okay, got it: Paulinia’s also a terminal for an ethanol pipeline. Comes in from the north.”
“Yeah, I see it,” said Rick Bell. He walked to the television and pointed to a spot along the complex’s northern perimeter. Just short of the fence, the pipeline was ripped open, emitting a
geyser of flaming ethanol.
“Yeah,” Clark said. “They would have had to knock out some shutdown valves. ...” He traced his finger north along the pipeline until he reached an isolated pocket of flame. “That’s one.”
“And three more back down the line,” Granger added. “How much pipeline is that?”
“Half-mile, give or take,” Clark replied.
“About ten thousand gallons,” Jack said, looking up from his laptop.
“What?” said Chavez.
“That pipeline puts through over three billion gallons a year. Break down the math and that section probably contained about ten thousand gallons—call it enough to fill a tanker truck. Some of it’ll get soaked up by the soil, but you gotta figure seven, maybe eight thousand gallons were dumped into the complex.”
“The whole thing’ll go,” Clark said. “The blending and storage tanks ... the towers. They’ll start to cook off.”
Even as Clark said the words, the helicopter’s camera caught a trio of explosions, each one sending a mushroom cloud of flames and black smoke a mile into the sky.
“They’re going to have to evacuate the whole damned region,” Sam Granger said. “So we’re agreed: This is no accident.”
Clark said, “No chance. A lot of planning went into this. A lot of groundwork and intelligence.”
“URC,” Chavez speculated.
“Why Brazil?” Hendley asked.
“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with Brazil,” Jack said. “That’s meant for us. Kealty just signed a deal with Petrobras. Sub-OPEC-priced oil from Brazil. They’ve got it coming out of their ears—the Lara and Tupi block fields alone could put Brazil’s reserves at around twenty-five billion barrels. That’s part of the equation. The other part is how far behind Petrobras is in building refineries. Paulinia was their workhorse. The new complex up in Maranhão will run at six hundred thousand barrels, but it’s not coming online for another year.”
“So Brazil’s got the oil but no way to process it,” Hendley said. “Which means our deal is down the tubes.”
“For a year at least. Maybe two.”
Jack’s e-mail chimed. He scanned the message. “Biery got facial-recognition hits on a couple of Sinaga’s passport photos. Two are Indonesians that came into Norfolk two weeks ago—Citra and Purnoma Salim.”
“Citra’s a female name,” Rick Bell said. “Husband and wife?”
“Brother and sister. Nineteen and twenty years old, respectively. According to their ICE forms, they’re here on vacation. The third is none other than our mystery courier: Shasif Hadi. He’s traveling as Yaseen Qudus. Two days after we lost him on the way to Vegas, Hadi caught a United flight from San Francisco to São Paulo.”
“Hell of a coincidence,” Sam Granger said.
“Don’t believe in them,” Hendley replied. “Mr. Chavez, how do you feel about a trip down there?”
“Fine by me.”
“You okay with taking Dom?”
Chavez thought about this. He’d seen plenty of men in Dominic’s condition: stunned, guilty, playing the “What could I have done differently?” game ... Feeling guilty that the other guy’s dead, and guilty for being glad you’re still alive ... It was a shitty place to be, but Chavez had looked into the former FBI man’s eyes: Dominic was wound up and looking for payback but still under control.
“Sure,” Chavez said. “If he’s up for it, I am. One question, though: What do we do when we get down there? It’s a big country, and Hadi and whoever he’s with probably already went to ground.”
“Or slipped out of the country,” Clark added.
“Let’s assume they’re still there,” Hendley replied. “Jack, let’s get back to Rick’s question: Assuming you’re onto something with this online file-storage stuff. What do we do with it?”
“We do an end run,” Jack replied. “Right now, Hadi’s the biggest URC player we’ve got a bead on, correct?”
“Yep,” Chavez said.
“And we know he went from Vegas to San Francisco before heading to São Paulo, probably to get his Qudus passport from Agong Nayoan, which means they were probably in direct contact—at the very least, so Nayoan could tell him to pick it up.”
“Go on,” Hendley said.
“Nayoan’s lazy. When we tossed his place, we found he never cleaned out his Web browser history.” Jack turned his laptop around so everyone could see it. The screen displayed a text file with hundreds of lines of website addresses. “While we’ve been talking, I’ve been sifting through these. Since the URC went radio-silent, Nayoan visited an online storage site every day, three times a day, and he rotated to a different site every second day.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Sam Granger. “That’s good work, Jack.”
“Thanks. So far, Nayoan’s rotated through thirteen storage sites. Ten to one we’d find the same ones on Hadi’s computer.”
“That only gets us part of the way there,” Bell said. “We’re going to need his user name and password.”
“Statistics,” Jack replied. “Eighty-five percent of surfers either use their e-mail as a user name or some variation of their e-mail prefix—the stuff before the ‘at’ sign. Let’s have Biery throw together a script—we’ll check each site and try different permutations of Hadi’s e-mail. When we find the right one, we do a brute-force crack of his password. Once we’re in, we use the OTPs Dom found at Almasi’s house and we start pulling Hadi’s strings.”
“One problem,” Hendley said. “The whole thing’s predicated on Hadi checking his online storage site.”
“Then let’s give him a reason,” John Clark said.
“What’re you thinking?”
“Spook him. We drop an anonymous tip with Record News. A vague description of Hadi and a few sketchy details. He sees it, panics, and checks in for new orders. We make sure something’s waiting for him.”
“There’s a downside,” Rick Bell said. “If the Brazilian cops get their hands on him before we do, we’re shit outta luck.”
Clark smiled. “No balls, no blue chips.”
Hendley was silent for a few moments. “It’s a long shot, but it’s worth it. Jack, you get Biery rolling on this.”
Jack nodded. “How about the Norfolk Indonesians?”
“You and John.”
“Hate to jinx things, but I got a bad feeling about all this,” Chavez said.
“Like?” This from Granger.
“Like this refinery thing is just the first shoe.”
75
SHORTLY BEFORE NINE A.M., Musa passed through Yakima, Washington, and drove another few miles to Toppenish, where he got off the highway and drove into town. He found a restaurant, something called Pioneer Kitchen, and pulled in. The parking lot was only a quarter full. Americans, Musa had long ago learned, preferred everything quick and easy, especially their food. Though he hadn’t seen one, he assumed Toppenish had its fair share of McDonald’s and Burger Kings and Arby’s. Always on the move, going about their important business, Americans did not sit down and eat unless it was on their couch in front of a television. A pill for every ailment, and disorders for every character flaw.
He found a parking spot near the front door and walked in. The sign at the register counter told him to seat himself. He found a booth by the window so he could keep an eye on the Subaru, and sat down. A waitress in a mustard-yellow apron and white blouse walked up. “Morning; can I get you some coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Do you need a minute to look at the menu?”
“No. Toast, no butter, and a fruit cup of some kind.”
“Sure, no problem. Be right back.” She returned with a cup and a coffee decanter and left.
Behind him he heard a voice ask, “Hey, is that your car?”
Musa turned. A uniformed police officer was standing there. He was in his mid-fifties, with a crew cut and paunch. He had sharp eyes, though. A cop’s eyes. Musa took a calming breath and said, “Pardon me?”
<
br /> “That car. Is it yours?”
“Which one?”
“The hatchback there.”
“The Subaru? Yes.”
“Your dome light’s on. Noticed it as I was walking in.”
“Oh, thank you, I didn’t notice. I won’t be here long. I don’t think it will hurt the battery.”
“Probably not. Just out of curiosity, what’s that thing in the back? Looks like a big bait box.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“It’s a portable X-ray machine for horses.”
The cop snorted. “Didn’t know there was such a thing. Where’re you headed?”
“School of vet medicine at UNLV—Las Vegas.”
“Long drive.”
“Paperwork got messed up; the airline wouldn’t put it in the cargo hold. I decided a little road trip wouldn’t hurt me. Plus, I’m getting fifty cents a mile.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
The cop walked away and took a stool at the counter. A few minutes later, the waitress returned with Musa’s toast and fruit cup. “Willie gettin’ in your business?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
She jerked her thumb at the cop. “Willie’s the chief of police. He does a good job, but he’s nosy as hell. Last year I broke up with my boyfriend, and Willie knew about it before my mother did.”
Go away, woman. Musa shrugged. “Small towns.”
“I guess. Enjoy your breakfast. I’ll come check on you in a few.” She left.
Allah, give me patience, Musa thought. Truth be told, he usually found most Americans quite tolerable, if a tad garrulous. That probably wouldn’t be the case if his skin was a little darker or if he had an accent. Fate was a strange thing. Otherwise decent people blithely moving through life, worshipping a false god, trying to make sense of an existence that had no meaning outside of Islam. Americans loved their “comfort zones.” The vast majority of them had never and would never leave the confines of the United States, so sure the rest of the world had nothing to offer except for perhaps an intriguing vacation spot. Even the events of 9/11 had done little to open Americans’ eyes to the real world outside their bubble. Quite the contrary. Encouraged by their own government, many of them had withdrawn deeper into their shells, taking comfort in their labels and platitudes: Islamo-Fascist. Extremist. Evildoers who hate our freedom. Those that would see to destroy America.