by Jack Bowie
“You were talking about magic.”
“Oh yeah. We need to figure out the trick. What is this all leading to? That’s the only way we’ll ever identify our magician.”
After Ikedo left, Slattery stared down at the name on his pad. It would be easy to do a quick check on the name. It was the least he could do for the old cop.
For the rest of the day though, he couldn’t get the image of that damn fishing camp out of his mind.
Chapter 33
La Cochina, Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Wednesday, 7:20 p.m.
It was one helluva strange place for a meeting. Braxton had ignored the odd look he had gotten from the concierge when he asked for directions, but he never would have expected the reality of the restaurant. A thin building packed into a block of row houses, La Cochina was a Tex-Mex oasis on the edge of Amsterdam’s red-light district. To say it was incongruous would be an understatement. A short flight of steps rose to an open door, from which a deafening blast of twangy country music was exploding. Hanging in windows on either side of the door were garish red-neon cacti, hiding who-knows-what activities inside.
He had approached the location with no small amount of anxiety. What if Yang told his countrymen of their meeting? Would they think Braxton was a spy?
Damn Slattery for getting me into this.
Braxton’s heart pounded as he walked up the stairs. He took a deep breath.
Stop it! This wasn’t some adolescent James Bond story. It was just a meeting between two scientists. That’s all.
He stepped across the threshold.
He wouldn’t have believed it, but the inside of La Cochina was even tackier than the outside. The walls were decorated with uncountable pieces of western junk—wagon wheels, cowboy boots, ropes, pieces of fence. They seemed to have been tossed randomly at the surfaces and then stuck there by some invisible force. The floor was covered in sawdust, with just enough beer and sweat added to make the concoction the consistency of molasses.
His ears must have accommodated to the music—they didn’t hurt as much—but he still had trouble seeing through the dense tobacco smoke. No one seemed particularly interested in his entrance, so he probed deeper into the haze to look for his appointment. He thought he saw a bar to the left, then decided that Yang would prefer a booth and headed to the right. Halfway down the wall he found him.
“Dr. Yang. You picked a very interesting location.” Yang stood up to greet his guest and Braxton saw that the scientist had “dressed-down” for the occasion. Instead of the strict black suit, Yang wore a pair of tailored gray slacks, blue pinpoint oxford, and dark blazer. He could have passed for a busy academic on any college campus. But where would he ever wear the outfit in China?
“It seemed appropriate to be less formal,” the scientist replied seriously as they both sat down.
A Eurasian waitress in a red calico blouse and short denim skirt slithered through the crowd, took their order for two Grolsch beers, and disappeared back into the smoky haze.
Yang appeared in no hurry to start any conversation, so Braxton waited nervously until their beers arrived.
“Okay, Dr. Yang,” he said finally. “What shall we talk about?”
“Well, first of all I would like to hear more about that adventure of yours. Especially how you were able to break the RSA trapdoor function. It must have been quite exciting.”
Braxton didn’t believe what he was hearing. He wants to hear about the Internet mole? He had been prepared for almost anything, but this?
“Look, Dr. Yang, I thought we were here to . . .“
“Please. I am very interested in how you cracked the algorithm. As one cryptoanalyst to another.”
Yang’s face appeared deadly serious. Okay, he could play along.
“I wish I could say I cracked anything, but the reality was that I was given the keyphrase. The journal’s author gave me the hint just before he died. It took a few days to put it all together, but it was more blind luck than cryptanalysis. Oh, and to be specific the encoding was early PGP, not RSA.”
Yang’s stern look softened to what he probably considered a smile. “Excellent. Yes, that was exactly what I had heard.”
“You had heard? What is this all about, doctor?”
“Please excuse my little ploy, but I had to know if you really were the famous Adam Braxton. These are sensitive times, and I must protect myself.”
Yang had been giving him a test! He really was worried about security.
“I don’t understand, Dr. Yang. Why is it so hard to talk about your brother?”
“Come now, Mr. Braxton. How would your government feel if your brother worked for the KGB? I have been under constant surveillance for decades. It is only due to his death that I was allowed to participate in this conference.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Did you hear from him often?”
“We communicated occasionally. A few times a year. With access to the Internet, we could exchange messages more frequently, but it still had to be hidden from the authorities.”
“How could you be sure they weren’t monitoring what you were sending?”
Yang paused as if he wasn’t sure whether to answer. How was he going to get anything out of this man?
“Before I tell you anything more, Mr. Braxton, there is something I must know. You are not a member of your intelligence services, although I am sure they have sent you. As one scientist to another, was my brother’s death really an accident?”
The question hung in the air like a Damocles sword. How could he answer it? Was it another test? What did Yang really know?
“Of course. I think, . . . Actually, Dr. Yang, I don’t know. I read the newspaper reports. They all said it was an accident. What are you suggesting?”
“Thank you for your honesty. If I tell you what you want to know, you must promise me something. You must promise to find out what really happened. You are the only one I can trust. Do we have, as you say, a deal?”
What could he say? If he had any sense he would walk out right now and forget about this man, forget about Slattery. But there was something that kept nagging at him. Something that told him he needed to hear what Yang had to say. Before he could debate any longer, he said “Deal.”
“Thank you. But I must warn you, there may be those who would choose to keep the truth hidden.”
“Why, Dr. Yang? My understanding is that your brother was an exceptional cryptologist. Who would want to see him dead?”
“I am not sure myself, Mr. Braxton. But for some weeks before his death, my brother was concerned about something at his agency. What do you know of his work, specifically?”
“Actually, not very much. I understand he was an expert on mathematical cryptography. And that he was working on a specific class of algorithms.”
“You are correct. My brother had found a technique to rapidly reverse the operations used in certain block ciphers. You are aware of the impact of this discovery?”
“Of course. It would open many different encryption schemes to discovery. Was AES one of the ciphers he worked on? Could he decrypt any of those messages?”
“It was not quite that easy. The process was still very time consuming, but given a particular cyphertext, he could usually break it in a few days.”
The security of encryption schemes are evaluated by how long it would take a sophisticated eavesdropper, say the NSA, to decode the messages. Standard belief was that AES was secure for up to centuries of computer attack. Yang had brought it down to days! No wonder the CIA was so interested.
“Do you know the algorithm?”
“No, he would not share it. But he did send me a version of the decryption program.”
“That is how you communicated.”
“Yes,” Yang said with a slight smile. “You must understand, Mr. Braxton, my brother was a very private man. And very patriotic. That is what I find so confusing. Why would he be afraid of those he worked with?”
“
He was afraid? Afraid of who?”
“Excuse me. Your language is so difficult. Afraid is not correct. Confused is more accurate. You see, he had been monitoring a particular set of transactions. Something about military activity. He had discovered that they were working together. This surprised him. Do the branches of your military not work together?”
“I thought they did,” Braxton replied. “Of course I’m sure they keep some secrets to themselves.”
“He was very concerned. He had shared this with his group leader, but felt the information was not being acted upon. He feared some persons were keeping it to themselves.”
“Why was it of such a concern? What was the activity?”
“I could not follow all he wrote. His last message contained something new. I believe the term was ‘one half time’.”
“Halftime? This had something to do with the messages?”
“Yes. That is what I assumed. Does this mean anything to you?”
“Nothing special. Halftime is just the break in the middle of American sporting events like football or basketball. I can’t imagine what it could mean.”
“That is unfortunate. I was hoping this would be meaningful to you.”
“Dr. Yang. There is something I must ask you.”
“Yes?”
“You said your brother was very private. Would he keep the algorithm to himself? Not share it with his colleagues?”
“You mean those with whom he worked?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no. What an odd question. Kam was very patriotic. He saw his discovery as a contribution to his adopted society. He would never have kept it from them. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing of importance. Just a confusion I had. You have really helped me, Dr. Yang. I do appreciate it.”
“Of course, Mr. Braxton, of course. I hope I have been of assistance to you. And your associates.”
His associates? Oh. Slattery and his friends.
“Will you be having dinner?”
“I’m afraid not. While this milieu was quite appropriate for our discussion, the selection of food will not accommodate my digestion. If you will excuse me now, I will be on my way. Please do not attempt to follow me out. But you will remember our arrangement?”
“Yes, Dr. Yang. But how will I get in touch with you?”
“I’m sure we will meet again another time, Mr. Braxton. You are quite a popular celebrity you know.”
Yang rose from the table, bowed slightly, and disappeared into the crowd.
Their waitress suddenly appeared, undoubtedly worried about her tip, and Braxton ordered another beer. He reviewed the menu, then decided that Yang may have been right. Since the conference began he had already eaten twice as much as he did normally, and Dutch-Tex-Mex probably wasn’t what he needed.
Fifteen minutes later he paid his bill and got up to leave. He looked toward the door and noticed a couple moving through the milling crowd. The man suddenly turned and looked back in his direction. The smoke obscured his view but he was sure it was Roger Slattery!
Had the agent followed him to Amsterdam? Was he going to follow Yang?
Braxton pushed forward to try to get a better look but the crowd collapsed around him, making movement impossible. Damn! When he finally broke free they were gone.
Could it have been Slattery? What was he doing here? And who was the woman?
Chapter 34
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Wednesday, 8:15 p.m.
Why was this damn restaurant so busy? Braxton felt like a steer in a cattle drive. After jostling, shoving, and generally manhandling the unruly crowd, for which he received any number of unfriendly looks, Braxton finally discovered the reason they were all inside. The skies had opened and were releasing a torrent of water onto Amsterdam. He yanked the collar of his jacket over his head and ran down the stairs to the street, praying that there might be one empty taxi left in the city. He started in the direction of the hotel, walking backwards to watch for a possible ride.
Two blocks later, cold and thoroughly drenched, he saw a man leaving his cab and jumped in from the street side, giving neither the previous fare nor the driver any opportunity to refuse him. He barked his destination, then began a slow wringing of his clothes to try to remove some of the sopping moisture.
The vision from the restaurant pounded in his head. Was it really Slattery? Had he been watching the restaurant? Or was he there for another reason? It was paranoid to believe the agent would follow him to Amsterdam, but there was nothing wrong with a little caution.
He had just started on his left sleeve when the cab lurched to a stop in front of the Krasnapolsky. Braxton paid the driver and slid out, leaving a wet, dirty streak on the seat and a half-inch of standing water on the floor. The hotel concierge looked disdainfully as the ill-kempt American squeaked across the polished marble floor and into the elevator. The doors had nearly closed when he heard a shout from the lobby.
“Hold the elevator!”
He swiped his hand in the shrinking space between the doors, they reversed, and another dripping guest stepped in. She, there was no mistaking the voice, had been somewhat better prepared. A light nylon raincoat had kept most of her dry, although her carefully styled blonde hair hung limply around her head.
He knew there was no escape, it was only a matter of time.
“Adam!” Marino said when she finally lifted her head. “You look awful.”
“Thanks. I could say the same about you.”
“No, I mean you look so . . . wet.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. Pretty awful night isn’t it?”
“Terrible. We went out after the meeting and all they wanted to do was drink and talk. I never got a thing to eat. And no one said anything about the start of the deluge.”
The visit to Vision One still bothered him. Maybe he could pry some answers out of Marino in a more social setting. “I didn’t get anything either. You want to grab a bite?”
“Okay. It’ll probably do us both good. Give me fifteen minutes to clean up.”
“Great. Meet you downstairs in the bar.”
“No, let’s do my room. Then I won’t have to get dressed up. We can order something from room service.”
The elevator stopped at the sixth floor and Marino stepped out.
“Sure, where are you?” he asked.
“603,” she called back. “See ‘ya.”
* * *
Braxton took a quick shower, threw on a clean shirt and pair of slacks, and headed back down to the sixth floor. He didn’t look great, but at least he was dry.
In the shower, he had tried to make sense out of the meeting with Yang. He couldn’t really blame the scientist for being careful. It must have been nearly impossible for him with his brother working for the NSA. But could he really believe anything the man had said?
He stopped at room 603 and knocked on the door. It would be nice to spend more time with Marino. She was a bright, intelligent woman, a little hyper at times, but fun to be with. He could understand how she and Megan had become friends. They were a lot alike. Maybe tonight he would forget about Vision One and just enjoy himself.
No! This isn’t about me.
This was about Megan. He was here to find out who killed her, and why. Nothing else mattered. If Marino couldn’t help, then he’d do it himself.
The door opened, but all he saw was the inside of the room.
“Come on in, Adam,” came a voice from behind the door.
He walked through the doorway and heard the door close behind him. When he turned around, Marino was standing wrapped in a long, white terrycloth robe, wet hair framing her face.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
“No, no. It’s my fault. I’m running late. Why don’t you order something from room service? I’ll be done in a flash.” She waved a hand in the direction of a sofa and disappeared into an adjoining room.
“What would you like?�
� he called.
“Some kind of salad. Some fruit. And an Irish coffee. I’m famished.”
He grabbed the phone and placed the order, doubling it for himself.
Looking around, he saw another example of Vision One’s obliging style. Marino’s suite was a different world from his room upstairs. The sitting room held a sofa and two arm chairs, coffee table, and writing desk. Her purse sat on the desk’s top and a briefcase stood alongside. A small corner bookcase held a variety of leather bound classics and a few well-worn paperbacks in French, English and German. The window looked out upon the Dam Square.
Feeling a bit self-conscious in an unfamiliar woman’s hotel room, Braxton sat down on the sofa and tried to look relaxed. There wasn’t any reason to be nervous, but he still felt like he was doing something wrong.
He jumped at a sound and looked up to see Marino still in her robe. She walked over to one of the arm chairs and sat down, pulling her legs around her like a contented cat.
“I just couldn’t bear to get all dressed again,” she said. “You don’t mind do you?”
“Ah, no. That’s fine.”
“Great. Did you order?”
“Yes. They said it would be up in a few minutes.”
“Super. It’s a really great hotel, don’t you think?”
“It seems to be. Although I must say your room’s a lot nicer than mine.”
She laughed and tossed her hair loose. It fell lightly around her face. She seemed completely at ease. “Don’t I wish? It’s really Vision One’s suite. They let me use it when there’s not someone important in from out of town.”
“That sounds like a pretty good deal. Do you get it often?”
“Most of the time lately. I’ve been running back and forth between here and California nearly every week since I started. This way at least I have a familiar place to stay.”
There was a knock on the door and Marino jumped up to get it.
“Hi, Willem,” she said as a distinguished-looking middle-aged waiter entered with a tray.
“Good evening, Miss Marino. On the coffee table?”