by Dave Edlund
“Either way—makes no difference to me. I’ll book the first flight from Sacramento and text the schedule. You can pick me up at Redmond Airport.”
s
After ending the call with Nyden, Angela Meyers called her contact at the Portland office of the FBI.
Andrew Shooks answered on the third ring. “Long time, no hear,” he said. “I was beginning to think you didn’t appreciate my services or something.”
“Relax. I can do without the snark,” Meyers answered. “I’ve got a job. Should be pretty easy for someone in your position.” She quickly explained what she wanted, and when.
“The usual arrangements?” Although Shooks was confident that the phones were not tapped, he could still be overheard by his colleagues.
“Ten grand. Small bills. Same drop as last time.”
Ten thousand dollars of unreported income for a couple hours of computer work. Not bad, Shooks thought. He went to work setting up a false investigation report naming Peter Savage of Bend, Oregon, as the suspect. He entered it into the Cyber Crimes database, and forwarded a copy to the Bend police department, where he knew it would be forwarded on to Detectives Colson and Nakano.
Agent Andrew Shooks leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. Closing his eyes, he was already thinking about the new drift boat he would buy with the payoff.
s
Gary met Peter at the curb in front of the terminal shortly after 9:00 p.m. The regional airport at Redmond, Oregon, was not large, and only six other cars were there to pick up passengers. Gary tossed his duffle bag on the back seat and set his briefcase on the floor.
Leaving the airport behind, Peter headed south on Highway 97. Traffic was light, and the drive back to Peter’s house on the floors above EJ Enterprises went fast. He used the time to answer a string of questions Gary had about the crime, the potential tie-in with the victim’s email, conversations Peter had with the Bend Police Detectives, and other curiosities. By the time they arrived, Peter felt that Gary had a complete understanding of the background.
When Peter opened the door he was greeted by Diesel, his 70-pound red pit bull. Peter had rescued the dog as a six-month-old puppy from the Humane Society. The puppy had been taken from a dog-fighting ring, more dead than alive; the scars on its neck and muzzle, still fresh and festering, were ample evidence of the fate awaiting the bait dog.
Although the scars on the dog’s face had faded with time, Peter still vividly recalled his first meeting with the pit bull pup. It was inside the kennel area—an indoor enclosure with concrete floor and block walls. There were no windows, no natural light. Chain fencing separated the dozen kennels. The air smelled of bleach and dog excrement despite the best efforts of volunteers to keep the area clean.
One of the staff members introduced Peter to the puppy amid the near constant barking. The ravaged dog approached with its head lowered, ears back, crouched, and tail tucked between its trembling legs. When the dog lifted its head, its eyes met Peter’s. In those eyes he saw fear and innocence and instantly made his decision: he would nourish the dog back to health and give it companionship and love—a life in stark contrast to the terror and pain that had dominated the puppy’s short existence.
Peter and Diesel immediately connected, and the bond between man and canine grew exceptionally strong. With Peter now an empty nester, Diesel was his constant companion.
The dog knew Gary from past visits, and waggled up to him, tail swinging from side to side. Gary reached down and rubbed Diesel’s ears and neck. “Hey there, boy.”
Peter returned from the spare bedroom after dropping off Gary’s bag. “Hey, I know it’s late, but if you’re hungry I’ve got some pulled pork in the refrigerator. Can warm it up in a few minutes.”
“Thanks, but I had a salad in Portland. Coffee would be good though.”
“Make yourself comfortable by the fireplace and I’ll get it brewing.”
Diesel followed Gary as he plopped into one of the overstuffed leather chairs facing the stone hearth. He settled at Gary’s feet, then rolled onto his back and began snoring. Gary chuckled. “So much for the image of a fierce guard dog to protect you and your castle.”
“He knows you. If he didn’t, might be a different story,” Peter replied from the kitchen.
Gary was staring at the glowing embers when Peter returned with two mugs of coffee. Peter poked the coals and then tossed in some more firewood. Shortly the flickering yellow light from the flames illuminated the room again.
The massive fireplace and rough-hewn timber mantle dominated the wall. The fire crackled and popped, and Gary sipped the coffee as he readied his laptop. He spent the next fifteen minutes laying out his plan: he would hack into Emma Jones’ email account using standard tools—programs written to either identify passwords or bypass them—and see what was currently on the server. Then he would use programs he’d written to find and recover deleted messages. That was the plan, but with deleted messages there was no guarantee they would still be intact. He estimated an hour or two and they’d have all the current emails plus whatever fragments remained of deleted messages going back three months.
“I’m in,” Gary announced several minutes later.
“Was it easy?”
He shrugged. “The password she’d selected was not a word in my password dictionary—”
“What’s that?” Peter interrupted.
“I maintain a dictionary of all known English words, many common foreign language words, and other passwords I’ve come across over the years. My first step is always to run the dictionary past the password challenge. It takes about two minutes and you’d be surprised by how often it works.”
Peter nodded. “Hence your insistence on strong passwords. I get it.”
“Since that test failed, I used a special program that accesses the back door built into standard ISP email hosting software. It bypasses the password challenge and allows access so the account can be reset if the password is lost.”
Peter was looking over Gary’s shoulder, watching a list of email messages scroll by. “These are the messages in her inbox. Does anything grab your attention?”
“No. But I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“It all looks pretty routine to me. Let’s see what’s in her sent box.”
Again, they scrolled through the emails but didn’t see any that looked unusual. Certainly nothing that would justify murder.
“Well, I really didn’t expect to find any clues since the police have supposedly already checked her email,” Peter said.
“Okay. Here’s where I earn my pay. Let’s see what deleted messages we can find.”
While Gary was focused on his work, Peter returned from the kitchen with the coffee pot and refilled the two mugs. Then he threw another section of cordwood on the fire and gave it a couple pokes for good measure.
“Now we’re talking!” Gary said, drawing Peter’s attention.
“What do you have?” He moved close so he could see the screen.
“Several messages from someone named Jon Q.” They both read the emails, although several were fragments rather than complete messages.
“Emma was definitely looking for classified information,” Peter said. Then he pointed at a particular passage. “Look, the information she wants is related to a ship. The USS Liberty.”
Gary moved his cursor to the next message and clicked on the attached PDF file. When the file opened, he let out a whistle. “We hit the jackpot. We’re lucky the file still appears to be intact.”
“You’re not kidding.” The PDF document contained about a hundred pages, and Gary was scrolling through, occasionally slowing, then moving fast again.
“This appears to be a collection of memos, reports, letters—all from various branches of the government,” Gary said.
“Yeah, and they’re all stamped top secret.”
“I don’t think Emma Jones was supposed to have this file. This information is radioactive; i
t could easily be why she was killed.”
“It’s all related to the USS Liberty…” Peter mumbled, deep in thought, while Gary continued scanning through the pages.
“Gary, where’s this information going? Not the cloud, I hope.”
“Honestly? It hurts that you would even think that. You know nothing is safe in the cloud.”
“So, you’re sending this to your server, right?”
Gary frowned. “Do I need to answer that? Of course.”
“Good, I knew I could count on you.” Peter entered his study and returned with a small memory stick in his hand. The solid-state device was as wide as the USB male connector and only half as long as his thumb. He gave the memory stick to Gary.
“Copy everything onto this drive and delete the files from your server.”
“Why would you want me to do that?”
“This information is top secret and dangerous; you said so yourself. If someone from the government comes looking for it, and somehow they trace it to you, you’ll go to prison for a long time.”
Gary frowned. He couldn’t argue with Peter on this one. “Alright,” he reluctantly agreed.
“Promise me you’ll do it.”
“Yeah, I will. My number one rule in life is ‘Stay out of prison.’”
Peter grinned. “That’s a good rule to follow. Oh, and then send that PDF file to my printer. Looks like it’s gonna be a late night.”
s
It was well past midnight and several mugs of coffee later when Peter and Gary, with leaden eyes, finally finished with the hardcopies.
“It’s no wonder these documents are still stamped top secret,” Peter said. “I don’t think the American public would be too pleased to learn what really happened to those poor sailors on the Liberty.”
“You mean how they were sold out and abandoned by their government and then left to die in the Mediterranean?”
“Only they didn’t all die.”
“Hence the cover up. They couldn’t afford to have anyone talking.”
Peter set his stack of papers down and slumped back in his chair. “Whoever they is.”
“Well, of course it had to be the President and his administration. Who else?”
“I suppose you’re right. But why is this information so important now? Why haven’t all these documents been released to the public? This incident happened in 1967. LBJ has been dead for decades.”
Gary silently eyed his friend, his lips downturned.
“Who would commit murder over this, and why? That’s the question.”
Gary had no answer.
“I need a Scotch,” Peter said.
“Me too.”
The wall opposite the enormous fireplace was covered floor to ceiling with a bookcase. In the center of the bookcase was an opening that connected the great room to the kitchen and dining area. Peter rose and removed a bottle of Oban single malt from a shelf between rows of books. He poured a generous portion into each of two narrow shot glasses.
Gary stood, careful not to spill his drink or step on Diesel, and turned his back to the fire, letting the heat radiating from the coals and masonry soak into his back. As he held the shot glass, the warmth from his grip enhanced the aroma from the West Highland whiskey. For a few minutes the room was silent save for an occasional crackle from the dwindling fire and the rhythmic breathing from Diesel. The muscular pitty was stretched out on the plush area rug, sound asleep, immune to the intrigue unfolding in his company.
“There’s so much in these documents,” Peter finally said. “It’s going to take some time to piece it together. But it seems that President Johnson didn’t want to alienate the Israeli lobby and possibly lose their political support. That’s why he didn’t come down hard on the Israeli government after they attacked our ship.”
“But Johnson didn’t run for re-election. Remember? He refused to accept the nomination from the Democratic Party.”
“Yeah, but remember the time. This incident occurred in the summer and early fall of 1967. Johnson had not yet made his decision. He was still in play for re-election to the Presidency.”
Gary nodded. “Makes sense. So he was thinking he’d like to do another four years. Many of his top advisers were Jewish.”
Peter took another sip of Scotch. “Yeah, but it still doesn’t make sense.”
“Are you trying to confuse me? You just said this was about Johnson trying to maintain support from the Israeli lobby.”
“That’s right, after the fact. These White House memos clearly prove that Johnson was being advised to go easy on Israel on the matter of reparations and public statements, referring to the incident as an accident. But the evidence presented at the Naval Court of Inquiry, including eyewitness testimony by the officers and crew of the Liberty, indicates that the Israeli military clearly knew they were attacking an American ship. And this evidence was confirmed by communications with the Israeli Ambassador.”
“You’ve lost me, buddy. Where are you going with this?”
“Simple. Once the attack was over, Washington did what it always does: it went into cover-up mode. But that ignores the bigger question.”
“And that would be?” Gary said.
“For hours, in broad daylight, the crew fought off wave after wave of aircraft and torpedo boats. At first, their antenna was destroyed, but somehow they managed to get it repaired and a mayday was sent out. It was received by the Saratoga, the flag ship of the Sixth Fleet.”
For a moment Peter paused. He tipped his shot glass, taking in the last of the Oban. His countenance was like stone; eyes forward, seemingly mesmerized by the flickering fire. “According to the Naval investigation, we had two carriers—the America and the Saratoga—steaming 400 miles west of the Liberty. When the distress call was received, Admiral Geis launched strike aircraft—not once, but twice—and both times they were recalled by none other than Defense Secretary McNamara. Those planes could have arrived in time to stop the torpedo boats and save 26 lives.”
“Yeah, I got all that. But you haven’t said what’s nagging at you,” Gary said.
“McNamara recalled those planes, presumably at the direction of the President. They abandoned our sailors; left them to die. So, the question is: was that treason, or murder?”
Chapter 8
Bend, Oregon
April 18
It had been a late night. After Gary retired, Peter took the memory stick and approached the bookcase. He pulled a horizontal latch underneath a low shelf in one panel, unlocking a secret doorway. He swung the panel open and entered his safe room. Except for the vintage weapons displayed artfully on wall mounts, it could almost pass for a modest armory. His eyes skimmed over the replica flintlock and percussion rifles, muskets, and pistols hanging from brass hooks. In another era, these weapons were state-of-the-art and represented formidable firepower. But those days were gone.
His eyes settled on a Brown Bess musket. The smooth-bore weapon, so named for the corrosion-resistant brown patina on the long barrel, was the standard gun by which the British Army once controlled a far-reaching colonial empire. The large flintlock held a square flint the size of a postage stamp, and if Peter chose, he could load and fire a .75 caliber lead ball. With one hand he removed the long weapon from its mounts and held the memory stick in his other hand. Tonight, he had a different use in mind for the antique musket.
The last thing Peter did before retiring was to throw the paper copies he and Gary had been studying onto the glowing embers in the fireplace.
s
The black sheet-like ash was still visible in the morning, though none of the writing was discernable.
“Coffee?” Peter said by way of greeting Gary as he wandered into the kitchen. His eyes were a little puffy, no doubt a result of too much Scotch and not enough sleep.
“You need to ask?”
Peter smiled and then sipped from his mug. He enjoyed Gary’s dry, sometimes sarcastic, way of communicating. They had met in high scho
ol and spent a good portion of their youth together camping, fishing, and hunting. For several years, before either settled down and married, they were inseparable and often confused as brothers.
“The cups are in the cabinet,” Peter motioned with the mug in his hand.
After Gary filled his cup, Peter asked the obvious. “Any new thoughts about our discovery last night?”
Before Gary answered, there was a knock at the door. Mug in hand, Peter passed through the great room, Diesel at his side. Ten feet from the door, he commanded his pit bull to stay.
When Peter opened the front door he was surprised to be greeted by Detectives Colson and Nakano, plus two other police officers in uniform. Detective Colson thrust folded sheets of paper at Peter. “We have a warrant.” She started to push in, and then abruptly stopped when she saw Diesel, muscles tensed and ready to spring, eyes locked on her.
“Is that dog safe?” she asked.
Peter turned and said, “Diesel. Fireplace. Stay.” Obediently, the dog sauntered to his spot in front of the hearth and dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
“What is this about?” Peter asked.
Colson, followed by Detective Nakano and the two patrol officers brushed past Peter and entered the great room. They turned around, taking their bearings. Detective Nakano directed the patrol officers to explore through the kitchen. She noticed the black ashes from burned paper in the fireplace and turned to Peter. “Looks like you burned some documents.”
“So what?” he replied. “Old tax returns.”
“Carefully collect what you can,” Colson instructed her junior partner.
As Detective Nakano proceeded to collect evidence, Colson addressed Peter. “What’s upstairs?” indicating the spiral staircase reaching upward from the great room.
“A game room, and the master bedroom.”
“This warrant authorizes our search of your residence and car, plus your business—EJ Enterprises.”