Jihad

CHAPTER 108

“Somebody who’s spending that much money subscribing to sports websites is probably betting online,” said Robert Gallo, squatting next to Angela DiGiacomo as the Desk Three analyst double-checked the charges on Kenan’s roommate’s credit card.

“He may have another card to bet,” said DiGiacomo. “Check for other accounts while I finish going through these.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Gallo got up and went to the computer station next to her, bringing up a tool that allowed the NSA to access credit reports with similar characteristics to any known account. The results were presented on tabbed pages behind the main screen, with different tiers of matches represented by each tab. The top tab showed all accounts tied to the same social security number; the next one down matched addresses, then came names. The matches quickly became esoteric and the results more extensive. Gallo could see, for example, the account numbers of every card used to subscribe to MLB.TV the same day that Kenan’s roommate did.

He didn’t have to go that far, however.

“Look at this — same social number, different spelling of the last name,” Kenan said over his shoulder to DiGiacomo.

“Good.”

“And ten bucks says that address isn’t his, either.”

It wasn’t, but finding the phony credit card turned out to be only the first step. The card had been used only once, to buy an unrestricted round-trip ticket to Los Angeles a month before. The ticket had never been used — instead it had been exchanged for two other flights, with the difference made up in cash.

Gallo and DiGiacomo discovered that both of those plane tickets had also been exchanged, this time for round-trip tickets between Chicago and Houston. One of these had been used two weeks before.

Tracking down the user was more detective work than computer hacking, and Gallo let his workmate handle that part of the job. Intrigued by the pattern of ticket exchanges, he sifted through airline records to see if he could find other flights that had resulted from a similar series of exchanges. He found several, and once more handed off the information for DiGiacomo to develop while he examined the transactions that had started the trains, trying to find a pattern that he could use to develop more information.

An hour later, Gallo got up from his computer station and lay down on the floor, flooding his bloodshot eyes with eye-wash. The only thing the transactions had in common was that they were made with someone else’s money.

“We think this is Kenan Conkel,” Marie Telach told Rubens, pointing at the monitor. “The computer matched it against the feeds from Detroit and the parents’ photo.”

Rubens leaned close to the machine, studying the slightly blurred video. It had come from a security network used at an airport in St. Louis. The researchers had taken Gallo’s information about airplane tickets, coordinating the flights with their arrival times and accessing the airport records, trying to match the flights with information about Asad, al-Qaeda, and other known terrorists. Not all of the airports had computerized video surveillance available, but for those that did, a face recognition tool was used to try to find matches. The tool had found Keenan near the gate where the plane landed four hours ago.

Or maybe not. The face had been caught at an extreme angle, and even the computer had its doubts.

“The computer says it has only a seventy-six percent confidence that this is Kenan Conkel’s face,” said Rubens.

Johnny Bib began bouncing behind him. “Seventy-six percent confidence is a significant level. The formula is based on the standard deviation between the overall match points. More than twenty percent are obscured and therefore the computer scores the points based on a formula developed by—”

Sensing a complicated mathematic dissertation looming, Rubens cut Johnny off.

“It’s a guess, whether the computer does it or not. But assuming this is him,” Rubens said quickly, “what did he do next?”

“His face doesn’t show up on the surveillance tapes at the exits, so it’s likely he took a flight out,” she said. “Eliminating the gates we have good views of, there are nine flights he could have taken over the next four hours. Passengers on the planes were eliminated for various reasons, if someone was making a connection with the same name, if someone used a credit card, wrong gender, known age—”

“We’ve narrowed it to thirteen people,” said Johnny Bib, for once cutting to the chase. “Thirteen—thirteen.”

Thirteen, of course, was a prime.

“There are four flights I think we should concentrate on,” continued Telach, doing her best to ignore Johnny Bib. “Houston, two to New York, and one to Mexico City.”

“Mexico,” said Johnny Bib.

Telach, probably nearing the end of her patience with the eccentric analyst, sighed. “Mexico was mentioned in several of the intercepts relating to al-Qaeda two months ago, and there have been a number of money transfers routed there. But—”

“And the flight number is 7-3-3,” added Bib.

More prime numbers. Rubens shuddered to think what Bing would say if she thought he committed Desk Three resources based on a crazy mathematician’s mystical appreciation of numbers.

“We need something better than that,” Rubens told Johnny Bib. “Keep working on it.”

Ordinarily, Rubens didn’t answer his personal phone when it was forwarded down to the Art Room, which it was programmed to do automatically when he was there. But it happened that he was near the phone set when it rang; glancing at the caller ID panel, he saw that the caller was Irena Hadash.

“William Rubens.”

“Oh, Bill, thank God. I didn’t know who to call. There are two FBI agents here and someone from the NSC. They’re telling me I have to surrender my computer.”

“Your computer?”

“I need it for work. I come home at three to make sure I’m home in time for Stacie; without the computer I can’t work.”

“Why are they taking your computer?”

“They’re looking for government property. I don’t understand.”

“Irena, I can’t leave where I am now,” Rubens told her. “But I’m sending my personal attorney there, James Darcey. Do absolutely nothing until he arrives. You can trust him, I assure you.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry about the expense.”

“Are they going to take my computer?”

Very possibly, Rubens thought; he would have Darcey find her a replacement if that happened. Searching for something reassuring to say, Rubens told Irena that it was common for classified documents and papers to be secured after a top official’s death.

“But they did that already,” objected Irena.

“Yes. Darcey will straighten this out.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Yes.” Belatedly, he realized he had misinterpreted the question. “I’ll get there as soon as I can, but it will be hours. Unfortunately. I’m in the middle of something difficult to leave. Trust James. I’m calling him now.”

Bing had one of her aides return Rubens’ call, but this was just as well; Maria Mahon had worked with Hadash and Rubens knew her well. When he told her why he had called, Mahon’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“There are several sets of documents missing, code-word classified. They’re numbered PDF documents.”

“Surely no one thinks George’s daughter took them.”

“I don’t think that’s the point.”

No, of course not. Investigations such as this had been used in the past to throw a little mud on national security figures. It didn’t matter what the documents were. Hadash would look bad — as would those who were associated with him.

But this sort of play could easily backfire in this case, given how close the president and Hadash had been. Bing would pretend to steer clear of it, while encouraging it behind the scenes.

“What does the new director think?” Rubens tried to make his voice as neutral as possible, but evidently it didn’t work; Mahon didn’t answer right away. That told him she was, at best, neutral. He’d hoped for an ally on the inside.

“I don’t think she has an opinion. We’re supposed to cooperate, if requested.”

“I would appreciate knowing if I can do anything to assist,” said Rubens.

“I’ll keep you updated,” she said, her voice still soft. So perhaps there was hope yet.

“I’m sure George would have appreciated that,” said Rubens as he hung up. Sometimes it paid to make a direct play at emotions.