Jihad

CHAPTER 42

Colored dots covered the computer screen, a seemingly un-ordered array of Technicolor.

“I fail to see a pattern here,” said Rubens, leaning back from the screen.

“Ha!” Johnny Bib gave one of his triumphant, semiverbal yelps. “Show him, Gallo.”

Robert Gallo, one of Desk Three’s computer specialists working for Johnny Bib’s analysis team, sheepishly pressed a button on the laptop computer controlling the presentation. The dots began to vibrate, then rearranged themselves on the screen. Three largish circles, one purple, one red, one gold, emerged from the chaos, sliding to the right.

“I hadn’t realized we had farmed out our analysis work to Pixar Animation,” said Rubens dryly.

“It’s not animation,” said Gallo. “I mean it is, but it’s part of the tool. It’s a byproduct, I mean, since, like, the calculation is shown in real time. I didn’t do it on purpose is what I mean.”

“Big circle — Germany,” said Johnny Bib. “Little circle! Qaeda Five!”

Rubens looked at the screen again. The “tool” Gallo referred to was an analysis program that correlated data mined from various sources — e-mail, cell phone transmissions, and the like — with other information about known terrorist groups. It did not directly involve traditional cryptography. Rather it used statistical analysis and inference to make judgments about how data might interrelate.

Say, for example, that the NSA knew that a terrorist organization used a specific class of encryptions. The agency had “tools” that would sift through the mountains of communications it intercepted, looking for such messages. The messages might or might not be selected for decryption. Even the NSA did not have the resources to decrypt every message it intercepted; indeed, only a small portion of those deemed worthwhile were examined in any detail.

But decryption was just only one way of gathering information. Simply knowing that a message was sent and who received it might be infinitely more useful than the text of the message itself, even after it was decrypted. Agency analysts might study the volume of such messages, for example, to determine how many messages the organization had sent within a six-month period leading up to a terror attack. They could build a model based on the message pattern and use it to scan through other data looking for similar patterns — not just in communications, but in other activities, such as money transfers and travel arrangements. Gallo’s tool compiled the results from all of those tools and showed possible links graphically.

In Rubens’ opinion, the results were often merely abstractions of abstractions. But in this case, the analysts had used the tool to identify the man Karr had followed from the meeting with Asad as Marid Dabir, an al-Qaeda member who had disappeared and was thought to have died in Pakistan two years before.

At least that’s what Johnny Bib contended the middle circle meant. Rubens himself wasn’t entirely convinced. The real problem was that there were no reliable images of Marid Dabir. The NSA — and the rest of the world, for that matter — knew of him only through a variety of assumed names and the tag Qaeda Five, awarded years before because he was the fifth unidentified but high-ranking al-Qaeda operative discovered by the agency.

“We need more data here,” Rubens told Bib. “This is provocative, but nothing more.”

“Germany,” said Bib. “That’s where he’s been.”

“I can see that, Johnny. Mr. Ambassador, any insights?” Rubens turned toward Hernes Jackson, the other member of the analysis section attending the meeting. Jackson, who’d spent more than thirty years in the diplomatic corps, had come out of retirement at Rubens’ request. The silver-haired former ambassador had quickly found a place as a voice of reason and historical perspective, tempering the flamboyant imagination of Johnny Bib, who was eccentric even for the NSA.

“Only the obvious one that I doubt Germany would be the sole target of an operation.”

“Quite.”

“Mr. Gallo neglected to mention one thing significant,” said Johnny as Rubens got up to go.

“I did?” blurted Gallo.

“The number of dots on the screen is a prime number,” said Rubens, without bothering to look.

“3267000013,” said Johnny Bib, pronouncing each digit triumphantly. “What a glorious number.”

“Indeed,” sighed Rubens as he left the room.

“We always intended to arrest Asad. I’m merely suggesting we move up the time schedule.”

“I designed the operation, Dr. Bing. I am fully aware of its outline, as well as its ultimate goal.” Rubens pressed his hand around the phone handle. “I see no reason to arrest him yet. The device is working perfectly and he has no idea that it’s been inserted. We can track him at will.”

“You’ve gained no new information. The longer you wait, the higher the risk of compromise.”

“And the more useful information we will obtain,” said Rubens. “We’ve already found this connection to Germany, which no one has developed until now. If the president has changed his mind—”

“Carry on as you see fit,” said Bing, finally retreating. “I will contact the German authorities and have someone get back to you.”

Before he could say anything else, Bing hung up the phone.

Rubens pushed his chair out from his desk and took off his shoes. He stepped onto the hand-woven silk rug next to his workspace and bent over, arms together, to begin the Surya Namaskar or Sun Salutation, a basic but relaxing yoga movement. He turned his body slowly, stretching, trying to find the calm point of contemplation he needed to deal with the present situation.

Bing was going to be an incredible problem, far more difficult to deal with than he had foreseen. He needed to prepare a long-term strategy, but this was not the time.

Rubens continued his yoga routine, sliding his full body to the floor. He spread up into cobra position, pushing his head back. It was too abrupt a move: “too mad Western” in the words of his instructor. Before he could try again, his encrypted phone rang.

“I understand we had a problem yesterday,” said Debra Collins, the Central Intelligence Agency’s deputy director of operations, when he picked up.

“Debra, good to speak to you.”

“I’ve talked to both of the officers involved,” continued Collins. “It won’t happen again.”

In CIA-speak, that was an abject apology. It was so out of character for Collins, Rubens immediately began wondering what she really wanted.

“For what it’s worth,” she added, backtracking in a much more familiar tone, “they thought he was going to escape. And they weren’t entirely briefed on his importance. The people working on Red Lion have been kept on a strict need-to-know basis, and there are a lot of gaps.”

“I wouldn’t think any officer needs to be told to avoid using a weapon whenever possible,” said Rubens.

“Point taken. But they are good people. They have good track records. It won’t happen again.”

“I appreciate that,” said Rubens, still wondering what she was really after. He gave her a brief update, mentioning the German connection and then saying that Bing had suggested bringing Asad in immediately.

“That makes no sense,” said Collins. “I hope you told her that.”

She sounded sincere, but Collins was a master at political grappling, and Rubens didn’t trust her.

“She made it clear we could proceed,” Rubens said, remaining neutral, or at least as neutral as possible. Then he changed the subject. “You’ve heard what happened to George Hadash?”

“Yes,” said Collins. “It was a shock. We knew the operation had risks, but still. It was a shock.”

“Yes, it was,” said Rubens, though he resented the ‘we.’ Collins and Hadash had never been close.

“Are they planning a state funeral?”

“Yes, though his daughter would prefer something more private. She called the president last night. It’s been arranged for tomorrow already.”

“So soon.”

“Yes.”

“What did the president say?”

It occurred to Rubens that this might be an elaborate plot by Bing to see if Rubens was using his connections to confer privately with the president. The idea galled him, and instantly he decided he was being too paranoid.

And yet, given Collins’ history, such a possibility could not be entirely ruled out.

“I don’t know,” Rubens told her. “Irena spoke to him herself.”

“George deserves a state funeral.”

“Surely,” said Rubens. “Surely.”