The Cana Mystery (16 page)

Chuckling, he grabbed a bag of Cheetos, then changed his mind. Maybe he could get a pastry at Tealuxe, just a few blocks away. He dropped the Cheetos, left, and, still lacking change, handed the Champ twenty dollars.

“Damn! Thanks, bro.”

Gabe smiled. Feeling virtuous, he continued north on JFK and passed Cardullo’s Gourmet Shoppe, wishing it was open. As he neared the intersection, his peripheral vision caught a flicker of movement. He looked over his shoulder. Oh, hell. The bearded man was walking behind him. Gabe wondered: “Is he following me, or am I just paranoid?”

Involuntarily, his pace quickened. He darted around the corner and turned right onto Palmer. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the brick building and waited. Moments later, the bearded man appeared. Their eyes locked. This was no coincidence. The man reached under his shirt and began to withdraw something. Gabe didn’t wait to find out what. He turned and ran. The bearded man gave chase.

Gabe had a head start, but he was out of shape. He couldn’t outrun anyone. Years ago he played Ultimate Frisbee, but since graduation he’d spent most afternoons and weekends working on the computer. Ava frequently invited him to run with her, but he was always too embarrassed to accept. Now he wished he had.

Heedless of traffic, he dashed across Church Street, raced past Starbucks, and turned into the adjoining parking lot where, to Gabe’s horror, a tall brick wall blocked further progress. Desperate to escape, he leaped onto a car’s hood, stepped onto its roof, and vaulted himself over the wall. Frightened, he tumbled into a dark churchyard. Seconds later he heard the car creak as his pursuer copied his maneuver. Gabe stood and tried to flee, but his shoe caught on a gravestone, dropping him face-first onto the cold, damp earth. He waited in terror, anticipating gunshots. Instead, rapid footfalls passed within inches of him. Holding his breath, he listened. The steps grew distant as the bearded man continued running.
In the gloom, he didn’t see me fall,
Gabe realized.

He kept perfectly still. Soon he heard angry voices speaking Arabic. Two men argued and then departed. He remained motionless for a half hour, afraid to betray his position. When he could wait no longer, he rose, cautiously, and looked around. Seeing no one, he crept out of the churchyard and headed back to Lowell House. Taking a circuitous route, using backstreets and watching at every corner, it seemed to take an eternity to reach the dorm. Gabe yearned to get inside, lock the door, and strip off his wet clothes. Nearing Mt. Auburn, he inched up to the corner. He poked his head around the edge and took a peek. It was just as he feared. Two men waited outside of Lowell.

He couldn’t go home.

In the elevator Paul could see that Ava was feeling her wine. Confident and relaxed, she laughed often and spoke a little louder than usual. She looked pretty in her new dress, a black Versace knockoff that hugged every curve. He struggled to keep his imagination in check.

“You look amazing, by the way.”

Ava beamed. Then she rolled her eyes, feigning embarrassment.

“You must be kidding. This is so not my style. I feel like Posh Spice.”

On the walk to Monty’s Bar, they discussed where to take the jars. Paul favored somewhere with a large Catholic presence. Ava said, “Well, if that’s the criterion, we could try Malta. It’s ninety-eight percent Catholic.”

“Wow. Have you been?” Paul asked.

“Not yet, but I know someone there. Professor Laurence Clarkson, from the University of Malta, taught a guest seminar at MIT last year. It was great. He’s brilliant.”

“We’ll have to look him up.”

“I will. Actually, I’m surprised you’ve never been to Malta.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because of your namesake.”

“Paul Newman?”

“No, your biblical namesake.”

“Uh-oh. I sense a history lesson coming.”

Ava laughed. “Okay, class, now pay attention! In the year 60, St. Paul was on his way to Rome for trial before Emperor Nero. His ship was caught in a terrible storm and wrecked off the Maltese coast. At the wreck’s site, known as St. Paul’s Island, there’s a statue of the apostle. The event is described in Acts 28:1: ‘Once safely on shore, we learned that the island was called Malta. And the barbarous people showed us no little kindness; for they kindled a fire and received us.’”

“Cool. At least the locals are friendly.”

“Yeah, but watch out for snakes.”

“Seriously?”

“The Bible says a venomous snake bit Paul’s hand in Malta. The islanders considered his survival a miracle, and legend says that they decided to convert en masse. The incident is very important to the Maltese, and it’s depicted in many religious artworks. For example . . .”

Sunrise found Gabe sitting alone in the old Algiers Coffee House, nursing an espresso romano. His clothes were damp and mud-stained. His ankle hurt. He was angry. He wanted to call the police, but couldn’t. If they searched his room, they’d find copious evidence of computer crime. Some hackers got off easy because they were just kids, but Gabe doubted such leniency extended to twenty-seven-year-olds. Still, he needed help. He was in exile, unable to return home and cut off from his network. Absently he scrolled through his iPhone and noticed that his last outgoing call was to a number he didn’t recognize. A 919 area code? Who the hell was that? Then he remembered:
DURMDVL
.

Gabe hit the
CALL
button. As he expected, his call went directly to an anonymous voice mail.

“Hello. Sorry to call so early. My name is Gabe. I use the screen name
RKNGEL
. We met online and you sent me this number. You said you wanted to discuss things directly. Well, the situation has, um, intensified. I’m currently unable to access my residence and therefore have limited resources. I’ll provide details via a secure mode of communication. Of course, if you don’t want to get mixed up in all this, I understand.”

Monty’s was a tranquil lounge named after Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery. Muted, unobtrusive music kept numerous conversations private. Nick complimented Ava’s dress. The men ordered whiskey; she chose a champagne cocktail.

“How is your suite?” asked Nick.

“It’s great. Thanks again.”

“
De nada, amigo
.”

For the next hour they went from subject to subject: U.S. politics, the Red Sox, El Alamein, Texas Hold’em strategy. Eventually, Nick smiled and said, “So, why don’t you just ask me?”

Paul laughed. “Is my poker face that bad?”

“No,” said Nick, then pointing at Ava, “but she’s about as subtle as a bulldozer.”

“Do you know someone who can fly us to Malta?”

“Sure. United Airlines? Lufthansa?”

“We’re not eager to pass through airport security.”

“Hmm. I suppose I could charter you a flight. It won’t be cheap.” 

“Do you know a good pilot?”

“Several, but few I trust.” He thought a moment and then went on, “Let me ask a question.” Nick lowered his voice and leaned toward them. “You want to avoid airport security. Does this have to do with those two canisters we lugged into your room?”

Paul and Ava exchanged a look. “It might.” 

“Well, I don’t need to know details, but does it involve narcotics?”

“No!” Ava shouted, eyes bright with anger. The word reverberated across the quiet bar, attracting attention from several patrons.

“Okay, okay, relax. What was I supposed to think?”

Paul apologized for Ava’s outburst but corroborated her position: “It’s not drugs. You have my word of honor.”

“Good. Because the guy I’d recommend is an antidrug fanatic. He has a personal vendetta against Sheik Ahmed.” At the mention of that name, Ava blanched. Nick caught her expression. He sank down into his chair and moaned.

“Oh, bloody hell! You didn’t cross the sheik?”

Paul said, “It’s a long story. I was working for DeMaj—”

“No, no, stop. I don’t want to hear it. You need to be gone pronto. I was worried about getting fired? Hell, we’ll be lucky if we don’t get killed. I’ll call Sinan right away. Maybe he can meet us first thing tomorrow. Go back to your suite and don’t open the door for anyone except me.”

Paul nodded. He stood, took Ava’s hand, and led her toward the elevator.

Nick sat silently for a few minutes. He took a breath, finished his whiskey in one go, and opened his phone.

Gabe was halfway through a Levantine omelet when his phone chirped, indicating a new text. He keyed in his PIN and opened a message from the 919 number: “Find a public computer. Create an anonymous user account and post a message on the usual site. Create a screen name reflecting one of our common interests, something only I will get.”

Gabe assumed “the usual site” meant the programming group where he’d met
DURMDVL
. He entered the university computer center and followed
DURMDVL
’s instructions. Once on the site, he posted some banal observations about process virtual machines under the screen name Pope_1000. An hour later, a reply from R.Goldberg74 appeared. The response included a line of apparent gibberish, which Gabe recognized as a code. The code revealed a symmetric algorithm. For the initialization vector, he guessed 74. That didn’t work, but his second guess—1974—did, generating a string encryption key. The key enabled a secure protocol by which Gabe and
DURMDVL
could e-mail and IM.

Finally able to speak freely, Gabe composed a long message describing his situation. He explained that he’d installed bots on his phone to see if anyone was snooping. Yesterday, the bots had alerted him to dual traces. The first, a crude sniffer program, came from an Aden-based shipping business. The second, sleek and subtle, had been difficult to detect. After hours of investigation, Gabe tracked it back to the DeMaj Corporation.

The next part was more challenging to write. “Honestly, I’m terrified for myself and for Ava. How can I contact her? The satphone is compromised, she can’t (or won’t) check e-mail, and I don’t even know her current location! I think she’s in Egypt, but I can’t confirm. Suggestions?”

DURMDVL
replied: “It may be possible to communicate through the LEO phone.”

Gabe snorted. “So I’m just too stupid?” He typed: “Reread previous message. If there was a way to use the LEO phone, wouldn’t I have done so already? My friend’s life is on the line. I told you, the satphone is subject to constant surveillance by DeMaj. You’ve heard of DeMaj Corp? Billion-dollar transnat w/top-notch crypto? That phone is 100% penetrated. Any incoming call or text will be intercepted, monitored, and traced.”

When no reply came in a half hour, Gabe was overcome with remorse. He thought, “Why was I so abusive? Did I burn my only ally? Why don’t I think before I type? I’m such an idiot!”

It wasn’t the first time Gabe had dissed a friend. Gabe hated asking for help. Ever. From anyone. Asking for help was an admission of need. Whenever someone offered assistance, he became snide. He’d say mean-spirited things that he’d later regret.

“I gotta grow up,” Gabe decided. “If we get through this, I swear I’ll stop acting like a petty jerk. I won’t insult someone who is just trying to—”

At that moment, a response appeared on the glowing screen: “G, relax and leave minor problems 2 my superior intellect. Bad guys aren’t as smart as they think. After covert satphone link is established, what message 2 transmit? Require personal trivia 2 prove our message is from u & 2 confirm recipient’s identity.”

Back at their suite, Paul closed the door and locked the deadbolt. While unzipping her dress, Ava noticed a light flashing on the satphone. Its display indicated an unread text: “You don’t know me. I’m writing on G’s behalf. To prove I’m friendly, he said you mix too much Splenda in your tea. G’s sorry he can’t contact you directly. Bad guys are monitoring your phone, so don’t use it except in emergencies. I implanted this message using a trick that (I hope) will make it invisible to them. We need to speak. Call me from a landline @ 919-555-3253. You’ll get an anonymous voice mail. Code in 999. It will redirect to me.”

She read the message to Paul, who then asked, “What do you think?”

“I’m nervous, but I think it’s legit.”

“What’s the Splenda reference?”

“Gabe always says I put too much in my tea. It’s an inside joke. No one else would know it.”

“Then we should call.”

“From here?”

“I’d prefer an anonymous pay phone, but we agreed to stay in our room until we hear back from Nick.”

Ava weighed the alternatives. It was risky to call, but she was worried about Gabe. She lifted the hotel phone from its cradle and dialed the long-distance number. After one ring the call was answered and diverted to an anonymous voice mail. She keyed in 999. It clicked and then started ringing again.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” said Ava. “This is Gabe’s friend. Do I have the correct number?”

“Maybe. First I need to confirm your identity. Which of your friends was an extra in
Harry Potter
?”

“What? Oh, that was Jess. My friend Jessica.”

“Perfect, but from now on, try to avoid proper names. We don’t know who or what might be listening.”

“All right, but why can’t . . . why didn’t my friend contact me?”

“They’re after him. Men came to Lowell House. He escaped. Now he’s on the run.”

“Oh my God! Is he okay? How did they find him? It’s my fault! He doesn’t have anything to do with this! He doesn’t know anything!”

“Calm down and listen. Your friend will be fine. He’s smart, and we’re working on the problem. I’m much more worried about you. You’re in grave danger. Here are the rules: No using credit cards, cell phones, or regular e-mail. Avoid airports, train stations, embassies, or any place with security cams. Never show ID or use your real name. Don’t contact family or known associates. Don’t go to the police. If you follow these instructions, you’ll be very hard to find.”

“But we need to leave the country. How can we travel without passports?”

There was a pause. Ava heard rapid-fire taps on a keyboard.