The Enemy Within

He spun his chair around to look at his main monitor. Beneath the glowing schematic that showed the network in operation, a small red flag pulsed: USER 1589077 CONNECTED.

“So who the hell cares?” Wu muttered irritably. He tapped a function key, calling up management’s reasons for layering this alert into the system. His eyes widened as he read the first line aloud. “Emergency network tap authorised by Federal Bureau of Investigation…”

Below the scrolling, boldfaced memo, the red warning flag changed: TRACE COMPLETED. CONNECT NUMBER IS 703-555-3842.

The Pentagon

“You’ve got an address here in northern Virginia?” Thorn asked into the phone again, scarcely able to believe that some of the information they were seeking had come in so quickly. He checked his watch. It was just after 10:00 P.M. It was too easy to lose track of time under the Pentagon basement’s fluorescent lights.

“Yeah,” Flynn said. “One of the Magi group users logged onto CompuNet less than an hour ago. We traced the number they gave us to an address in Arlington.”

“Oustanding.”

“Yeah.” The FBI agent sounded pleased. “I’m putting a team in straightaway to scope the place out… to see what we can find out about the people living there.”

“Why not launch a raid right away?” Thorn asked. “If that Is a terrorist safe house, why risk giving them time to scoot or launch another attack?”

“It’s that ‘if’ I’m having trouble with, Colonel,” Flynn said flatly.

“Point A: We still don’t know who this so-called Magi and his electronic pen pals really are. It could just be a god damned lonely hearts club, for Christ’s sake! Point B: I need more than illegally obtained E-mail to get a warrant. If these are some of the bad guys, and we take ‘em down without a warrant, the whole prosecution will be tainted from day one. So unless we want these sons of bitches to walk, we’re going to have to do this by the book.”

Thorn frowned. He hated the prospect of more wasted time. Delay only benefited the enemy. “Damn it.”

“Too true,” Flynn agreed. “Look, Colonel, don’t sweat it. Thanks to you and this Maestro of yours, we’ve finally got a shot at what may be a real target. So if my people pick up even a whiff of something bad at this place, I’ll get a search warrant and send an HRT section in on the double. Any terrorists inside that house will be dead or behind bars before they wake up.”

DECEMBER 4

Near Kerman, Iran

(D MINUS 11)

Hamir Pahesh looked hack, toward the campfires and the road beyond. He cursed the half moon, but in the next second was grateful for the hints it gave him about the ground under his feet. After fourteen hours of driving in convoy, all he wanted to do was join his countrymen at the fire, eat, drink a little sweet, hot tea, and go to bed.

Instead, here he was picking his way across a pitch-black, rocky ground looking for something, anything, that would give him cover. The treeless landscape held nothing higher than a weed or two, and he needed more.

The bundle he had smuggled out of his truck cab was small enough so that it could be tucked under his coat. But the rest of the drivers thought Pahesh had left the convoy to attend to nature’s needs, so he could not afford to be gone too long.

There. A low rise, little more than a fold in the ground, seemed to offer an acceptable solution.

Kneeling on the cold, stony ground, the Afghan ignored the lumps under him, hoping none of them would start moving. He unzipped a small case and fumbled in the darkness with the unfamiliar device it contained.

The antenna was easy enough, but there was a small lead that had to be plugged into the case, and for a moment he could not remember which side it went into.

In the quiet darkness every click and scrape seemed deafening. He paused for a moment, listening for the crunch of a footfall in the sand, or some more ominous sign, but all he heard was singing and faint chatter from the roadside several hundred meters away.

Ah. Pahesh found the socket for the antenna cable, then the rocker switch for the power, and turned the machine on. He typed in a series of digits he had computed earlier, based on the date, and hit the start button. While the transmitter sent out its signal, he slipped on a set of earphones and picked up the microphone.

A small indicator on the front told him the transmitter had found a satellite, that it had acknowledged his signal, and that he had entered the proper code. Only a moment later, a voice answered, “Watch officer.”

Pahesh hoped this man knew what to do. “This is Stone,” he started. Trying to speak clearly and whisper at the same time was difficult but he dared not speak louder. “I have a flash message for Granite.”

His own code name was Stone. He’d never met his controller, Granite. Indeed, the Afghan didn’t know if Granite was one man or more, or where this signal was being received.