Boris turned back to Alex.
“Who are you?” Boris asked. “Americans?”
“It doesn’t matter, Boris. You’re our prisoner until we get what we want.”
The hostage continued in Russian. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Cooperation,” she said. “Now. What will it be? Please make the wise decision.”
Boris spit again. This time the expectoration contained parts of a tooth. But at least it was the beginning of a dialogue.
FORTY-FIVE
Ten o’clock the next morning. There were six of them now in Room 734. No one was particularly cheerful.
Boris sat on the sofa, chains still across his feet and his waist, a large white bandage covering the purple bump and gash across his forehead. There were bags under his eyes. His captors had seen to it that he had been up all night.
Alex sat on a chair several feet away in a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and her Beretta on her right hip where it now lived. She had changed since the previous night, and while the cocktail dress had been fun and served its purpose, the jeans were a better fit.
They had been joined by a young Swiss who went by the name of Leonardo-after DiCaprio, not Da Vinci-a lad who was the resident cybergeek who worked for Voltaire in Cairo. A wiry young girl named Rebecca had done an impressive break-in of Boris’s room. She had filched Boris’s laptop and brought it downstairs.
Now Leonardo picked his way through it. Mimi, Rizzo’s friend, teamed with Leonardo to work on hacking Boris’s encryption. Mimi had graduated from her colorful Sailor Moon period that was so-twomonths-ago and had now suddenly gone Goth, a drastic overhaul from just a few days earlier. Black nail polish, black boots, soft powdery makeup, a black miniskirt, and two silver rings on each internet-savvy finger. She had also roared past Leonardo and was taking the hacking of Boris’s machine to new levels.
She had been at it for an hour when she leaned back, satisfied.
“He’s using Advanced Encryption Standard,” Mimi said, staring evenly at the screen and continuing to work the keypad. “It’s a symmetric 128-bit block data encryption technique developed in 2007 by the Van der Waal brothers, a couple of insane Dutch cryptographers,” she said.
“So?” asked Alex. “Can you penetrate it?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” she said. “It’s not a bad program. There’s backdoor access to it, but difficult to achieve. The US government adopted the same algorithm as its encryption technique in 2008, replacing the DES encryption it used to use. I’m surprised to see a Russian goon using this stuff,” she said.
Boris’s eyes, all one and a half of them, were wide with rage.
“The Van der Waal brothers were psycho, like I said,” Mimi continued, “so the logic of their program is elliptical. It doesn’t follow any traditional encryption logic. That’s what’s so severe about it. It goes by the rules of ‘Mondo van Waal,’ which is to say it’s completely unpredictable and follows no logic at all, more like a counterlogic, but it’s still kinda cool.”
“So can you crack it, Mimi?” Rizzo asked, exchanging a glance with Alex.
“Hell, yeah,” she said.
“You rock, Mimi,” Rizzo said. “Doesn’t this girl rock?” he asked the room.
The room admitted that Mimi rocked. All except Boris.
Alex glanced to the battered and unhappy camper on the sofa.
“You should warn your people,” Mimi said to Voltaire, Alex, and Rizzo. “Someone was drop-dead careless exporting this encryption technology. You could apply this program to a different platform and break into existing GSM codes all over North Africa. I don’t think Boris here is smart enough or computer-savvy enough to do that, but, for example, if terrorists gained these same encryption codes for your own laptops, they might be able to impede your abilities to track them.”
She worked the keypad intensely. Leonardo had bailed.
“They could also apply a GPS application,” Mimi said, “and monitor your movements. That way,” she said cheerfully, “they could know where you live and be there to meet you. They could put broken glass in your bathwater, arsenic in your coffeemaker, or just an ice pick in your ear as you slept. Someone needs to be more careful with this crap. Anyone got a cigarette?”
Alex looked at her.
Rizzo gave her one of Boris’s disgusting Russian smokes.
Mimi lit up. “This thing’s gross,” she said. She snuffed it after two drags. “What is it?”
“Bulgarian tobacco,” said Rizzo.
“Yuck,” she said. “No wonder people fled to the West for fifty years. Anybody got a Winston or a Pall Mall or even a Nakla or anything that doesn’t taste like horsesh-?”
Abdul had a pack of Winstons, which kept Mimi calm.
“So, young lady, you’re telling us that most of the police agencies of Western Europe and North America are sharing the same encryption technology as this hood?” Voltaire asked.
“That’s pretty much what I’m telling you, Einstein, yes,” Mimi said, smoking.
“Great,” muttered Voltaire. “That’s a whole separate report to Langley.”
“I’ll let them know,” Alex said.
Alex turned back to Boris. “Why don’t you earn yourself a few extra points here and tell us where you got your encryption system?” she asked in Russian.
Boris shrugged. “Moscow,” he said unhelpfully in a muffled voice from under the tape across his mouth.
“Most likely that’s true,” said Mimi. “It was already programmed into the laptop when it was given to Boris. I don’t think he’s smart enough to program it or apply it himself. I mean, just look at him.”
“Strong as a bear, but only half as smart,” Rizzo suggested pleasantly.
“Do you hear what my technician and my associate from Rome are saying about you, Boris?” Voltaire said. “They don’t think you’re the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
By now, Boris was wondering why they were talking about knives.
“Okay,” Mimi finally said. “I’m into the program. What now?”
“We need to send something,” Bissinger said.
“That’ll be a problem too,” Mimi said, “unless you get your prisoner to do it.”
“Why?” Alex asked.
“There’s an extra encryption layer,” she said. “The laptop has been textured to recognize finger touch, keystrokes, and speed. It’s like it’s looking at your handwriting and telling who you are. So anyone important who he sends to is going to be alerted that it’s another sender. Unless Boris does the typing.”
Bissinger and Voltaire looked to Boris.
“That’s not going to be a problem, is it, Boris?” Bissinger asked.
Another low profanity from the Russian indicated that it wasn’t.
Alex leaned forward. “Here’s what Boris should send,” she said.
She leaned forward and handed her notepad to Voltaire.
On it, there was a message that purported to be from Boris to Michael Cerny. Voltaire eyed it, made no changes, and passed it along to Boris. Rizzo walked to Boris and, with a quick yank, again ripped the adhesive duck tape off the Russian’s mouth.
Boris, not having much choice in the matter, took the pad in his hands, which were still shackled together. For a full minute not a word was spoken in the room.
Then, “Read it to us,” Voltaire asked.
Boris drew a breath and began.
“Direct message from Department of Interior Management, Moscow, for Ambidextrous,” said Boris. “Superiors require further final visible samples of product before meeting your price. Second meeting in Cairo with representative is essential before completion of transaction.”
“Now send it,” Voltaire said.
Mimi turned the computer around and pushed it to the Russian.
“He’ll never fall for it,” Boris said. “You would need me present, and you would need to set a place.”
“You
Boris gave everyone in the room a final glare. He leaned over the keyboard and tapped out the message. It took less than a minute, and then he hit SEND.
He leaned back.
“Good,” Voltaire said. “That was the easy part.”
FORTY-SIX
