NORMAN MILLER’S REPORT TO NSA Director Smithy set off a chain reaction not the least of which was the Admiral’s forceful and terse reaction. "Norman, are you telling me you've cracked the six coconuts?" Smithy pointed at the interoffice memo on his desk as Miller, Isaac Gunner and Rashid al Youris, stood at attention.
"Well, yes and no, sir," stammered Miller, his mustache less than its usual tidy self.
"What the hell does that mean? You either did or you didn't."
"Let me explain, sir. We have cracked the encryption, but not the code."
"That doesn't make any sense!"
Isaac Gunner, his electric scooter parked behind Miller, leaned to the side. "Can I explain, Mr. Admiral, sir?"
"Well I'd like someone to tell me something I can understand."
Ike maneuvered his scooter next to Miller facing Smithy. "The Prof, that's Doctor Youris, and me been working nights on these coconuts. We feed Islamic related datasets into Big Mamma and one of them recognized the Key Code, letting us open 'em up.
"Big Mamma?"
Miller interpreted for the Admiral. "Mr. Gunner refers to our super computer as 'Big Mamma', sir."
"Oh, I see. Go on Gunner."
"So we broke the Key Code, but not the data inside. It’s got to be translated. The author double coded the messages."
Smithy looked perplexed. "Translated?"
Miller spoke again. "I think Doctor Youris might be able to clarify what we mean by translate."
Rashid glanced around the room. "Admiral, I see you have decorated your office with photographs of navy vessels including several famous World War II ships. I'm sure you remember the huge advantage our military had over the Japanese when it came to communications. We broke their codes, but they never figured out ours."
"You mean the Code Talkers? Yes, anyone familiar with the Second World War knows about that."
"What we have here is something similar. The messages we have cracked use the Arabic alphabet, but not the Classic or Modern Standard Arabic that I can read. We need to research the many dialects and compile each of them as a new language. Then we can apply our advanced decryption techniques and translate them. I'm sure we can do this, but it will need a massive linguistic assault requiring hundreds of work-hours, maybe thousands. We need your help, Admiral."
"You need my help? Hell yes. What do you want?"
"I think Norman has an estimate." Rashid faced Miller who produced a folder from his briefcase.
"Sir, there are sixteen Arabic dialects. They are all different. All must be assembled, compiled as a language, coupled with our decryption software and run through our system."
"How much time? How many people?" snapped the Admiral.
"Best estimate: two dozen language experts, working shifts twenty-four hours a day for two weeks might get the job done."
Smithy settled back in his tall leather chair and fiddled with a gold button on his coat. "Linguistic assault," he mumbled to himself as he swiveled his chair so he could see a broad expanse of a green manicured parade ground out his window. "I like the sound of that-–linguistic assault. Reminds me of a military action, like our D-Day assault on the Normandy beaches." He turned back and faced them. His eyes sparkled. Everyone waited.
"Pat Fitzgerald over at Langley has a unit that deals with forensic linguistics. Doctor Ophelia Verbich heads the unit. She brings forty years of experience to her job. A true pioneer in her field. You might have heard of her, Doctor Youris. Her pen name is Otto Benjamin."
"Yes. A pioneer in the field of sociolinguistics."
The Admiral agreed. “I'll give Fitzgerald a call. If anybody can conduct this 'linguistic assault' it's Doctor Verbich at the CIA."
DOCTOR OPHELIA VERBICH had white hair, without a trace of gray. It framed her softly lined face in smooth waves with a neat bunch of curls nestled above her forehead, a hairstyle out of the 1940’s. "Oh my. NSA sends three handsome men. My briefings seldom have more than one." She offered them seats at a small conference table in the corner of her office. "Director Fitzgerald said you boys need a little help." She hobbled to the table with the support of a cane.
The 'boys' waited until she took a seat and got comfortable. "We appreciate this opportunity to work with you," Norman Miller said, taking a chair next to her. "We have a project that is time sensitive."
"A little interagency coordination between members of the intelligence community can't hurt our reputation." Verbich paused. "As long as the word doesn't get around," she said with a hearty laugh. The crew from the NSA nodded approval and rewarded her humor with a polite chuckle.
Miller then reviewed the history of their effort to decode the coconuts and the problem of assembling the sixteen Arabic dialects. Verbich asked pointed questions during the discussion.
"So, there you have it," said Miller after completing his presentation. "If you think you could shave a few days off our estimated two-week project, it would be welcomed."
Verbich studied each of the three faces around the table. She produced an iPad and started tapping and swiping with quick movements, pausing briefly to gather her thoughts. Finally she raised her head. "With our involvement in Middle Eastern affairs soon after the Twin Towers incident, the CIA undertook extensive steps to understand the enemy. Despite these efforts, we still have much work to do in sociolinguistics.” She hesitated while searching her iPad screen. "About your requests, I'm afraid I can't shave two days off your work schedule." The three men looked devastated. "But with a waiver of confidentiality from Director Fitzgerald, I can access my database catalog and give you what you want in twenty-four hours."
Surprise and relief broke out on the three faces. Ophelia Verbich enjoyed the reaction immensely.
TRUE TO HER WORD, Doctor Verbich sent a messenger with an armed escort to the NSA building in McLean the next day with sixteen fully articulated dialects using the Arabic alphabet. In his small enclave of blinking lights, Ike Gunner backed-up this data and entered it into Big Mamma. He programmed her to decode the remainder of the six previously cracked messages using the new languages as a reference. In less than a minute the six messages lay stripped of their encryption.
Rashid scanned the output, and then settled down to digest the full meaning of the material. Ike programmed Big Mamma to search for any subsequent incoming messages using the unique characteristics of this encryption. When finished, he turned to Rashid who was oblivious of his surroundings while scribbling notes on a Big Chief tablet.
"Hey, Prof. This is a paperless society. Whatcha doin writing on a paper tablet?"
Youris straightened his back and stretched his arms wide. "You're right, Ike. Old habits are hard to break.”
"Well, are you finding anything?"
"No smoking gun, to coin a phrase," Rashid said with a straight face. "But I get the feeling something bad is about to go down."
"Could you be a little more specific?"
"The first message is by someone who goes by the name The Sword, probably a code name. Reference is made to the recipient as his 'brother'. I assume that means the writer is a male accomplice. Apart from the frequent Islamic titles, words of praise and religious connotations, he tells of his arrival in America through El Paso, Texas. He describes how he got a local identity, and that his work is financed by the Hawala network–an underworld banking operation. Finally, he speaks of gathering information on places 'ripe for destruction'. His words, not mine. It all sounds ominous, but nothing specific."
"Somethin' is cookin' on the stove and it's startin' to boil."
"The second message is more enlightening. It commands the Sword to come to Rome. Gives a specific hotel location and a date; about two weeks ago. No travel information. The third message is the Sword updating Rome on his plans to relocate. A reference is made to a motor home, and his researching of a suitable target. Message four is from the recipient and hints at expected developments. It complements the Sword on his dedication and skill. But doesn't say anything meaningful."
“Yea, but somethin is goin on, I bet."
“Number five is the Sword calling for faster action. He sounds like he's ready, but is waiting for further orders. While still respectful, he’s a little pissed off, to coin yet another phase."
Ike pulled his keyboard over. "We got number five about a week ago."
Rashid nodded. "The last message, the sixth, sounds like actions are about to happen. It makes reference to assembling personnel, arranging transportation and asking for confirmation for the receipt of a shipment. Whatever that means."
Ike checked his watch. "That message is dated a day ago."
Rashid dropped number six on the top of other messages. “There will be more of these. Someone is directing the actions of an operative whose mission is not yet complete. Can you trace the origin and destination of these exchanges, Ike?"
"We can identify the computer the message came from by its unique Internet Protocol address–the IP, but its geographic location I can know only in a general way."
Puzzled, Rashid said, "I thought NSA could trace any email."
"Mostly we can. Let's say you send me a message from your computer at home and I receive it on my home computer. We can know those locations because you and I bought access to the internet from an ISP, an Internet Service Provider like the telephone company, who has your name, address and phone number."
"So what's the problem?"
"The problem is we are dealin' with computer savvy dudes. They use portable devises and move all around using different public Wi-Fi connections.”
With an edge of frustration in his voice, Rashid asked, "What about servers, don't they show a location?"
"Servers, called Root Servers, are located worldwide. They all work on a demand and time basis.”
"What's that mean?"
"Let's say we send a digital message from here. There's a server in Washington DC, but if it's overloaded or a faster routing is available the message will be picked up by another server. It might be only two or three milliseconds faster, but the system is design to follow the fastest route. That route may go through Canada, England, or Australia. The same message sent a minute later may follow a different route depending on system conditions at that moment."
"So servers can’t give us specific origin and destinations?"
"You got it Prof.”
Rashid tapped his Big Chief tablet. "So we're working blind at this point."
“No. The messages contain place names: El Paso and Rome. My guess is the Sword is located in southwestern United States.”
"And the facilitator is in Rome?"
"Yep. Rome or at least southern Europe."
Rashid felt a shadow of dread. He thought of a time years ago when he used his language skills to earn money to pay hospital and cancer treatment expenses for his wife Hessa. He was paid a hundred thousand dollars for one night of work in Italy. The money was good and the job simple enough. Whatever went down that night seemed trivial at the time. Some underworld types working out a deal. Was there a connection? A shudder passed through him.
"Their conversation isn't finished, Ike. I think the next message, the seventh message, will tell us what we need to know." And, he thought, what I need to know, too.