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Jigsaw
By Kathleen Nance
Dorchester Publishing
Copyright © 2005
Kathleen NanceAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0-8439-5491-4
Chapter One
The surveillance van was frigid inside. Only the lack of wind
made it marginally more tolerable than outside in the bitter
Detroit winter. Daniel Champlain blew on his fingers, trying
to warm them as he studied the captured keystrokes streaming
across his monitor. He couldn't afford a mistake because cold
fingers hit the wrong key.
Next assignment, he was requesting hot. French bikini, sand
mucking up the equipment, jungle-rotting hot. Anything warmer
than sitting in an abandoned, tires-missing van and freezing
his eyeballs.
"What's our target saying?" Ben Maxwell, the head of their
National Security Agency covert team, loomed over his
shoulder. "Where's the mycotoxin?"
"Haven't decoded his output." Daniel set his jaw and focused
on the decryption analysis of the captured keystrokes. Nearby,
another monitor graphed the labyrinthian path the digitized
message took toward its still undetermined destination.
The sender was the top man in a Detroit terrorist cell, a cell
recently swollen with an influx of fresh bodies smuggled
across the leaky Canadian-U.S. border. His message relayed
last minute coded instructions to his martyrs-in-waiting.
"What's the holdup? Thought you were some kind of code
specialist," joked Stefan Corvallis, the other member of their
team. He satfacing Daniel, feet propped on a seat. Fully at
ease, he kept his hands warmed by twirling a lethal blade as
he kept an eye on the monitors that panned the empty street
outside the van.
"Good enough to save your sorry butt more than once." Part of
NSA's unacknowledged SiOps division, Daniel had no false
modesty about being one of the best in an agency that
specialized in cryptography.
"A favor oft returned, mi amigo."
"Yeah, yeah." He took a sip of his now-cold latte. The three
of them shared a web of history; they'd covered each others
backs more times than any of them bothered to count.
"I have my building scheme and heat monitors pinpointing
everyone in the apartment." Stefan pointed the knife at the
monitors. "You have gibberish. You're slipping, Champlain."
"Mmm." Daniel blew on his hands again, barely listening, his
attention on the screens. Damn, but he hated when Stefan was
right; this should not be taking so long. The cell in question
didn't have quantum encryption. The code was breakable.
Wind whistling at the windows, the whirr of machinery, Ben's
sneeze, all faded as he immersed himself in the nonsensical
symbols. Resting his hands on the keyboard, he let the
machine's internal clicks play up his tendons. Rhythm, felt as
much as seen, gave dimension to the code. These symbols hid
words. Words that were his job to find. So, what were the
hidden patterns? What was the language of terror?
Language. He'd programmed in the fifty spoken by virtually
ninety-nine percent of the world. Which one were they using?
Damn it! That was it; they had to be using an offshoot
dialect. He pulled over his laptop and jabbed up the target's
bio. Born in Armenia, Irani trained, moved.
Swiftly, he adjusted the program, keying in the basics of
Ashkharik, the uncommon Eastern Armenian dialect. There were
hundred of tongues possible, but he knew this was the one.
Anticipation formed a hard cube in his gut, as he glanced at
the monitor tracking the path.
The location of the receiving computer would tell them where
the terrorists were gathering. Decoding the message would tell
them where the package hid-a package containing a
particularly nasty vial of T2 mycotoxin. SWAT teams in biogear
waited at the local HQ, ready to storm in and claim both
terrorists and toxin. Waited on him.
"How long?" Ben planted his hands on the monitor.
"Five minutes," he promised, shifting out of Ben's shadow.
Three men, especially when one of them was a sequoia like Ben,
were just too much size for the van.
Frigid air heated with determination as Ben and Stefan
silently readied. They'd worked together enough that they
needed no instructions, no last-minute coordination. Daniel
tuned out the rustle of their preps, but as he sorted through
the signals, his eyes narrowed. Something else was off. What
was it?
Suddenly he cursed. "Those flicking-fingered Cyber Soliders!
One of them's hacking into the source computer." He attacked
the keyboard, using his clandestine connection to set up
firewalls for the hacker to breach.
"Can you block him?"
"Not without letting both the hacker and the target know I'm
in already. I'm delaying him, but damn, he's good!"
Ben swore more colorfully than Daniel had, adding a few new
backwoods colloquialisms. "Can you shield him off long
enough?"
"It'll be close." He sent a trace to the invading computer,
then concentrated on the pattern of data streaming across his
monitor.
If their terrorist target realized he was exposed, he'd cut
the transmission. The minions receiving the instructions would
disband and relocate; the target date and time for release
would be changed. The only thing that would remain the same
would be the very painful, very lethal mycotoxin waiting to be
unleashed.
Second chances didn't come in this business.
In the years since 9-11, they'd thwarted the few previous
attempts at bio and chemical terrorism. That record was not
going to be broken, not on his watch.
Ben and Stefan poised by the door, weapons at hand, waiting
for the "go" signal, giving him every second before they moved
in and bagged at least this one terrorist. Their steady
breathing, the only sound beyond the crackle of computers,
filled the van with cold white vapor.
Face taut from cold and tension, he stared at the data,
willing the pattern to break out of nonsense streams. Suddenly
the computer beeped. The Cyber Soldier hacker had made it in.
Gleefully the hacker scooped through the terrorist's hard
drive. Daniel adjusted the program parameters, focusing.
If he'd chosen the wrong base language ...
The computer beeped again, and like a dyslexic child who
suddenly made sense of the mixed up pages, the garbled string
reformed into a legible message, while monitors flashed an
address. "Bingo!" he shouted, memorizing the details. "Got
it!"
Ben and Stefan snapped into action, scrambling out of the van,
guns at ready. Daniel barked into the phone, rattling off the
location of the operatives and the mycotoxin to the SWAT teams
eager for their role in a major bust. He then finished the
transmission with the ritual closure used by this cell,
preserving the illusion the message had stayed secure. A
moment later, he half limped, half ran across the street,
following his companions, cursing the recent injury that
slowed him.
Dark and cold buffeted him. The barely risen sun was no match
for the swollen cloud cover, and the streetlights had long ago
been shot out by vandals. Avoiding the broken glass on the
sidewalk, he hunched his shoulders against the biting wind and
buried his free hand in the pocket of his leather coat. Racing
up the steps, he was only seconds behind the two local cops,
who'd been waiting in a companion derelict van, ready for an
arrest. Ben exchanged one nod with the cops, then kicked open
the door, shouting their ID, ordering surrender. Daniel yelled
the commands in Ashkharik.
Chaos exploded with shouts and gunfire, but in the end,
subduing their target and his bodyguards took little time.
While the cops followed the laws of this country, which the
men were trying to destroy, and read the Miranda rights, Ben
and Stefan slapped on restraints.
Daniel strode across the room, ignoring the stab of pain in
his leg, and scanned the flashing screen of the computer.
Lokus, Cyber Soldier, commands you to surrender, it read,
while a billowing American flag matched across the screen to
the tune of "Stars and Stripes Forever."
Stefan joined him. "Lokus again," he said in a low voice,
glancing toward the cops, now ushering out their prize and
leaving the three NSA agents in the apartment.
"I should have guessed this was his work."
Cyber soldiers. Computer fanatics who hid behind the guise of
patriots. The media and the general public loved the Cyber
Soldiers.
He didn't; they left a bad taste in his mouth. Instinct nagged
that they-or some of them-were far more dangerous than
anyone gave them credit for. So far, he'd found nothing he
could put a finger on. No deeper pattern, not enough evidence
for official Agency action. Yet. But, the itch told him it was
there-a darker side in this group. And Lokus was the
brightest, most gifted of them all.
Your data is now the property of the USA, and your computer is
empty. In its place we return you to your regularly scheduled
porn chat, continued the hacker, then the screen reverted to
an ongoing chat room discussion, one of the sicker ones, the
current topic being whipping techniques. A stream of filth
spewed out under the name of Isabella Q.
Heat sucked out of room and body, as though he'd been shot
into the vacuum of space. Isabella Q? His mind clicked on the
name, instantly creating a fresh link. Isabella Quintera?
Bella? He choked on the thought. Couldn't be, not this, not
here. This was not Bella. Of that, he was sure.
But he couldn't shake the far-fetched leap of association, as
he stared at the almost familiar name. Isabella Q. The letters
were only an eerie binary glow in the dark, abandoned morning,
yet seeing them brought back a rush of sensations he'd thought
buried.
Bella. The clean scent of her skin, for she rarely wore
perfume, and the thick softness of her dark hair brushing
against his cheek. The pleasing sounds of her release. Firm
curves pressed against him and the taste of salt as she cried.
The need to hold her close and forget everything in the
demanding pulse of sex. The hard frustration as she pulled
away.
He released his pent up breath. Shoving back the memories, he
forced himself to follow the thread as "Isabella" described in
vivid detail the sick fantasies she'd fulfill. Fury and
disgust roiled in a seething maelstrom. In his line of work,
he thought he'd seen most everything, but she came up with
some even he'd never imagined.
As he read, he fingered the smooth surface of the thick,
wooden jigsaw piece he kept in his coat pocket. He didn't need
to see the puzzle piece to know each detail. It was shaped
like a frog and colored with a patterned green. A small work
of art which, when joined with its brothers, created a larger
scene of wild jungle.
Isabella Q. Bella Quintera. A longshot, true. Could be
coincidence.
Except, in his work, believing in coincidence was a deadly
mistake.
No, he didn't believe this tiny oddity was a coincidence. Not
when his next assignment meant heading north, an eight hour
plus trip to the Upper Peninsula to investigate Lionel
Quintera, Bella's father.
* * *
Balancing the boxes of handcrafted jigsaw puzzles on her hip,
Bella Quintera rapped on the locked wooden door of Puzzle Me
This. Her thick gloves muffled the sound, and a mass of
swirling sleet obliterated the dull thud. Frigid wind cut
through her wool slacks, as though the fabric was no thicker
than paper.
A low moan billowed through the evening. Startled, she glanced
over her shoulder, but saw nothing except snow. Midwest born
and bred, she should be used to the pewter-gray nothingness of
a winter storm, but today it sucked the stamina from her,
leaving her edgy and off balance.
The dull, directionless sound came again as an eddy of snow
blinded her. Nerves stung as she blinked the flakes away. Must
be the wind.
She scraped the ice from the shop window and peered inside.
Only pale security lights shone inside the store, which meant
Margo Delansky, the owner, had closed early. On the off chance
Margo was in the back, riding out the fast rising winter
storm, Bella pounded on the door, while ice needled her cheeks
and neck.
Still no answer. No chance of waiting out the storm here.
Unwilling to risk further delay, she left the doorway alcove
for her car. The sudden shock of the bitter air stole her
breath, and her lungs spasmed against the assault. Temperature
must have dropped another five degrees. She pulled her scarf
over her mouth and bent her head against the wind. Breathing
in warmed air, she felt her throat relax.
Along the Lake Superior coast, January at six PM meant beyond
dusky, but today the whirlpool snow and swollen clouds
shrouded all extraneous light. She stumbled through the storm,
her exposed forehead numb, and her lashes and brows coated
with snow. Still balancing the boxes, she unlocked her
Jeep-Mach UV with a click of her key, then scrambled inside,
stowing the puzzles in back and shutting the door before too
much sleet could pile in with her.
Bless a heavy duty battery, the car started at once. She idled
the engine and defrosters a few moments, warming the interior
and wiping away the accumulated ice while she unwrapped the
scarf from her face. She lifted the leather case strap from
her shoulder and settled the small computer on the seat beside
her. After fastening seat belts, she exited the lot to the
road.
The plows had scraped off the top layer of snow, exposing the
ice beneath. Bella drove cautiously, the slick road offering
little traction despite the sand spread by the plows. Maybe
she shouldn't have taken the time to grade the papers for her
Cognitive Sciences 601 class, but weather.com had given no
indication the storm would be this fast moving or this severe.
Not until she'd left her windowless office had she discovered
three new inches of ice coating trees and roads, with more
coming. At least being this late meant no other traffic to
worry about. Except ... She glanced at her rear view mirror,
frowning. Two white haloes shone behind her, growing larger
too rapidly. "What idiot speeds on a night like this?" she
muttered.
"I have two events labeled idiot in our conversational
database," answered the synthesized voice of Fran, the
computer on the passenger seat. "One, the all day faculty
meeting on mission statements and, two -
"I was talking to myself, Fran. Sorry. Go back to what you
were doing. Gotta concentrate here." A sound akin to an
aggravated sigh emitted from Fran's speakers, signaling the
computer's acknowledgment.
Bella returned her attention to the road. She tapped her
brakes, not enough to slow her or send her into a skid, just
enough that her rear lights would flash, warning whoever was
back there of her presence.
It worked. The car slowed as it came up behind her ... and
stayed there. The indistinct vehicle, visible only as a
looming hulk behind the glaring headlights, crept closer,
closing the gap by inches. Her stomach knotted as her gaze
darted between the twin lights in her rear view mirror and the
blizzard before her. She could understand the desire to let
another car blaze the trail through the accumulating ice, but
following that close was sheer madness. The lights behind her
blinked to high beams in a sharp blinding jab. She squinted
against the painful brilliance.
"You eager to pass? Then pass." Heart at the level of her
throat, she gripped the wheel. The lining of her gloves
absorbed the sudden sweat of her palms as she shifted to the
right, trying to see where the edge of the road dropped into a
ditch.
The other car did not accept the invitation. Instead, it
matched her, shifting to the right as well, the headlights
still blinding, like malevolent monster eyes. What in blazes
was wrong with the driver? For the first time, fear trickled
into the mix of tension and fatigue.
Bella sped up, daring a small burst of speed, but the car kept
pace. Chewing on her lip, she scanned the road, placing what
lay ahead. Small lanes jutted off this road, but they wouldn't
have been sanded. More of a chance to skid. Her Mach-UV
handled regular snow like a champ, but this ice was a
different story.
Up ahead - How far? - Highway 41 crossed. More traffic might
have melted the ice, and Mervin's Gas was about a hundred
yards down. Since Merv lived behind the station, it would be
lit and populated, even tonight. A safe place to pull in and
let the road moron pass.
The driver pulled back a little. Bella let out a pent up
breath. At last.
Except, his beams were still on high, and they struck across
her mirror, blinding her again. She tilted her head, trying to
get out of the light stream. Was he drunk or high? Wouldn't be
the first time a driver fortified himself against the cold
with alcohol. Maybe she should report him to the state police.
Except her cell phone was tangled deep in her coat pocket.
While she debated whether she could safely grab the phone, a
gust of wind blasted against her windshield, hard enough to
shake the heavy-duty vehicle. A fury of icy pellets attacked
the glass.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Jigsaw
by Kathleen Nance
Copyright © 2005 by Kathleen Nance .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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