The Florentine Deception (33 page)

“No.”

“Okay, give me your address.”

I quickly recited Tom and Gennady's address.

“Okay. I'm going to have someone over there in the next hour. One of our team just arrived in LA to attend the USC Crypto Conference. We'll have him head straight over from the airport.”

Someone mumbled something to Whitehouse. He hesitated a beat, then continued, “Alex … does anyone else know about this system? Who else knows you have it?”

“Just the two of my friends here and Khalimmy.” I thought a second. “And I'm not sure, but I think there's also a Russian guy trying—”

“The Russians?” He whistled. “They must have discovered the leak.”

“That's what I'm guessing, but honestly, I've got no idea.”

Whitehouse went silent for five pregnant seconds.

“Okay, Alex, listen to me very carefully. Do not discuss this with anyone else. Make sure your friends understand. Not a word to anyone. I'm going to have the local FBI office send over a car to pick you and your friends up. I need you all to pack for a few days of travel—clothes, any medications, enough for three or four days. And if you have any protection, a gun, a baseball bat, arm yourself. And lock your doors and windows until my colleague arrives. He'll stay with you until the FBI can take you into custody. His name is Arnold Altschiller.” My heart skipped a beat. Arnold Altschiller was one of the fathers of modern cryptography—a seventies computer-science genius-hippy, an icon in the computer security industry.

“I'm going to give you my cell phone number and also his number,” Whitehouse said. “Call him first if you have any trouble. If you can't get through to him or he doesn't arrive within an hour, call me immediately or call 911.” He gave me the two numbers. “Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“Good. Just hang in there and we'll fix this thing.”

Chapter 53

While Tom and Gennady packed, I downloaded a freeware encryption program off the Internet and used it to encrypt copies of the original Russian document, Gennady's English translation, the Command and Control program, and the Florentine authentication keys, then uploaded the encrypted files into my
DropBox.com
file-sharing account. Just for safekeeping. Not that I didn't trust the NSA, but I wasn't about to take any chances. Then I deleted all the decoded files from Tom's computer, and packed the chassis into a cardboard box from Tom's closet. I slipped Richard's thumb drive and Gennady's printed translation into a manila envelope and dropped that into the box as well, then carried the box over to the front door.

We waited at the kitchen table with a carafe of coffee, a box of Danishes, and Gennady's semi-automatic. The doorbell rang exactly one hour and five minutes after my call to the NSA. I walked to the door, Tom, Gennady, and his pistol in tow.

“Who is it?” I asked, peering through the keyhole.

“Arnold Altschiller,” replied the man nonchalantly, “I'm here to see Alex.”

“That's him,” I said. “No mistaking it.” I unlocked the door and motioned him in.

Altschiller stood five-foot-seven-inches tall, clad in Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt covering a developing potbelly, and gnarled Birkenstock sandals. Underneath a Mets baseball cap he sported a long, frizzy mane of white hair and a matching five-inch beard. The guy was one-hundred-percent seventies computer hippy.

“It's an honor to meet you,” I said, shutting the door and engaging the deadbolt.

“Get to know me a little better and you'll change your mind, Alex,” said Altschiller good-naturedly. “By the way, do you have a bathroom I could use? My flight from Germany just landed when I got the call, I'm about to explode.”

“Down the hall and left.” Tom pointed.

As soon as the bathroom door closed, Gennady looked at me questioningly. “That's the guy who's going to save us from the Russians?”

“He's the father of modern cryptography,” I said. “Like the Einstein of cryptography.”

“Right now I think we need Mike Tyson, not Albert Einstein,” he replied.

“Back!” Altschiller said jovially, water dripping from his hands, face, and beard. “Pardon me, I should have introduced myself. I'm Arnold Altschiller.”

Tom extended his hand hesitantly. “Tom Chien.”

Gennady followed suit. “Gennady Cheryenko.”

“Nice to meet you both. Okay gents, have you packed everything up?”

“Yes,” I pointed to the box on the floor next to the front door. “Every copy we have is right here. Khalimmy—the guy who's been trying to get the Florentine—has an encrypted copy too, but as far as we know, he hasn't figured out the password.”

“Good. Okay, we've already called the FBI, so they should be here soon. Alex, I'm going to ask you to come with me to brief our team in Baltimore.” He turned to Tom and Gennady. “Gentlemen, you're going to have to go into protective custody until we get a handle on this thing.”

“Is that really necessary?” asked Gennady.

“Yes,” said Altschiller, stroking droplets of water from his beard. “If what your friend has discovered is authentic, there are a lot of bad people who will go to great lengths to obtain it. Your knowledge of the system makes you both targets.”

A beat later, Altschiller's mobile rang with a digital rendition of Handel's
Messiah
. He pulled the phone from his belt, and, after checking the caller ID, casually stepped into the other room to talk. The doorbell rang a few minutes later. Altschiller walked briskly to the front door and stepped up to the keyhole, cell still to his ear.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“FBI. Special Agents Velasquez and Snyder,” came a voice from behind the locked door.

“Please hold your badges up to the keyhole,” said Altschiller. Then, to us, while still peering through the hole, “Those are the names the field office provided, but it doesn't hurt to make sure.” Then, to his phone, “They've arrived.”

A moment later the two beefy agents stepped through the front door.

“Agents, thank you for coming. I'll need you to take these two into protective custody,” said Altschiller, gesturing to Tom and Gennady, “and once I complete this call, Mr. Fife and I are going to need an escort to the airport.”

“No problem, sir,” said Velasquez. “Gentlemen, I'll be taking you to our field office, and after a debrief, to a local safe house. Do you have a change of clothes and toiletries for a few days?”

“Yeah,” said Tom. “We're all ready.”

“Okay. Let's get going then,” said the agent.

“Good luck, man,” said Gennady.

Tom stepped up and gave me a hug. “Somehow it's always an adventure with you. See you on the flip side, Alex.”

“Thanks, guys,” I said.

“All right, let's go,” said Velasquez. “Snyder, once you get them to the airport, we'll regroup back at the office.”

Snyder nodded, then turned to Altschiller. “Sir, I'll be waiting outside the front door. Just tell me when you're ready.”

Altschiller signaled his approval, then returned to his call as Tom, Gennady, and Velasquez stepped out the front door and into a black Lincoln Town Car. Snyder stepped out onto the porch a moment later and withdrew a cellphone.

“The friends are safely on their way,” said Altschiller, locking the front door. After a few more minutes of discussion, he said, “Yes, I can do that. I'll call to confirm receipt as soon as I'm done,” and ended the call.

“Okay, slight change of plans.” Altschiller turned to face me. “They want me to upload the Florentine files over a secure link before we leave, so the techs in Baltimore can start looking immediately. Once we transmit the data, we'll pack up and head straight over to the airport.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Good. Let me go get my laptop—I'll be right back.” Altschiller took another look through the keyhole. “You have Internet here, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said. Then he unlocked the door and stepped outside.

“I'll be in the kitchen grabbing some food before we leave,” I said. “The thumb drive with the Florentine file is in the manila envelope.” I pointed at the box.

A brief inspection revealed nothing but beers in the refrigerator, so I began rummaging through the pantry.

Then I heard it.

The
phut
of a silenced gun, then the thump of a body collapsing to the floor. A second later, the gun spat again, and I heard another body slam into a wall.

Fuck.

It had to be Khalimmy. But how could he possibly know I was here? That I'd made it out? Had he had me tailed?

Nausea seized my stomach. I had no way of escaping out the front or the back without heading through the main hallway, right past Khalimmy. I could duck into the guest bedroom next to the kitchen, but without any place to hide, I had no chance. I scanned the countertops for some means of defense.

Nothing. Dammit!

No time. I slipped around the center island and slid underneath the large kitchen table, shimmying beneath its center to hide from view.

Step by step, Khalimmy's cautious footfalls grew louder. I gazed helplessly toward the hallway, waiting for him to round the corner.

After ten excruciating seconds, his black slacks slid into view. He took a tentative step forward, hesitated a long moment, then walked up to the sliding glass door leading to the backyard and gave it a tug. Satisfied, he turned to face the kitchen and took a few tentative steps toward the counter. Then he stopped, his slacks and brown loafers just feet from my face.

I held my breath, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

Then I saw it. Just inches away from Khalimmy's outstretched hand.

Gennady's pistol.

He'd left it on the granite counter covered by a newspaper, the circular mouth of the barrel barely visible from my vantage on the floor.

Khalimmy stood there, immobile, completely silent.

Had he seen me? Heard my breathing?

Five agonizing seconds later, he took a first tentative step toward the guest bedroom, then a second and a third.

He disappeared through the door.

I readied myself.

The guest bedroom's bathroom door creaked open.

It was now or never. I shifted out from under the table and rose to my feet, then, taking one long stride, reached the counter and quietly slid the gun from beneath the newspaper.

I had it.

Hands shaking, I carefully wrapped my index finger around the trigger, and then, with the gun's barrel centered on the bedroom's doorway, began inching back toward the hallway. Just as I reached the edge of the kitchen wall, Khalimmy reappeared in the doorway, his silenced pistol pointing straight ahead. Directly at my chest.

“Drop it,” I yelled.

“It seems we have a stalemate,” he said calmly.

“Drop the fucking gun!” I screamed. “Now.”

“You can't win this, Alex,” he said, immobile, his gun still trained on my chest.

“No, but if I'm going to die anyway,” I spat, “at least I'm going to get even.”

I pulled the trigger.

Chapter 54

And dove rightward, down the hallway and onto the floor.

I scrabbled to my feet and immediately fired again, sending a warning round smacking into the kitchen ceiling, then backed up a handful of steps and pumped another round down the hallway.

Step by step, I backed up, gun trained down the hall, until my backside pressed into the brass handle of the front door.

I reached behind me, clicked the latch, and tugged the door open. Gun still aimed toward the kitchen, I sidestepped through the doorway, then yanked the door shut.

Safe. For now, at least.

I spun around to bolt.

The fist caught me squarely in the solar plexus and I collapsed to the ground, gasping for oxygen. Then, as in a nightmare, unable to breathe or lift my arms to defend myself, I saw the butt-end of a gun fly in an arc toward my temple.

Chapter 55

I came to slowly, confused and physically uncomfortable—my temple, neck, right shoulder and lower back throbbed angrily and my right arm had fallen asleep. I opened my eyes to total darkness; the air, hot and stuffy, smelled of gasoline and old rags.

The bastards had locked me in a car trunk. After a moment to clear my head, I shifted my body left and dislodged my right arm, unleashing a thousand excruciating pins and needles. Once the feeling had returned, I probed with both arms to gauge the space and quickly ran into a jumble of boxes, cables, and a plastic gas can, its contents sloshing from the sudden shift.

I rotated my body, making every effort not to generate additional noise, shifting my feet to the rear of the car and my head toward the front, then pressed my ear up against the rear of the backseat and listened. If they were in the front of the car, they weren't making any noise. They probably locked up the car in a garage and were waiting until after dark, when they could safely drag me out. Again I shifted, placing my ear up against the metal trunk lid. No one within earshot.

Reassured, I rummaged through the boxes, feeling around for tools: a crowbar, screwdriver, a jack, anything I could use to escape. Nothing. Well, at least I knew my situation. Locked in a trunk, probably inside a garage, hopefully out of earshot. I rearranged my body into a less cramped position, reducing the strain on my neck and lower back, and ruminated.

I could try kicking out the lid of the trunk but that would make noise. I could also try kicking the backseat into the front of the car. That would be quieter. I'd try that first.

I rotated and wedged my frame against the rear of the trunk, then using my arms to steady myself, launched a devastating kick at the rear of the backseat. This, to my stunned disappointment, sent searing pain through the heels of my feet yet did absolutely no damage to the car's rear seating. After the pain subsided, I steeled myself and kicked again. The seat didn't budge. I tried once more, this time kicking toward the top of the seat. Nothing.