Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(100)

A light had come into his eyes. “Always.”

“So what I’m hearing”—Cohen looked from me to Dougie—“is that this guy Rick had a second chip placed in Clyde.”

Avi clapped his hands together. “It is as I said. The arak is magic.”

We all stood and moved toward the building.

I struggled to sound matter-of-fact. “Who could have done it?”

Dougie opened the door and held it. “The CIA had a veterinarian in Baghdad for their K9s. Or it could have been someone on the base. Maybe even a local vet—that would have been safest. No questions, no explanations.”

As we walked into the room, Clyde opened a sleepy eye. He wagged his tail when we approached.

“Good boy,” I said in my squeaky voice. “Good boy, Clyde.”

He got the other eye open.

“How do these chips work?” Cohen asked.

Sara held up a scanner. “Every microchip has an identification number. The number is unique for every chip and thus for every pet. If someone brings in a stray dog, we scan the number, then call the manufacturer and notify them we’ve found the animal. They look up the identification number in their database and contact the owner.”

She opened the door to Clyde’s crate.

“Like this.” She held the scanner between Clyde’s shoulder blades, then showed us the screen. “This one’s a nine-digit number, and the chip is manufactured by HomeSafe. This is the chip Clyde had when you took ownership, is that right?”

I nodded. “I just updated the owner information on their database.”

“Here is what I get when I scan the second chip.” She reached farther into the crate and held the scanner over Clyde. “Another nine-digit code. Standard. It also has ISO code 368, which usually indicates where the chip was manufactured. But in this case, I think it’s almost like a message.”

Avi said, “What do you mean?”

She closed the door to the crate. “I’m familiar with the more common ISOs—I’ve seen them often enough. But this code I had to look up.”

“Iraq,” I breathed.

She gave me a surprised look. “That’s right. And since Iraq doesn’t manufacture microchips—”

“Someone was telling us the chip was placed in Clyde in Iraq,” Cohen finished.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Sara said.

Avi opened a laptop on the counter. “Because of our animal rescue work, I have access to a national pet-registry database. We should be able to find the contact information for whoever placed that chip.”

We crowded around him while he opened up a database and logged on. Sara read off the identification number and Avi typed. A minute later the system chimed, and a box appeared.

Avi rubbed his chin. “Curious.”

We were looking at:





BLOWFISH.COM


MANINTHEFIELD

*&5MANI#N#THE)$5^FIE4LD678

“It’s a cloud account,” Cohen said. “He uploaded files to Blowfish. That must be his username and password.”

Avi opened another tab and navigated to the Blowfish website. When prompted, he entered the rest of the information. Another screen appeared, this one with a list of file-folder icons. We peered over his shoulder while Avi read the labels out loud.

“Email. Audio. Video.”

He clicked on the icon labeled “Emails,” and a list of file names appeared. He scrolled down. And down. And kept scrolling.

“There must be a hundred emails,” he said. He double-clicked on one, and the email opened in a second tab. We stared at an unformatted string of upper and lowercase numbers, interrupted by an occasional symbol.

“It’s gibberish,” I said.

“He used encryption software,” Avi answered. “The Feds will be able to decode it.”

“Maybe.”

“They will use something like BULLRUN or another decryption software. No problem. And you see, you can read the sender and receiver. OsborneJa to LAlmasi.” He looked up at me, his sun-creased face jubilant.

“I hope you’re right.” I pointed. “Open up the video folder.”

Avi clicked and a single file popped up. BorderTapeMalik. Another click, and a window opened with the video. Avi enlarged it to full screen and clicked play.

We watched in silence as the video opened with the interior of a truck. It was clearly night, the footage grainy. A man’s face shone faintly in the dashboard lights. This, presumably, was Malik’s uncle.

He turned toward the camera and murmured something in Arabic.

Avi translated. “He says to put away the phone. It is best to not take any video. Not tonight.”

The action stopped. When it started again, Malik’s uncle was now helping other men move wooden boxes from the back of one truck and into the other. The action took place in the white wash of headlights, the men talking softly, their voices faint in the rush of wind against the microphone. The filming was jittery and at a bad angle, as if Malik had tucked himself on the other side of his uncle’s truck, afraid to be caught.

I counted eight men in addition to Malik’s uncle. Seven of the men and the uncle helped move the boxes, their arms and shoulders straining, their steps slow. The eighth man appeared to be in charge, pointing at the others and directing them with his hands to move quickly.