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Chip had captured the GMI communications from Evan’s phone on a DARPA-retrofitted device that iterated on the StingrayIMSI-catchers used by the three-letter agencies to eavesdrop, record SIM-card activities, and intercept text messages. “They’re heavily encrypted, end to end. Can’t tell what they say, who they went to.”
“Can’t you pull the encryption key off with GSM Active Key Extraction?”
“Trying, but there’s a substitution cipher in the mix, too. The fifth text looks to be the shortest. Just three words. I’ve got cryptanalysis hammering at it, like Adnan recommended. I’m calling it a half hour.”
Chip stared impotently at the code churning across the screen, over a trillion cracked hashes aimed at one key.
Paddy grinned. “Maybe the last text says ‘I love you.’”
Chip shoved back from the overburdened table, blew out a stale breath. “Doubtful.”
“What’s he gonna do?” Paddy said. “He can’t exit his room, at least not with both feet. We’ve got men on the lower floors and LAPD units at ground level. Why so nervous?”
Chip shot a glance over at his partner.
Paddy said, “What?”
“I think we should flush the DNA swab. Templeton finds out, it’s our ass.”
“No way,” Paddy said. “That thing is worth more money than we’ll make in the rest of our lives a hundred times over.” With a groan he pulled himself upright. “Before you even think about getting cold feet, remember three things: You’re an accomplice, you’re behind on child support, and your new girlfriend’s pregnant.” He jabbed a finger at Evan resting peacefully on various monitors. “Meanwhile that”—he searched a beat for the word—“terroristhas been running around for decades shitting on our laws and norms, living like a prince. You know what my pension’s gonna be in three years?”
“Doesn’t mean we can overstep—”
“Forty-two thousand seven hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Works out to what? Little more than three grand a month? Mortgage at eighteen hundred, lease and insurance, groceries and everyday shit leaves me what? Enough to take Cathy to Red Lobster and amovie once a week? Twenty-two years I’ve laid my body on the line to uphold the Constitution. And this fucking criminal gets put up at the Beverly Hills Hotel? Uh-uh. No more.”
“Hang on!” Chip swiveled back to his computer screen. “Looks like we’ve got a byte. Wait—two.”
A larger monitor alerted to movement in the hall—an LAPD officer striding in. Chip turned back to the codebreaking software. “PD check-in,” he said. “Get the door.”
A brisk knock followed.
Paddy lumbered across the room and answered. A female cop in a dark navy uniform a few sizes too tight. Her hair was pulled up beneath a regulation peaked cap with a patent-leather brim. Her name tag readSANCHEZ.
“Don’t want to alarm you,” the woman said, brushing by him to enter the room, “but we have some action downstairs.” She set one black tactical boot up on the bed, hinging her knee wide to expose her crotch, and popped the top two snaps of her shirt. The red lace bra peeked out, restraining a country-star cleavage. “So the boys from the L.A. field office thought you deserved some action up here, too.”
Plopping back down on the sofa, Paddy laughed and clapped his hands. “No way. Rodriguez sent you?” A glance at Chip, whose attention was divided between the slowly decrypting text and the undulation of Candy’s hips. “At least we get perks.”
She peeked up from beneath the cap’s brim and twisted her torso so another snap gave way. The men’s SIG Sauers were seated in their hip holsters. Given her speed, they might as well have been locked in the minibar.
The laptop chimed, and Chip broke from his hormonal trance, his head snapping back over. “Cracked it!” He read the words, his muscles tensing.
Paddy leaned forward, curious despite himself. “What’s it say?”
Chip was now in a seated-elevation in his chair, an indicator of tensed-sphincter tone and testicular retraction—a full-blown fear display.
Paddy said, “Well?”
The words tumbled from Chip’s lips, flat and toneless: “‘Don’t kill anyone.’”
By the time they looked back at Candy, she had her best smile on and four sets of flex-cuffs fanning from one fist.
“You boys ready to party?”
14
Operational Comfort
Reclining on the sea-green comforter, Evan heard a series of thumps from the room next door. A high, clear note of skin striking skin—a slap? A louder thud, perhaps a body hitting carpet. A chair tipping over, not a loud clatter but as if it had been toppled beneath a man’s weight. A grunt. Another grunt.
