Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

“Not necessarily. I may have a solution for that.”

“What, tin cans and a string?” says Harry.

“Something Herman told me about. It’s the errand I mentioned on the phone.”

It is a sinking feeling leaving Katia like this, alone and in trouble, thousands of miles from her home and family. But there seems to be no other choice. That the federal government now believes Katia to have been the target on the bus and the reason for the assault confirms what Harry and I already suspected. Whatever is playing in the background, the unanswered questions surrounding the Colombian photographs are central to Emerson Pike’s murder. Until we know what that is, it is impossible to adequately defend Katia on multiple charges of first-degree murder.

Before leaving San Diego I placed a call to my daughter, Sarah, who is away at college, to tell her I would be gone but without mentioning where, that I might be unreachable for several days, and to stay in touch with Harry. She was filled with questions, but I couldn’t answer many of them over the phone. She reminds me so much of Katia, the compelling reason for my involvement in the case. I make a mental note to visit with Sarah when I get back.

Herman snoozes in the seat next to me to the sound of the jet engines as we wing our way south. We are somewhere over the Gulf, two hours south of Houston, where we spent last night in a hotel before catching the early bird flight to Costa Rica.

If there was a hold on my passport, there was no sign of it either from TSA or the airline at the gate prior to boarding. Herman and I waited for the usual announcement to line up and show passports before they opened the Jetway. Two airline clerks checked the names on our passports against the names on the boarding passes and initialed each boarding pass with a colored felt marker. Herman and I boarded without incident.

We both saw what we believe to be two FBI agents just after getting on at Houston. The flight was full, not a seat to spare. They were closing the door when, at the last minute, two airline employees dressed in civilian clothes and packing scuffed-up black leather flight bags used their credentials to deadhead up front with the flight crew.

Herman nudged me with his elbow as one of them asked the flight attendant for the passenger list. The man took a gander at the list, and then glanced down the aisle. He made eye contact with me just for an instant before he looked away and then handed the passenger list back to the attendant. The two agents waited for the airplane door to be closed and locked before they entered the compartment up front and sealed themselves in with the pilots.

By now their colleagues back at the FBI’s San Diego field office should be going crazy. It was the errand we had to run before we left town, the one I mentioned to Herman on the phone. No doubt they followed us, Harry, Herman, and me, to the small electronics shop downtown, a place that Herman had originally told me about.

Inside the shop, Harry and I purchased two new cell phones. These particular phones have a long name. They are called encrypted, unlocked, quad-band GSM cell phones. Along with the phones, I had one of our secretaries purchase two AT &T GSM chips, each programmed for international call coverage. We had the chips installed at the shop.

The phones use encryption algorithms and code keys that are randomly generated. The keys are longer than the human genome and change with each phone call, making them impossible to decode even with the most massive supercomputers. There is no proprietary source key for the government to obtain and no back door that would allow a third party to unscramble a message. We are told that even the National Security Agency has been unable to decode them. It is for this reason that these particular phones are used by the Israeli military.

You do have to wonder what the world is coming to when your own government can’t stick a pipe in your brain to suck out your thoughts.

Harry has his phone tied to a shoelace hung around his neck. He says that if he has to, he will shower with it to keep it out of their hands.

For the time being, mine is in my briefcase.

Three hours into the flight, I am just beginning to doze when I notice the door to the flight deck open. A couple of seconds later, both of the deadheading airline employees step out to use the lavatory and close the flight-deck door behind them. One of them uses the restroom up in first class. The other takes the long walk down the aisle.

As he approaches and then passes my seat, he gives me a good once-over, checking my computer, which is still open on the tray table in front of me. As I look up, he’s checking things out, looking back over his shoulder at me. I give him a few seconds to get down the aisle, then turn and look as he disappears into one of the vacant restrooms at the rear of the plane.

I waste no time, turn off my computer, release my seat belt, and grab my briefcase from the overhead compartment.

Herman stirs and then wakes to the motion. “Where are we?” he yawns.

“About an hour out,” I tell him. I pack my computer back into the briefcase and take out the encrypted cell phone. I slip back into my seat, fasten the seat belt, drop the tray table, and put the phone right in the center of it. It is a little larger than your normal clamshell phone, though it might not catch your attention unless you were looking for it.

By the time the agent makes his way up the aisle, I am dozing again with only half an eye on the phone in front of me. I sense his motion as he stops behind me in the aisle. I stir in my chair and he moves on. A few seconds later he raps on the flight-deck door. It opens and he disappears inside.

I nudge Herman.

“Saw him,” he says. Herman can see with his eyes closed.

I hand him the phone. “Make it scarce.”

“Hmm?”

“Put it in the bottom of your bag.”

The phone disappears into Herman’s carry-on, under the seat in front of him.

“When we get off the plane, we split up, you grab your bags and get through customs and on through immigration. If they ask you, the rea son for the trip is tourism. We’ll meet up out in front of the airport. If you get there ahead of me, grab a taxi and wait. And keep an eye out for me.”

“You think they’re gonna try and stop you here?”

“I doubt it. I just want to be on the safe side.”

Fifty minutes later, Herman is jarred awake as the wheels touch down at Juan Santamaria International Airport in San José, Costa Rica. The instant the plane stops at the Jetway and the pilot turns off the seat belt sign, I’m up out of my seat to allow Herman to get into the aisle ahead of me. As the plane starts to empty, I take my time getting my luggage from the overhead compartment as several passengers get between Herman and me.

As we pass the open flight-deck door, there is no sign of the two deadheading airline employees. I continue to hang back so that by the time we get to customs, Herman and I are no longer together. We clear immigration and then spend almost ten minutes standing on opposite sides of the luggage carousel before the bags finally roll in. Herman grabs his and follows the crowd toward the conveyor belt and the two large X-ray machines near the exit.

I let my bag go around three more times as I wait.

I watch the line at the X-ray machine. None of the bags is being opened, and the speed with which they rocket through the machine makes me wonder if the woman operating it is watching cartoons on the screen.

By now, Herman is long gone, out through the door leading outside.

I let my bag go around one more time before I grab it and head toward the machine. I lug both the bag and the briefcase onto the conveyor belt and watch as they roll up the ramp into the machine.