When the Moon Is Red

By Philip L. Rettew

About the Book
When the Moon Is Red continues the story from The Kovalenko Secret with greater urgency through the personal lives of the main characters, as domestic and international agents discover evidence of the evilest terrorist attack upon the United States. Duke Chancellor, head of the Chancellor Organization, a private 'information enterprise' in the United States, assembles the unconnected and puzzling pieces of evidence from his agents around the world to understand the terrorist website that threatens: "THE AMERICAN INFIDELS WILL DIE IN (30) DAYS WHEN THE MOON IS RED!” The website counts down the number of days until the terrorist threat becomes a reality, and the future of the United States and, by inference, the world hangs in unimaginable limbo.
About the Author
Philip L. Rettew, after a twenty-five-year career as a technical market analyst working in southern Manhattan, is now retired and living in South Burlington, Vermont. He enjoys playing bridge, photography, cycling, road trips, and improvising music on his baby grand Steinway piano. Rettew is a 1967 graduate of Yale College, where he majored in philosophy and psychology and earned a master's degree from Temple University in psychology after a four-year tour in the United States Army Security Agency.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Mar 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887296333

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Friday, August 28, 2015

30 Days Left

**** San Francisco, California ****

Sammy Chin was in his apartment playing a computer game on the internet when the villains were about to capture and kill the heroine, a seven-foot-tall buxom lass clothed in what appeared to be a cast-iron negligee scarcely hiding what must have been at least size 45 KKK breasts with pointed tips. Virtual fire emanated from her dark eyes as a growling expression developed around her open dark mouth defined by pronounced bright red lips and blinding white teeth. Just as Sammy aimed at the bad guys, the game disappeared, and in its place appeared the silently waving ISIS flag over a blue background and accompanying message: ‘THE AMERICAN INFIDELS WILL DIE IN 30 DAYS WHEN THE MOON IS RED!’ He struck the delete key, the escape key, and then the enter key with no results. His mouse would not move the cursor. His computer was ‘frozen,’ except for the waving ISIS flag.

He said menacingly aloud to himself, Those who live by the electron will die by the electron!

Then he pressed simultaneously the ‘CTRL,’ ‘ALT’ and ‘DEL’ keys on his keyboard, which is the usual combination that presents the menu of all currently active tasks in the computer’s central processor, and also includes the universally effective ‘end task’ option. When that choice is selected and executed, it stops the offending highlighted program immediately. However, much to his surprise, that strategy did nothing to rid his computer of the ISIS flag and message.

Again, conversing with himself, he said out loud, "Think you’re really pretty smart, don’tcha!"

Then he reached beneath his desk to the power cord and pulled it out of the electrical wall socket. He achieved his objective–his monitor was blank.

He waited for about three minutes before reclaiming his computer kingdom by plugging in the computer power cord once again. After the normal boot-up routines had run their course, his computer was ready for another theoretically uninterrupted session. He immediately logged on to the Chancellor secret System 14, and sent a message to Duke:

‘FYI–Was surfing a while ago, playing some ridiculous internet-based futuristic battle game with some Amazon chick in dire need of rescue, so I aimed at the bad guys, and the screen image disappeared and was replaced by a blue background with a black ISIS flag waving in much of the middle of the screen, and across the bottom of the screen in red letters was the message: ‘THE AMERICAN INFIDELS WILL DIE IN 30 DAYS WHEN THE MOON IS RED’–all caps. Gut feel is that this is not a prank. S.C.’

Within 10 seconds, Duke received the message, read it, and then immediately sent a message to General Murray with his comment and a copy of Sammy’s original message:

‘Just received the following from my best computer guy, Sammy. He is very good at what he does, so I suggest that you have your super-geeks investigate this as soon as possible. My intuition is that something quite ugly is in the works somewhere. D.C.’

**** Fort Meade, Maryland ****

The vast supercomputer systems, including some of the fastest in the world hidden within the National Security Agency headquarters building at Fort Meade were crunching through billions upon billions of communications streams from all over the planet. Various programs parsed them, organized them, separated them, and categorized them in every conceivable manner, and some heretofore inconceivable ways as well. Communications analyst Andrew ‘White Knight’ Keller was doing a routine review of electronic communications traffic from the month of August to date. Some of his unique qualifications for that job included facility in seven languages other than English that enabled him to converse in several Far Eastern languages as well as those of the Middle East and Central Asian areas. He knew that certain kinds of information appeared in certain categories on a regular basis, reflecting the normal pace of the world’s communications activity. Statistical probabilities of certain kinds of data were known and categorized in routine fashion. Telephone calls occurred with a certain range of frequencies and at certain times of the day throughout the world. Similarly, internet traffic occurred in frequencies and during time periods that could be identified as normal. Radio transmissions occurred at a certain pace. Other electromagnetic transmissions had their own characteristic levels of activity and periodicity. One category labeled simply ‘miscellaneous numeric’ occurred infrequently. For the month of August, only 1,762 such transmissions occurred. One of them was ‘45.277079, -122.599595,’ which was buried in the list of such numeric transmissions at position number 881, halfway down the list of time-ordered occurrences. The date and time stamp indicated August 27, 22:13 hours, Greenwich Mean Time. The source of the transmission was not specific. Nevertheless, Keller was curious to know exactly what those numbers meant. Assuming they identified a specific location in terms of longitude and latitude, and that such information would not take very long to find, he queried the incredibly vast computer resources of the National Security Agency from his desk computer. He discovered in less than a few seconds that those coordinates identified the middle of a cul-de-sac at the western terminus of South Macdonald’s Place, a residential street near Oregon City, Oregon. The eastern end was at 45.277000, -122.592752. Those coordinates were very close to the intercepted coordinates–close enough to call it a match for practical purposes. Out of idle curiosity, he calculated the length of the street from those coordinates and discovered that the street was about 0.5355 km or 1756.89 feet long, give or take.

So…, what the heck does that mean? There are millions of streets in the world. What’s so special about this one…, other than that it is short?

He continued to peruse the intercept records for another 20 minutes, nursing a cup of black coffee. He noted another curious short intercept in Pashto, from August 29, 00:23 Greenwich Mean Time:

‘It is done.’

He said aloud to himself, "What is done?"

**** Fargo, North Dakota ****

An old dirty white farmhouse in need of a fresh paint job was nestled in a small clearing surrounded by more than four dozen trees, most of which were healthy. The higher branches were moving slightly in the breeze just west of 70th Street North at 15th Avenue North, east of Fargo, North Dakota. On the second floor, 15-year-old Danny Stump was in his inadequately illuminated bedroom. He looked out through the window toward the barns and sheds on the family property, located in the southeast corner of a square mile of freshly plowed flat farmland to see whether his parents might be returning yet. His 18-year-old older sister, Judy was out on a date with one or more of her several boyfriends, and his parents were out shopping at Costco in West Fargo. A half dozen automobiles from 10 to 30 years old in various stages of cannibalization or repair were lined up unevenly and side by side along the mostly whitish stony driveway between the house and the nearest of two old red barns. The more distant one was overdue for another paint job. Some of the vehicles had four tires, but most did not. He violated his delayed punishment for having come home late last Saturday night and opened up his laptop computer. After perusing a few pornographic internet sites that he had discovered with his friend Jimmy Northrop at Jimmy’s house last week, a message popped up on his computer screen. It was simply a black flag waving slowly against a blue background with words in Arabic script, with bright shimmering red letters along the lower border of the monitor forming the message in English: ‘THE AMERICAN INFIDELS WILL DIE IN 30 DAYS WHEN THE MOON IS RED!’ He looked at the page with a blank expression as he gradually contorted his facial appearance into something one might expect after having encountered a spiteful skunk. Then suddenly, the page disappeared. Danny waited a minute for the message to reappear. It did not reappear for the rest of the evening. His most recent curious interest in sex faded rapidly from 10 to zero on a scale of one to five. He would have to keep this evening’s internet experience to himself, because he could not admit to his parents or otherwise give them cause to suspect that he had violated their strict orders to stay off the internet for two days.

**** Fort Meade, Maryland ****

James Levin at the NSA headquarters building discovered the conversation between Boris and Ariel, primarily because he was regularly monitoring her cellphone since she was a known Russian double agent. He vaguely recalled the name Boris from another intercept–the one to the cellphone in Moscow belonging to Vasily Koshelev at the GRU headquarters. He went to his supervisor’s office. William Hickey was on the phone, but he waited impatiently at the doorway. Hickey finished his phone conversation and looked up at Levin with an expectant facial expression as James entered the room.

Mr. Hickey, I found something rather curious that might be important. I think some kind of relationship appears to exist between the Russian GRU guy and this Boris person, and I just discovered that Ariel and Boris have been communicating as well. I don’t know whether that means that a connection exists between Ariel and the GRU guy, though.

Really! Well, let’s see whether the CIA can answer that question. I understand through the grapevine that she apparently does odd jobs for the CIA, so they should know something about her.

**** Langley, Virginia ****

About 7:51 in the morning, he started his desktop computer and while it labored through its boot routine, he left his cubicle to prepare his daily energy primer–a cup of steaming pure black coffee. Six minutes later, the 25-year-old junior analyst returned to his desk and once again mindlessly entered his user code and complex password with the comfort of firmly embedded habit. Then he logged off the secure internal computer system and onto the public internet to check on his personal e-mail. The first presentation on his 24-inch-wide desk monitor was an image of the black Islamic State flag with white Arabic script on it, translated as ‘There is no God but Allah. Muhammad is the messenger of God,’ slowly waving in an imaginary wind over a light blue background. Below the flag shimmering in red 48-point bold font was the message: THE AMERICAN INFIDELS WILL DIE IN 30 DAYS WHEN THE MOON IS RED!

Oh… my… God! What… in… the… HELL… is… THIS?

While continuing to stare at the message, he reached for his desk phone and lifted the receiver. Then he glanced at the keypad while he dialed 9977, the special direct internal number for the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and then looked back to his computer monitor.

Within three seconds, he heard the impatient voice of the Director, Miles!

Mr. Miles, this is Chuck Ramsey in Section A-3. I just logged onto the public internet system and ran into something you need to see…. So…, I think, sir, with all due respect, you need to come down here right away!

I’m pretty busy right now, Ramsey. What is it?

Sir, it’s a website showing the ISIS flag with a message in English underneath it. I quote: ‘The American infidels will die in 30 days when the moon is red!’ That’s it, sir.

Miles immediately suspended his other obligations and said in a calmer, but serious tone, I’ll be there in just a few minutes.

On his way out of his office, he spoke in a hushed voice to his secretary, Holly, I need to take a detour right now, so please stall the rest of my day for about 15 minutes. This shouldn’t take very long.

She smiled with the whitest teeth on that floor with another rewarding episode of feeling genuinely needed by her boss and said in a mock-serious tone, No problem, Mr. Miles. I will stop the world for as long as you would like!

He chucked for a few seconds, and then said, Thank you.

Seven minutes later and four floors lower, Miles exited the elevator and turned left into an off-white hallway with pristine polished ‘government-style’ linoleum flooring squares and plain painted eggshell white wallboard on either side illuminated by fluorescent lights behind generous fixtures in the ceiling. He turned right into Section A-3 and continued another 50 feet to Chuck Ramsey’s cubicle.

Okay, Ramsey. Whaddya have here?

He leaned back in his black leather swivel chair, cocked his head toward his computer monitor, and said simply, Take a look….

Miles stared at the computer monitor for 10 seconds and then said with disguised anxiety, "Oh boy! Okay…. Now, exactly what were you doing when this came up?"

I had just logged off the secure system, and then logged onto the public internet to check on my email. It’s all recorded under my user code in the master time log, sir.

Can you trace this?

I can try, sir, but…

"But what?"

The message disappeared from his monitor.

"But that, sir. It seems to come and go at random intervals, so I don’t know whether I am going to have enough time to hold a leg of the trace long enough to connect all the legs."

What else are you working on, Ramsey?

Well, I’ve got the usual routine matters, and I’m also following up on some information about a Turkish arms dealer and messages from the embassy station chief, Andrea Sokolov in Moscow.

Put tracing this at the top of your list and let me know if you need more help. For the rest of the day, keep it inside your head until I tell you otherwise. I suspect others will see this sooner or later. Give me hourly reports unless something urgent occurs, in which case I want immediate notification. Understand? I want something a little more concrete than a disappearing web page before I send this up the line. I need to know whether it’s a prank, or something really serious.

Yes sir. Got it!

Director Miles turned on his heels and briskly walked back to the elevator to return to his temporarily suspended world. In the solitude of the rising elevator car, he wondered again whether what he had just seen on the internet was merely a mean but sophisticated prank or a serious threat.

The history of radical Islamic threats suggests that this is serious. In any case, we don’t know enough to dismiss it right now. It’s just the right kind of nonsense that we cannot afford to ignore. I don’t have enough people to chase down every single goddamned psychotic geek on the planet! Has the world finally gone absolutely mad? The media will see this, if they haven’t already, and report it very soon. Maybe we can tell them to avoid coverage…, but everyone in the world will see it sooner rather than later on the internet, and we cannot stop the entire world’s news media or the internet exposure. We don’t even know where the hell it’s coming from…! Damn!

Unknown to Director Miles, General Joe Wilson, head of the National Security Agency, called the president of the United States at 7:58 a.m. on the ‘hot phone’ set up exclusively for urgent information from NSA to the president of the United States.

Mr. President, we have just discovered a new Jihadist internet website claiming–and I quote the message precisely– ‘The American infidels will die in 30 days when the moon is red!’ It is not a hidden site. It is available for any search engine to discover. And…, that means it is a source of potential public panic.

*** Brooklyn, New York ****

Doctor Benjamin Nakazami was sitting at his desk near the end of a long and exhausting day. His receptionist had left over an hour ago, and the janitorial service had already started their evening office cleanup. Detectives DeVito and Cassidy made their way down the main hall around the cleaners, stepped over some of their equipment and electrical cords, and then casually invited themselves into his office. It was almost 6 p.m. He stood wearily at his desk to welcome them with a mild professional smile as they walked through the doorway.

An unexpected voice right behind them announced, I would like to join you, gentlemen. It appears that we have something in common here.

DeVito turned around and said with official seriousness, Who are you, and what do you have in common with us?

He quickly flashed his credentials and said in a clearly official tone, My name is Diogenes Kikos. I am a federal agent working on an investigation that happens to include the same young woman you found at Brighton Beach today.

How did you know about that?

Diogenes responded, I have been tangentially involved with her disappearance since last Saturday…, and I have a scanner in my car. I followed you here.

Why?

I am not at liberty to discuss that, Detective. I have given you what I can out of professional courtesy. Let’s just let it go at that.

DeVito and Cassidy looked at each other with questioning facial expressions and a slight hint of intense professional curiosity but accepted the status quo for the time being. Cassidy took over because he had finally internalized the case and was more interested in getting on with it than quibbling about an interested FBI agent.

"Okay, Agent Kikos. You won’t get any argument from me, but if I need more information from you, I will most certainly ask for it! Now let’s all get on with what we’re here for."

Doctor Nakazami took that as a suggestion to open the discussion and said, Please sit down, gentlemen. I’m afraid your initial intuition has been confirmed, Detective DeVito. The young woman in question died of an extremely strong dose of diacetylmorphine–otherwise known as heroin–quite a pure form of heroin, I should add–18 to 24 hours prior to the arrival of the emergency response team. The strength and purity of the heroin were not characteristic of the usual merchandise we see around the metropolitan area, which typically comes through Mexico or Florida. I believe the source was Eastern European or Central Asian. I do not believe her body was in the water for very long before it was discovered, however. The injection site was… was...

Give me that! DeVito demanded impatiently.

Doctor Nakazami reluctantly handed him the manila folder containing his autopsy report. DeVito removed the report from the folder and started at the top of the first-page summary report and read every word. Diogenes, Cassidy, and Doctor Nakazami were watching him intently–Cassidy with great anticipation and Nakazami with intense and genuine grief. Diogenes watched all of them carefully. DeVito shifted in his chair. His lips parted. His facial muscles were twitching and started to stiffen. Then his lips trembled as his eyes moistened and his color turned ruddy. The veins in his neck stood out more than usual, and his nostrils widened as if to allow maximum airflow as his breathing rate increased. His jaw muscles stiffened. He wiped his moist lips with his free left hand as he cleared his throat. He worked his way to the end of the first page within the next minute. Cassidy tensely anticipated learning something ugly, very soon.

"Does all this fancy Latin multisyllabic medical bullshit mean what I think it means…, Doctor? Was she… was… was she… mutilated?"

Diogenes squirmed in his chair as his heart pounded even more heavily, but marginally maintained his outward appearance of an innocent observer. He looked over at the coroner. Doctor Nakazami looked down at his tidy mahogany desk and simultaneously reached forward with each hand for the outer opposite deep maroon leather edges of the blotter as if that would make the truth more palatable. DeVito’s eyes bored into him. Nakazami needed symmetry and balance in his life. He thought briefly about the ‘yin’ and the ‘yang’ that were part of some universal grand design, something that made the sinister explainable, provided perspective, and balance, or at least made reality tolerable. Then he focused upon the utterly tragic and destructive waste of human talent and beauty. He looked up to meet DeVito’s intense stare, still stunned by his examination and his mere human reaction, and only somewhat steadied by more than 20 years of experience in his profession.

With controlled grief, he said quietly, Yes.

Time appeared to falter, filling the room with a vast, silent, and depressing emptiness while the second hands of every mechanical clock in the building moved almost 90 degrees. The world was still rotating about its axis when DeVito suddenly regained his self-control from suppressed internally boiling anger. He transformed that anger into even more vital determination. Diogenes suffered in desperately controlled silence. He did not want to divulge any further information, nor reveal his innermost feelings. He also waited with quiet and extraordinarily disciplined resolve.

DeVito said with obvious intense effort, "Cassidy…, we have a lot of work to do! Thank you, Doctor Nakazami…. We will be in touch… if we need more of your insights."

The two detectives left the coroner’s office without further recognition of Diogenes and walked briskly back to their car. Diogenes slowly strolled outside behind them in deep sorrow toward his car. After the unmarked black Ford New York City police car moved down the street, he got in his car and closed the door, but waited without starting the ignition. Then within his peripheral vision to his right, he saw a man walking on the sidewalk toward the morgue. He turned his head to the right and watched the man enter the building. His intuition suddenly became more active. He got out of his car, closed the door quietly, and followed the man into the building. The man walked to the open door of the coroner’s office and knocked. From the hallway, Diogenes could see Doctor Nakazami briefly before the door closed after the man walked in. His intuition was beginning to intensify. He waited patiently in the reception area, watching the coroner’s door. Less than seven minutes later, the door opened, and the man backed out after having just shaken hands with the doctor. His face was red, and tears developed as he turned and approached the exit door, passing by Diogenes. Diogenes caught up with him outside the building.

Please excuse me, sir. My name is Diogenes Kikos. I am a federal agent investigating a case that brought me to this office only a short time ago.

The man stopped, and then turned toward him in obvious surprise, and said, Oh? And what does that have to do with me?

Diogenes continued in a friendly business-like manner while showing his credentials, and said flatly, "I find it extremely odd–too coincidental in fact–that what I learned here affected me in much the same manner as it apparently has affected you. I must confess that such a coincidence is extremely unusual–so unusual as to force me to inquire about your presence here. You are not under suspicion, nor are you in any other official or negative way a focus of my attention–other than what I just confided to you. Please identify yourself and explain your presence here."

The man froze in momentary confusion before the imposing FBI agent, drew out a white handkerchief from his suit coat, and wiped his eyes for three seconds, purchasing some time to compose himself and then responded.

My name is Russell Martane. I am the Master in Chief of the New York City Ballet Company. I recently learned about the tragic death of one of my dancers, who had missed her second public performance in the United States. I came here to identify the body of the young Russian ballerina, Karina Kovalenko. She has no family here in the United States. She was the finest young dancer I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Now she is gone…, and the world is a much lesser place… because of that.

Diogenes said quietly, Thank you, Mr. Martane.… I understand.

Martane assumed that the agent could not be among the favored lovers of ballet, turned quickly and looked at him more carefully, and said with obvious emotional compulsion, irrepressible curiosity, and guarded self-righteous indignation, "How could you… possibly… understand?"

Diogenes responded flatly after a brief pause, I know her father…, and for just a brief moment…, somehow, a while back…, I fell in love with her.

Russell Martane was stupefied in complete confusion as his mouth opened without any sound, unable to find words to express himself. He just watched the other man turn away, walk to his car, disappear inside, wait about 15 seconds, and then drive away.

Russell again wept as he walked back to his car.

Of course…. Everyone loved her.

CHAPTER 2

Saturday, August 29, 2015

29 Days Left

**** Moscow, Russia ****

The sky was uniformly gray, and the air was cool with the threat of rain. Even the faintest sounds of the bureaucratic machinery outside his office continued to interrupt his thoughts periodically. He could not concentrate. Then the secure black phone on his desk chirped with three sets of two brief electronic gurgling rings two seconds apart.

He dropped the reports he was reading, slowly picked up the receiver with his left hand, and said softly, Koshelev.

Boris. New York Post headline Friday, August 28 states that an unidentified beautiful young woman was found dead on Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, New York, apparently murdered. I discovered that Karina had not appeared for her second performance at the Koch Theater at the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts at 8 p.m. on Saturday, August 22. I strongly suspect that the dead young woman is indeed Karina Kovalenko, but I do not have absolute proof.

Vasily spoke just above a whisper into the phone transmitter, Thank you, Major.… Continue your mission.

Vasily continued to hold the silent receiver in his left hand, and a few tears started to form and then slowly fell down his face for the next few seconds. After he slowly regained his self-control with deliberate effort, he replaced the phone receiver in its cradle and then stood from behind his desk. He limped slowly without his cane to his office door and closed it. He turned the lock knob to secure it. Then he returned slowly to his desk chair and sat down, placed his elbows on the desk before him, leaned forward, and rested his head in both hands covering his face.

Who did this? The communists are not that stupid or reckless. The former KGB? Maybe…. But why? Who is capable of such insane evil…? The Americans? Not likely! Some random ignorant street thugs? Maybe.… Islamic terrorists? Possibly…, but why? Whoever did this had to be going after Viktor. Karina was completely innocent and pure. What did you do, Viktor? What did you know? Is this connected to Chelyabinsk? It must be ISIS. They are the only ones both bold and insane enough, and with any semblance of international organization, small though it may be. It had to have taken considerable effort to reach Viktor through Karina. That suggests coordination, organization, an intelligence network, leadership, and agents in the United States–and here in Russia! It cannot be a single madman or rag-tag group. Purpose…. They had to have a purpose. This was certainly not random. Why? What was the goal? They had to be the ones who abducted her to persuade Viktor to give them the operational codes! I have failed you, my friend.… I am so deeply sorry beyond imagination. I sent my best man to watch over her for you on her journey to New York. Now, I have no other choice. Now I must avenge her death! You cannot do it alone, and I cannot just continue my life and do nothing about it! She touched me just as she had touched so many others. I must do whatever I can for you–else my friendship is false and empty! I shall find the people who did this, Viktor!. I will find them!

**** New London, Connecticut ****

Ariel Romanovsky wore only her pink terrycloth bathrobe with her legs tucked under her while relaxing in her favorite recliner in her New London apartment, watching the evening news on her television. She was enjoying a late snack of red raspberries, cheddar cheese cubes, pistachio nuts, and spring water when the talking head returned after a commercial for Kentucky Fried Chicken and announced:

‘The body of a young woman found dead last Friday, August 28 on Brighton Beach has been tentatively identified as Karina Kovalenko, a rising ballet star from Russia who had recently received broad outstanding acclaim and high praise for her debut performance in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ at the David H. Koch Center for the Performing Arts in New York City on Thursday, August 20, 2015. Police are investigating her death as a homicide and have revealed that a substantial reward of $2 million has been offered anonymously for information leading to the confirmed discovery, arrest, and conviction of those responsible for her death. The entire metropolitan area, and particularly the ballet community, is still in a state of shock because of this senseless tragedy. Anyone with information about this matter should call Detective Vincent DeVito of the New York City Special Task Force at 800-788-8888.’

She picked up her cellphone and called Boris.

After five rings, he looked at the caller identification and answered cautiously without identifying himself by name or assuming that Ariel was really using Ariel’s phone.

Yes?

She queried with a hint of anxiety, Boris?

Yes.…

Is something wrong? You sound… cautious. Can you talk?

Now convinced that he was speaking with Ariel, he said in a more relaxed tone, Professional skepticism…. Sorry. Yes, I can talk.

I just saw a report on the television national news that Karina Kovalenko is dead.

I am already aware of that. I just read the news report on the internet. A few days ago, I had feared that was the case, and even now I am still devastated by this confirmation. I am curious, however, about who would offer such a large reward for information about her murderer. Apparently, a wealthy United States citizen has an unusual interest in this development. Any ideas about who that might be?

No, I really don’t.

I have something to do. I’ll talk to you later.

He terminated the phone connection and pondered this interesting development, even as he internally mourned the premature death of Russia’s rising young star. Then he dialed Vasily Koshelev’s private number and waited less than 10 seconds after the connection before he heard his boss’s voice.

Koshelev.

Boris. Karina’s death has just been reported in the American media this evening. I cannot believe this report is a fabrication. It must be true. She’s dead.

Thank you, Major. Anything on the nuke?

Not yet.

After a few seconds of disguised silence, Vasily said with finality, Continue your mission, Major.

The connection was terminated. Vasily slammed his right fist onto the surface of his desk and immediately winced with pain. Why is this evil madness infecting my life? I will not rest until I have found them!

**** Maryland ****

Duke Chancellor was suspended in thought, wondering how he could have prevented the tragedy, still pondering the sad fate of Valentin Murat when a message appeared on his computer monitor through System 18.

‘Urgent. You need to log on to the public internet and leave your computer on. A threatening ISIS message appears at random throughout the day. The exact message is as follows: ‘THE AMERICAN INFIDELS WILL DIE IN 29 DAYS WHEN THE MOON IS RED!’ Sammy.’

Duke responded within several seconds:

‘Acknowledge red message. TY’

He put down the reports he was reading and followed Sammy’s suggestion. Within two minutes, the ISIS message appeared on his computer monitor, just as Sammy had described it. Duke leaned back in his chair, folded his arms over his chest, and stared at the message for half a minute. His current impressions and thoughts tangled among his racing recollection of recent events, ominous reports, and other pieces of suspicious information.

Father Pavel Dryzhensky, Andrea Sokolov, Valentin Murat, Colonel Viktor Kovalenko and his daughter, Karina, the death of the Russian fisherman, rumors of a missing Russian nuclear bomb, the Koreans meeting with a ‘man in black’ in Tokyo, The Chinese guy–Lei Chang, someone mysterious named Shamir Rahmani, the unusual messages from David Rosenberg at Mossad, the ISIS guy–Fatih Abdul-Kaliq, the Russian GRU contact. My God! How can they all be related? Not likely… not likely… but… what if they are related?

**** Salt Lake City, Utah ****

Back in his office, Max Delaney was reviewing active case files and searching the internet for information related to Turkish pistols and weapons sources. For less than 10 seconds, the Islamic State flag message occupied his entire computer monitor, demanding attention. Its occurrence was undeniable, and its duration was sufficient for anyone with even only common memory skills to remember precisely everything on the display.

I’ve got a missing Russian colonel to think about, and now an Islamic State internet threat? Are they related? Where the hell is this message coming from?

He logged onto the Chancellor Organization’s secure System 12 and sent a message to Duke:

‘Urgent. Just saw a threatening ISIS internet message– ‘THE AMERICAN INFIDELS WILL DIE IN 29 DAYS WHEN THE MOON IS RED!’ Thought you should know ASAP. Suspect other developments out here suggest ominous implications, but I have not yet glued even two pieces of the puzzle together. M.D.’

Then he called the FBI headquarters building immediately after clicking on the ‘send’ button. A receptionist answered pleasantly, FBI. How may I direct your call?

He said as calmly as possible, Director Kingman, please.

He waited for most of the next 15 seconds expecting to wait even longer but perked up when a female voice came on the line.

Director Kingman’s office. This is Sandy. How may I help you?

Hi, Sandy. This is Agent Max Delaney in Salt Lake City. I need to speak with Mr. Kingman, please.

Just one moment, Mr. Delaney.

That ‘moment’ expanded to about 90 seconds before Kingman picked up the phone.

Kingman. What’s on your mind, Delaney?

Sir, I just saw on the internet without any prompting on my part, a message stating as follows: ‘THE AMERICAN INFIDELS WILL DIE IN 29 DAYS WHEN THE MOON IS RED,’ all capital red letters. This appeared under the image of a waving black ISIS flag with Arabic script in white. Then, after about 17 seconds, the whole image disappeared.

Sooo..., what’s your point, Delaney?

Sir, if I could see this message, then everyone else with an internet connection in this country–if not the world–can see it! This is just the kind of thing that could possibly stir up the population enough to lead to some real social unrest, anxiety, maybe riots…, or who knows what!

Agent Delaney…, do you really think the American people are that stupid?

Sir, think about this for a minute…. If it’s a prank, then we spend some money and get a couple hundred agents out to find out what the hell is going on. Or maybe we find some smart 14-year-old kid with a wicked sense of humor in the back alleys of San Diego or the Ozarks, or Beijing, Moscow, Peshawar, Upper Cerebellum, or who knows where else, and send him home to his mommy, or…

Or…, what, Delaney?

Or, if it is a real threat, and people actually start dying, then someday we are going to look pretty incompetent if we don’t start investigating with some visible and credible force and get to the bottom of this before all hell breaks loose!

Delaney, you’re getting a little ahead of yourself, don’t you think?

"Sir, that message said ‘The American Infidels will die’–plural! It did not specify how many will die. That could mean two or three, or it could mean two or three thousand. If you were a truly committed Islamic radical, then I would guess that you believe that at least half the world’s population does not believe in Islam and are therefore infidels. And that, sir, means that the implications of this message could affect Americans working or traveling abroad, as well as here in the continental United States! That message was in English! That suggests the originator wants it clearly understood in English-speaking countries, or wherever Americans happen to be! Furthermore, I doubt very much that committed Islamic extremists tend to lie to the rest of the world when it comes to furthering their agenda. It seems to me that their fundamental cause would be severely damaged if this so-called threat were proven to be empty or a hoax!"

And you believe this message?

"I do…, but it doesn’t really matter whether I believe it or not, sir. If it’s on the internet, then many people are going to see it, and I will bet that a significant number of them will believe it, and then we all will have an astronomical rumor management problem on our hands, to say the least! What I believe, sir is that we have a real problem here, and we had better get on top of it or all of us will be in the unemployment lines! In addition, the good guys in other countries all around the world will see it–if they haven’t already–and then maybe a few of them will take it seriously enough and get a jump on us in investigating whatever the hell this is all about. If we do not show some leadership, then we will suffer an unnecessary lack of credibility among our friends as well as most of the world’s investigative agencies when we may become the first to need their help. With all due respect, sir, would you rather be the first to look foolish and live, or be the first to doubt and die… sir?"

All right, Delaney. I’m sorry I put your nuts through the wringer, but I had to know your level of conviction. Get your ass down here on the next plane! I’m putting you in charge of this task, and I want you within hearing distance!

**** San Francisco International Airport ****

Saeed Hadad boarded United Airlines Flight 903, a Boeing 747 airplane, at 1:45 p.m. He was seated in 35G on the starboard aisle of the center seating section. He would arrive in Frankfurt 11 hours later at 9:45 a.m. the next morning. His layover in Frankfurt would be seven hours and 45 minutes.

Ahmad Farahani was waiting in the International Terminal, Gate A1 to board his flight to Frankfurt, Germany at 2:40 p.m. After the flight attendant organized the boarding procedure, Ahmad joined the line of passengers proceeding through the Jetway to the Airbus A380-800 aircraft parked at the end of the Jetway. He found his seat assignment 70A next to the window on the port side. That flight was due to arrive at 10:45 a.m. at Terminal 1 of the Frankfurt International Airport, where he had a layover. No direct flights were available from San Francisco to Tehran. Karim was booked on Etihad Airlines Flight 182, a Boeing 777 airplane, to Abu Dhabi, scheduled to depart at 8:55 a.m. His economy class seat for the 16-hour flight was K47, a window seat on the starboard side over the tail edge of the wing.

**** New London, Connecticut ****

Ariel was idly surfing the internet on her Dell Inspiron 15 laptop computer when the ISIS threat page appeared. With mild concern, she waited for something else to happen, but that page simply persisted in ominous silence. The keyboard was useless. As her frustration began to invade her growing concern about the message, the page mysteriously disappeared. Her home page reappeared, and her keyboard reverted to normal functional control. She rebooted the computer anyway.

This must be related to why people have been unusually interested in me lately–Vasily, Boris, the Bishop…. This does not add up. Something scary is brewing somewhere, and others seem to think I have something to do with it or can find out what they want to know. I didn’t ask for this attention…. It just started to creep up on me. ‘Infidels will die….’ Was Karina’s death part of this… this threat? Maybe everyone has just elevated the official threat alert status as a standard precaution…. Maybe Vasily was right–I need to lay low for a while… until I can sort this out. Apparently, the United States suspects Russia of having a sinister involvement in this threat…. Maybe they think Russia deliberately allowed that nuke to be stolen. Why in the world would they do that? They would be absolutely and insanely stupid to do that! That can’t be! Vasily would have told me! Maybe he doesn’t really know…. But that doesn’t make any sense, either! He’s too smart and too far up the ladder to be ignorant. He must know!

She looked at her digital LED bedroom clock on the nightstand by her bed. It was 7:53 p.m. She started to pack her suitcase with efficient mix and match clothing for an uncertain absence. She checked the internet travel sites for the lowest fare to Los Angeles, a city of about four million people within 503 square miles, and a total metropolitan population of about 19 million including the sprawling contiguous metropolitan areas surrounding it. She believed she could effectively hide from the rest of the world there and still keep up with information from the internet on her laptop. She found Virgin America Flight 399, an Airbus A320 leaving JFK International Airport at 7 a.m., and arriving non-stop in Los Angeles at 10:00 a.m. It would be a six-hour flight with slightly better than average legroom. Bradley International Airport in Hartford would have been a closer departure location but had no direct flights to Los Angeles. She called Joshua’s Limousine Service at 172 Stoddard’s Wharf Road in Gales Ferry, Connecticut, and requested a limousine to pick her up in time to take her to JFK. She would try to make up for her lost sleep during the flight.

**** Brooklyn, New York ****

Diogenes was temporarily staying at another safe house in Brooklyn on East 34th Street. He was having an early supper after another unproductive day of searching for Colonel Kovalenko, through telephone calls with his many contacts. He castigated himself for his failure to imagine that Viktor would escape or would even want to escape. He had already received the information about the identity of the burned corpse in the Menahan safe house from internal FBI sources, so he knew Viktor was somewhere else.

This is a very big country–he could be anywhere!

Although he managed to get an adequate description of Viktor out to all domestic FBI offices, he never got the basic identification facts including accurate height, weight, fingerprints, and DNA samples. He did not even have a photograph. He started surfing the internet out of idle boredom, frustration, and a distinct lack of fresh ideas. He was tired, both physically and mentally. Then his laptop monitor became blank for a few seconds, after which the ISIS threat page appeared, and his keyboard became useless. He just stared at the message for the next 30 seconds, before the image disappeared, and then his computer resumed its former normal function.

Could that have something to do with what Viktor told me? There’s a loose nuke out there somewhere, and now someone with potentially serious radical ideas… probably… has… control… of… it. Holy shit! Damn!

**** Connecticut ****

The Bishop had not eaten anything substantial for the last 18 hours. He started surfing the internet on his smartphone, looking for a nearby satisfactory restaurant. Within seconds, the phone display disappeared, and the ISIS threat page replaced it. He just stared at the message without any evaluative thought or body movement for another three seconds.