Free The Intercept by Dick Wolf

even a single pixel out of place. He then ran another program to weed out normally corrupted files—bad transfers—from the systematically manipulated ones.
    It was possible now to encode plain text or mini-programs within images or movies that could crash a hard drive. A potential case of domestic terrorism the year before had turned out to be a rogue church of fundamentalist Christians using steg in gay porn to spike the computers of those the church deemed “sinful.” Members of an Al-Qaeda cell captured earlier that year in Milan were found with the usual array of pornographic downloads on their phones and computers, but also dozens of screen grabs from eBay sites selling diaper bags, used cars, furniture, and Hummel figurines. All part of a complex file-sharing communication network of terrorists who were piggybacking on legitimate Internet sites.
    Pearl’s voice followed Fisk over to Geeseman’s lab table. “There’s not much yet, but after we defog the image, some of it is in plain text. No hard intel yet. But it’s clear that they’ve been busy.”
    Fisk picked up the thin packet of printouts. He flipped through images of New York—no surprise, more than 50 percent of the traffic analysis at NSA headquarters at Fort Meade was Big Apple. The city had become an international terrorist obsession. By comparison, every other potential target in the United States was small potatoes.
    These images were postcard views, though. Commercial photographs. Not handheld surveillance.
    Geeseman walked over, perhaps concerned that Fisk was going to move something out of place on his lab table. “Refreshed after your break?” asked Geeseman.
    Fisk suppressed an eye roll. Geeseman was a closet cigarette smoker who could not last more than two hours at a time inside the bunker. He and Geeseman had a purely professional relationship. Fisk’s rule-breaking reputation in New York had surely preceded him. “I had a quick hot tub and a rubdown, and now I feel like a million bucks.”
    “I see you found the first scans.”
    “Looks like the wonder twins are making progress. What about the others?”
    “Slow and steady. Bonner, Elliott, and Cadogan are up to their ears with fantastic samples, but not much right-away intel. They’re going to spend the rest of the day cataloging for stateside forensics. We’ve got a C-17 picking it all up tomorrow about this time. Going to Dover for distribution to the task force agencies. Most of it’ll end up with Meade and Langley.”
    Fisk shook the New York scans. “And Intel Division.”
    “Of course,” said Geeseman.
    Geeseman moved on, but Fisk remained with the scans, flipping through the last pages. The images were printed six to a page, not unlike mug shots, and Fisk’s eyes went to the flowers. Three different images of sunflowers. He recognized one image of a vase bouquet from a book on his coffee table back home. The other two were similarly post-impressionist and, if not Van Goghs also, dutiful knockoffs.
    But the color copies were somehow duller than the crisp New York cityscapes. As though they were second- or third-generation scans of printed material.
    Fisk called back to Geeseman. “Hey, did OBL keep a garden?”
    “A what?”
    “These pictures of sunflowers here.”
    Geeseman walked back to him to take a look. “He or his wives kept a vegetable patch near the animal pen. Thing was immaculate.”
    “Just vegetables?”
    Geeseman reached for a laptop, quickly shuffling through images of the compound. “See for yourself.”
    Fisk zoomed in. “Immaculate” was the right word. But no decorative flowers in sight.
    Geeseman was already at Pearl’s side. “Flower pictures?”
    “Flower power,” said Pearl, his fingertips clicking over the keyboard, producing on-screen type faster than Fisk could read.
    Image windows opened, one after the other.
    “Lookie here,” said Pearl.
    Rosofsky rose from his chair, peering over the top of the back-to-back monitors. Pulling