The vessel, which is large enough to carry shipping containers, tractor trailers and dozens of cars, has two dining rooms for passengers, a games area, a bar and small movie theater. Early evening, the horn sounds on board, engines rumble, water churns as the ferry lumbers out of port, ropes of white foam roll in to the shore. Looking back at the Irish coast, sun setting, the sky a tapestry of pale blue and orange and navy, and darkness out at sea.
The captain’s voice comes over a loudspeaker. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We’re anticipating light northerly winds. Shouldn’t be too bad, perhaps just a moderate chop. A relatively calm voyage.”
In the Celtic Sea, a “moderate chop” makes the vessel roll, dip, pitch. Keeping balance in the cabin showers is an athletic endeavor, even in relatively calm seas. In rough water, passengers can barely stand, stomachs turn and people retch. Items in the gift shop fall off the shelves.
The ferry has no phone service, televisions or Internet hookups—just small radios in each room with two channels bringing in classical music. On a clear night, six hours into the voyage the lights that dot the Welsh shoreline come into view. In your bunk you can feel the roll of the sea underneath, your body moving with each swell, tips of waves and spray hitting cabin windows with a hard smack. Roll, pitch, roll. Up on deck outside, a biting wind whips across the mist-soaked deck, slaps faces like a cold glove. It is peaceful, too, the engines humming evenly, water pounding the hull rhythmically, aqua and white foam churns and fizzes. Roll, pitch, roll. The ferry rounded Land’s End, crossed the western edge of the English Channel, passed the Channel Islands. Daylight returned.
Around midday, 20 hours after the voyage began, the coast of France came into view. Jim Kopp was about to land not far from the D-day beaches. He believed that most people associated Second World War heroism with the D-day landings and it grated on him because his dad had served in the Pacific—the underappreciated theater. The ferry pulled past the long breakwater and into dock at Cherbourg. A bit farther east along the coast rose the steep cliffs at Pointe du Hoc, where American Rangers pulled off their audacious landings more than 50 years ago. Jim Kopp had arrived.
New York City
March 14, 2001
Special Agent Michael Osborn heard the news from the FBI field office in Buffalo, via the London branch. They had a bead on Kopp in Dublin, but lost him. The bureau was feeling the heat. They seemed so close. Loretta Marra remained the key. If for some reason Kopp ceased his contact with Marra he might drop off their radar completely. Osborn knew the email communications between the pair was key. They needed to act quickly. He needed to break into their shared account.
On March 14, Western New York District judge William M. Skretny approved a request from the FBI to “intercept electronic communications made to or through the Yahoo! account with the user ID of aheaume, registered under the name heaume, alyssa.” The warrant also allowed the FBI to use “trap-and-trace” technology on the account—akin to tapping a phone line. All Internet servers have an Internet service provider or ISP address, a 32-bit designation written as numbers separated by periods. By tracing the origin of the ISP address used by Kopp—an Internet café, for example—the FBI could scan all material being sent from that address and isolate and read Kopp’s messages. With the ISP address, they might be able to trace the file to a specific business using that server. But first they needed to search the Yahoo! account.
In Santa Clara, in the heart of Silicon Valley, FBI agents arrived at a collection of eight low-rise buildings in a nondescript commercial strip mall—the global headquarters of Yahoo!. They served the warrant and cracked the aheaume account. The emails saved in the draft folder had not been deleted. Back in New York, Osborn was soon analyzing the messages, in particular those written a month earlier, on February 17. He read and reread the code Kopp and Marra used. “DV”; “Ronald Reagans”; “on margins”; “Jackie area”: what did it all mean? Jim Kopp would always remain certain there were code words the Edgars never figured out. But Osborn’s people cracked most of them. “DV” appeared frequently in his correspondence. He loved to throw around Latin. DV is the acronym for Deo volente: God willing.
Kopp and Marra discussed his future, whether he should he return “to the field.” They talked about “outcome” number one and two. Number one referred to wounding abortion doctors. Number two meant killing them. Number one, wrote Marra, is the desired option, but the “rate of recidivism” is high—abortion doctors may return to work after being wounded. “Ronald Reagans” or “Rsquared” was a reference to the assassination attempt on President Reagan’s life. “Jackie area”? Jackie might be a reference to Loretta’s son, who was born near Montreal, “Jackie area” was probably that part of Canada. Loretta had also written: “Mech points out that jackie is said to be under closer scrutiny these days, because others have thought of what you’ve thought of, with those others are said to be very, very naughty.” Mech was Dennis Malvasi. And jackie—Canada, or Canadian Immigration, the Canadian border—was under scrutiny of late. Kopp’s reference to “on margins” meant international borders. “Capital city of mom’s birth” was a reference to Loretta Marra’s mother, who was born in Paris.
Osborn wrote out his analysis of the emails and passed it to the Buffalo office. Murder suspect and fugitive James Charles Kopp is likely in the vicinity of Paris, plans to fly to Montreal in order to return to the field—to shoot more doctors.
Chapter 18 ~ Worried Big-Time
Dinan, France
Thursday, March 15, 2001
It is a steep climb from the marina up the cobblestone Rue du Jerzual in Dinan. The cool damp air smells of moss and wet stone. Closer to the top, the scent of fresh baguette and pastry arrives. “Dinan,” if spoken with an anglo “n” on the end will draw a blank stare from a Frenchman. Jim Kopp focused on getting the pronunciation perfect, prided himself on speaking proper French. You show respect for the locals by earnestly trying to speak the language so as not to mangle it. No need to pull any Ugly American routine, he felt.
The town, encircled by 13th-century ramparts that once guarded it from invaders, sits atop a hill overlooking the Rance River valley in France’s Brittany region. On the outside of the ramparts, down in the lower town, is the marina. Sailboats set out and wind their way north along the Rance River to the Golfe de Saint-Malo and, ultimately, the Atlantic. Dinan has 11,000 people but feels much smaller, a village trapped in a medieval time warp with its half-timbered, moss-dappled homes, some of which tilt from the weight of their 600 years, as though ready to fall at any moment. He walked inside the 12th-century Basilique Saint-Sauveur in the town center near the clock tower on Rue de l’Horloge. It was dark inside, smelling of old stone. A massive crucifix rose above the altar. Purple, yellow, and green light burst through stained glass.
Dinan is in one sense a tourist destination, not so much for North Americans as for Europeans. It still feels isolated, a fourhour drive from Paris. Jim walked among the locals, tourists, past the post office, banks—and two police stations, local and national. There were brasseries, crepe shops, lingerie stores, cybercafes. Jim Kopp got a room in a hostel in the lower city, not far from the marina. It was a drive alongside the river, through a thickly forested area, across a narrow stream, to the lone stone building called the Moulin Meen—an auberge de jeunesse, or youth hostel. He had one of the several bunk beds in room 14, second level. He met a young Japanese man and they engaged in long conversations. The hostel manager was Benoit Benetou, a man with a thoughtful face who spoke English well. The thin American appeared unremarkable to Benoit. He merely seemed adrift, like so many of the young people who stayed there.