Authors: Linda Davies
“Briefing at the White House tomorrow at five,” he declared. “I’ll need to talk about Sheikh A. Give me something to take to POTUS.”
Del Russo, Peters, and Furlong all came up with versions of
nothing new,
some wordier than others. Southward shook her head, lips pursed in disappointment.
“We haven’t lucked out on the algorithms again. We’re trying, but no more successful intercepts.”
Moira Zucker gave Southward a pitying look. Displaying the big-game temperament that had accelerated her rise up through CTC, she had waited till last.
“As it happens, sir, I have something. It’s to do with the puts. I’ve been following the markets, seeing what gets registered, using some real useful software which flags up these specialized trades. More have been put on over the past ten days. And some shorts. Someone’s doing it with finesse, not wanting to overload the market. But it’s systematic, and it’s huge. This is the Big Player.”
“Excellent!” declared Canning.
“The trading pattern is extremely intricate,” continued Zucker. “Layer upon layer of nominee companies. I’ve peeled some more layers back, only to find yet more. Cunning sonofabitch, whoever put them on.”
“Recognize any of the nominees? Got anything real under the layers?” asked Canning.
Zucker curled her lip. “Yet again, Wall Street’s finest,” she replied, reeling off a list of specific names.
“
Reallllllly
…” Canning rolled out the word, stroking his shiny pate thoughtfully. He smiled. His desk warrior would get to play again.
“I might be able to help,” he said musingly. “In the meantime, I think we should get SEC more involved in this. At the small end. Let’s see what they have to say about our little player. They might have some extra insights. I got the feeling Bergers was holding back. We got the FISA warrant on Ronnie Glass?” he asked Zucker.
“Up and running as of nine a.m. this morning,” she replied. “I’m gonna start snooping soon as we’re through here.”
“And I’m gonna ring Troy Bergers at SEC,” replied Canning. “Might just make his Monday.”
78
THE SECURITIES AND EXCHANGE COMMISSION, NYC, MONDAY MORNING
Troy Bergers liked Mondays. He loved his weekends, rich with sport, food, and sex, but when they were over he was more than ready for the battle of the week. This particular Monday would go down as one of his all-time favorites.
He’d only been in the office three minutes, his takeout cappuccino was still hot, when the phone rang. Andrew Canning himself, the head honcho at Counterterrorism Center on the line. Bergers gripped the receiver hard. Canning had news and a request; an order, effectively. Bergers was more than happy to accede.
“I’ll get my people onto it as of now. Keep me in the loop,” Bergers said, listening in for a few more moments of mutual pleasantries, before thudding the phone back into its cradle.
He hit his intercom. “
Bret!
Get Wilks and Rac in here, would ya?”
Wilkie and Rodgers appeared within the minute. Rac, noted Bergers, looked darker-eyed than ever. Wilkie glowed like the star in an ad for middle-aged vitamin supplements.
“Sit,” instructed Bergers. He stayed behind his cluttered desk, wearing his best poker face.
He watched them sit, waited a long moment, ratcheting up their interest, ever the showman.
“We got something big here. We got something nasty here,” he intoned, leaning forward, head lowered like a bull about to charge.
“And this is good?” asked Wilkie, head tilted, one eyebrow elegantly raised.
Bergers sat back. “Very good for us. Very bad for Ronald Glass.”
He cracked a smile, benevolent father to favored child.
“I happened to overhear you saying, Ange, that you would like to listen in to Ronnie’s cell phone, and to his home.”
“Yeah, well, a girl can dream.”
Bergers’ smile grew even bigger. “Sometimes dreams come true.”
“We can
listen in?
” asked Ange, springing to her feet.
Bergers nodded. “Home. Cell phone.”
“How?” asked Rodgers, suddenly wide awake.
“I think it was you, Ange, who said that it would take evidence of terrorist activity to get approval to listen in to his cell phone and his home. You even added that the Counterterrorism Center would be able to get approval and access,” mused Bergers.
“I did,” replied Wilkie, not quite believing where this seemed to be going.
“You must be psychic.”
Wilkie laughed. “Oh I am. You’re giving me a pay raise tomorrow!”
Bergers belted out a laugh. “Maybe I just will.”
“Guys! Put me outta my misery here!” cried Rac, raising his palms in the air. “What the hell’s going on?”
“CTC just rang!” declared Bergers. “Andrew Canning, no less. They connected two pieces of your intel. One of the buyers of the puts on California real estate casualty property companies happens to be none other than our Ronald Glass.”
Ange shouted, “
Whaat?
”
Rac blinked rapidly. “Well, I’ll be…”
Bergers grinned. “My reaction too. Dirty Ronnie was using nominee companies and all that shit, but CTC would appear to have just blown through those walls like a house fire. You should know that Canning told me there are other buyers of the puts too, but the identity of that buyer or buyers they don’t know or aren’t sharing.”
Ange stared at Bergers, mouth open in amazement.
“And get this,” continued Bergers, fisting his hands, drumming them on the table. “What is evident is that the buyers of these puts are suspected of being involved, directly, or possibly unwittingly, in potential terrorist activity. CTC’s already got a FISA warrant out on Ronnie, enabling them to get access to
all
his comms;
all
his electronic intel; audio, text, and e-mail. The whole friggin’ lot!” he exclaimed, raising his meaty arms in a triumphal salute.
Ange let out a whistle. “Pay dirt!”
Bergers nodded. “Damn right! Guys, your contact at CTC is Moira Zucker; I believe you’ve already spoke with her, Ange. Zucker’ll copy you both in on all the intercepts.”
Ange and Rac exchanged a look: thrill, determination, delighted shock.
“For our part,” Bergers continued, more soberly, “we have been asked real nicely by the CTC guys to keep digging, to find out what the hell is going on. And to help interpret the intel that comes down.”
“Christmas and birthday all at once,” said Rodgers, beaming.
“Freakin’ miracle!” exclaimed Wilkie, beaming back. “Oh Ronnie, what the hell have you gotten into?”
“That’s the question, ain’t it?” retorted Bergers.
“Doesn’t seem like a terrorist to me,” mused Wilkie.
“All the more dangerous, then,” noted Rac.
“Maybe he’s the bag man?” suggested Wilkie.
“That’s what CTC wants to figure, like yesterday,” replied Bergers.
“Did you pass on my contact’s thoughts about why someone would buy California casualty prop puts?” asked Wilkie.
“Because of the earthquake or this fabled ARk Storm?” asked Bergers. He shook his head. “Too far fetched.”
“Can we afford to make that call?” pushed Wilkie.
Bergers stopped grinning. “I’ll think about it. Keep digging.”
“Until I hit China,” promised Wilkie, striding from the office. “Ronald Glass, you are going
down
!”
79
NATIONAL COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER, TYSON’S CORNER, VIRGINIA
At Tyson’s Corner, the weather built. The rain sluiced down, weaving a series of rivulets on Canning’s windows, snaking, crossing, merging. Golf would have to be postponed, but Canning was bolstered by the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that came with progress. Ronald Glass was their first break. It often took just one, then the chain could build, link by link, taking you right to the end.
Technology was a wondrous thing, and he had at his disposal an arsenal of toys that would have been deemed science fiction just a few years ago. Asymmetric warfare, another way of saying
play to your strengths
… the US had money, still, and technological tools at the razor end of cutting edge, but, just as important, it had agents with skills and brilliance and just the right measure of larceny in their souls. In this case, it was a measure of his own larceny that had served up Ronnie Glass in quick time, but it was technology that would slice and dice him, show all his hidden angles.
And in the meantime, a tad more larceny was called for. There were times when Canning felt like a mere administrator, a paper pusher, not even a desk warrior. The excuse to rattle some cages delighted him.
Through the morning, he made a series of further phone calls to a number of Wall Street CEOs. At noon he called in Zucker again.
He could sense her own larceny, see it in her eyes, veiled and proper, just occasionally unveiled for him in the safe sterility of his office. Every boss had favorites, couldn’t help it. Zucker was at the very top of his favorites list, seemed to know it too.
“Close the door,” he instructed.
“Sure,” she answered carefully. She folded herself into the chair, sat demurely, hands in lap, face uptilted like a child awaiting a favorite story.
“Amazing how cooperative Wall Street can be when the pressure’s really on,” Canning began, smiling broadly at his analyst. “Helps that we’re on the side of the angels tho,” he conceded.
“Always,” agreed Zucker. “So, tell me, sir,” she urged throatily.
“They sold out the next layer. Three names cropped up repeatedly. Canning named the banks.
“The Far East,” mused Zucker. “I’ll bet those banks are another layer in the cake. There’ll be yet another level of nominees underneath.”
“I’m with you. It’ll be harder to make
them
talk,” observed Canning, running his finger up and down his nose. “Might have to get creative,” he concluded.
Zucker nodded slowly, conveying with her eyes that she had taken his meaning perfectly. “There’s more than one way to peel an onion, I believe.”
The word hovered unsaid between them: hacking. The Chinese weren’t the only ones who excelled at it.
Canning nodded sagely. He didn’t say a word.
See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
As if to underline her point, Zucker removed her red-framed spectacles, laid them on Canning’s desk.
“Depending on how successful I am, we might have to get someone on the ground if it does turn out to be Singapore or China, depending on how fast you need answers,” she added.
“Let me think about it. We do not want to alert Mr. Big, whoever he might be, not until we’re ready to close him down. Time and discretion, usually enemies,” cautioned Canning.
Zucker smiled. She put on her glasses.
“I’ll tread softly,” she said, proving her point as she rose smoothly, turned, and glided noiselessly from Canning’s office, high heels soundless, even on the carpets worn thin in the corridor beyond.
80
THE LAB, MONDAY MORNING
Gwen arrived at Falcon at 11:00
A.M.
Two hours later than normal. Two of the best hours of her life. She smiled at the CCTV as she swiped her pass, keyed in her PIN. She walked toward her office wondering if Kevin Barclay had come in to work. She glanced toward his office, saw him sitting there. She gave him brownie points for that, at least. He looked up, met her eye.
Two minutes later, he joined her at the coffee machine. His nose was heavily swollen, bruised blue, black, and red. His left eye was also swollen and bruised from where Gwen’s palm had also hit. Collateral damage, thought Gwen, veiling her smile.
“So, what happened to you, then?” she asked him, of necessity, as Peter Weiss ambled up beside them.
“Ran into some trouble when I left the bar. Couple of punks,” he said neutrally, eyes on Gwen.
Weiss angled his head. “Looks even worse than when you came in,” he observed in a voice richer in glee than compassion.
“Surprised you can see to focus,” Barclay replied, his normally smooth voice nasal and piqued. Gwen almost felt sorry for him. Weiss looked rough too, she noted: red-veined eyes, bloated face; hungover.
“What you put away last night would sink a football team,” continued Barclay. “Thought you’d given up the hooch.”
“I don’t touch it. As a rule,” Weiss replied tightly.
“Now now, children. Play nice,” murmured Gwen. She took her coffee, walked away, leaving them to their sparring.
* * *
She sat at her desk, sipping her coffee, body humming. She tried to work on the model of Zeus running on the laptop before her. Her mind strayed repeatedly.
“So how’s the arm?”
Gwen looked up. Gabriel Messenger, resplendent in gray trousers and electric-blue shirt, stood in her doorway, smiling at her.
“Oh, seems fine, thank you. Doesn’t hurt.”
“Of course it hurts. Unless you’re dosing yourself with morphine!”
Gwen tried, and failed, to suppress a smile. No, something much more powerful, she thought. She wore a long-sleeved shirt to cover the grass stains. She hoped Messenger wouldn’t ask to see it.
“You’re the tough surfer girl, of course. I forgot. You feel no pain,” he said with an ironic smile.
“Correct.”
“Keep an eye on the stitches. Get your dressing changed tomorrow.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Gwen smiled, felt the burn of her betrayal as she thought of planting the bug after Messenger, with surprising gentleness, had cleaned and stitched her wound.
“How’s Mandy?” she asked.
“In bed. Recovering.” Messenger gave a pained smile. “Every year she gets tanked and pulls a stunt. Can’t imagine what she’ll get up to next year.” Messenger raised a hand in farewell, turned and left her.
Gwen swiveled in her chair, looked out of the window, gazed over the sandy scrub toward the hills, pale blue in the shimmering distance. She could not imagine being here in a year. The fluttering in her stomach wasn’t just because of Dan. Under the euphoria there was still fear, and the gut awareness that something, the unseen wave that seemed to be heading her way, would break soon.