Ben-Roi’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, when they first came on the scene about six, seven years ago, they
were
just hacking. And launching the occasional virus attack. All cyber stuff, basically. But then – I think it was about three or four years ago – they firebombed an office in Tel-Aviv, some big multinational, the first time they’d ever done anything like that. No one was actually hurt but it was still a big departure. And from that point on their tactics have definitely been a lot more . . . confrontational: forced entry, sabotage, kidnapping executives, forcing them to make filmed confessions. There’s a rather gruesome one on their site at the moment. Some French guy whose company was involved in shady dealings down in the Congo. It’s only been up twenty-four hours and apparently there’s already been a mass protest outside the company’s head office in Paris and half a dozen cyber attacks on their computer network. That’s the sort of impact the Agenda has.’
He sat back and folded his arms, glancing over at the next-door booth where the two women had erupted into peals of laughter. He was silent a moment, then looked back at Ben-Roi.
‘Interestingly, the change in tactics does seem to have coincided with the appearance of this Israeli cell,’ he said, ‘splinter group, faction, whatever you want to call them. They seem to be the ones who are behind most, if not all, of the violent direct action; who’ve shifted Nemesis from a purely cyber-based organization to something more like a full-on guerrilla outfit. Or terrorist outfit, depending on your viewpoint.’
‘Any idea why the shift?’ This from Zisky, his first contribution to the conversation.
‘No one really knows for sure,’ replied Regev, ‘although there’s been some pretty intense web chatter on the subject. I’ve included some of it in the printouts.’
He tapped the envelope again.
‘Majority opinion seems to be that certain people within Nemesis wanted to take a more hardline approach and, for reasons best known to themselves, relocated to Israel to do it. They’ve stayed within the Nemesis fold to the extent that they’ve continued feeding material into the website, but alongside that have got on with pursuing their own more militant agenda. A sort of agenda within the Agenda, if you like. It seems a reasonable explanation. Certainly more reasonable than that of the conspiracy theorists who argue it’s all an elaborate plot to discredit Nemesis cooked up by the security services and/or a cabal of multinationals. I really can’t see that one scanning at all.’
Another peal of laughter rang out from the next-door seat. In the room at the back of the bar the football commentary became more animated, and there was a sudden roar of cheering, presumably as one of the sides scored. Ben-Roi dipped his head, trying to catch who it was. Hapo-el. Shit. He listened a moment, then again zoned it out.
‘This Israeli lot,’ he said, turning his attention back to Regev. ‘You haven’t come across any mention of them being linked to Mitzpe Ramon, have you?’
Regev shook his head. ‘Dov told me you thought there might be a connection. If there is, I’ve certainly never heard about it.’ He flicked at the top of his bottle. ‘Although there
does
seem to be a connection with a company called Barren Corporation. Dov said you were interested in them as well.’
Ben-Roi sat forward. ‘What sort of connection?’
‘Well, Nemesis seem to have a bit of a thing for Barren,’ said Regev. ‘Or
against
Barren. I did a quick breakdown . . . hang on –’ he opened the manila envelope and flicked through its contents, pulling out a sheet of A4.
‘These are all the instances in which Nemesis have targeted Barren. Or at least all the
reported
instances. As you can see, there’re quite a few of them. Way more than any other company, so far as I can make out.’
Ben-Roi stared down at the sheet, counted off nineteen separate incidents, stretching back seven years.
‘They were one of the first companies Nemesis ever cyber-attacked,’ continued Regev, ‘and they seem to have been going for them on and off ever since, particularly over the last few years, since this Israeli group have come on the scene. That bombing I told you about in Tel-Aviv, the first time Nemesis had ever done anything violent . . .’
‘Barren?’
Regev nodded. ‘They’ve also broken into their offices, sabotaged a couple of their installations . . . it’s almost like they’ve got a vendetta against them. More than almost like – they clearly
have
got a vendetta against them.’
‘Any idea why?’ asked Zisky.
‘Again, there’s a fair bit of chat-room speculation on the subject,’ replied Regev. ‘Everything from a disgruntled employee throwing in his lot with Nemesis to a rival multinational somehow using Nemesis to undermine their competitors. None of it really stacks up. My own guess, and it
is
just a guess, is that Nemesis are pissed off because they can’t actually get anything on Barren. The worst they ever seem to have uncovered about them were some health and safety failings in one of their operations in Australia. Hardly earth-shattering. It’s like Barren’s the one that got away, and they’ve never forgiven them for that. Taken it as some sort of personal insult.’ He shrugged. ‘Then again, maybe I’m talking complete bullshit. Like I said – when it comes to the Nemesis Agenda, there are a lot of theories out there, but almost nothing by way of hard fact. For all we know, the whole thing could be run by a bunch of Martians.’
Ben-Roi smiled. Regev tilted his head and murmured something to Zisky, which Ben-Roi didn’t catch, then glanced at his watch, a huge silver Tag Heuer that looked more like something off an aircraft instrument panel than a timepiece.
‘I should probably be getting off,’ he said.
‘Sure I can’t get you another one?’
‘Better not. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’ He gave Zisky a quick squeeze on the shoulder and stood. Ben-Roi slid out of the booth to let him pass. The two of them shook hands.
‘I’ll have an ask around,’ said Regev. ‘Let Dov know if anything else comes to mind.’
‘Appreciated,’ said Ben-Roi. ‘And thanks for the printouts.’
Regev waved a hand, started to turn, then swung back. ‘Listen, it’s none of my business, but Dov mentioned this was to do with that woman in the cathedral. Don’t worry, he didn’t give me any details . . .’
Ben-Roi shook his head to show he didn’t really care if Zisky had.
‘For what it’s worth, I really can’t see Nemesis being involved in something like that. I’m certainly not condoning their methods, but to date they’ve never targeted anyone who didn’t . . .’
‘Deserve it?’
Regev grunted. ‘I just think they have a very specific remit. And murdering female journalists doesn’t really fit the profile. It’s only an opinion and, like I said, I’m a computer geek, so what the hell do I know? I just thought I’d mention it. Don’t keep him out too late. He needs his beauty sleep.’
He winked at Zisky, nodded at Ben-Roi and left.
Ben-Roi bought another round.
‘Nice guy,’ he said, sliding back into his place and handing Zisky the Jack Daniel’s he’d requested.
‘Certainly is,’ acknowledged Zisky, accepting the drink and moving over to make more room.
‘Really nice.’
Zisky didn’t rise to that, just sipped his bourbon and gave another of those knowing half-smiles. Ben-Roi thought about pushing the conversation, trying to find out more – if Regev had been a woman he would certainly have pressed for details, engaged Zisky in some risqué banter. In this instance it didn’t seem appropriate. Instead he took a swig of his beer and filled him in on the
vosgi
situation. The kid’s smile faded.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have—’
Ben-Roi waved a hand. ‘It happens. If I had a shekel for every time I’d got the wrong end of the stick, I’d have enough shekels to . . .’
‘Buy a better stick?’
Ben-Roi smiled, laid an arm across the top of the seat. He’d been tired when he first arrived at the bar. The Tuborg had sharpened him up, given him a second wind.
‘You said you’d found some stuff on Barren?’
Zisky produced a second manila envelope. It was bulging with papers. Not for the first time, Ben-Roi had to take his hat off to the kid’s efficiency. There was enough material here to keep him up all night.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t have time to do a full report,’ said Zisky, pulling a set of stapled sheets from the envelope and handing them over. ‘I’ve done some bullet points which might help.’
Hats off again. Ben-Roi ran his eyes down the sheet. ‘You want to give me the highlights?’
‘Well, the company’s big. Fifty-billion-dollar turnover, offices round the world, several dozen subsidiaries, interests in everything from oil drilling to gold-mining to biofuels. Secretive as well. Doesn’t welcome publicity. Head honcho’s a guy called Nathaniel Barren . . .’
He fumbled in the envelope and produced an image – a huge, glowering, bearded man in a tweed suit.
‘He’s been chairman for the last forty years. Bit of a hard nut, by all accounts, although it seems he’s not in great health now. Son’s a loose cannon, apparently.’
Another image came out, this one of a younger man, blond-haired and handsome, his mouth curled into something midway between a smile and a sneer.
‘Had a few run-ins with the law. Drugs, assault – reportedly tried to throttle a hooker a few years back. Father had to pull a lot of strings to get him off the rap. It’s all in there.’ Zisky touched a finger to one of the bullet points.
‘Anything about that Romanian mine?’
‘All above board, apparently. Barren have been running it since 2005 and there hasn’t been any controversy. Good relations with the Romanian government and the local community.
And
the green lobby – seems they’ve done some deal to recycle the worst of the waste back in the States, which means there haven’t been any of the usual run-ins with environmental groups. Everyone’s happy, basically.’
Ben-Roi sucked on his beer. Again, the thought struck him: Maybe I
have
got it wrong. Maybe it
is
all a red herring.
‘There
were
a couple of things that jumped out at me,’ continued Zisky.
‘Go on.’
‘A big Israel link, for one. Barren have got interests all over the country: stakes in a potash mine down on the Dead Sea, an offshore gas field up by Haifa, a big diamond cutting operation in Tel-Aviv. Political influence, too. I spoke to your friend on
Ha’aretz
, and he told me Barren are a major donor to Kadima, Likud
and
Yisrael Beiteinu. That gives them a lot of leverage. “One of the untouchables” was how he described them.’
He glanced up as a group of young men came in through the door, laughing and chatting. They spread along the bar and ordered pints of Kasteel.
‘There’s a personal angle as well,’ he added, turning back to Ben-Roi. ‘Seems Nathaniel Barren’s wife was Israeli. Died a few years back. Car smash. He’s never got over it, apparently.’
Ben-Roi sipped and pondered, again trying to compute how any of this might link in with Kleinberg’s murder, again failing to come up with any obvious explanation. At the bar the attractive middle-aged woman had turned slightly on her stool, assessing the new arrivals. A cougar eyeing potential prey. One of the men, spotty and pale-faced, smiled at her and raised a hand in greeting.
Out of your depth, son
, thought Ben-Roi. He watched a moment, amused by the tableau, then:
‘What was the other thing?’
‘Sorry?’
Zisky, too, was analysing the dynamic at the bar.
‘You said a couple of things leapt out at you.’
‘Right, yes. Well, Barren have got an Egypt connection as well. According to your friend, they’ve cultivated some pretty close business and political links there over the years. They’ve got an office in Cairo, interests in several mining operations. Seems they’re currently tendering for the rights to some big gas field out in the Sahara. Apparently if it comes off it’ll be one of the biggest deals they’ve ever done.
The
biggest deal. Seems this Nathaniel Barren’s staking his reputation on it.’
At the bar, the men had got their drinks and started trooping off to the back room to watch the football. The spotty guy said something to the middle-aged woman, but she just shrugged and turned her back on him, not interested. Ben-Roi felt sorry for him. It had been the same story when he’d been that age.
‘You didn’t come across anything about sex-trafficking, did you?’ he asked.
‘What, like are Barren involved in it?’
Zisky’s tone pretty much answered the question. Whatever other pies Barren had its fingers in, illicit prostitution was unlikely to be one of them. Ben-Roi took another punt.
‘How about a guy called Samuel Pinsker?’
Zisky looked like he recognized the name. ‘Remind me.’
‘British mining engineer. Fell down a hole in Luxor. Kleinberg was reading about him in one of those articles I told you about.’
‘Right. No, he didn’t crop up.’ He rolled the last half centimetre of bourbon around the bottom of his glass. ‘Although Luxor did.’
Ben-Roi sat forward, motioned for Zisky to tell him more.
‘Well, it seems Barren have been pouring a lot of money into the country lately, funding quite a few social projects. All to do with that Saharan gas field tender I mentioned.’
‘Bribery?’
‘Your friend Natan Tirat called it “profile raising”, but I guess it comes down to the same thing. Anyway, one of the projects is a big museum in Luxor, in the Valley of the Kings. Barren have paid for the whole thing, apparently, laid out a good few million on it. Seems Nathaniel Barren himself is coming over for the opening. I guess it’s a link of sorts, although I can’t exactly see the relevance.’
He shrugged, gave his Jack Daniel’s another swirl and downed it. Ben-Roi did the same with his Tuborg. In the back room the men had started singing a Green Apes supporters’ anthem – badly out of tune, but at least they were rooting for the right team. The girls in the neighbouring booth stood and left, still giggling; a moment later the attractive middle-aged woman did the same, leaving just them and the barman in the front room.