“Okay, we just sit tight, then. Hope it goes ahead. Less than twenty-four hours to go now.”
“I’ll just come and stay at your place, if that’s all right?”
Adela’s house was about a mile from hers, at the northern end of 30th Street.
“Yep, we’ll do it all from there.”
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Manhattan
The National Security Agency cell phone security expert and cryptographer, Alex Goode, focused on the computer screen as it went blank, then a log-on page appeared. He keyed in a password and a map loaded up.
Johnson sat in the swivel chair next to him. Vic remained standing next to him and opened a fresh pack of chewing gum.
“The address. That’s Wynhurst Lane, Wolf Trap, isn’t it?” Goode asked.
“Correct,” Vic said. “I believe your guys put a new phone mast in there only a couple of days ago. My director had to kick up a stink about it before there was any movement. He called your CEO.”
“He did,” Goode said. “Although to be honest we don’t need a better signal to do the monitoring. That doesn’t make any difference. However, the better signal does mean the phone owner is more likely to make calls, so we’ve got more of a chance of picking up traffic from that person. Hang on. I’ll just need to zoom in a little here.”
The three men were sitting around a computer terminal in the back of a CIA van that was parked on a side street in lower Manhattan.
Goode enlarged the satellite image until a picture of a cul-de-sac, with large houses around it, appeared on the screen.
“What we do is superimpose the phone mast locations onto the satellite image,” Goode said. “Then we can click on the masts to get a list of calls made using that particular mast, which we can narrow down using a variety of criteria: time, carrier, call destination, and so on. This is quite a rural area, so I doubt there’ll be a very high volume. It’s not like trying to do this in the DC metropolitan area, obviously.”
He clicked on a button at the top of the screen and an orange dot appeared to the right of the screen. “That’s the new mast, about a third of a mile away.”
Then he called up a list of the call traffic running through the mast. “If he’s used the tower, we can get him on here.”
“How does that work?” Johnson asked.
“I won’t go into the technicalities,” Goode said, “but we’re basically taking advantage of a telephony signaling protocol called CCSS7, for short. Common Channel Signaling System Seven. It’s used to switch calls between different networks, but there are weaknesses in it that we can take advantage of. We can also decrypt the calls or text messages, if they happen to be encrypted.”
Vic nodded. “Okay. And the numbers?”
Goode pointed to a list of phone numbers that had appeared down the left-hand side of the screen, another set on the right. “These are the numbers local to the mast on the left, and those on the right are the remote ones. As you can see, there’s only about fifteen local ones registering for yesterday, and another nineteen today. That’s nothing.”
He looked first at Johnson, then at Vic. “We’ve been recording all the calls since this mast went live. Most of them are just women chatting, kids calling their buddies, husbands checking in, that sort of stuff.”
Johnson began to tap his fingers on the desk. “So which are the relevant ones? Sorry, I don’t want to rush you, but we’re a bit limited for time.”
Goode nodded. “Sure. There was one number that stuck out like a sore thumb. Long calls, some international, which are expensive from a pay-as-you-go cell phone, probably a burner. That’s why we focused in on it. Have a listen to this call from that number, which was just earlier today.” Goode clicked on a button, and a list of calls popped up. He double-clicked on one, which began to play.
“EDISON, it’s SILVER.”
“About time. Where have you been? Have you seen the TV coverage? Going crazy out there. What the hell—”
“Yeah, I know, I know . . .”
Johnson and Vic exchanged glances at the first use of cryptonyms. Goode let the conversation run, and Johnson listened intently. The first voice was quite clear, the second somewhat muffled.
Johnson sat up when the topic of conversation changed and glanced again at Vic.
“But I’ve got a lot planned for the next few days, a few key appearances. It would look extremely odd if I suddenly scrapped it all. So I’m going ahead as if this has nothing to do with me.”
“I don’t think you’ll get caught, but can’t you cancel these events?”
“No, it also involves one of my donors. Anyway, how much have we got coming to us from that last shipment? Has it been finalized?”
“Dead certain that SILVER is Watto,” Vic said, when the recording ended. “What do you think Joe?”
“Yes, no doubt. The old boy’s getting very careless—he should have retired years ago. I think they’re discussing that situation I told you about, the one where I took the photos of Watto.” Johnson felt constrained in what he could say in the presence of Goode, whom he didn’t know.
“But I’ve no idea who EDISON is,” Vic said.
Johnson shook his head. “No. But just one thought—did you make any progress on checking who from the Pentagon was stationed in Sarajevo in the early ’90s?”
“No, we’re still checking,” Vic said. “We haven’t seen anything obvious in the records so far.”
“The voice quality isn’t as good for EDISON,” Goode said. “We haven’t been able to trace the number yet. I think that’s a pay-as-you-go cell phone as well. But give us a bit of time, we’ll get there.”
“Yeah, okay, that’s good,” Vic said. “Can you put these calls onto a memory stick for me? I’ll take them into the office. Thanks a lot, Alex, that’s good work you’ve done.” Vic patted Goode on the shoulder. “Just keep on doing the same. If any more calls come through from that number, let me know immediately.”
Goode copied the voice files and slotted a memory stick into the computer’s USB port, then transferred them.
Vic picked up the memory stick and got up.
On the way out, he said to Johnson, “The second person, EDISON—his voice is familiar, definitely. But I can’t place him. Has to be someone well known, based on the conversation.”
“Yes, I know. It’ll come to me. I’m going to listen to it a few more times. That bit about the key appearances and donors.” Johnson gave his friend a sideways glance.
“Let’s get a voice analysis done,” Vic said. “See if we can clean the recording up a bit. Might help.”
Johnson shrugged. “Yep, give it a try.”
“What about Aisha? Have you had her pulled in yet?” Johnson asked.
“Last I heard, NYPD had gone to her place. We’ll leave it to them. Shouldn’t be a problem. We have an ongoing conversation with the people at CBA as well. They’ve got no concerns about Aisha, said she’s been a dedicated employee and has done a good job. She hasn’t been promoted, but otherwise would have no reason to do anything that would harm the studio. So they’re a bit bemused by it all.”
“I’m thinking we should talk to them about postponing this interview,” Johnson said.
“We’ve done that. They point-blank refuse. They say this interview is their biggest earner in two years. There’s tens of millions of dollars riding on it. They can’t afford to. The director whom I talked to said their debts are sky-high, they have the banks on their back, and if they cancel they’re worried a couple of them will call in their loans and torpedo the business. It’s high stakes stuff.”
“The other way around it is to pull in Franjo,” Johnson said. “That would solve it. I’ve got a hell of a job to process the info before we could compile a charge sheet covering the war crimes stuff, but we could maybe hold him temporarily?”
Vic shook his head. “Yeah, we could if we knew where he was. His office in London claims they don’t even know where he is staying. There’s
no trace of him so far at the major hotels. He can’t be far away, but he seems to have vanished as well.”
“Yes, well, he’s rather good at that.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Manhattan
“Come over here, Boris, meet Sabrina.”
Franjo turned, glass of champagne in hand, to Edvin Matić. His old friend from Mostar, with whom he was staying in New York, was standing in the door with a slim blond woman who towered at least three inches above him.
“She’s got some stuff to keep you happy and help you relax before that big interview tomorrow. Come this way,” Edvin added.
Franjo glanced out the window of the fourth-floor apartment overlooking St John’s Park, in Tribeca, and the Hudson River, then back at Edvin. He had certainly made a success of his move to the States.
“Okay,” Franjo said. He drained his champagne, stood, and followed Edvin and Sabrina into the adjacent reception room.
On the table was a silver tray with twelve lines of white powder. Next to the powder lay three rolled-up hundred dollar bills. Two other women were sitting on the sofa beyond the table, wearing outfits that left little to Franjo’s imagination.
“There you go,” said Sabrina. “Welcome to New York. Start on a high, end on a high.” She laughed.
Franjo felt as if he did need something to relax him, to take away the anxiety he had been feeling. The champagne had helped; now he needed something more.
“I don’t usually do this before dinner,” Franjo said, “But as it’s here, why not?” He picked up one of the rolled-up bills and snorted up two lines, one into each nostril.
The news coverage after the SRTV News revelations about Clinton and Iran had been massive and global, even more impactful than Franjo had expected. Now there would be a laser-like scrutiny of the interview with Spencer, because everyone would be expecting him to comment on it.
With only eighteen hours to go before the interview—which was due to take place at one o’clock the following afternoon to fit in with UK prime time television schedules—Franjo was starting to wonder if he hadn’t gone one step too far.
Sabrina leaned over and picked up one of the other hundred dollar bills. Her hand brushed against Franjo’s thigh, and she let it linger for just a couple of seconds.
Then she also snorted two lines and went to sit with the other girls.
Edvin picked up the final bill and snorted a line, then he burst into laughter. “Come on, Boris, let’s refill that glass of yours, then you can join these three girls for an hour or two. If that’s not good preparation for an interview, I don’t know what is.”
He led the way back into the room where they had started, picked up a bottle of Cristal champagne, and refilled Franjo’s glass.
“I’ll do the white stuff, but not Sabrina,” Franjo said.
“Not your type?” Edvin asked.
“No. Definitely not. In any case, I’ve got a girlfriend in London, Hayley—so I might feel guilty afterward if I did. She was going to come here but couldn’t make it in the end. Her mother was ill so she’s gone to visit her in Edinburgh.”
“Fair enough. Now, how’s it going? Seriously, good to catch up with you. It’s been a while,” Edvin said. “Everything going okay, you know, on the Syria front?”
Franjo sighed and told Edvin about the events of recent weeks and the arrival of Johnson. “We’ve had a few run-ins—exchanges of fire, shall we say. Literally I mean. It’s the last thing I need.”
Edvin rolled his eyes. “Hope he doesn’t get on my tail as well, then. The shadow of the Heliodrom never goes away, does it? Bad days.”
Edvin had been one of the others in the same HVO army unit as Franjo and Marco in 1993. Their secrets of those days were literally sealed in blood.
“Well, like I said before, if you ever need my plane, it’s at LaGuardia, a Gulfstream G280. That’ll get you as far as South America, say Lima or Bogotá, no problem. Then you’re out of here. They won’t touch you. It’s yours if you need it, my friend. You can go tonight if you’re worried—do you want to just forget the interview? I don’t know why you do this, anyway. It’s not like you need the money.”
Franjo drained his glass. “I know, I know, you’re not the only one to say that. Marco keeps telling me the same thing. It’s actually got nothing to do with money—it’s professional pride. This is my biggest interview in the States. I mean, I’ve done a few prime ministers and presidents in Europe, but it’s my biggest over here.”
“Too big an ego, buddy. That’s your problem: pride. It’ll bring you down, like it has every proud man.”
Franjo shook his head. “Nah. I just don’t like throwing in the towel. It’s taken me a long time to get Spencer on the hook for this one. But I tell you what, I actually would like a plane out of here the minute that interview finishes tomorrow. Could you get me a fast car straight from CBA to LaGuardia, then the plane? I’d owe you one, seriously.”
“What passports you got?” Edvin asked.
“Canadian, German, Argentinian. All different names.”
Franjo’s phone pinged as a message arrived. He pulled it from his pocket and read it.
“Shit. It’s from Watson. Says he’s had an alert from Customs and Border Protection telling him that Johnson arrived in New York this morning. Although that doesn’t mean anything—Johnson doesn’t know my identity.”
“How do you know?”
“How could he?”
“Still, you should pull this interview, I’m telling you,” Edvin said.
Franjo shook his head. “Nah. It’s in less than twenty-four hours. Then I’m out of here.”
His phone began to ring. It was Watson. But Franjo declined the call.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Wolf Trap, Virginia
Robert Watson rarely watched foreign satellite TV channels, but now, given the widespread coverage the Bosnia documents story was getting, he was flicking through all of them, checking for any new developments. In particular, he wanted to know if there was speculation over the identities of the CIA and Pentagon officials.
So far, to his relief, there appeared not to be.
But then Watson clicked onto SRTV, the British channel that had originally broken the story.
As he did so, the news program reached a commercial break, and an advertisement began.
“This Friday, SRTV’s award-winning current affairs show, Wolff Live, will be in New York for an exclusive interview with the speaker of the House of Representatives, Patrick Spencer,” the narrator said. “The 56-year-old, a controversial Republican, is seen by some as a future presidential candidate. It will be a unique chance to hear our star interviewer, Boris Wolff, talk to Spencer about his controversial views on immigration, Muslims, and many other issues.”
But Watson didn’t absorb any more of the advertisement. His mind raced into overdrive as he computed the implications of what he had just heard.
After four days out of the loop, traveling to Croatia and back, then trying to recover, he felt as though he were desperately playing catchup.
Cursing to himself, he reached for his phone and dialed RUNNER.
No answer. The phone rang out and eventually clicked over to voicemail.
Watson punched out a text message instead.
Just seen you’re interviewing Patrick Spencer. Are you crazy? Do you realize who he is?? Cancel it now. Call me immediately. I’ll explain.
Thirty seconds later, a reply came back.
Can’t cancel. Too much at stake. It’s my biggest interview ever.
Either the guy was drunk or on drugs, Watson thought, to be taking this so lightly. But at least he had responded. He redialed Boris’s number. But now his phone seemed to be switched off, and yet again the unanswered call went to voice mail.
“What the hell,” Watson muttered. He dialed another number, this time for EDISON, who answered after three rings.
Before the recipient cou
ld speak, Watson jumped in.
“EDISON, you fucking asshole. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be interviewed by Boris Wolff?”
“Calm down, what—”
“Shit, man,” Watson interrupted, “You have to cancel. Do you realize he’s the guy who fixes our arms sales out of Croatia? He effectively pays your goddamn bribes.” Watson put his hand on his forehead, which was now clammy with sweat. He hadn’t even bothered to go to Difficult Run River for this call. “That’s not his real name, by the way. His real name is Franjo Vuković, and he’s currently being hunted for goddamned war crimes.”
There was a pause as Spencer took in what he had just heard.
“Dammit, Robert,” Spencer said. “Why would I think to tell you? You’re the half-assed fool for keeping me in the dark—all of us in the dark—trying to keep everybody separate from each other with your code names and compartmentalizing everyone. I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me—after twenty years! That’s 100 percent your fault, not ours.”
He’s right, I’m damn stupid, Watson thought.
“I never dreamed, and why would I, that Boris Wolff would one day end up interviewing you, Patrick, of all people,” Watson said. “Not once. The only thing on my mind has been security, and need-to-know is the biggest part of that.”
Now he was furious. The use of cryptonyms had gone out the window.
“Well, you created this situation, now you’re going to have to sweat it out,” Spencer said. “There’s no way, absolutely no way, I can pull out of this interview. First, politically, it’s a golden opportunity. Second, the guy who owns CBA is one of my biggest donors.”
“How much is he in for?” Watson asked.
The Old Bridge Page 33
