by D S Kane
Find Hing Fat Restaurant at 810 Ashley Rd., Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon, Hong Kong. It’s near lower Nathan Road. If you get lost, call them for directions, but only if you speak Cantonese.
Jon flagged a taxi. He showed the screen to the driver, who nodded and pulled away from the curbside.
An hour later, he walked in and saw a short, pudgy man wearing thick black plastic-rimmed glasses and prominently holding the morning’s Washington Post. He sat down at the man’s table. “Why here?”
Wing pointed to the bowl of soup in front of him. “Try the soup dumplings or any of the Cantonese-style roast meats. Probably worth the trip from the States.” He handed a menu to Jon.
Jon wore a hooded black sweatshirt. “William, Mossad needs help. Now. Please.”
William’s shoulders folded inward. In a voice just above a whisper, he said, “Yeah. Shit. Uh, no way. Last time, even though you paid me well, there was danger. To me! I hate danger.” He faced Jon.
Sommers nodded. “Ah. Well, I wasn’t about to pay you to go with me to the bloody opera. But, done right, it isn’t dangerous.”
Wing shook his head. “That’s what one of your kidons told me last time. Look, when I got home after that disaster, I looked up the meaning of kidon. It means bayonet. A fucking weapon. So, why should I trust you this time?”
Jon remembered the history course Ben-Levy taught the recruits. “My mission is critical. Listen, I have a story to tell you. And it’s ugly. See, about twenty years ago, Prince Hamid in Arabia saw the obvious. The more orthodox Wahhabis would overthrow the Saud family because of their obvious excesses and abuses of Islamic law, the Sharia. And when he approached his peers to urge them to reform, he was rebuffed. Too low in the line of succession for his opinion to be considered, I suspect. So, he did the one thing he could to accomplish his objectives. He funded the creation of the Bank of Trade. He used a bank where he was the plurality investor in common stock—American Bank and Trust—to provide capital and cover. They supplied the personnel and ostensibly invested in the bank’s capital structure, selling its stock to individuals and pension funds. But most of the funds American Bank and Trust supplied actually came from his own very deep pockets. To relieve the pressure from the Wahhabi leaders, the prince told them the bank would fund terrorism, including the Muslim Brotherhood and its sister organizations. And that worked, taking the heat off the Saud family. But the prince also dropped much of his own net worth into the bank, hoping the bank would provide a safe haven, just in case things in the kingdom went south.”
William looked away. “Yeah, well so what? A history lesson. Big deal. What has this got to do with me?” He picked up his bamboo chopsticks and examined the ends, soy sauce dripping off them.
Sommers was losing the argument. He raised his voice a tad. “This is serious. The bank is a danger to the world. Especially Israel. And if something happens to Israel, Mossad won’t be around to make you rich. I need you to get me intel showing me who gets the cash from Hamid’s account. Which terrorists are hooked to the prince’s teat? Most urgently, a bomb maker named Tariq Houmaz. See, these are internal accounts at the bank. They’re not on a computer hooked into any network, so, you can’t hack your way in. I need your feet on the ground in their back office.”
Wing’s brows rose. “I thought you wanted a simple hack, but what you want is crazy. I’m not built like that. No can do. I don’t even speak their language! I speak Russian and German, but not any of theirs.”
Sommers nodded, his eyes focused on something within. “Yes. There is that. But, as difficult as the language barrier might be, you’re my only hope.” Jon realized it hadn’t occurred to him that language might be an issue. After all, in less than two months of classes with the Mossad he’d learned Arabic, Hebrew, Urdu, Dari, and Pashtu well enough to survive And, like most Europeans, Jon knew most of the Continental languages from his schooling.
Wing shook his head. “Mr. O’Hara, you’re shit out of luck today.” He rose from his seat.
Jon stared at the food on the table. This had been a waste of time, and time was his most precious commodity. “You’re right, of course. I’ll have to find another way. But when I have the files, could you—”
Wing nodded. “Sure. Call me when you’ve got the intel. I can hack through the files easily enough” He walked out the restaurant’s door.
Jon sat at the table, dumbstruck as the waiter delivered a huge bowl of war won ton soup.
This plan had also failed. He’d have the trip back to New York to think about a new one. Crane would soon put him in prison, or worse, Ben-Levy would have him executed.
But, one thing was sure. His list of safer options was at an end. The next step would put him in real danger. He’d no alternatives left.
Chapter Nineteen
Al-Khalid’s Clothing,245 West 32nd Street, Manhattan
September 2, 11:13 a.m.
The Middle Eastern clothing store near Sixth Avenue and 32nd Street provided everything Jon needed. A seedy-looking business suit, a traditional Pakistani hat, and several tribal dress shirts. Once again, he’d withdrawn cash from an ATM and handed the shopkeeper several bills. Cash leaves no footprint.
Across the street he found an electronics boutique and bought several burner phones with prepaid minutes for each of his three identities, and four additional 64-gigabyte thumb-drives. He wasn’t sure what he’d need, but oversupplying himself was safer than finding out too late that he had guessed wrong.
Before heading on to his apartment, he stopped at the Stern library and used their computers to craft a résumé for Salim al-Muhammed. The legend for the document had him born in London as Harry Schmidt. His family moved to Pakistan for business when he was a teenager, and he’d arrived in the United States about two years ago on a student visa. He’d never attended college, and, he was an illegal. No responsible bank would hire someone with his creds. But, the Bank of Trade might. He printed out several copies. Then he copied the files from Sandhia’s thumb-drive onto two of the spares he’d bought, leaving the other two empty.
While on campus, he called Crane. “I have an identity for Salim al-Muhammed. An illegal, with a tad of work part-time as a bookkeeper. See that your mole in the Bank of Trade calls Salim for an interview, but not for about a week. And there’s one more thing I need you to do before I meet with them.”
“What, Jon?”
“Get the bloody docs into Sorab’s hands as we agreed. Then I’ll risk my life.” He waited for the spymaster’s response for a minute.
“Agreed. So, you’ll be infiltrating the bank. I was wondering what you’d do next. Call me when you’re ready.” Crane terminated their call.
As soon as he returned to the apartment, Jon scanned the yellow pages for a local doctor. A Jewish surgeon.
He asked for an appointment that afternoon. “No, I’ve no medical insurance. It’ll be cash up front. Yes, that’s right. I’m marrying a Jew and need to be circumcised before the ceremony.”
When he woke in his own bed the next morning, he didn’t remember the surgery. But as the anesthesia wore off, his entire groin became a wall of pain. He peeked under the covers to find his bandaged penis black and blue down to its base, the bandage bloody. Jon winced. The sight was even worse than the sensation.
Smarting, he regretted his plan. But, playing an Arab, he needed to be circumcised for the pre-employment physical. His week at Dreitsbank had shown him what an employer would require. But Dreitsbank had turned into a very temporary position. An irony occurred to him: his first real job after college was for a cover assignment.
The painkillers weren’t powerful enough. It was two days before he could walk without showing signs of pain. He worried that evidence of the surgery would prompt questions in the minds of his employer. He needed to get his task completed as soon as he could. Every day he was closer to a Mossad hit team or prison in Great Britain.
When he could walk without wincing, he called Crane. “I’m ready now. Have your in
side man set up the interview. And make sure you brief me about everything before I set foot in the bank.”
The tanning parlor on West 61st Street offered a modicum of privacy. Jon undressed and examined his body. His penis was still red. Thinking about sex with Sandhia, the heartache he’d forced himself to ignore, the rush of pleasure; all led to an erection. The pain from his engorged penis was overwhelming. He closed the lid of the tanning bed and waited for the beep signaling he’d been properly cooked. It was his third visit in two days. He looked like the passport picture of his alter ego, Salim al-Muhammed.
In two more days, Jon’s body had tanned to a medium dark brown. Even his circumcised penis was a golden color, except for the long, thin red circumcision scar running along its tip. He gathered a cheap-looking suit and a stained white shirt from his closet and donned them, along with an out-of-fashion necktie and scuffed brown shoes.
Nodding, he smiled into the mirror. His teeth were a perfect white, and there was nothing he could do about it. Except remember not to smile. Not enough time to stain them dark. He tried turning his smile into a near sneer, not exposing his teeth. That worked better. He practiced sneering until he could conjure it without thinking.
His English accent wouldn’t be a problem. Many Middle Easterners had been schooled in Great Britain and then emigrated to New York. He’d have to modify his accent so it didn’t sound so “Cambridge.”
He pulled a cheap attaché case from under his desk and reviewed the résumé of Salim al-Muhammed, his alter ego. He’d committed it to memory after he received the Bank of Trade’s snail mail reply to his résumé for their accounting clerk position. The same day, he also received a blank envelope shoved under his door containing a single sheet of paper with the typed words “Docs delivered to SS today.” Was this a lie?
It was time to go. Jon’s hands were shaking. He took a deep breath and searched every pocket, and his wallet to ensure the papers he carried identified him as al-Muhammed, not Sommers or O’Hara. Jon donned the Islamic cap and took one last look in the mirror. He was good to go.
After locking the door on his way out, he took the stairs to the lobby of his apartment building. Just a forty-minute subway ride to the Bank of Trade’s Park Avenue office for his job interview.
What in the world was he thinking when he thought he could find justice for Lisa, let alone change the world?
The interviewer wore a long-sleeved, ankle-length cotton garment called a thobe. Folded across his head was a square cotton scarf called a ghutra. Under that was a tagiyah joining the thobe to the ghutra. The agal, a thick, doubled, black cord on top of the ghutra, held it in place. It was formal Wahhabi garb for a business environment.
The bank officer extended his hand. “Mr. al-Muhammed?”
Sommers smiled and nodded. “Ah, Mr. Sambol. It is indeed an honor.” He extended his own hand and they shook.
The other man handed Sommers a business card: “Aziz Sambol, Manager, Personnel and Staffing.” Sommers continued standing as the Arab sat behind his desk, until Sambol pointed to a chair across from his desk. “Please.”
Sommers sat and waited while Sambol read the résumé Jon had sent him via email several days ago. Two minutes passed before the Arab raised his eyes. “You have no college degree?” he said in Urdu.
Sommers raised a rueful expression. Concentrating, he replied in Urdu. “Allah has not seen fit to grant me the opportunity.”
Sambol nodded. “The bank offers college tuition reimbursement.”
Sommers cast his gaze down with deference. “If you hire me I will begin a degree program as soon as I can qualify!”
The banker nodded and read a single sheet of paper on his desk. “I have a list of questions. When we are done, you may be offered the chance to meet Zamid al-Ramen, our accounting manager. They need someone to start within a week. Would that fit your plans?”
Sommers took a deep breath to steady himself. “Yes. If chosen, I can start on your choice of dates.”
His new plan was working!
His legend had worked just fine with Sambol. As for Zamid al-Ramen, his prospective new boss, Jon thought the man was an idiot. But he was enormous, and it wasn’t fat. He shuddered at the thought of what al-Ramen could do to him if he ever found out who Jon really was or what he was there to do.
Al-Ramen stared into Jon’s eyes. “Why did you leave Pakistan?” His English was excellent.
“I wanted an education. And I was offered admission to NYU.”
“But you never attended?”
Jon shook his head. “After arriving in New York, my father died and left me penniless. He’d told me he had money, but the government took it all.”
The accounting manager nodded. “Ah, and that left you angry?”
Jon sneered as he nodded back. “Very.”
The Arab folded his hands in front of him. “Many here dislike those now running our country. You will be among friends. You have one more stop today. Dr. Zabor will administer a complete physical exam. We offer health insurance.”
And, at that moment, Jon realized he’d be hired. He was closer to obtaining the intel he needed to save his own life.
The four-floor walkup was a struggle tonight, even though Jon was in good shape. Conjuring a new identity for the interviews had exhausted him, and his breathing was heavy as he puffed his way through the apartment door. He wondered how long it would take him to suck out their secrets? Three, maybe four weeks? And then he’d resign and disappear with a copy of the bank’s records, no one the wiser.
He took a box of frozen dinner from the ancient refrigerator and popped it into the microwave. But when he hit the button to heat it, nothing happened. A mix of anger and disappointment filled him. It would be a bloody long three weeks, to be sure.
How long until he could snatch and grab the intel?
Jon opened his desk drawer, dropped in the training manuals for his job in the bank’s Suspense-Accounting department, and ate a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. He’d taken a few accounting courses, but learning how a real bank accounting system worked excited him. Even if it was the Bank of Trade, known for the filthy acts of terror it supported.
He still had thirty minutes left in the lunch break, and took a brief walk outside on Park Avenue. The smells of nearby restaurants were savory and delicious, but the man he was pretending to be could not afford to eat at those places.
He thought about the emerging plan he’d developed as he walked across 49th Street toward Madison Avenue. From what he’d seen, the staff disappeared at 5 p.m. like rabbits running from a hunting dog. But Zamid al-Ramen, ambitious and stolid junior bank officer that he was, would watch them all crowd the elevator. The man was always last to leave. And when Jon waited across the street to see just how late it was before his manager left, he stood there until after 11 p.m. The man had no life. Shit!
When he scouted the floor, Jon had found a closet to hide in. At day’s end, he planned to get inside there and wait until after midnight before he let himself out to poach the intel.
He worked at a computer terminal, entering general ledger journal entries, something he hadn’t done before. With ten minutes remaining in the workday, he lifted his gaze and saw al-Ramen staring at the clerks to ensure that they maintained their attention on the assignments in front of them. He stared at the screen he was tending just before al-Ramen’s gaze shifted his way.
At five in the evening, the clock chimed, and people rose from their desks as they finished the transactions they were processing. Jon walked toward the elevator but, with cover provided by the departing throng to hide him, he took a sharp turn into the tiny employee kitchen.
From there, he headed down another hallway just beyond its entryway. He opened the closet door just wide enough for him to slip within. For a few minutes, he left the door ajar to ensure he hadn’t been noticed. Closing it behind him, he stood waiting among office supplies. And took a deep breath.
He’d need to wait until after th
e cleaning crew came by and they turned off the motion alarms. He set his wrist alarm to 11:59 p.m. when the cleaners would be long gone. Despite his fear, he drifted off to sleep.
When the wrist alarm beeped, he turned it off and cracked open the door and looked into the supply room. The lights were out. No sounds, but he had no idea when the private security force walked their routes. Edging into the office proper, he was met with the surprise of motion detectors triggering the room lights.
Falling to the floor, he looked around for cameras and found several, but none pointed in his direction.
He pulled himself along the carpet until he reached al-Ramen’s desk. The computer box on the desk had a USB port, one he’d seen during his interview with the heavyset Arab. He crawled into the desk well and let his fingers wander, until they found the port. He slipped the USB cable in and tucked the other end into the cell phone Wing had told him to buy. As he switched on the cell, the room lights fell dark. He waited while al-Ramen’s computer installed the drivers for his cell. Jon felt incongruously calm.
As he’d hoped, the cell phone’s operating system had bypassed the personal computer’s security system. He couldn’t use the PC’s keyboard or screen, but the cell phone found a side-door into the PC.
He scanned the cell’s screen, studying its image of the desktop’s file structure until he’d found the accounting directories on the PC. He copied them to the 64 gigabyte micro-SD memory card embedded within the cell. He now had copies of every file al-Ramen had.
Then he crawled along the carpet to the stairs leading down to the lobby. Cracking the door, he dragged himself into the stairwell. No lights. He let his eyes adjust and saw there were no cameras. He rose and descended the stairs one floor past the lobby into the parking garage. There was no alarm on the exit door into the garage. He felt like laughing.
