by Daniel Silva
The problem, she said, were the notarized letters of incorporation for a company called LXR Investments of Luxembourg.
“What about them?” asked Mr. al-Siddiqi.
“They’re missing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just received a phone call from Dennis Cahill at the Trade Winds Bank in Georgetown.”
“I know the name.”
“Mr. Cahill says he can’t find the documents of registry for the firm.”
“I happen to know that my representative gave him those letters personally.”
“Mr. Cahill doesn’t dispute that.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I got the impression they were shredded by mistake,” Jihan said. “He’d like us to send a new set.”
“How soon?”
“Immediately.”
“What’s the rush?”
“Apparently, it has something to do with the Americans. He didn’t go into details.”
Beneath his breath, al-Siddiqi muttered an old Syrian curse about donkeys and distant relatives. Jihan smiled. Her mother had used the same expression on the rare occasions she lost her temper.
“I believe I have copies of those documents on the computer in my office,” he said after a moment. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”
“What would you like me to do, Mr. al-Siddiqi?”
“I’d like you to send them to this idiot at the Trade Winds Bank, of course.”
“Would it be all right if I called you back on my mobile? It might be easier that way.”
“Quickly, Jihan. My flight is boarding.”
Yes, she thought, as she hung up the phone. Let’s do it quickly.
She opened the top drawer of her desk and removed two items: a black leather folio case and an external hard drive, also black, about three inches by five inches in size. The hard drive was beneath the folio case, so that it was invisible to the overhead security cameras. She clutched both items tightly to the front of her blouse, rose, and started down the short corridor to the door of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s office. She dialed his number as she walked. He answered at the instant of her arrival.
“Ready,” she said.
“The code is eight, seven, nine, four, one, two. Did you get that?”
“Yes, Mr. al-Siddiqi. One moment, please.”
Using the same hand that held the phone, she quickly punched in the correct six digits and pressed ENTER. The deadbolts opened with a snap that was audible at the other end of the call.
“Go inside,” said Mr. al-Siddiqi.
Jihan pushed open the door. A midnight gloom greeted her. She did nothing to extinguish it.
“I’m here,” she said.
“Turn on the computer.”
She sat down in his executive leather chair. It was warm, as if he had just risen from it. The computer monitor, darkened, was on the left, the keyboard a few inches in front of it, the CPU on the floor beneath the desk. She reached down and flawlessly carried out the same maneuver she had practiced so many times at the house on the Attersee—the maneuver she had practiced in the dark, and with the nameless German shouting that Mr. al-Siddiqi was coming to kill her. But he wasn’t coming to kill her; he was on the other end of the phone, calmly telling her what to do.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Not yet, Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
There was a moment of silence. “Now, Jihan?”
“Yes, Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
“Do you see the log-in box?”
She said that she did.
“I’m going to give you another six-digit number. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” she repeated.
He recited six numbers. They took Jihan to the main menu of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s hidden world. When she spoke again, she managed to sound calm, almost bored.
“It worked,” she said.
“Do you see my main documents file?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Click on it, please.”
She did. The computer asked for another password.
“It’s the same as the last,” he said.
“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it, Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
He repeated the number. When typed into the log-in box, the file folder opened. Jihan saw the names of dozens of companies: investment companies, holding companies, real estate development companies, import-export firms. Some of the names she recognized, for she had blindly handled transactions related to them. Most, however, were unknown to her.
“Enter LXR Investments into the search box, please.”
She did. Ten folders appeared.
“Open the one labeled Registry.”
She tried. “It’s asking for another password.”
“Try the same one.”
“Can you repeat it again, please?”
He did. But when Jihan entered it, the folder remained locked, and a message appeared, warning against unauthorized entry.
“Hold on a minute, Jihan.”
She pressed the phone tightly to her ear. She could hear a final boarding announcement for a flight to Vienna and the rustle of turning pages.
“Let me give you another number,” al-Siddiqi said at last.
“Ready,” she said.
He recited six new numbers. She entered them into the box and said, “I’m in.”
“Do you see the PDF file for the letters of incorporation?”
“Yes.”
“Attach them to an e-mail and send them to that idiot at Trade Winds. But do me one favor,” he added quickly.
“Of course, Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
“Send them from your account.”
“Certainly.”
She attached the document to a blank e-mail, typed in her address, and clicked SEND.
“Done,” she said.
“I have to hang up now.”
“Have a safe flight.”
The line went dead. Jihan placed her phone on Mr. al-Siddiqi’s desk next to the keyboard and walked out of the office. The door, when closed, locked automatically behind her. Jihan walked calmly back to her desk, six numbers running through her memory: eight, seven, nine, four, one, two . . .
Behind an unmarked door deep within Terminal 3 of London’s Heathrow Airport, Gabriel sat staring at an open laptop computer, Graham Seymour at his side. In his hand was a flash drive containing the contents of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s notebook; and on the computer screen was a live video image of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s private bank in Linz, courtesy of Yossi Gavish, who was sitting in a parked Opel outside. The watch report indicated no sign of the opposition, no sign of trouble. Next to it was a countdown clock: 8:27, 8:26, 8:25, 8:24 . . . It was the time remaining for the download of the material from Mr. al-Siddiqi’s computer.
“So what happens next?” asked Seymour.
“We wait until all the numbers are zero.”
“And then?”
“Jihan remembers that she left her phone on Mr. al-Siddiqi’s desk.”
“Let’s hope that al-Siddiqi doesn’t have a way to remotely change the entry code for his office door.”
Gabriel looked at the clock: 8:06, 8:05, 8:04 . . .
Seven minutes later, Jihan Nawaz began looking for her mobile phone. It was a pretense, a lie, performed for the benefit of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s surveillance cameras and, perhaps, for her own nerves. She searched the top of her desk, the drawers, the floor around it, her wastepaper basket. She even searched the restroom and the break room, though she was quite confident she had visited neither since using her phone last. Finally, she dialed her number from the hard-line phone on her desk and heard it pinging softly on the other side of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s door. She swore softly, again for the benefit of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s cameras, and called his mobile phone to request permission to enter his office. There was no answer. She rang it again with the same result.
She returned the receiver to its cradle. Surely, she thought, again for her own benefit, Mr. al-Siddiqi would not mind if she entere
d his office to retrieve her phone. After all, he had just granted her access to his most private files. She checked the time and saw that ten minutes had elapsed. Then she picked up a black leather folio case and rose. She forced herself to walk unhurriedly to his door; her hand felt numb as she entered the six numbers into the cipher keypad: eight, seven, nine, four, one, two . . . The deadbolt opened instantly with a sharp snap. She imagined it was the firing pin of the pistol that would fire the fatal bullet into her head. She pushed open the door and went inside, humming softly to herself to hide her fear.
The darkness was impenetrable, absolute. She walked over to the desk and placed her right hand on her mobile phone. Then, with her left, she reached down and placed the folio case atop the identical case she had left there ten minutes earlier—the case that was shielding the external hard drive from the view of Mr. al-Siddiqi’s cameras. In a swift, practiced move, she pulled the drive from its USB port and lifted the three items—the hard drive and the two identical folio cases—to the front of her blouse. Then she walked out and closed the door behind her. The deadbolts rammed home with another pistol shot. As she returned to her desk, numbers again filled her thoughts. They were the number of days, the number of hours, she had left to live.
At one o’clock that afternoon, Jihan informed Herr Weber she was going to lunch. She collected her handbag and slipped on her movie-starlet sunglasses. Then, with a curt nod to Sabrina, the receptionist, she went into the street. A tram was waiting in the roundabout; she stepped aboard quickly, followed a few seconds later by the tall one with bloodless skin and gray eyes. He sat closer to Jihan than he usually did, as if he were trying to reassure her; and when she got off at the Mozartstrasse, the one with pockmarked cheeks was waiting to walk her to Franzesco. The woman she knew as Ingrid Roth was reading D. H. Lawrence at a table in the sun. As Jihan sat down opposite, she lowered the book and smiled.
“How was your morning?” she asked.
“Productive.”
“Is it in your bag?”
Jihan nodded.
“Shall we order?”
“I can’t eat.”
“Eat something, Jihan. And smile,” she added. “It’s important that you smile.”
El Al Flight 316 departs Heathrow daily at 2:20 p.m. from Terminal 1. Gabriel boarded with a few minutes to spare, placed his luggage in the overhead bin, and took his seat in first class. The seat next to him was unoccupied. A moment later, Chiara settled into it.
“Hello, stranger,” she said.
“How did you manage this?”
“Friends in high places.” She smiled. “How did it go in there?”
Wordlessly, he held up the flash drive.
“And Jihan?”
He nodded.
“How long do we have to find the money?”
“Not long,” he said.
48
KING SAUL BOULEVARD, TEL AVIV
THE UNIT THAT TOILED IN Room 414C of King Saul Boulevard had no official name because, officially, it did not exist. Those who had been briefed on its work referred to it only as the Minyan, for the unit was ten in number and exclusively male in gender. They knew little of pure espionage or special combat operations, though their terminology borrowed much from both disciplines. They penetrated networks by slipping through back doors or with brute force attacks; they made use of Trojan horses, time bombs, and black hats. With but a few keystrokes, they could darken a city, blind an air traffic control network, or make the centrifuges of an Iranian nuclear-enrichment plant spin wildly out of control. In short, they had the ability to turn the machines against their masters. Privately, Uzi Navot referred to the Minyan as ten good reasons why no one in his right mind would ever use a computer or a mobile phone.
They were waiting at their terminals, a motley crew in blue jeans and sweatshirts, when Gabriel returned to King Saul Boulevard, bearing the contents of Waleed al-Siddiqi’s notebook and computer. They probed first at the Trade Winds Bank in the Cayman Islands, an institution they had visited on several prior occasions, and there they made their first significant discovery. The numbers for the two recently opened accounts for LXR Investments did not match the numbers al-Siddiqi had entered in his notebook; he had written them in a crude code, an inversion of numerals, that they quickly rendered useless. It seemed he was fond of Trade Winds, for he had opened ten other holding accounts there under various fronts and shells. All totaled, the small bank in the Cayman Islands held more than $300 million in Evil Incorporated assets. In addition, the notebook and computer files revealed that five other banks in the Cayman Islands held accounts for LXR Investments or other shell companies. The grand total in a single offshore banking center was $1.2 billion. And that was just the beginning.
They worked geographically, methodically, and with Gabriel peering over their shoulders every step of the way. From the Cayman Islands, they moved north to Bermuda, where three more banks held in excess of $600 million. Then they made a flying visit to the Bahamas before traveling to Panama, where they unearthed another half a billion stashed away in fourteen accounts listed in al-Siddiqi’s notebook. Their tour of the Western Hemisphere concluded in Buenos Aires, the city of scoundrels and war criminals, where they discovered another $400 million sitting in a dozen accounts. At no stop along their journey did they remove a single cent. They merely put in place the trapdoors and invisible routing circuits that would allow them, at the time of their choosing, to carry off the biggest bank robbery in recorded history.
But the money was not Gabriel’s only concern. And so, as the hackers expanded their search to the offshore banking center of Hong Kong, he wandered down the hall to his empty lair to review the latest batch of watch reports from Linz. It was late morning in Upper Austria; Jihan was at her desk, Waleed al-Siddiqi was typing rapidly on his desktop computer. Gabriel knew this because he had done more at Heathrow Airport than photograph the pages of al-Siddiqi’s secret notebook. He had also compromised the banker’s mobile phone. Like Jihan’s device, it was now acting as a full-time audio transmitter. In addition, the team had the ability to read al-Siddiqi’s e-mail and text messages and to take photographs and video with the phone’s camera at will. Waleed al-Siddiqi, private banker to Syria’s ruling family, belonged to the Office now. They owned him.
When Gabriel returned to the hackers’ workshop, he brought with him his old wooden chalkboard. The cyberspies thought it a curious object; in fact, most had never seen such a contraption before. Gabriel wrote a number on it: $2.9 billion, the total value of the accounts identified and isolated thus far. And when the hackers had finished their work in Hong Kong, he changed the number to $3.6 billion. Dubai raised it to $4.7 billion; Amman and Beirut, to $5.4 billion. Liechtenstein and France added another $800 million, and, not surprisingly, the banks of Switzerland contributed a whopping $2 billion, bringing the grand total to $8.2 billion. The banks of London held another £600 million. On Gabriel’s orders, the hackers built their trapdoors and invisible routing circuits in the unlikely event Graham Seymour reneged on his deal to freeze the money.
By then, another thirty hours had elapsed, thirty hours during which Gabriel and the hackers had not slept or consumed anything other than coffee. It was late afternoon in Upper Austria; Jihan was preparing to take her leave, Waleed al-Siddiqi was again hammering on his desktop computer. Bleary-eyed, Gabriel instructed the hackers to create a ceremonial button that, when pressed, would make more than $8 billion in assets disappear in the blink of an eye. Then he headed upstairs to the executive suite. The light over the door shone green. Uzi Navot was reading a file at his desk.
“How much?” he asked, looking up.
Gabriel told him.
“If it were less than eight billion,” Navot said sardonically, “I’d be willing to authorize it on my own. But under these circumstances, I’d like to have a quiet word with the prime minister before anyone touches that button.”
“I agree.”
“Then maybe you should be th
e one to talk to the prime minister. After all,” Navot added, “it’s probably time for you two to get better acquainted.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for that later, Uzi.”
Navot closed the file and gazed through the slats of his venetian blinds toward the sea. “So how does it work?” he asked after a moment. “We grab the money, then we grab the girl?”
“Actually,” replied Gabriel, “I intend to make them vanish at the same instant.”
“Is she ready?”
“She’s been ready for a while.”
“A mysterious disappearance? Is that how you intend to play it?”
Gabriel nodded. “No luggage, no travel bookings, nothing to suggest she was planning a trip. We take her by car to Germany and then bring her back to Israel from Munich.”
“Who gets the unenviable assignment of telling her that she’s been working for us?”
“I was hoping to do it myself.”
“But?”
“I’m afraid Jihan’s good friend Ingrid Roth is going to have to do it for me.”
“You want to grab the money tonight?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Then I’d better have that word with the prime minister.”
“I suppose you should.”
Navot shook his head slowly. “Eight billion dollars,” he said after a moment. “That’s a lot of money.”
“And I’m sure there’s more out there somewhere.”
“Eight billion is plenty. Who knows?” Navot added. “It might even be enough to buy back that Caravaggio.”
