“Well, when was the last time the Journal or any other mainstream news organization—print or TV—did any sort of balanced piece on pornography?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“I’ve never seen one. Never. That’s your industry. But it’s the sort of thing I grapple with in my industry, Ms. Coleman. I’m doing my job, and trying to do it well. But my company may be doing some things I don’t like. What do I do? Quit? Try to change it? Forget it? I don’t know. And I guess my point is that I’ll think about giving you an on the record answer about my personal beliefs when you tell me that you’re writing a stand-up piece on the true ramifications and victims of pornography. And even then they will only be my personal thoughts. I don’t make USNet policy, and I won’t comment on it as long as I’m here.”
Another pause. “Well, I appreciate your insight—and even your questions.”
Kristen turned back to her desk. “It’s not easy, having values and beliefs. Knowing where to draw the line. To say ‘enough is enough’.”
“I understand. And I’ll think about that piece on pornography you suggested.”
“You’d better check first to see if the Journal will publish it.”
“Of course they will.”
“I’ve talked to a couple of our own reporters about it. And trust me, you’d better check.”
“OK. Well, I’m sorry you wouldn’t comment, but thanks for confirming that your boss has been working on it. At least I know to keep digging.”
“Sure, any time. But my comments were totally off the record, and now I’ve got a lot to do.”
“Understood. Thanks. Have a great trip.”
“Thanks.”
She hoped she had said the right things this time—nothing--and that the Coleman woman would never call again.
Todd Phelps closed the door to his office and stared out the window.
Half a million dollars a year or more. Think what Mary and I can do with that. Out of debt—forever. Almost anything Mary wants, I can get it for her. Remodel the house. Trips. Our boys can go to college anywhere they want.
I guess I’ll have the other thing hanging over me, but maybe there’ll be a way to get out of it, once I understand who these people are.
Seems like a no-brainer. Disaster and jail, or lots of money.
He picked up the phone that the man with the country accent had given him and pushed the Call button. Someone with a foreign accent answered and asked if he had made his decision. After Todd accepted the offer, he was given an early morning appointment a week later to begin his training.
A few hours later, Victor Mustafin was in his office at the Real Time Intercepts command center, housed in the back half of an old bank clearing house. The main RTI operations center was half a world away in Pakistan. There, in one large room that resembled a computerized trading floor, twenty-five people at a time monitored the flow of information and passed interesting intercepts to two on-site decision makers. These men, all of whom had business experience in the West, usually decided how to use the stolen data.
But years earlier Knox had realized that this was not enough—to get the most from what they harvested every day from emails and calls, they needed oversight by trusted business people in the U.S., who could make the right decisions based on history, current news, subtleties of language—nuances that only native-speaking business people would understand.
So RTI had a small group of trusted duty officers who stood duty on a rotating basis in the U.S., Europe and Asia 24/7, to make decisions when an issue could not be resolved in Pakistan.
After extensive individual training by Victor Mustafin, each duty officer was on call, monitoring RTI activity from one of the three control centers, making decisions and occasionally referring issues to the unspecified “Council”, which was actually Mustafin, Kamali and Knox. With this isolated security structure, the duty officers did not know most of their counterparts, except by code names. These men were paid extremely well—a share of the monthly profits. But they were also the most difficult to select—many came from USNet’s ranks, simply because so much could be known about them. Still, they were monitored for loyalty; and the consequences for divulging any part of the operation was clear.
The small US command center consisted of an office, a conference room, and the former massive bank vault, now converted to the control room, complete with two walls full of monitors. Here each duty officer served his hours when on watch.
Kamali and Mustafin administered the operation, though Kamali never visited the office in person—only by remote access. In fact, the two lieutenants made a point never to be seen together in public. There were therefore no visible connections to USNet, and only Kamali and Mustafin knew that the ultimate decision maker was Knox.
The operation was complex, but it had been successful for years. The problem was how to evaluate the ever increasing amount of information which was supplied to them daily by unsuspecting USNet subscribers.
Mustafin had just approved a profitable sell order for their holdings in a German pharmaceutical company that was about to be the target of a lawsuit—they were reading the emails between the attorneys and several unhappy witnesses—when a special phone rang next to his console. He pushed a button to answer on his headset and immediately recognized his boss’s voice; a moment later Knox’s image flashed on one of the nearby monitors. He was in their West Coast office, and the two men spoke for several minutes about that afternoon’s RTI intelligence.
When finished with that list, the lieutenant said, “I’ve got some good news, Mr. Knox. Todd Phelps called and said that he wants to join us.”
“Excellent. From what you’ve told me, he should make a good addition. He seems to like making money more than worrying about technicalities. When will you start his training?”
“In a few weeks. Two others just started, and I don’t want to overextend.”
“Now that he knows about the potential money, he’ll be impatient.”
“That’s good. It’ll keep him focused. We have to walk all these new guys in, one layer at a time. We can’t tell them everything in the first month.”
“I know. Now, what about our special program for the President?”
“Everything we discussed appears to be doable. We’re making plans, though of course we haven’t told anyone the target. This operation is obviously way too restricted for anyone to know why we want to have a grand opening for our new office in Moscow.”
Once again Kristen called Callie, but got her voicemail. “I’m not in now. Please leave your message and I’ll call you back.”
“Callie, hey. This is Kristen Holloway. You may remember me from a couple of real estate group get-togethers at your parents’ home. And a service project we did at the overnight women’s shelter before you left for school. Anyway, I’ll be coming back from the Far East through L.A. in about a week. I need some R&R, and I really like southern California. Your dad told me you’re living out there now, so I thought I’d call you when I know my exact schedule. I’d love to get together—take you to dinner. Or maybe we could go shopping—or whatever suits. Anyway, I’ll call you from Singapore when I know what I’m doing, and I hope we can get together. See ya.”
Callie did not answer her apartment phone because she was at her desk that morning at her uncle’s office. He called her on the internal intercom.
“I’m on the phone working on a listing, and I need the address of that comparable property that Yusef is working on. Do you know where he is?”
“He went outside to use his cell phone.” Callie had noticed that her cousin spent considerable time several days a week, walking and talking in their parking lot.
“Well, we were just talking about it. I think it’s up on his computer. Please go look at his laptop. It should be on the screen. Third Avenue.”
“In his office?”
“Yes. Quickly. I need it now.”
“All right.” She got up and walked across the hall into Yus
ef’s paneled but sparsely decorated office. His laptop was closed on the desk, so she moved around behind his desk and carefully raised the screen. Instead of a real estate page, she saw a picture taken on a street somewhere of total devastation, apparently after a bomb detonated. There were caved in storefronts, bodies, and burned out cars. Blood was everywhere. The banner over the picture read “Sacred Victory!” The writing was in English, Arabic and Farsi, but before she could look at any of the words in the text she heard an angry voice.
“What are you doing?” It was Yusef, his hand on the door and his face crimson.
“I…your father asked me to get an address from your laptop. You were outside.”
His shoulders lowered slightly and he came across to the side of the desk. “The one on Third Avenue?”
She stepped back, the screen still open to the carnage. “Yes. That’s what he said.”
“I’ll get it for him.” He looked at the computer for a moment in silence. “Isn’t that awful?”
She glanced down. “Yes. Terrible. I can’t imagine it.”
“Me, either. I was searching under Iranian names for cold-calling leads, and this screen came up. It happens all the time. Either something like this, or porn.” He smiled, but his eyes were locked on hers.
“Oh. I can see how that would happen. Well, please just tell your dad, and I’ll go back to my work.” She moved around the other side of the desk towards the door.
“I will. Thank you.” He paused, closing the laptop. “But, Callie,”—she turned—“don’t ever come into my office again, unless I invite you.”
“Sure. No problem.” And she hurried back to her seat.
17
WEDNESDAY, MAY 18TH
Todd Phelps was up early that morning. He brought Mary her first cup of coffee at the door to their bedroom, as she headed to their youngest son’s room in her nightgown.
“You’re perky this morning.” Mary smiled, as she accepted the mug.
“I guess I’m just fired up today. I’ve fed the dog and emptied the dishwasher.”
“Why today?” She took a sip as their son began to bounce in his crib and call for her.
“I don’t know. I guess maybe I just got some sleep for a change.” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “I gotta go. Early meeting, dear. In fact, I may have a series of these early meetings—and night meetings—in the coming weeks. We’re starting some new training, and I’m part of it. So. my schedule may be a bit crazy over the next weeks.”
“When is it not? Call me when you know what time you’ll be home.” She raised her mug, then turned to their son’s room.
“I will. Have a great day. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“You’re up early this morning,” Elizabeth said, as she refilled her coffee cup at the kitchen counter.
David was sitting at their breakfast table reading the morning paper. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Why not?” She reached into the refrigerator for the milk.
“I don’t know. I guess maybe all the projects at work, and the changes. And then there’s Callie and Rob.”
She took a seat at the table. “I’m sorry. I guess there is a lot to think about, but you need your sleep.”
Rob walked through the door on the way to the dryer for some socks, his hair a mess and his eyes looking like he had hardly slept. Elizabeth asked, “What happened to you last night? Didn’t you sleep either?”
He shook his head and replied in a raspy voice, “Not much. Don’t feel too good. Studying for exams late.”
Elizabeth smiled, “Well, hopefully it’ll be worth it.”
“Uh-huh.”
David stood, folded the paper, and took a sip of coffee. “I’ve got to go. Might as well beat the traffic and make use of the time.” He kissed her on the cheek.
“OK. Well, call me when you know when you might be home. You’ll need a nap!”
He gave her another look, and she smiled and winked.
He shook his head but smiled. “How I wish. I’ll call. Rob, have a good day at school.”
“Sure, Dad.”
Twenty minutes later Todd pulled up to a two-story office building west of the city. There was a bank branch facing the street, but Todd had been told to drive to the back, where a separate “Employees Only” parking area was fenced off. The guard let him drive through the gate after he repeated the daily codeword he had been given. Todd parked next to the windowless rear half of the structure and was processed by another guard before being allowed through the one visible door.
Inside he found a small but pleasant vestibule with a few chairs and a sofa. There was a door on the other side, and behind a single, thick glass window sat an attractive young woman. He introduced himself and said that he had an appointment. Todd heard her voice through a small amplifier on the wall.
“Good morning, Mr. Phelps. Someone will be with you in just a moment. Please have a seat.”
He elected to stand. There was a buzz, the interior door opened, and a tall man with dark hair and olive skin motioned for him to come in They were in an open area with light gray walls, earth tone abstract paintings, thick carpet, and several doors. The man extended his hand. “Good morning, Todd. I’m Victor Mustafin, I’ll be training you.”
Todd nodded and shook hands. “I’m looking forward to it. I imagine that I have a lot to learn.”
“We look forward to having you. I think you’ll find our work both interesting and profitable.” For a man clearly cut from military cloth, his voice was calming. “First, we need to give you an overview of what we do. Please follow me.”
They turned and walked into a conference room. The same light gray walls, a modern black table for ten, and accompanying furniture.
“Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m pretty energized as it is.”
Mustafin nodded. “First, I know all the circumstances for you being here—that you took a bribe to place a project for your company, which is illegal and could result in jail time if anyone at your employer, USNet, finds out. So you understandably think that ours is a better alternative. It probably is, but despite all that, if at any point as we’re talking today you decide that you don’t want to join us, please stop me immediately. The nature of our work is extremely confidential, and we can’t share the details with anyone who is not part of our group. In fact, we will soon come to a point where there’s really no turning back.”
Todd nodded.
“Several years ago we perfected a method for intercepting communications from firms and individuals that allows us to know certain events before the rest of the world is privy to them. This capability often gives us an edge—sometimes a few hours, sometimes a day, sometimes longer—to make our own decisions. Or to contact others, though we never reveal our source. This information is available to us real time, twenty-four hours a day. Do you want me to go on?”
“Yes.”
“There is a lot of information. It grows monthly. We have computers and staff personnel who read it, look for key words, etc. But at the end of that process there must be a person—a person with knowledge and judgment to decide whether a particular piece of information is worthy of immediate action, can wait, or should be tossed. That person must have special qualities, must be totally trustworthy. And must be a team player.”
He paused. “If you want to choose the other path, say so now. From here on, you’re in.”
“I’m in.”
“We rotate that key position every four hours using several locations around the world. So we need a small team of dedicated people who are not afraid to take action when necessary. We believe that you have those qualities. Basically, with the information we get, if we can’t make a lot of money, or at least save money that would otherwise be lost, we aren’t doing our jobs. And it’s that pool of profits that we share. And of course to be effective, it must all remain absolutely secret.”
“Who is actually b
ehind the all of this? Is it a government agency? A company? Is it legal?”
Mustafin smiled. “It’s a private group, Todd, but for now you don’t need to know. And it’s not illegal. But, frankly, even if it were, we wouldn’t stop. The information is too valuable. And we never hurt anyone with how we use it. We just do our best to make ourselves profitable.”
“That’s how you found out about me.”
“Yes. Exactly. And you see, we gave you a choice, and a great opportunity.”
“Hmm. What about stock moves? Financial reports? Marketing plans? Do you have all of that, too?”
“We never know if we have ‘all’ of it. That’s part of our challenge. But we think that we see a lot of it, and we act on it accordingly. Actually, it can be pretty exciting at times.”
“How do you do it?”
“You’ll find out everything in your training. In a minute we’ll go over your schedule. The entire process should take about three months. After that, if all goes well, you’ll be standing duty alone here in the command center as the senior watch officer.”
“Sounds good. But why does it take so long to train?”
“There’s a lot to learn. You need time at the lower levels that filter the information so that you know all the details. Plus you have your regular job, so we’ll have to work around our schedules to find time. We don’t want anyone at USNet to have any idea that you’re working here after hours.”
Todd nodded. “Understood.”
“One other thing, “ Mustafin added, motioning with his hand, “everything we do is absolutely secret. You may not discuss it with anyone. Not your wife. Not colleagues. No one. Not indirectly or tangentially. That would result in dire consequences for us, and for you, if anyone knew about this operation. Is that understood?”
“Yes. But that sounds pretty threatening. What exactly do you mean?”
“We don’t think of it that way, but there are hundreds of millions of dollars at stake, including your share. So at a minimum, when I mention personal consequences, I mean the loss of that income. Beyond that, it would depend on what you said or did. The best thing is just not to say, do, or imply anything about these capabilities. Conduct your real estate work as if RTI—that’s what we call this capability—did not exist. You’ll have to be careful to keep whatever you learn from RTI out of any regular business considerations and discussions. One other thing: Taking any personal advantage will not be tolerated. If you learn something on your watch about, say, a particular company, you can’t buy or sell its stock based on that information. We’re all in this together, and we don’t want anyone’s personal activities attracting any special attention. Understood?”
Enemy In the Room Page 18
