4 attackers, 2 guns. Children in 1st class. Rest in econ—Muslims starboard, rest opposite. Am with Muslims, aft. Two women in critical. Water running out. No power = no cameras. Suggest rear-undercarriage attack.
Old man died of coronary. Austrian, I think.
Lead hijacker on phone. Speaks Russian. Don’t know enough to translate.
Scratch attack plan. They have a camera on the undercarriage. I don’t know how, but it is clear they know what they’re doing. Very serious. I suggest we give them what they ask for, or everyone will end up dead.
Only with all of them in front of me do I realize what should have been obvious to each one of us sitting in Vick’s office. The words, the grammar. Ahmed’s earlier sentences are incomplete, telegraphed, while the fourth message contains complete sentences, the leisurely use of “it is” instead of “it’s,” and articles: a camera, the undercarriage.
I’m flushed, dizzy. The last message is from someone else.
Ergo: Ahmed has been discovered.
Involuntarily, I stand up. Then, realizing I don’t know where I’m going, I sit down again and read it through once more. My impulse is to call Bill, shake him out of his marital malaise, and shout it at him. I even put a hand on his phone, but don’t pick it up because the inevitable follow-up question has come to me: How? How was Ahmed discovered?
How is anyone discovered?
Either he made a mistake, or the hijackers received the information from the outside.
I close my eyes, remove my hand from the phone, and lay it over my forehead. If Ahmed made a mistake, we won’t know about it until after the situation has ended, when witnesses tell us what happened.
If any of them survive.
Since there’s no way for me to prove that Ahmed was discovered because of his own ineptitude, I have to set that theory aside and look at what’s left. Namely: Someone told the hijackers about Ahmed.
Someone who spoke Russian? Ilyas Shishani?
I open my eyes, the world a little blurry, and blink until I can see through Bill’s window to where Gene, our data-entry specialist, sits drinking a Coke. I look down at the messages again.
Ahmed Najjar, I know from his file, works solely for us; his name is not on any records outside of the Agency. If what Ernst told us is true—that he had not shared Ahmed’s identity with the Austrians—then his identity has remained inside this office, among a small number of people. Me, Vick, Leslie, Ernst, Bill, Owen, Henry, and by necessity Gene out there.
It’s not inconceivable that someone at Langley leaked the information, and it wouldn’t be unprecedented, but at the moment that’s not my concern. I have no way of monitoring Langley—it’s beyond my reach. The only thing I can investigate is the possibility that the hijackers are getting information from someone inside this building.
Russian, I think again. Ilyas Shishani, yes, but there’s only one fluent Russian speaker in the office: my Henry.
I put that away because it makes no sense. Whether or not he’s the right man for me, Henry Pelham is racked by the question of rightness. He risked his career raging against our policies back in Moscow, and more than any one of us pencil-pushers he regularly risks his life for the defense of our aims. When it comes to betrayal, anything is possible, but Henry is the least likely of all possibilities.
Where to start?
For a moment, I don’t know. Do I tell someone? Who? If the senior members of this station are suspects, then none of them—not even Henry—can be told anything yet. I have to start with the most basic research I can do on my own, and then work up from there. Start with embassy phone logs, in case someone was stupid enough to use an office phone. Move to cell phone records—if, in fact, I can access them without setting off alarms back at Langley. Then take another look at the personnel files, with an eye toward connections.
Keep it simple, I think.
So I get up and head over to Gene’s desk among the maze of cubicles that take up most of the floor. His collar’s undone, and he’s bleary-eyed, already too tired to ogle me. I ask him for the phone logs.
A half hour later, after listening to Gene’s patronizing refusal, then going to Sharon, Vick’s secretary, for approval, I’m sitting at Bill’s desk, and there it is: the line that makes my heart stop. At 9:38 P.M., a call from extension 4952. A twenty-seven-second call. To country code 962, city code 6. Jordan, Amman.
Extension 4952. Jesus.
It’s unreal. A mere thirty minutes from suspicion to … to this. This is not sophisticated. It’s hardly even espionage. This is child’s play.
I lift Bill’s phone. Then, realizing what a mistake that would be, I hang it up again and think. I have to get out of here.
I write down the number, pack up my few possessions, and put on my coat. I give Gene a distracted nod on my way out. I take the elevator and say good night to the marine on duty, who never answers with anything more than a grunt, and get one of the night staff to let me out. I walk without hesitation south down Boltzmanngasse, turn onto Strudlhofgasse, and begin to relax only once I’ve reached the busy foot traffic on Währinger Straße. I’m among Vienna University’s science buildings now, passing students catching cigarettes in the middle of their all-nighters, when I finally spot a pay phone. It’s been marked by graffiti, but it works, and I slip in a calling card.
I take a breath.
This is not where I want to be right now. I want to be at home, either mine or Henry’s, in bed. Preferably with him.
Okay.
I dial the number and listen. There’s the tinny beep-beep of a faraway phone, then a sequence of clicks before it starts to ring again, the sound a little deeper. I realize then that I’ve called a phone that has connected me to another line. The phone I called is a relay.
After three rings, a man answers. He says, “Gdye Vy?”
Though I know what it is when I hear it, I don’t know Russian, and I’m not sure what to do. If I speak English, and this is Ilyas Shishani, then he will know that an American woman has his number. If I hang up, Shishani will grow suspicious. Either way, he will change his plans. So in German I say, “Luther? Is that you?”
Silence.
I can’t feel my legs.
“Luther?”
Whoever he is, he hangs up.
HENRY
1
My ears tingle from the command she has of her story. The details, the fluidity. I think back a month to Bill’s hesitations, contradictions, and final breakdown. I think of Gene Wilcox, the data processor who remained at his desk those forty-eight hours without a break, absorbing all the intel and pouring it into his machine. A month and a half ago I flew to Dallas to find him working for a firm called Global Security, making twice as much as he did schlepping for the government, and listened to his automaton drawl as he told me, step by step, what occurred that day. No editorializing, no detours, just the facts culled from his rather incredible memory.
“Yes, Ms. Harrison—Favreau, I suppose—was around that day. I think she arrived around nine thirty in the morning—at least, that’s when I saw her. You can check the records for the exact time. She was in and out throughout the day, but when she was in the office she was usually with Mr. Compton. Now, he came late. That I remember. Something to do with his wife.”
“But Celia.”
“Yes, she was in and out. You saw her, of course. And after dinner she remained in the office for the rest of the night. Mr. Compton was gone by eleven, and she took over his office.”
“Doing what, Gene?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Around midnight, though, she came to me. She asked for the phone logs from that day. She knew as well as I did that I couldn’t do that. Any requests needed to come through Mr. Wallinger. I told her this, and she left.”
“Left the building?”
“No. I assume she went to Mr. Wallinger’s office, because fifteen minutes later his secretary, Sharon Lane, called asking for the same thing.”
“And you s
ent the records on?”
“Of course. Protocol was followed.”
“Did you see Celia after that?”
“She was there until nearly two in the morning. So, yes. When she left, she wished me a good evening.”
“So there were no hard feelings.”
A pause as he frowned at me. “Excuse me?”
“For you making her jump through hoops.”
“Why would there be?”
“No reason. Was she in the office the whole time?”
“No. She stepped out once. Fifteen minutes, maybe, then she came back. She continued to work from Mr. Compton’s office. And then … well, Ahmed Najjar. It was after that that she left the office.”
Now, one and a half months later, Celia says, “It was a mess, Henry. At least, that’s how I remember it. We were all off on our own tangents that day. Nothing was really unified. We met in Vick’s office, but we weren’t working as a single unit.”
“I was running up sources,” I tell her. “I didn’t realize.”
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “You were out a lot.”
Gene’s favorite word comes to me. “What about protocol? Wasn’t protocol keeping order?”
“You’d think so,” she says. “You really would. But there was a weird disconnect that day. Ernst was calling the Austrians directly. Owen was moping over his computer. Bill was distracted by Sally. Leslie was useless.” She pauses, sips her wine. “But if you want to blame someone for the chaos, talk to Vick. What does he say?”
“I haven’t asked him,” I tell her honestly, because while I see Vick every day there’s an unspoken agreement that my Frankler investigation has nothing really to do with him. It’s about me, the files, and the occasional underling who needs to be grilled for answers.
“Well, you should. You can quiz Bill and me all you want, but the buck stops with Vick.”
“I did talk to Gene Wilcox.”
A slender smile. “Gene? How’s that little mole?” She blinks, realizing how loaded her off-the-cuff phrasing is. “I suppose he’s more of a mouse.”
“He’s making a fortune with military contractors now.”
“Good for him.”
“He told me that you were looking at embassy phone records.”
“Did he also tell you that he couldn’t keep his hands off of me?”
I wait.
“Five times a day he performed brush passes against my ass, but he never passed me anything except his fingers. Remember how he smacked on that chewing gum?”
“Why were you looking into the phone logs?”
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe not. I’m just surprised that with everything going on you were spending time sifting through everyone’s calls.”
She lifts her glass, thinks better of it, then sets it back down. “Okay, Henry. I’ll play. You remember what they told us at the Farm?”
“What didn’t they tell us at the Farm?”
“That joker with the pirate eye patch always said, If the answer’s not in front of you or behind you, remember there are four other directions to look.”
“Pirate wisdom.”
Thinking again, she drinks her wine, runs a tongue behind her lips, and says, “It came from Ahmed, on the plane. Do I have to walk you through all of this?”
“Just humor me.”
“Okay, Henry. Ahmed Najjar was, by the grace of God, our Agency man on board. The hijackers were quick to collect everyone’s phones, but Ahmed, being a good Boy Scout, had a spare one. So we received periodic messages from him. He was fluent in Arabic and Farsi, so he should have had a pretty good idea what was going on. But he didn’t send us much. He told us the layout of the hostages, gave us some inside drama, and suggested an attack plan. Then his tone changed. He was warning us off. He was telling us to cooperate.”
“Because he knew they were serious.”
“We knew they were serious. You made that clear with your little speech about their integrity. But something changed his mind.”
“Like what?”
“That’s the question,” she says. No smile. “What made Ahmed suddenly sound like a different person?”
I wait for her to answer her own question, but she doesn’t seem interested in doing this. She sips her wine and watches me coolly. I try to wait her out, but her stare is hard, almost brutal—the kind of look someone in this utopia would have no reason to master. It fills me with an odd mix of worry and arousal. Is she trying to turn the tables? Maybe, but if so she’s forgotten who she’s sharing a meal with. I say, “Maybe he actually was a different person.”
She nods. Short, sharp.
“So you’re saying he was discovered earlier than we thought?”
“It’s obvious.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, Henry. It was always obvious.”
My lips, I notice, are dry. I lick them. “How was he discovered?”
She doesn’t need to answer, and she knows it. She just watches me with those dark eyes, and it’s clear now that she’s waiting for me to admit defeat. I’m not ready for that. I never will be. My first step will be to show her how ridiculous she sounds.
“So it seemed reasonable to you that someone in the embassy would use an Agency telephone to call the terrorists and have a chat?”
A sigh. A long, disappointed sigh, and after facing off with her eyes that interruption is a relief. “Henry, you’re an office drone now. Do you really have to ask that question?”
“I never said I was a good drone.”
She shakes her head. Chestnut spreads across her shoulders. “You cover your butt,” she says. “That’s the first rule of office life, and if you haven’t figured that out you’re going to end up without a pension. If someone in the embassy is leaking information to terrorists, the very first thing you do is keep it to yourself. The second thing you do is scour the phone records, because if you don’t your ineptitude is going to come out somewhere along the way. Some joker from Interpol, say, is going to point it out years later and smear your name all over the diplomatic cables.”
I nod, point taken. “Did you find anything?”
“Of course not,” she says. “But I was obliged to try.”
She’s lying, of course. This is why I’ve come to her doorstep.
2
It was different with Bill. An easy flight to London, where I spent a few hours taking casual surveillance of his and Sally’s town house in Hampstead. Admiring that quaint, tree-lined street that led down to the Heath. Filing all the details away in order to assess exactly what kind of world he lived in now. I saw schoolchildren in their public school uniforms, bankers and financiers, some even in pinstripes, wives with the world at their touchscreen phones, and multicolored nannies pushing prams and gathering at the park to bitch about their employers in Caribbean and North African accents. I even spent twenty minutes following Sally from their home to a flower store and then to a gourmet grocer’s. She looked healthy and strong in a way she had never been in Vienna, and just like with Celia I knew why: She had achieved her dream. She had emasculated her husband completely and transplanted their master-servant relationship into a country where her reins would be tightest. She had won. Her life had ended in victory.
So when I made the call from down the street, I knew that the Bill Compton I was speaking to had already been broken. I knew that all I had to do was ask the right questions.
“Henry. Well. Been a long time.”
“We need to speak, Bill.”
“Well, I’m sort of—”
“Now, Bill. It’s urgent.”
“Now? Henry, I don’t—”
“Red, Bill. Red.”
I could hear him inhale, as if he’d been sucker-punched. “Okay, Henry. Where?”
I’d found a moderately busy pub not far from him, and when we squeezed into a corner table he immediately raised his hand for a Newcastle. I ordered Coke, but when I saw the look of worry on his face, I told the waitress, “A
nd add a little rum to it, will ya?”
He looked so damned old. An old man whose life was dictated by the whims of his wife. Whose life once represented the pinnacle of national service. Whose hands once sifted through the dirt of international affairs. Now he was a shadow of all that grandeur: a too-pale man hunched over his pint. He looked scared, and in a way I was, too. I was taking my baby steps toward freedom, and here I was faced with a man who had given up all his freedom. It was all too easy to imagine myself looking just like him one day.
I gave him the story I’ve given Celia. Interpol, some young upstart. But unlike with Celia, I didn’t pretend it was just some bureaucratic exercise to get some foreign agency off my ass. “This analyst may be young, Bill, but he’s bringing up some serious issues. And we’ve got to find out what’s what before he does.”
“All right, Henry. Happy to help. You know that.”
I knew nothing of the sort, but I went on. I got him to talk about those days. He elaborated on the state of his wife’s health, even admitting that he’d tried to leave her. The chest pains, the blood, the hospital. The office. As he went on, I listened coolly, wasted no effort on making him more comfortable, and watched as his anxiety increased. I slipped in suggestive questions.
“And at that moment you were where, exactly?”
“This is information you would have had access to, correct?”
“So with all this going on with Sally, you had a reason to be out of the office, yes?”
“You were always liberal-minded, weren’t you? Sympathetic, we can say, to the economic injustices that drive groups like Aslim Taslam.”
“Not as much as you,” he snapped, cheeks red, sweat trickling down his cheeks. “As I remember, you adored their integrity.”
I didn’t need to say a thing. I just gave him a smile.
He lowered his second pint of Newcastle, eyes big. “What are you getting at, Henry? Are you trying to accuse me of something? What? That I was making calls to those cretins on 127? Do you know how many years of my life I’ve given to my country? Do you know how much abuse I’ve taken for my country? For the fucking Agency? They put their employees through the meat grinder. Look at me now.” He opened his hands to display the worn man who looked a decade older than he should have looked. “Take a gander at your future. This is what you end up with.”
All the Old Knives Page 9
