During that hotel room meeting Carlton had said, “In case I didn’t make it clear when we first met at your lovely home, I have no interest in this unless it is very profitable.” Fajer had nodded his head. “Here is the information from two Company reports you might find of interest.” Carlton handed him a manila folder.
“And here,” he continued, giving Fajer a printed sheet of paper, “is the account into which you are to wire the money. If it is enough, we will meet again.” He’d then briefed Fajer on the various drop boxes he intended to use. “Our personal meetings must be infrequent. None is even better. I mean no disrespect, but each time I see you increases the likelihood I’ll be detected.”
Fajer nodded as if impressed. “I understand and agree, though from time to time a personal meeting may be necessary.”
“The American government views the release of commercial data the same way it would if I were behaving as a spy.”
Fajer pursed his lips. “I wasn’t aware of that. We must be very careful, in that case. There is much more at risk here than your career. Why not simply e-mail the material to me?”
Carlton had considered that very idea. He’d checked with Jeff Aiken of his Cyberterrorism Unit on Internet security, someone whose expertise in this regard he trusted, and though he’d understood e-mail was usually easy to trace, efforts could be made to conceal it. He decided that was too complicated for him and not worth bothering with. Besides, he understood that the NSA programs monitoring e-mail were highly sophisticated, and he was certain his messages would be spotted. No, the old proven methods were best—except hereafter he’d leave the material on the less bulky disks.
“The drops are safer,” he’d answered. Fajer had not pursued the matter.
Those two initial reports had garnered Carlton $50,000. Over the years, Carlton had taken in half a million dollars from Fajer, transferring data to him on average just twice a year. The money had made possible his new car and better vacations. He’d also paid off his personal debt, being careful to do so slowly. Only now was he in a position to start piling up the money. With a bit of luck, Carlton was of the opinion he’d be retiring early from DHS. And since most of his assets didn’t legally exist, a divorce was likely in the cards.
He’d only met with Fajer twice since that 2000 meeting in New York City. The last had been in Arlington, Virginia, the previous June. This time Fajer had taken a modest hotel room, and as before, they met indoors.
Following the exchange of the usual pleasantries and the information Carlton had brought, Fajer had crossed his legs, taken a long moment to light an elegantly thin cigarette, then said, “I have an associate in Paris. The relationship between us is very complicated, and you’d have to be an Arab to understand it. The bottom line, as you Americans so delightfully say, is that I have a family obligation with this person I must fulfill. I don’t like it, but I have no alternative. I hope you understand.”
Carlton felt a tingle along his spine. He’d been trained in the art of espionage, what was then called tradecraft, and could not view his relationship with Fajer without considerable suspicion. Their arrangement had gone on much longer than he’d initially thought it would, so long he’d become accustomed to the idea that it would continue unchanged for another few years. Now he wondered if it had all been a setup, aimed for this very moment.
“This associate is engaged in the use of computer viruses to obtain financial information. He then draws money from those accounts.”
“Theft.”
Fajer looked in pain at the word. “I assure you this is as unpleasant for me as for you. What I require is quite simple. I must know if the government is alerted to an extensive network engaged in planting code on a large number of computers. That is all.”
“The government is a big place.”
“Of course. I mean within your province. No more.”
“For how long?”
Fajer shrugged. “I’m not an expert on these things, but as I understand it, the worms, if that’s the right word, are being quietly planted now. Once enough are in place, then at a predetermined point they will all be activated at once. I have explained that I can only assist this one time.”
“Does anyone know about me?”
Fajer looked horrified. “Of course not! My word of honor! It is assumed that someone in my position has contacts. I was just asked to use them. This unpleasantness repays an obligation, and I will be considerably in your debt. You’ve been very helpful to me these last years, and I’ve come to regard us as friends. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that. If there was any other way, you can be assured I’d do it.”
Carlton took time to retrieve a bottle of water from the minibar and open it. He took a sip, then said, “I don’t know…”
“My personal guarantee to you will be one million dollars, half to be paid now, half when the operation is finished, sometime before the end of the year.” Carlton was motionless. “In addition, you will be paid five percent of what is collected.”
“How much will that be?”
Fajer smiled. “I have no faith in such a figure. It seems too ridiculous. I asked the same question and was told your share would be no less than fifty million dollars.” Fajer stopped, stubbed one cigarette out, then elegantly lit another.
Fifty million dollars! Carlton’s mind raced at the possibility. He could retire at the end of the year, begin his new life. But did he trust Fajer? Was he hearing the truth? An Internet financial scam seemed plausible enough, but it was very different from what they’d been doing. It was outright theft, and if a den of thieves fell apart, who knew how it would end?
“Are you quite certain I’ll be kept out of it?” he asked. Risk, his broker often said, was directly associated with return.
The Arab placed his hand to his heart. “On my honor.”
Carlton willed himself to slow down, to think this through, but he found his mind a fog. Fifty million dollars! He couldn’t get past the number. “I can do this.”
“Excellent,” Fajer said, smiling. “We will continue with the drops as before, and I still desire the kind of information you’ve been providing. There is no change in that, but I ask you to set up an electronic mail system for contacting me in the event you learn something definitive on this other business. I will leave it to you.”
That had been just over two months ago. The first half million was safely in his Aruba account, invested in a balanced portfolio. Carlton stepped from the car and walked to a picnic table where he sat, as if lost in thought. Instead, he surreptitiously scanned the area to be certain he was not being observed. Satisfied, he walked to a tree as if to urinate. As he stood there, he slipped the disk into a hole. A few minutes later he was on the highway, expecting to be home within the half hour.
31
LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM
SOUTH LAUREL ROAD
THURSDAY, AUGUST 24
7:09 A.M.
Brian Manfield awoke with a start.
He’d slept with his window undraped so that the first rays of the rising sun flooded the small room with light. He hated alarm clocks, though one was set on the stand beside his bed. He reached across the naked back of the young woman and switched it off.
In the bathroom Manfield turned on the shower and, as he waited for the water to warm, urinated at great length in the toilet. Finished, he climbed into the shower, where he washed and shaved. Six feet two inches tall, weighing 185 pounds, Manfield was fit and worked to stay that way. With thick dark hair and deep blue eyes inherited from his mother, he was exceptionally handsome. After toweling off, he slipped on a robe he’d acquired at the Carlyle in Manhattan, then went to the kitchen for his usual breakfast of fruit, toast, marmalade, and tea.
Outside was one of those sparkling days London sees too rarely. He carried his breakfast onto his balcony and ate standing up, taking in the expanse of the old city. He loved London. He’d spent most of his adult life here and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
> In the kitchen he carefully washed the dishes in the sink, then set them to drain. Back in the bedroom he meticulously dressed in a startling white broadcloth shirt with striped tie and a nearly black Anderson & Sheppard suit from Savile Row. Finally, he slipped on the black banker’s shoes he preferred.
Caroline Bynum stirred in the bed as he slipped on his gold Rolex. Not yet twenty years old, born with more money than God, she was crazy about him, still in the early bloom of the relationship.
“Caro,” he said quietly. “I have to leave now. Take your time. Lock up when you go, there’s a dear. I’ll call later today when I’m free.” The young woman gave a grunt, then lapsed into deep sleep. Manfield smiled, took his cell phone from on top of the dresser, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
It was just a ten-minute walk to his office. On such a beautiful day, he never considered driving or taking a taxi. Arriving five minutes early, he greeted the receptionist, then went straight to his office, where he perused the Financial Times as he had another cup of tea. Then he checked his e-mail, dashed off four replies, and settled in with the newspaper.
Special Applications Security, or SAS as it was known, had been created twenty years before by two former Special Air Service operatives who selected the name for its meaningful initials. Five years earlier they’d sold the lucrative international company to Lanson Security, one of the UK’s oldest security companies. SAS had, however, been largely untouched by the transition. The company specialized in security measures and hardware for private companies and small governments worldwide. The former manager had been named president of the company and business had gone on as before.
Manfield had worked at SAS for just over three years and was considered the company’s brightest star. He spoke five languages, which had proven helpful to the company in recent years, and was adept at blending in with various cultures. He traveled on average eight times a year for the company, his usual trip lasting two weeks. Though he could present and pitch the latest offerings in terms of security gates and twenty-first-century technology, he was most skilled with small weapons and was inevitably dispatched when an order for such was in the offing. More than once his consummate skill with the German HK MP-5 submachine gun had resulted in a larger-than-expected order. He boasted he could write his name with a burst of automatic fire from fifty yards, then did so.
Except that the name he wrote was not really his own. Brian Manfield was born Borz Mansur in Grozny, Chechnya, to a British mother, a devoted Communist, and Chechnyan father, at that time a general in the Soviet army. Until the fall of the Soviet empire, Borz had lived in the Soviet Union, attending school in Moscow while living with his parents. When Dzhokhar Dudayev declared Chechen independence in 1991, Borz was eleven years old, so his father had sent mother and son to London for safety. Borz’s father had then flown to Grozny, where he’d promptly sided with the rebels against the Russian army.
When Russia invaded in 1994, General Mansur had organized the ongoing resistance after the occupation and had directed guerrilla operations from the Caucasus Mountains. Three times he left to seek help from various affluent Muslims, once managing to reach London for a brief visit with his wife and son, whom he decided to take back with him.
In 1996, following a period of phony negotiations, the Russians once again invaded the country. This time Borz took part in the fighting, where he proved adept at night ambushes and the assassination of Russian officers. With his perfect Russian and European looks he would don a Russian uniform, then strike terror behind the lines. Shortly before hostilities largely ended that August, Borz’s father was killed, betrayed by the Russians, who violated a peace parley.
Borz returned to London, where he resumed his formal education. At the same time, his mother directed that he anglicize his name. Now in his thirties; he knew no one who was aware of his past. For all appearances and purposes, he was Brian Manfield, the perfect English gentleman. If people noticed that he never ate pork sausage, or if they believed they’d seen someone looking like him emerging from a mosque, they thought nothing more of it.
At three that afternoon Manfield called Caro. “Are you up yet?”
“Of course, silly. Been up for hours. I want to see you.”
Manfield chuckled. “Soon enough. How about a drink at six, then some dinner?”
“I know what I want to eat, and it’s not dinner.”
“Save it for dessert. I will.”
WEEK THREE
INCREASE IN CYBERCRIME DRAMATIC
By Ursula White
Global Computer News Service
August 24
LAS VEGAS—In a speech to computer software providers, Michael Elliot, president of Internet Security Alliance, said that cybercrime is the greatest threat to American prosperity since the depression of the 1930s. “Effective software to stop it in its tracks is vital for any company,” he said, adding, “Sadly, even companies that believe they are protected are running computer systems wide-open to incursions.”
Speaking to a gathering estimated at 4,000, Elliot related several stories of looting by cybercriminals, one in excess of $1 million. Malware specially crafted to obtain financial information from home and company computers is on the increase and “is more effective all the time.” One Fortune 500 company had many of its financial records encrypted and was required to pay a ransom of $100,000 for the key to restore the files.
Today’s cybercriminals have abandoned widespread attack against corporate firewalls for the specific targeting of individual computers which will likely hold sensitive financial information. “The sky’s the limit when it comes to cyberfraud,” he said in conclusion. “We live in a cyber world at our own peril.”
Global Computer News Service, Inc. All rights reserved.
32
MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION
TVERSKOE ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT
FRIDAY, AUGUST 25
4:06 P.M.
Ivana Koskov listened intently to her earphones, then said into the microphone, “The port terminals must have a significantly increased capacity on the Pacific Coast in order for us to…”
Listening to her steady voice was Boris Velichkovsky, the managing director for resource development and logistics for Yukos Oil and Gas Company, the largest oil company in Russia. He’d once served as deputy Soviet ambassador to the United Nations and preferred this method of translation in business meetings, where the various translators sat in another room, separated by a one-way mirror. One was assigned to each foreign speaker in attendance and was responsible for both translating from Russian into the foreign language, and from the foreign language back into Russian.
Ivana was highly proficient in English and Italian and was working hard on her French. Next would be Spanish, of which she had only a rudimentary understanding. She’d been hired for this job shortly after the former Yukos CEO, Mikhail Khodorkovsky, had been sentenced to nine years in prison for tax evasion. It was widely understood that his true crime had been to build the enormously wealthy Yukos from the corpse of the old Soviet Union, then fail to cut in the Russian president and his minions. Now he was paying the price.
Ivana had never met Khodorkovsky. Few in the company ever spoke of him. It was as if he’d never existed. But that was Russia, she’d told her husband. Czars, Party chairmen, presidents, it was all the same. The powerful all seemed to vanish in the night, to disappear as totally as if they’d never existed at all. Ivana’s mother had told her of working in the old Ministry of Propaganda, cutting photographs of the vanished from archived newspapers.
Now the Texan was speaking. She seamlessly switched into Russian, glancing at her watch. It would soon be five. She couldn’t see this meeting lasting much longer. Velichkovsky would want to start the eating and drinking soon enough. Only after everyone had been lubricated with bottles of vodka would the real haggling and deal making take place. This was, as Velichkovsky had once told her with a lecherous grin, just so much foreplay.
T
his had also been the same time he’d suggested a significant promotion would be hers if she’d just join him on a foreign trip and see to his every need. His last traveling mistress had done well for herself, he’d pointed out. Ivana had been firm in her rejection and expected to be punished, but he’d just laughed, patted her good-naturedly on the back, and called her his his “good girl.”
The years of marriage to Vladimir had been demanding, far more demanding than her young heart had ever imagined. In many ways her father had been right in his advice, and she’d come to understand he’d spoken out of love for her rather than a dislike of Vladimir. She’d labored at one menial job after another, usually two or three at a time, to support them. Finally, she’d taken a job cleaning the offices of Interport, Inc., one of the new American companies that had set up business in Moscow.
The company, concerned with security, had supervised all the cleaning and maintenance staff with one of their own, a good-natured third-generation Russian Jew from New York, named Annie. “Actually it’s Anastasya,” she’d said when they first met, “but only my grandmother calls me that.”
Over the following months, the two women had grown quite close. Annie came to respect Ivana and her self-sacrifice enormously. “You can’t keep cleaning rooms,” she told her. “You’ll turn into one of those stooping old women.” When she’d learned that Ivana spoke fluent Italian and Spanish and had studied English in school, she’d immediately switched to English and, when talking to her, drilled Ivana repeatedly whenever she mispronounced a word. Within six months she announced, “You’re good enough to interpret if you want. I could recommend you.”
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