The embracing warmth in Hannah’s voice caused him to feel a tingle which rose from the soles of his feet and ascended to the tip of his scalp. He reached for her face to brush her cheek with a thumb, then placed a fleshy kiss on her mouth. Since the day he proposed marriage – and every day since then – she’d managed to convince him that no matter how deep the savagery in the workplace she was his ultimate balm. She swept all pain away. How was the day, darling? she’d ask so fervently it sounded as if it was the only question she’d ever had and she desperately wanted it answered. Following this, he would pour his heart out, with minor embellishing and some editing to create colour, of course.
Which is what transpired under Rita and Gerry’s monumental tree.
“Wonderful day,” he replied. “Spent some time with the young ones. They love getting advice. Did a bit of mentoring with one. A fine young girl. A whiz at technology. Helped her interpret some data she stumbled onto. Grateful she was. Endearing really. Wish you could have seen it. When you’re stronger we’ll invite her over. You two would get along. She’d be like a daughter to you. Don’t laugh, sweet. She’s as good as they come. Can I get you tea?”
“I’ve had tea, darling. Rita came over an hour ago. They’ve had an exciting day. Well, mostly Gerry. He acquired high-speed access today.”
“High-speed access for Gerry? In that little house? After all these years? I always thought Gerry’s access to Rita was never less than instantaneous.”
“Irving!” Hannah’s laugh was deep and throaty. “Don’t be naughty. Not that, darling. The high-speed access is to the Internet. It made me think we should get a computer.”
Irving always felt a surge when Hannah called him naughty. Did perverts feel that when they enjoyed a spanking from their wives? All power to them if they did. Yes, yes, through the years Hannah and he had their little perversions. He became quite powerless to control his urges when she delivered the word naughty with her deep throaty laugh. He always responded with a sexy little swivel of his balloon-like hips. Her deep voice, his hips moving – this was the prelude. When next he’d take her he’d have a giddy feeling. Through Hannah, Irving was convinced, he accessed the accumulated carnal knowledge of the whole English nation. The first time she called him naughty…he’d never forget it…during their honeymoon in Rome on the second night as he approached her from behind. Now, here, under Gerry and Rita’s maple he suddenly recalled that reckless, sweaty hour. The memory made him shudder.
Hannah, studying the fence separating their yard from Rita and Gerry’s, didn’t notice the inward turn of his eyes, nor his slight tremor. She said, “Apparently one can do one’s banking on the Internet and one avoids the tedious line-ups with tellers. Wouldn’t you like that, darling? Think how you would save time.”
“I’m surrounded by high tech stuff at work, sweet,” he said, suddenly sounding like a manager. “High tech creates problems. Some days that’s all I do, solve high tech problems. Do we want that at home?”
“Rita and Gerry have no problems. Rita said they now have the world’s biggest library sitting in their den. I think that would be fun.”
Irving’s mind was now replaying their third and fourth honeymoon nights in Rome, better than the first two, a man and his new wife getting naughtier all the time. “Who needs the world’s biggest library inside the rumpus room?” he said in a gruff voice. “What’s happened to moderation? Real books take up space. They pose limits. Real books are humbling. I like that.”
“But darling, we wouldn’t want a huge computer. A small one would do. Wouldn’t that be moderation?”
The spring weather continued to inspire. Warm, light air under azure skies every day. Hannah’s strength surged back. Irving reacquired access to her, while she was soon adventurous enough to call a computer supplier. Within a week a small but potent device was installed in her sewing room. Access to the Internet was fast and, once she had the hang of it, Hannah claimed that in that cramped space on Ivy Crescent she now had a daily experience on the same level as fingering the catalogues of manuscripts in the British Museum’s famous circular reading room.
“Sweet,” Irving said dismissively when Hannah insisted that he admire her discovered riches, “I’m delighted you’re excited by the Internet. But you know, part of my job is managing ten thousand networked computers. So their impact is old hat to me. And because I work with technology all day, I prefer abstinence from it when I get home.”
All the same, the Czar observed his wife quickly becoming nimble in the IT world. She got herself a printer next, and within days of that, over dinner, was reading him the downloaded correspondence of obscure prime ministers who had served at the turn of the twentieth century. “Irving, darling, I find this arresting. I truly do. It’s all quite, quite remarkable.”
“There’s books with that material in them. Mass produced. Probably available in paperback for a couple of bucks.”
“Not true, darling. These are unpublished letters. It’s terribly fascinating.”
Hannah’s instant computer savvy silenced Heywood. Brooding over the marital ground he was losing, he had a sudden thought. Jaime. She’s got a bag stuffed full of impressive tricks. If I knew some I could come home and dazzle.
And so it was, when Jaime sent the Czar a message inviting him to her lab for an update on her research into Nikko Krause and Morsi Abou-Ghazi, that the Czar seized the opportunity. Urgent feet beneath quivering thighs and bouncing hams propelled him through the passages of the Service complex. Frisky as a lamb he fingered the combination for entry into her domain and in the semi-darkness she wheeled around. With a jewel of a smile she exclaimed, “Hey Irv, whassup?”
“Whassup?” the playful Czar mimicked. “Lemme see.” He began patting his great belly as if in deep thought. “Ah’ll tells yuh whassup – we’se a’winnin’ a war.” Jaime loved it. The bangles on her wrist jangled as gleefully she pumped the air with her fist. “Seriously, Jaime. Good news on all fronts. Not a hiccup in the network for four weeks running. The dogs on the High Council have stopped barking. All fast asleep now. So there’s time for me to bone up on Zadokite Port.”
“Super for you, Irv. Listen, I got some neat stuff for you. I sent it on, but notice you haven’t read it. Do I need to simplify Zadokite Port some more?”
“That’s why I’m here. You’ve got to help me figure all that out. As for the new stuff, is it telling? Proof that Carson Pryce is a traitor we could best do without?”
“Not that, Irv. Carson’s an operator, no doubt. One of the best. Maybe the best. Always a jump ahead of everyone else. Kick-ass intuition is what he’s got. Sets him apart. He’s got these perfect hunches, I mean, about who to go after. But turncoat? Naw. I’m dead cert. He’s too busy putting it to the dickheads of the world.”
The Czar stiffened. Intuition? Carson possessed intuition? Kick-ass intuition even? Intuition, instant and profound, was, Heywood considered, his personal forte. He’d never met anyone that matched it. Anyway, kick-ass intuition was intuition at what level? A modest one, he supposed. His intuition, by way of comparison, always came on powerfully, like a bolt of lightning. It never failed to let him land a knock-out punch. Heywood was about to claim that not once over all the years had he ever seen evidence of Carson having anything so elevated as intuition, or, for that matter, judgement, discretion, or any other virtue characteristic of the human race, but having arrived at Jaime’s lab in a light mood he decided to stay that way. “Carson fingers dickheads, you say, Jaime?” he said fetchingly. “Does that mean that when he kicks ass his toes massage posteriors? I’d like to have some facts on that.”
Jaime’s laughter reverberated off the lab’s metallic walls. “Irv, did you smoke up before coming over? Listen, I’ve got a bunch of facts all right, but the problem is, they don’t add up. I can’t figure out the game your lady ambassador friend is playing.”
“Rachel? Rachel doesn’t play games. She’s intellectually vigorous. Her moral spine is strong. I was hopi
ng to hear about those two characters in Carson’s file – the Egyptian and the Berliner. Do they exist? Is Carson in cahoots with them?”
“They exist, sure, though I doubt Carson’s hooked in with them. As for Miss Dunn, I’ll use your word. She is vigorous. Vigorously involved too, I mean with that pair. On the surface, it’s all fab and spiffy. Miss Dunn and them are providing a service to the world community. Brownie points for all three. But beneath, Irv, beneath. Interesting things. Your Rachel is no angel.”
Heywood sighed. “Let’s hear about that pair then,” he said, his heart turning sour.
Facts spilled out. First, profiles of a Berlin bank and an Egyptian trading company. Infiltration into the bank’s data systems had yielded Jaime a list of Krause’s travels, and the corporate jet’s log often showed that, as he had gone to and fro’ his destinations, there were regular short stops in Geneva, about half a dozen times a year. This had been going on for four years. R.D. am Bord, the cryptic entries read. So, clearly, Miss Dunn accompanied Krause to Chile, Argentina, Barbados, Costa Rica, Cape Verde, the Seychelles, Sri Lanka. She flew with him to the annual board meetings of the Abou-Ghazi Foundation located in Monaco. And the records of the Foundation meetings Jaime accessed contained details on numerous projects that advanced the well-being of children in poor countries. A project in Costa Rica turned out to be especially successful and Miss Dunn went there several times with the banker to inspect it before staying on for a brief rainforest, bio-diversity filled vacation.
“But something about that foundation is fishy, Irv. Even though the flow of cash into it is huge, in reality diddley-squat gets spent. It mostly disappears into wacky banks in loopy countries.”
“I’m familiar with patterns like that,” the knowledgeable Czar said gruffly.
Krause travelled to places without Rachel too. Turkmenistan, Kazakstan, Kirghizstan, Ukraine, Russia, Georgia, Iraq, Iran, Sudan, Nigeria, Ghana, Congo, Philippines, North and South Korea. The log often showed a fellow traveller to African and west Asian countries after stops in Alexandria or Cairo. “Morsi Abou-Ghazi,” Jaime confirmed.
“I get it,” the Czar said. “The picture is clear. What we have is a typical, high-powered banker keen to finance every deal he can find which will draw on Germany’s industrial might. Ever studied the structure of Germany’s exports, Jaime? High-end stuff, I tell you. Packed with value-added. So he links up with a reliable outfit. Egyptians are no slouches when it comes to commerce. That Egyptian is probably expert at smoothing out the vagaries of customs authorities in all those rickety parts of the world. Makes sense from a business perspective. The cash must be sloshing in.”
“You said it. Humungous waves of it, mostly rolling into that weird foundation. What doesn’t add up is the role of your young ambassador. She’s a member of the Morsi Abou-Ghazi Foundation Board – no fee paid, expenses only. So she’s overseeing money getting allocated to no end of do-good projects.”
“Rachel would enrich any board devoted to international progress.”
“Except, most of the projects are fake.”
“Fake? Why do you say that? Maybe not. Project execution is difficult even with good people.” The Czar, drawing on rich experience, said this with particular authority. “As for her private life, vacations in Costa Rica and the like, I can only say that she’s smart, good-looking and unmarried, and there’s no law that says she can’t have a boyfriend. So she likes a banker? I was a diplomat when I met my future wife. Why shouldn’t women set lofty aims?”
“Okay,” Jaime continued her calm reasoning. “Miss Dunn does some tumbling with a Berliner. Like you say, why not if he’s a turn-on? But suddenly it’s curtain time. Next she’s hot for the Egyptian. That was six months ago.”
“Rachel in a relationship with an Egyptian?”
“Sure. Look at this.” Jaime scrolled through data on her screen with the Czar behind her looking over her shoulder. “The bank jet stops landing in Geneva. Three, four months go by. Then suddenly she’s a regular at the El-Salamlek Palace. What’s she doing there? Your guess is as good as mine. Carson caught it with finesse. Searching the horizon for a yacht. Waiting for its silhouette.”
“Those visits could be bona fide, you know. She could be there for duties on behalf of that foundation. Anyway, the thing that worries me, the missing piece in all this, is Carson. What’s his interest? Why does he keep this material on file? You know he likes to pull funny strings. My intuition tells me Rachel is being used.”
“Carson’s been keeping tabs on the happy threesome, sure, but he’s not part of it. No hot poop on him, Irv. Sorry. All indications are he’s a straight shooter.”
Because that’s the way he wants it, were Heywood’s unspoken words. Like with a Punch and Judy show, he creates hidden plots, then makes his puppets dance.
Jaime’s debrief proceeded. Further disjointed bits of information, some drawn from Krause’s student record at the LSE and Abou-Ghazi’s at Yale. Boring as hell, thought Heywood. When Jaime started running out of steam, he thought his time had come. Cautiously he asked, “And I can study all these facts?”
Jaime shrugged. She wasn’t really satisfied yet with what she had and answered with an annoyed little nod. “It’s all posted in Zadokite Port too, Irv. All you need to do is look.”
The Czar continued smoothly. “Was it difficult? I mean, did you have trouble getting into the Berlin bank’s database? And the records of Yale and the LSE? Did you do it the same way you broke into the files of the Dallas Police Department? I was impressed that day. I really was. It was great fun.”
Jaime looked up. “You shittin’ me?”
“My child! I?” He had difficulty sustaining a look of innocence. In the darkened room he directed his gaze from monitor to monitor. The luminous boxes seemed to have transformed. They now peered at the Czar more like a row of sharp-eyed jurors. They made him feel queasy, so he closed his eyes.
“Irv,” Jaime ordered severely, “wake up. Why the sudden interest?”
The Czar bent forward. “I’ll be honest, Jaime,” he whispered, eyes still tightly shut. “I need instruction.” With hands clasped together, as if begging forgiveness for an unclean act, he looked up, first at her, then at the ceiling? “I don’t know how to say this. I have an unusual request…I mean…for someone in my position…you know…having to model high standards…being true to my ethical responsibilities.”
“Cut out the crap, Irv,” Jaime said. “Crap leads nowhere.”
The Czar nodded. “No crap. You’re right…” He paused once more. “What I really want…what I hope you can do…Jaime, please teach me how to hack.”
Jaime’s carefree laughter resounded through the lab. That’s the sound of celebration, Heywood thought, the sound of a seal being stamped on a pact, and of the Devil triumphant.
With undisguised mirth Jaime asked whether he wanted to learn her art so as to contribute directly to the high cause of maintaining the nation’s security.
“Yes, yes,” he admitted quickly. “The fight against evil. Sometimes I feel lost. Your generation is so skilful at it. You live on the cusp of all embracing knowledge. You make progress effortlessly. But I often think: I’m not that much over the hill. I can still learn.”
These blurted words, this taking refuge in humility, had the effect of erasing Heywood’s sense of moral lapse. Filling the vacated space was the prospect he desperately wanted, of being the resident authority on Ivy Crescent on all matters pertaining to the Internet.
“No probs,” Jaime said. “That’s cool. My method’s become pretty efficient. I’ve automated it a lot. I can give you a little stick to plug into your computer. The Zadokite Port program on it is called Viewing Made Simple. Carry it around in your shirt pocket, or on a key chain. Anytime you want to know something about somebody else, slip it into a computer, click on Zadokite Port, get on-line, ask a couple of clever questions and let my algorithms spin. With practice you’ll get at almost anything.” Jaime’s optimism infect
ed Heywood. He broke into a broad grin. “Hey Irv,” she continued expansively, “when you get really good at hacking you can start up a business. Let’s think of a name. Hmm…I got it. Irving Heywood: Ace Voyeur. Imagine that on your calling card.”
The Czar, leaning back and chuckling, was already indulging in the happy anticipation of soon having a first customer.
The many long years of pawing through paper files were useful preparation, Heywood realised, for what he was now learning. Files are files, and his knack for getting the most out of them – giving free rein to lightning bolts of intuition – was wonderfully transferable. Access to paper files had always increased as he moved up the Service hierarchy, and whenever that happened so did his pleasure that he’d now know more. Yet, as the joy level went up, so did anxiety. Because of what this knowledge expansion implied. The nagging question was always this: if each time he was promoted there were new files, were there still more, ones he knew nothing about? Who in his position would not feel insecure? But now, under Jaime’s tutelage, the question was becoming moot because all restrictions were falling away. “Should have learned this long ago,” he would say curtly, as she showed him the finer points for gaining still wider access. “Quite the nipper, you are, Irv,” Jaime would reply. “Your fingers are on a tear on that keyboard.” And it was true. His fleshy hands were learning to dance with blinding speed. Had confidence tricksters observed it they would have marvelled at his skill.
Every day three hours were set aside for practice. They’d start with the easy pickings: some do-good organisations. “Let’s get to the ones that promote political correctness,” was Heywood’s opening gambit, because he had never admired that crowd. Step by step Jaime showed him how to get at them. The next easiest batch for developing good hacking technique were the journalists. “I love this,” he said, taking time to read e-mails, reports and feature articles in various stages of completion. “It’s good to know I can have fun when I eventually retire.” Jaime suggested they have a go at the prime minister’s office. “An inspired suggestion,” the Czar agreed. “Let’s see if we can find out whether there’s truth to the rumour that he’s about to recall our ambassador in Washington.” Next came The Supreme Court, which was a disappointment, because they were expecting that getting into that network would be tougher. All the same, it confirmed that the exalted judges were spending much of their time being just petty rivals.
Borderless Deceit Page 24
