“No.”
Sarah could hear his hand covering the phone. There were muffled voices on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” she said.
“Yeah, I’m back. Sorry, I’m raked. All right, you got an audio tape you accidentally erased over or something? Not likely we’re going to be able to bring it back for you. No way. That tape’s gone. Sorry.”
“Thanks.” Sarah glumly put down the phone and said, “Shit.”
She found Ken sitting at a table in the break room, drinking a Diet Pepsi and eating a Snickers bar. He was reading one of the William Gibson novels he constantly toted around. She sat down beside him.
“I liked the old one better,” she said.
He closed his novel, using the Snickers wrapper as a bookmark. “The old what?”
“Break room. Across the street. The rats always snarfed your brown-bag lunch if you left it out. I miss the rats.”
“Was that Technical Services you were talking to?”
“Right.”
“Warren Elkind blew you off, eh?”
“He wouldn’t even take my call—not after he heard it was about Valerie Santoro’s murder. I guess I’m really reaching now.”
“Hey, don’t take it so hard,” Ken said. “Life sucks, and then you die.” He bit his lower lip. “Technical Services is pretty good. If they can’t do something, it usually can’t be done.”
“Great,” she said bitterly.
“But not necessarily. Are you really serious about this?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, turning to look at him. Her phone rang, and she ignored it.
“Well, there’s a guy I went to MIT with. A real genius. He’s on the faculty there now, an assistant professor or something. Electronics engineer. I could give him a call if you want.”
“Yeah, I’d like that. Hey, have you ever done a full-scale search of the computerized central files?”
“Sure. Why?” The Pepsi machine hummed, then rattled.
“Warren Elkind. I want to see if his name comes up anywhere. How do I do it?”
“You make the request through Philly Willie. He sends it on to Washington, to the professional searchers at headquarters. The correlation clerks are excellent.”
“I want to find all references to Elkind. Can they do it?”
“They use software called Sybase, which is pretty good. Only question is whether they’ll let you do it. Costs a lot. What makes you think Phelan’s going to authorize it?”
“Warren Elkind is one of the most powerful bankers in America. He’s also been a target of terrorist threats. If I leave things the way they are, we have one dead prostitute and one rich banker. No connection. A big, fat goose egg. But if we can do a fully cross-referenced search, it’s possible we’ll turn up something someplace we wouldn’t have thought to look. Some investigation somewhere, some lead somewhere—”
“Yeah, but Phelan’s just going to tell you about how the Bureau’s file clerks cross-reference better than any file clerks in the world. If it’s not in Elkind’s file now, what makes you think a computer search is going to yield anything more?”
“You’re the computer nerd. You figure it out. I want an all-out, interagency search. CIA, DIA, NSA, INS, State, the whole shebang. Stuff that our people don’t necessarily cross-reference.”
“Go talk to Willie.”
“He’s just going to say, ‘Sarah, this isn’t Lockerbie.’”
“Well, it isn’t.” He took a huge mouthful of Snickers and, chewing, smiled wickedly. “But ask anyway. You think Elkind killed your informant?”
She sighed. “No. I mean, anything’s possible, I wouldn’t rule it out. But there’s something … I don’t know, sort of off about her death. A five-thousand-dollar payoff … and murdered hours after servicing one of the most powerful men on Wall Street. Something’s not quite right.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Malcolm Dyson, Baumann thought, was faux-casual yet tightly wound; shamblingly relaxed yet ferociously observant. And he had made a point of keeping Baumann waiting a good half hour while he changed for dinner; where he was having dinner, whether in or out, the old billionaire hadn’t volunteered. He guarded his personal life like a state secret.
Dyson’s only revealing comment had been an aside, uttered as a liveried butler escorted him into a cherrywood elevator and up to his personal quarters. “I’ve learned,” he’d said apropos of nothing, “that I don’t even miss the States. I miss New York. I had a nice spread in Katonah, thirty-four acres. Town house on East Seventy-first Street that Alexandra put endless time into redoing. Loved it. Life goes on.” And, with a dismissive wave: “New York may be the financial capital, but you can goddam well pay the rent out of a shack in Zambezi if you want.”
Dyson reappeared in the smoke-redolent library, wearing black tie and a shawl-collar dinner jacket. “Now, then. Your ‘conditions,’ as you call them. I don’t have all day, and I’d prefer to wrap this up before dinner.”
Baumann stood before Dyson. For a few moments he was silent. At last he spoke. “You have outlined to me a plan that will wreak terrible destruction on the United States and then the world. You want me to detonate a rather sophisticated explosive device in Manhattan, on a specific date, and disable a major computer system as well. I am now privy to your intent. And you, like me, are an internationally sought fugitive from justice. What makes you think I can’t simply go to the international authorities with a promise to divulge what I know of your plan, and strike a bargain for my freedom?”
Dyson smiled. “Self-interest, pure and simple,” he replied phlegmatically. “For all intents and purposes, I am beyond reach here. I’m effectively protected by the Swiss government, which receives enormous financial benefit from my corporate undertakings.”
“No one is beyond reach,” Baumann pointed out.
“You are a convicted murderer and terrorist,” Dyson said, “who broke out of a South African jail and went on the lam. Why do you think they will believe you? It’s far more likely you’ll simply be rounded up and returned to Pollsmoor. Locked up in solitary. The South Africans don’t want you talking, as you know, and the other governments of the world sure as hell don’t want you at large.”
Baumann nodded. “But you’re describing a criminal act of such magnitude that the Americans, the FBI and the CIA in particular, will not rest until they locate the perpetrators. In the aftermath of such a bombing, the public pressure for arrests will be enormous.”
“I’ve selected you because you’re supposed to be brilliant and, most important, extremely secretive. Your job description is not to get caught.”
“But I will require the services of others—this is hardly a job I can do alone—and once others are involved, the chance of secrecy dwindles to nothing.”
“Need I remind you,” Dyson said hotly, “that you’ve got talents you can use to make sure no one talks? Anyway, the FBI and the CIA, and for that matter MI6 and Interpol and the fucking International Red Cross, will all be looking for parties with a motive. Parties who claim responsibility for such an act, who have some agenda. But I want no credit, and as far as the world knows, I have no agenda. Whatever my legal troubles in the United States, I have all the money anyone could ever want and much more. Much, much more. Beyond, as they say, the dreams of avarice. After a certain point, money becomes merely abstract. I have, you see, no financial motive.”
“I can see that,” Baumann agreed, “but there are flaws in your plan I can see already—”
“You’re the expert,” Dyson exploded. “You’re the goddam Prince of Darkness. Iron out the wrinkles, straighten out the kinks. Anyway, what sort of flaws are you referring to?”
“For one thing, you say you’re unwilling to give up operational control.”
“If I want to call it off, I need to be able to reach you—”
“No. Too risky. From time to time I may contact you, using a clandestine method I deem safe. Or I may not contact you at all.”
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“I’m not willing—”
“The point is nonnegotiable. As one professional to another, I’m telling you I will not compromise the security of the operation.”
Dyson stared intently. “If you—when you contact me, how do you plan to do it?”
“Telephone.”
“Telephone? You’ve got to be kidding me. Of all the sophisticated ways—”
“Not landlines. I don’t trust them. Satellite telephone—a SATCOM. Surely you have one.”
“Indeed,” Dyson replied. “But if you plan on calling me through satellite transmissions, you’ll need a portable—what are they called—”
“A suitcase SATCOM. It’s the size of a small suitcase or large briefcase. Correct.”
“I have one I use when I’m out of telephone range, or on my boat, or whatever. You can take that.”
“No, thank you. I’ll get my own. After all, how do I know the one you’d give me isn’t bugged?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dyson said. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”
“You want to keep track of my whereabouts—you’ve made that clear. How do I know there isn’t a GPS built into the receiver?” A Global Positioning System, Baumann did not bother to explain, is a hand-held device that can be modified to transmit an inaudible signal as a sub-carrier of the audio signal transmitted over satellite link. It would enable the receiving party to determine within a few meters the precise location of the party using the portable SATCOM.
“In any case,” Baumann went on, “I don’t know where you acquired your portable unit. It’s simple technology these days for a government intelligence agency, using a sensitive spectrum analyzer, to identify the characteristic emissions from a particular transmitter and map its location. Just as the CIA, a few decades ago, followed certain automobiles of interest in Vietnam from space by picking up their unique sparkplug emission patterns.”
“That’s the most far-fetched—”
“Perhaps I’m being overly cautious. But I’d much rather procure my own, if you don’t mind. It’s an expenditure of approximately thirty thousand dollars. I assume you can afford it.”
Baumann’s tone made it eminently clear that he would do as he pleased, whether Dyson minded or not.
Dyson shrugged with feigned carelessness. “What else?”
“You are offering me two million dollars. Unless you are prepared to multiply that figure, there’s no sense in our talking any further.”
Dyson laughed. His even false teeth were stained yellow. “You know what the first rule of negotiation is? Always bargain from strength. You’re standing on quicksand. I sprung you; I can burn you in a second.”
“That may be true,” Baumann conceded, “but if you had another alternative, you wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble to pull me out of Pollsmoor. I wouldn’t be standing here before you. There are indeed other professionals who could do the job you describe—but you will get only one shot at it. If it fails, you will never have another chance, I can assure you of that. So you want the best in the world. And you’ve already made that decision. Let’s not play games.”
“What do you want? Three million?”
“Ten. Money for you is, as you say, abstract. Theoretical. To you, another five million is a telephone call before your morning coffee.”
Dyson laughed loudly. “Why not fifty million? Why not a billion, for Christ’s sake?”
“Because I don’t need it. In a dozen lifetimes, I could never need that kind of money. Ten million is enough to buy me protection and anonymity. This will be the last job I do, and I’d like to live the rest of my life without the constant fear of being caught out. More important, though, any more than that is a risk to me. The basic rule in my circles is never to give anyone more than he can explain. I can explain, by various means, a fortune of ten million dollars. A billion, I cannot. Oh, and expenses on top of that.”
Dyson stared, his steely-gray eyes penetrating. “Upon completion.”
“No. One-third up front, one-third a week before the strike date, and the final third immediately upon completion. And before I do anything, the money must begin to move.”
“I don’t have ten million dollars in cash sitting around, stashed in my mattress or something. You make a withdrawal of that magnitude, you’re inviting all kinds of scrutiny,” Dyson objected.
“The last thing I want is wads of cash,” Baumann said. “Much too easily traceable. And I don’t want you to be able to grab my money.”
“If you set up an account in Geneva or Zurich—”
“The Swiss are not reliable. I don’t want my funds impounded. I know for sure that at some point in the future, some small part of this will come out. I need plausible deniability.”
“Caymans?”
“I don’t trust bankers,” Baumann said with a grim smile. “I have dealt with far too many of them.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“The payment must be put in the hands of someone we both trust to serve as a go-between.”
“Such as?”
“There is a gentleman we both have met in the Panamanian intelligence service G-2.” Baumann spoke his name. “As you may or may not know, during the American invasion of Panama, Operation JUST CAUSE, his family was inadvertently killed.”
Dyson nodded.
“He was always anti-American,” Baumann went on, “but since then, you’d be hard pressed to find someone with a greater hatred for America. He has a motive to cooperate with both of us.”
“All right.”
“He will act as our executive agent, our go-between. You will issue him a letter of credit. He’ll be unable to touch the money himself but he’ll be authorized to release it according to a schedule we work out. He approves the transfer of funds, and the Panamanian bank disburses them. That way, he can’t abscond with the money, and neither can I. And you’ll be unable to withhold it from me.”
For a long while, Malcolm Dyson examined his manicured fingernails. Then he looked up. “Agreed,” he said. “A very intelligent plan. Your knowledge of the financial world is impressive.”
Baumann nodded modestly and said, “Thank you.”
Dyson extended his hand. “So when can you begin?”
“I’ll begin my preparations as soon as I have received my first installment of the funds, my three point three million dollars,” Baumann said. He took Dyson’s hand and shook it firmly. “I’m glad we were able to come to an agreement. Enjoy your dinner party.”
Part 2
CIPHERS
All warfare is based on deception.
—Sun-tzu, The Art of War
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The largest intelligence organization in the world also happens to be the most secretive. It is the U.S. National Security Agency, or NSA—which is sometimes archly said to stand for either “No Such Agency” or “Never Say Anything.”
The NSA, which occupies a sprawling, thousand-acre compound at Fort Meade, Maryland, is in charge of America’s SIGINT, or signals intelligence. This includes communications intelligence (COMINT), radar, telemetry, laser, and nonimagery infrared intelligence. It has been described as an immense vacuum cleaner, sucking up electronic intelligence the world over and, if necessary, decrypting it.
Crudely put, the NSA has the ability, among quite a few other abilities, to eavesdrop electronically on most telephone conversations throughout the world.
Under the provisions of two laws—Executive Order 12333, Section 2.5, and the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, Section 101/F-1—the NSA cannot target the telephone conversations of any U.S. citizen without a warrant from the attorney general of the United States, based on probable cause that the individual is an agent of a foreign power.
The operative word here is target. The law doesn’t apply to communications that the NSA’s satellites happen to pick up as they rummage through the international telecommunications network.
Not only is the law full of loopholes
and clever wording, but all of the NSA’s targeting requests are approved by a top-secret rubber-stamp court. And in any case, if the NSA’s satellites intercept a phone call between London and Moscow, there’s simply no way to tell whether the caller is a United States citizen.
So, in effect, the NSA has the ability to intercept any telephone call coming into or out of the United States as well as any telex, cable, or fax anywhere in the world, by means of microwave interception. The agency is believed to sift through millions of telephone calls daily.
In order to make such a vast undertaking remotely manageable, the NSA programs its supercomputers’ scan guides with highly classified watch lists of certain “trigger words,” including word groups, names, and telephone numbers. Thus, any telephone conversation or fax, for instance, that contains a reference to “nuclear weapons” or “terrorism” or “plutonium” or “Muammar Qaddafi,” or to names of terrorist training camps or code names of certain secret weapons, may be flagged for further analysis.
Telephone calls that are encrypted or scrambled also tend to pique the NSA’s suspicion.
The same evening that Baumann agreed to work for Malcolm Dyson, a random fragment of a telephone conversation between two points in Switzerland was captured by a geosynchronous Rhyolite spy satellite, moving 22,300 miles above the earth’s surface at the exact speed of the earth’s rotation—in effect, hovering. The conversation was sent over landlines using microwave linkage, via two microwave towers located in Switzerland, in line of sight to each other.
In many areas of the world, topographical concerns—mountains, bodies of water, and the like—make it impossible for telephone conversations to travel exclusively by landlines. So an enormous volume of telephone traffic is beamed between microwave towers. Because each microwave tower sends out its transmission in the shape of a cone, some of the waves continue to travel into the ether, where they can be picked up by satellite.
The captured signal, which contained a fragment of the telephone conversation, was scooped up by a hovering NSA Rhyolite satellite and relayed to another satellite over Australia, thence to a relay site, and then to Fort Meade, where some twenty-seven acres of computers are located deep below the National Security Agency’s Headquarters/Operations Building. It is said to be the most formidable concentration of computational power in the world.
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