“Still no ownership or shareholdings, though.”
Kyle nodded gently. “Definitely unusual for an armaments company. They’ve either been very good boys or they don’t trade with us directly. If any of the subsidiaries do, they probably signed contracts before they were incorporated into the group. It’s an old trick if a company really is dirty. Form a new, clean company and strike a deal. Then, a few years later, it gets enveloped by the larger one. Every time you need to sign a new deal you form a new company. In a country like Egypt, true ownership can be a very hard thing to trace.”
He accessed the ‘FILE’ menu a second time and three sheets of hard copy appeared on the printer.
“Last but not least,” he said. “Our friends at Mørkhest.”
In a few seconds, Mørkhest’s corporate logo replaced Red Knight’s on the screen, under the banner of ‘AGRICULTURE AND ENVIRONMENT’; a set of traditional weighing scales and the tagline ‘a measure of wheat...’
Like the others, Mørkhest had a number of subsidiaries ranging from cattle rearing in Texas to sheep farming in Australia. There were nineteen companies in total, covering almost every conceivable aspect of the arable and livestock industries. The text stated that they were founded in 1953 and listed their head office as; 12210 Drammensveien, Oslo, Norway.
“I see a pattern forming,” Kyle said as he carefully scrolled down the screen to find the ‘OWNERSHIP/ SHAREHOLDING’ section reading ‘UNKNOWN’ yet again.
“Not one I can get them on, though,” Warner said.
He watched dejectedly as the hard copy began to slide through the printer. With the complete resources of the F.B.I. at his disposal, he had managed to discover nothing more than Jack . He knew the companies were dirty and he knew they were working together. He also knew that, far from linking the companies, the objective was actually to find a fourth company. The quarter that Simon had told Jack was missing.
If that really was what he had meant.
Kyle cleared a space and placed the three sets of printouts on Warner’s already cluttered desk. For a few moments he just stared at them, one at a time. Then he broke into a smile and laughed gently to himself, his eyes curling into his almost infamously magnanimous squint.
“If I were you,” he said finally. “I’d be putting all my attention into finding the fourth company in the group.” He sighed and stretched. “Anyway, it’s getting late. I think I’ll leave you to it.”
He stood and started to negotiate his way through the mass of boxed files on his way to the door. Warner looked to the pages and then to Kyle. His expression was a combination of bewilderment and outright shock.
“How do you know there’s a fourth company?” he asked.
How the hell could he have known?
Kyle looked back at his colleague with a determinedly self-gratified smirk. “Hey, it’s your case, not mine. If you can’t see it, who am I to point it out? Have fun.”
He smiled victoriously and disappeared through the door, closing it heavily behind him. Warner looked back at pages in turn. He was missing something, something that Kyle had seen instantly. He just not know what it was.
The door opened again, Kyle’s condescending expression looking even more accentuated than before. “You could do worse than look into those logos and taglines,” he said. “Better still, why not look to God? Who knows, it could prove to be quite a revelation...”
The door closed again.
“Smart ass little shit,” Warner said quietly.
and i will answer
Job 13:22
Jack and MaryBeth stormed into the boardroom and swiftly took their seats. Jack laid a brown Manila file on the desk and thanked everyone for coming. For the first time in anyone’s memory, he looked frightened. The four people already gathered could sense that they would not have long to wait before they learned the root of that fear.
Along the left side of the table, nearest the window, sat Eric Lacy; chief mole in charge of the main system and Peter Fiorentino, the twenty-nine year old architect who had designed and overseen the construction of the NetCenters. Along the right were Barry Turner, in charge of IntelliSoft Security and Phoebe Rollins who had worked under MaryBeth’s supervision to handle International Liaison. All had been called in at short notice. All knew nothing other than that something was seriously wrong.
“How many of your men do we have positioned within each NetCenter?” Jack said, his question aimed at Barry Turner.
“Six on average,” Barry replied, his eyebrows lowered as he attempted to work out the reasoning behind the question. “Some more, some less. It’s down to location. None have less than four.”
“They any good?”
Barry shrugged. “Some are just paid eyes, but we have a minimum of two graded at Level-One on each site.”
“Good,” Jack said. “Now this does not leave this building but we have a possible terrorist situation on our hands, probably scheduled to occur at the same time as the launch.” He could see the eyes widen and the bodies start to shuffle uncomfortably. “As I say, this is a possible terrorist situation, we don’t know anything for sure. What we do know is that the launch is only twelve days away and we need to take it very seriously. I will be liaising with the F.B.I. on the matter, but in the meantime I want you to co-ordinate a search of every site from here. A full search. In reality, I don’t really want anyone to stop looking until they find something.”
“We’ll need to cordon off the sites,” Barry said.
“And keep them cordoned until the launch, I’m afraid. Then, if they do get the all clear, nobody goes in or out unless I know about it. I’ve brought Peter in to work alongside you. He knows those sites inside out. Your guys have any problems, they speak to you and you, in turn, speak to him.”
“What are we looking for?” Barry asked, obviously concerned.
“Anything that shouldn’t be there. That’s why you’ll need Peter’s help.” He reached into his Manila folder and removed a block of A4 diagrams. “This is a full set of schematics. Building, wiring, plumbing, terminals, FireWire control panels, everything. I want these faxed to every site within the hour so that these places can be turned inside out. I want the backs off every terminal and every headset examining. Leave nothing out.”
“And if we find anything out of the ordinary?”
“You log its position and you get your men the hell out of there. Then you speak to Phoebe who can start bringing in the relevant specialists to every site. But I don’t want anyone other than your guys in there unless something is found. Until that moment, this is nothing but routine.”
Barry nodded his understanding.
“There’s gonna be lots of unwanted interest,” Phoebe said. “Especially if we’re closing off the sites.”
Jack nodded. “I know, and it’s going to be very tough to bullshit them. Play it cool. The official line is that as twenty-seven of the sites are playing host to world leaders or government representatives, we are conducting an unannounced security check. We’ve been tight-lipped about our plans so that they could in no way be used against us.”
Eric Lacy was twirling a plastic ballpoint around his fingers, backwards and forwards. He had listened intently to every word that had been said. He only needed to know one thing.
“Where do I fit in?” he asked.
“You check the main system. I know it’s security clearance only down there, but I’m still taking no chances. You know the layout of the sub-level better than anyone else, security included. I need you to fine tooth comb it. Check every item in every room. I want you to do that daily, and at least three times on the morning of the launch.”
“Do I tell my staff?” Eric asked.
“No,” Jack replied. “purely because you’re working at security level anyway. If you did find anything it would have to have been planted by a member of staff with clearance. Until we know for sure, you can’t trust anyone.”
Eric smiled. “I never do.”
“Any more questions?” Jack asked.
“Just one,” MaryBeth said, turning to Barry. “How long will a full swoop take?”
Barry rubbed his coarse chin. He had been off-campus when the call came through and had not even had time to grab a shave before leaving the house. “Hard to say,” he replied. “Average of five men per site, turn every stone...? I would reckon we’re looking at eight to ten hours from the schematics being faxed and me giving the go-ahead.”
“Well then, we’d better get moving,” Jack said. “The minute you know anything you move on it. Don’t wait for my approval.” He stood to leave. “And please, Barry... tell your men to be careful.”
Barry nodded solemnly and straightened the schematics like a newsreader closing his broadcast.
Almost as soon as it had started, the meeting was adjourned.
flying through the midst
Revelation 8:13
The terminal flashed a single message, over and over. Against the deep blue screen bearing an embossed F.B.I. logo, the white box containing red letters appeared and disappeared with monotonous regularity. ‘C3722HCL ONLINE - AWAITING TRANSMISSION’. It had been flashing that same message for over fifteen minutes now.
Both the terminal operator, a twenty-something year old kid by the name of Tommy, and Special Agent Frank Warner waited anxiously.
They were inside ‘OPS1’, a secure room located within the Strategic Information Operations Centre (SIOC), located on the basement level of the F.B.I.’s Los Angeles Field Office at 11000 Wilshire Boulevard, next door to the Los Angeles University Campus. There were four rooms located within the SIOC, all divided by soundproofed glass. OPS1 was the smaller of the two operations rooms, used solely for sending receiving secure transmissions. In addition to a bank of telephones, terminals and fax machines the room also possessed a large screen television, a wall-mounted map of the world and five clocks set for GMT, Pacific, Mountain, Central and Eastern time. OPS2, visible through the glass was larger, possessed only one phone, one fax and one terminal, but did possess eight rows, each six chairs deep and flipcharts to be used in briefing sessions. The other two rooms were the Control Room and the Conference Room.
Gaining the authorisation he had needed to utilise OPS1 had not been easy for Warner, and there would be a lot of shit if he was wrong. But he wasn’t. He just knew it.
“She’s crossing into Turkish airspace now, sir,” Tommy said eventually. “E.T.A. five minutes. They will then patch through to us via a secure line from C.I.A. Headquarters at Langley.”
“Thanks,” Warner said, his fingers drumming impatiently on the desk.
The door behind them burst open and a tall man in his fifties stormed into the room. As the Special Agent in Command (SAC) of the Los Angeles Field Office, the third largest in the country, Ronald J. Berkeley was definitely not a man to be messed with. Six feet three inches tall with the build of a heavyweight boxer, Berkeley possessed a tanned, pug-nosed face and a receding grey hairline. He had served in the F.B.I. for only nine years, far less than Warner, but had come a long way in a remarkably short space of time. It was a testament to his aggressive nature and his unwillingness to take any shit. He demanded loyalty and perfection from each and every one of the 570 agents under his command and did not want his reputation tarnished by any one of them, least of all by an agent who had been palmed off to the inferior Rodondo Beach Resident Agency until his retirement came due.
“You’d better have something real good up your sleeve, Frank,” he bellowed without even looking at Warner. He saw the flashing message on the screen and scowled. “I’ve had the Head of C.I.A. Operations on the phone all morning wanting to know what the bloody hell we’re playing at. If we come up empty he’s going to go straight to the Inspection Division in Washington and your ass is getting burned a long time before mine does.”
“It’ll be good, sir,” Warner replied, desperately trying to sound as confident as he felt. Having served alongside Berkeley some seven years ago it pained him now to have to demonstrate the required degree of subservience. “Trust me.”
“I never trust a man who says ‘trust me’,” Berkeley replied venomously. “You say it’s connected to Bernstein and the Senator?”
“Yes, sir.”
Berkeley’s face was suggesting that the answer was not good enough. “So... enlighten me.”
“It seems that since his little girl died on 320, Jack Bernstein has uncovered evidence indicating that she’d been staying with an unidentified religious group whilst she was away. Not only that, but she also gave birth a child during that time which they, apparently, wish to keep hold of.”
“Has anyone checked with forensics in Germany?” Berkeley asked.
“Bernstein has, sir. He was offered special clearance in matters relating to his daughter by the Senator before his death. Forensics confirmed that Lara Bernstein did give birth to a child three to four months before the downing of 320. Nobody is really sure why the people she had been with are so keen to hang on to this child, but I have evidence that strongly implicates them in the deaths of Senator McKinnock and the two IntelliSoft employees killed in the sarin gas attack in Lancaster as well as one death in Spain and another in Italy. Both Senator McKinnock and Dave Clearwater were involved in helping Jack Bernstein to locate his daughter’s child. I believe that their deaths are a direct result of that involvement.”
Warner knew the unwritten rules. Don’t mention that the group may, or may not, have been responsible for the bombing of Flight 320, especially not when the F.B.I. were responsible for the arrests of the main protagonists, and don’t mention that these people believed the child to be the New Messiah. Keep it simple; a straightforward case of abduction and/or false imprisonment leading to the murder of five people, including a prominent United States politician. That would be enough to justify action. For now.
“So these people are what...? Religious terrorists?”
“Something like that, Sir. We still don’t know who they are, but it seems I may have managed to find out where they are.”
Berkeley suddenly looked intrigued, his pencil-thin eyebrows curling into a pronounced ‘V’. “And how exactly have you managed that?”
Warner smiled as he thought of Kyle McCarthy. The agent officially charged with investigating the deaths of David Clearwater and Senator McKinnock had unknowingly helped Warner find their killers. Even now he had no idea that he had done it. The irony was that Warner had told him from the outset that he was ‘working a fraud’.
“It’s a long story, Sir,” he replied. “But I did have some help.”
“And you say you have hard evidence linking these people to Clearwater and McKinnock?”
“Yes Sir,” Warner replied. “It’s all in my report.”
Berkeley looked back to the screen. The message was still flashing. “So, if you know exactly where they’re hiding out, why have I had to put in a request for the C.I.A. to re-route a Hercules on its flight back from Bosnia to get us some pictures of the Turkish countryside? Why aren’t we just liaising with the Turkish Government on this?”
“We tried, Sir. I spoke with Peter Robards at the American Embassy in Istanbul and he’s been asking the relevant questions. I now know that the people we are looking for are based in Kozlar, but when Peter poses the question to the Turkish Interior Minister, he claims that there’s nothing in that area. Nothing at all. Peter plays it like he’s well informed and tells the minister that he knows there’s something there because he has satellite pictures from ComSat III which accidentally came through as part of our Bosnian surveillance. Of course, he hadn’t.”
Berkeley was becoming impatient. “And...?”
“And all of a sudden the Interior Minister admits that there is a base in Kozlar, but now he claims that it’s a military installation complete with testing facilities. He says that they did not want us to know what went on there. Presumably in the same way that we don’t want anyone to know what we do in Nevada.”
&nb
sp; Berkeley shrugged. “So... it’s a military testing range? What of it? We’ll never get access.”
“That’s why I need the pictures,” Warner said. “Because neither I, nor indeed Peter, really believe that it is a testing range.”
“Why not?”
“Firstly because Peter spoke to a guy he knows who’s fairly senior in the Turkish armed forces and he knows nothing about the place. He knows there’s something there, but it’s definitely not military. Or even, he claims, government owned. He said it was definitely a private facility. And he did mention something about back-handers.”
“And secondly...?” Berkeley prompted.
“Secondly, the Turkish Minister did not say ‘we don’t want you to know what goes on there’ when he spoke to Alex. He said ‘they don’t want us to know’. He fucked up.”
“So you think he’s covering somebody’s ass?”
“He’s getting paid to keep something quiet,” Warner said confidently. “I’m sure of it. I believe, from intelligence that I’ve received, that a few aerial photographs will either confirm or deny the case I’m building against whoever ‘they’ really are.”
The young terminal operator, Tommy, turned to face the two men as the on-screen flashing suddenly stopped and the screen filled with white noise.
“Pictures coming through now, Sir,” he said.
Berkeley looked pensive. It was not one of his more common traits. He was going to ask how the hell aerial photography of Turkey could possibly confirm or deny two distinct homicides in and around Los Angeles, but thought better of it. The pictures had better speak for themselves. If not, it was Special Agent Frank Warner who would have a lot of explaining to do.
“For your sake, Frank,” he said, his renowned menace coming closer to the fore, “they’d damn well better confirm.”
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