Ark Storm (27 page)

“Thanks.”

Dan returned with two more ales, set them down on the table.

“First off,” he said, “Messenger’s middle name bears no relation to Haas/Hans. It’s Kurt.”

“Ah. Kurt. So Haas/Hans could be a false name then.”

“Could be.”

Dan took hold of the paper bag, pushed it across the table to Gwen.

“Your present,” he said. “This might help you find out more.”

Gwen raised her eyebrows, opened the bag, pulled out two small black objects, one the size of a matchbox but half as deep and the other the size of an iPhone.

“A bug? Two bugs?” asked Gwen.

Dan shook his head. “One GSM bug.” He held up the one that looked like a thin matchbox.

“We activate this by phoning it. It has its own normal phone number and access code that you have to type in to listen to it. We switch it on, we switch it off at will. That’s part one. Armed, it acts as a microphone, and is voice activated so it will only transmit when there is activity in the room. It picks up all sound in a twenty-meter radius. I can listen to this live whenever I want to. Part two is the store-and-forward recorder.” He brandished the black box the size of an iPhone, wiggling it at Gwen. “It can be placed anywhere in the room and has two microphones for extra sensitivity; both have their own battery power. It’s our backup for when we’re not listening to the bug live. This will just sit and record all activity in the room and store it until we call it up and download from it.”

Gwen, chin propped in her hands, leaned across the table toward him, listening intently. One thing she had always been a sucker for was expertise.

“Cool tool,” she murmured.

Dan paused, took a long draft of ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“There are lots of reasons why this is a cool tool,” Dan agreed, “but the main one is that as it’s not transmitting till we ask it to, it’s very hard for bug sweepers to detect it.

“Wow!” said Gwen. “Pretty amazing.” She picked up the two small, innocuous-looking devices, wondering at this strange, parallel world where your conversations could be hijacked, sent spinning around the globe.

“And before you quiz me on how I know all this stuff, Spence, as well as being one of my best buddies, is a security consultant. He got me the kit.”

“Useful friend. What do I owe him?” asked Gwen, putting down the devices, taking her bottle by the neck, drinking deeply. She felt a buzz warming her, ale on an empty stomach.…

“He is. And we’ll figure that out down the road.” Dan took a swig of ale, continued. “I’d recommend that all conversations be relayed back to me here. One, because as sheer luck would have it, I’m less than a quarter mile from Messenger’s house, so it works perfectly.” He stood and gestured to his right. “He’s just along the way. I took a run past last night. Although the GSM device has unlimited range, we need to be this close to download from the store-and-forward device.”

“How fortunate,” observed Gwen, running her forefinger down the side of the bottle, condensation making it wet. “And two?”

Dan leaned toward her, eyed her with a glint of mocking humor.

“Do you really want to risk listening to your boss potentially discussing you, or making dirty phone calls to his lover?”

Gwen grimaced. “You may have a point.”

Dan took his seat again, voice businesslike once more. “So I’ll listen in, wade through it, get you over to hear any juicy bits.”

“You happy doing all the listening-in bit?”

“I’ll run the GSM device through my iPod when I’m working out.” He gave the crooked smile that Gwen liked so much, added: “Who said men can’t multitask?”

“Some idiot,” replied Gwen.

Dan laughed. Night had fallen as they spoke, and the first of the stars emerged glittering and distant, like watchful eyes. For a while the two of them just sat, relishing the night, being together.

“I’ll position the devices this Sunday,” said Gwen, breaking the spell. “Messenger’s throwing a party for Falcon staff. It couldn’t be better.”

“Be careful. If he, or anyone catches you at it…”

“I will be careful. Don’t worry about me.”

Dan leaned forward, took Gwen’s fingers, twined them with his. “But I do,” he said softly. “I do worry about you, Boudy.” He kept his eyes on hers. She felt the heat punch through her, just looked right back at him.

Spence appeared silently, like a wraith, despite his size. He saw the two of them, moved on by into the garden, toward the cliff. He stood staring out into the darkness, backlit by the rising moon.

Gwen broke contact, got to her feet. “I’d best be going. Leave you to quality time with your buddy.”

Dan nodded. He got up, pulled Gwen in close, spoke into her ear. She felt his breath warm on her skin.

“Will you come here to me after the party, after you’ve planted the device?”

Gwen looked back at him. She ached with wanting him. She could see his own desire in his eyes.
What are you so afraid of Gwen?

“I don’t know, Dan,” was all she could answer.

He kissed her lips. “You’re killing me, Gwen. You know that, don’t you?”

She smiled. “Yeah, I know it.” And you’re killing me too, she thought.

67

Gwen drove off through the darkness of Seventeen Mile Drive, past the nighttime cypress trees. With their gnarled branches they looked like something out of a horror movie. For Elise Rochberger, they had been.

*   *   *

Back at the cottage, the two men stood in the darkness, staring out to sea. All that was visible was an endless void, defined in the foreground by the moon-silvered spume of breaking waves.

Spence turned to Dan.

“She’s gorgeous. Beautiful. Defiant. Sexy as hell.”

Dan nodded. “All of that.”

“Dangerous too, for you my friend.”

“That I know.”

“So what you gonna do?”

Dan turned away, spoke to the night.

“Trapped between a rock and a hard place is I think the expression that fits.”

“Maybe. You still haven’t answered the question.”

Dan gave his friend a tight smile. “I haven’t, have I?”

Spence barked out a laugh. “Hoping to play both sides, the old double-agent trick, Danny Boy? We all know what happens to them in the end.”

“We’re a long way from that, I hope,” said Dan as the memories flooded back. The knife, the exposed neck, the blood gushing onto the sand. He felt the breeze chill his skin as it washed over him. He wished, as he had many times, that he was able to wash his mind.

68

NATIONAL COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER, WEDNESDAY MORNING

Andrew Canning was in a pacing mood. He felt like he had swallowed fire. Burning fingers probed his guts. Last night’s barbeque and today’s frustrations were an inflammatory mix. Up and down he went along his office’s windowed walls, glowering through the glass. He paused, turned to Moira Zucker, who sat immobile on the far side of his desk, following his progress with her eyes.

“Where are we with those nominee companies and the puts?” Canning demanded.

“Nowhere, sir,” replied Zucker grimly. “All I got is the three counterparties who put on the trades on behalf of the nominee companies. I’ve rung all three. They’re big banks. They won’t spill. They’re all citing client confidentiality and—”

“Fuck client confidentiality!” erupted Canning in a rare show of fury. “Which banks, exactly, put on the trades? Please tell me it was US banks.”

“Yes, sir. As it happens.” Zucker reeled off three US banks.

“Let’s give them a choice,” mused Canning. “They can cooperate, offer up whoever they are acting for, the identity beneath the nominees, or we get a court order, force disclosure.” Canning gave a broad smile, teeth gleaming. “Trouble with a court order is that it’s messy. Might even leak to the press that they’re acting for terrorists.…”

He hit his intercom. “Coop, get me Richard Bull on the line. He’s CEO of—”

“I know who he is,” cut in Coop. “I see his and his wife’s pictures in all the glossy magazines, at charity things.” Coop’s Southern accent made it come out “theeangs.” Canning smiled, waited. Five minutes later, Coop buzzed him. Bull was on the line.

“Mr. Bull, thank you for your time. I need a little information here, sensitive information,” intoned Canning.

“If I can give it, appropriately, it’s yours,” replied Bull in a tone of deep distrust.

Canning paused. “Mr. Bull, Dick, you’re a busy man. I’m a busy man. Wall Street might not sleep, but neither does terrorism. And me? I know which one I’m more afraid of … so let me make things simple for you.” Canning leaned forward over his speakerphone. He spoke softly, conversationally, his level tone quietly sinister. “I am investigating a planned terrorist atrocity. We have evidence that a financial transaction undertaken by your bank is directly related to that potential outrage, so, one way or another, your bank will need to divulge the identity of the organization or individual for whom you placed that trade.”

Canning waited, imagining his words spreading like the force field from a grenade. Even a desk warrior got to lob a few.

Bull gathered himself quickly. “All of our clients and counterparties are vetted, Mr. Canning. You must know that,” he replied, with rote-like monotony, deliberately omitting Canning’s title.

Canning smiled nastily. That just made his job even more enjoyable.

“So, let me get this straight, Dick, you are assuring me that there is zero possibility that any of your counterparties could ever be involved in a terrorist outrage, one that might cause thousands of deaths. You want to go on the record with this? You’d be happy with all that blood on your hands.…”

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Canning imagined the fury contorting the other man’s features. The aptly named Bull was a bully, as were many investment banking CEOs, and similarly unused to being on the receiving end.

“Give me ten,” grunted Bull, then the phone went dead.

*   *   *

Bull rang back after twelve minutes. Through what sounded like clenched teeth, he offered up the name behind the nominee company.

Canning wrote it down. “Thank you, Mr. Bull,” he said crisply, terminating the call.

Canning called the other two banks, applied the same pressure. Two hours later, both had yielded up the same name.

A beaming Canning called in Zucker.

He nodded at a chair. “Sit.”

He leaned forward toward her, smiling still. “Bull spilled!” he announced. “As I knew he would. So did Hackman and so did DelAcardia. Amazing what an appeal to naked self-interest can achieve.”

Zucker raised her eyebrows speculatively.

“Broke through the nominee walls, got the name,” announced Canning. “The same name in all three cases: one Ronald Glass, aged thirty-five, resident of Manhattan.” He reeled off the address.

“Way to go,
sir!
” cried Zucker.

Canning gave a mock bow. “Apply for a FISA warrant,” he instructed.

Zucker nodded. She scribbled the name down on her notepad. “Consider it done. Think he’s a terrorist?”

Canning stroked his bald head, looked intently at Zucker. “Probably not. But he’s gotta be connected in some way. Whoever he is, and whatever his agenda is, we’re gonna rock his world.”

69

HURRICANE POINT, FRIDAY NIGHT

Gwen had just returned from dinner with Lucy in Carmel when her landline rang. As she was unlocking her door, it started trilling. She hurried in, pulled the door shut, double-locked it behind her. Her new habit.

Leo was waiting for her, calmly, which meant all was well. No intruders. She ruffled his neck with one hand, grabbed the receiver with the other.

“News for you, Boudy,” boomed Dwayne in his deep voice.

“And?”

“Friend of a friend has high clearance, as in real high. Your man was in the Marines, but that’s all he could find out. Just plain vanilla stuff. Nothing at all of interest.”

“Good. That’s a relief.”

“No it ain’t.”

“Meaning?”

“Too neat, too clean, too boring. My friend reckoned his real identity had been moved to a cover identity to hide him from all but the most connected of searchers.”

“And this in turn means?”

“He was Black Ops, Boudy.”

Gwen fell silent. Did this change anything? Should it?

“You still there?” asked Dwayne.

“Yeah, I’m here. Just trying to process.”

“The dude’s retired, Boudy. Been out of it for two years.”

“OK. Still knows a hell of a lot of stuff. “

“What kind of stuff?” asked Dwayne sharply.

Gwen couldn’t tell him about the bugs. “Just stuff,” she answered.

“Fine. Move it on. So what’s your problem, Boudy?”

“I just don’t know what I’m getting into with him. I keep feeling he’s hiding things from me.”

Dwayne’s laughter boomed down the phone.

“Girl, listen up! We’re all hiding stuff! And he’s got plenty to hide that’s just plain none of your business. Not relevant. And,
FYI,
when did we ever know what we’re getting into when we take a roll with someone?”

“True, to a degree,” conceded Gwen.

“Cut the crap. This ain’t Stanford. This is life. You like the dude?”

Gwen paused.
Like
was damning him with faint praise, didn’t come close to what she felt.

“Yeah, Dwayne. I like the dude.”

“Then stop being a scaredy-cat, Boudy. Big bad, surfer girl. Go get him!”

70

SEVENTEEN MILE DRIVE, THE FALCON ANNUAL PARTY, SUNDAY

In a rare departure from her beloved jeans, Gwen wore a black sleeveless linen dress, cinched in with a Navajo-style leather, silver, and turquoise belt, a present from Lucy. She wore leather flats on her feet and threw a turquoise-colored pashmina over her shoulders. She got into her Mustang and drove to the Falcon Capital Annual Party. She had deliberately driven her own car, intended to drive it back rather than take the promised limo service. If she got tanked up on Messenger’s fine wines, God only knows what she’d come out and say. Her “stop” switch was faulty, she reckoned. Once she had started, she liked to go for it, and tonight was not the night. She couldn’t afford to say the wrong thing or get caught planting the devices.