Traitor (14 page)

Turner explained to Rahn what they expected. However, a call from Barry and Flynn soon changed all of that. The street was empty. A team would be spotted far too easily. The takedown would have to be in the bank. Rahn’s face fell further. A look from Carson ensured his compliance.

“When do you normally leave for the bank?” asked Turner.

“7:57,” replied Rahn, “which gets me into the office between 8:23 and 8:25 a.m. Leaving at 8:00 adds an extra ten minutes to the journey.” “The most important thing is that you keep to the routine,” said Turner.

“How many entrances and exits?” asked Frankie.

“One main entrance and one fire exit,” said Rahn. “And one exit from the vaults below. But there are a number of security doors that only open outwards. It also links to a building behind which was the original bank building.”

“Can we get in that way?”

Rahn made a call and wrote down the address.

“Call Flynn and give him the address,” said Carson to Turner. “Mr. Rahn, we’ll meet you inside the bank and don’t worry, we’ll make sure you and your staff come to no harm.”

Nick’s drive through the night had gone far quicker than he had anticipated and he arrived almost two hours early for his meeting. He drove along the waterside, admiring the boats in the warmth of the early morning sunshine. His Peugeot was old enough to know a time before air conditioning and as the sun rose, the temperature responded.

Although confident that not a soul knew where he would be, old habits died hard. He parked the car in one of the many vacant spaces and walked back towards the bank, thankful of the early morning breeze. The waterside location meant there were many coffee shops that would allow him to sit and watch the goings on without drawing attention to himself.

With the time approaching 8:30 a.m., bank staff began to arrive. So far, everything appeared normal. He had noted a slight increase in joggers, particularly male ones but, given that the weather was far better than when he had last visited, that wasn’t unexpected. He finished his last mouthful of croissant and limped across the road with the aid of his walking stack, entering the foyer at precisely 8:31 a.m.

One of the oldest and most prestigious banks in Zurich, Rahn & Boderman was one of the few to benefit from a lakeside position. Zurich sat at the top of Lake Zurich, a stunningly beautiful lake that stretched off into the distant hills and mountains of the Swiss Alps. Unfortunately, the secret rear entrance had not afforded any of the visiting Americans the stunning views to the front of the property. They had had to make do with the old entrance of an obviously poorer time.

The aging guard that met them at the old entrance guided them back through a mind-boggling number of security doors, nearly all of which put the single vault door protecting the President’s emergency operations center to shame. Flynn and Barry had tossed a coin for the takedown team and much to Flynn’s disappointment, it would be an SOG team that would accompany Frankie and the investigative team.

By the time they were in the building, it was already 8:00 a.m. A quick tour confirmed the takedown had to be in Rahn’s office. The grand entrance and banking hall offered Nick far too many options. On the other hand, Rahn’s office had one entrance, was two floors up with bars across the window, and had as a bonus a secret sub-office hidden behind a bookcase. The team would be able to hide in there and the plan was that Rahn would leave Nick in his office to ‘deal with something’, and the team would come out from behind Nick and secure him in the enclosed environment.

After running through the scenarios, Barry instructed two of the bank’s security staff to be replaced by two of his men. The other eight SOG team members would be located in the sub-office.

Carson, Turner, and Frankie would wait in one of the other partners’ offices just along the hall. When Nick arrived, an assistant would inform Mr. Rahn of his arrival and then take him up in the private client elevator. All was standard procedure in the bank and would give everybody ninety seconds’ heads up.

At exactly 8:24 a.m., Paul Rahn arrived and proceeded to his office. He had been told to act as normal and so spent a few minutes chatting with staff. It was a Monday morning and this was the opportunity for staff to tell him what they had been doing over the weekend. Not that he was at all interested. However, his father had done it before him, just as his son would do it in the future.

He reached his office right at 8:30 a.m. Rahn ignored the entourage in his office and opened his calendar. The numbered account due at 8:30 a.m. was the first thing on it. He opened his bottom drawer, revealing a safe below. He keyed in a number and withdrew its only contents, a large ornate and very old leather bound and gold leafed ledger.

“What are you doing?” asked Turner, surprised at how cool the banker was, given the situation.

“I was asked for the name when you called yesterday. I told the young man I would get it when I arrived at the office.”

Turner shook his head. The name was irrelevant. It wasn’t as though the account was going to be in Nick Geller’s name. A bank of small screens on his desk allowed Rahn a view of the banking hall below and his eyes flicked between the ledger and the hall as he looked to match the number he had obviously memorized.

“Ah, there we are. It appears my 8:30 a.m. has arrived.”

Being the first customer in the bank, Nick was attended to immediately. His meeting with the director was confirmed against the diary and he waited to be taken through to the offices. His hand rested on the satchel and the reassuring outline of the Berretta below the material gave him comfort.

The director walked into the banking hall and warmly welcomed Nick.

“Monsieur Guillon, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he said, hugging one of the largest depositors at the Crédit Agricole branch of Marseille, France.

“Mister Harry Carson, number 652348190-235, you are Harry Carson, no?” asked Rahn.

“Yes, but…” said Carson, his face ashen.

“Passport number is…”

Carson raised his hand for Rahn to stop speaking. Turner looked at Carson, not fully understanding.

“He set us up! He’s not coming here. It’s a joke. It’s a fuck you!”

“The account is a fake?” asked Turner.

“We do not
do
fake accounts at Rahn & Boderman,” insisted Rahn, insulted at the suggestion.

“So you do have an account here?” asked Frankie.

Carson nodded. “From many, many years ago. There’s probably nothing in it.”

“Other than $250 million you mean?” she said mischievously.

“Let’s wrap this up. I’m not discussing my private details here. Obviously that money needs to go back to the sender. It’s a mistake!”

“So you wish me to send the money back?” asked Rahn.

Carson nodded, although every muscle in his body fought him. That $250 million sat in his account: it was therefore his. Whether the prince had made a genuine error or not, which of course he hadn’t, Nick Geller was fucking with him. The money was his and under Swiss law to do with as he pleased.

“Is that a yes?” asked Rahn, wanting a verbal response.

Turner and Frankie looked at him. “Yes,” he grumbled.

With two strokes of the keys, Harry Carson’s rainy day fund dropped from two hundred and fifty million dollars to three hundred thousand dollars. It hadn’t even been in his account long enough to gain a day’s interest.

Nick smiled as he placed the items in the safety deposit box. He also couldn’t help smiling at the thought of what may have been happening in Zurich. They would have pieced the clues together he was sure. Carson would be furious. He always liked to be the smartest guy in the room. Closing the box, Nick’s smile dropped. What if they
hadn’t
found the clues? He had just given the cantankerous old bastard a quarter of a billion dollars! He shook his head. The prince’s transactions would be looked at with a fine toothed comb. Not a chance. Although Harry Carson was as sly as they came.
Shit
, he thought, leaving the bank behind, that was one scenario he hadn’t thought through properly. However, if that were his only mistake, Harry Carson wouldn’t enjoy his new-found wealth for very long.

Money was not an issue for Nick. That had been arranged many months before under the assumed name of Monsieur Jacques Guillon, a former diamond merchant, who had moved to Marseille from Tunisia after selling his business. Seven million euros, almost the equivalent in dollars, had been deposited at the local bank and with all the paperwork in order, no questions had ever been asked of their newest cash rich customer.

Using the funds over the last six months, on his travels he had purchased and loaded numerous pre-paid credit cards in various currencies. All transactions relating to the cards had been made in cash, rendering them anonymous and totally untraceable. His first transaction was for a ferry ticket to Algiers, departing in a few hours from Marseille, France’s largest port and gateway to North Africa and his African army of believers.

Manhattan, New York

Hunter College

Rafik took his seat as the 8:00 a.m. class in General Chemistry was due to begin. The six seats to his left remained vacant. His friends had not shown up yet. He called them friends but ‘acquaintances’ was probably more accurate. They never fully welcomed him into their fold. They seemed wary of his background, a Muslim immigrant from Iraq. His family was killed during the insurgency and he was left alone in the world. Bitter and unhappy with life, he had tagged onto the group and it seemed at times that he was accepted and at others excluded. He looked at the vacant seats and wondered what it was today that he had been excluded from.

Perhaps he had pushed his anti-American rhetoric a little too much and had frightened them off? It was a beautiful day and there were better options than being stuck in a classroom for the morning. However, they were very serious students, like him, and keen to learn as much about chemistry as possible. He looked around the lecture theatre and noticed that all of the normal seats were occupied. Just the six to his left remained vacant.

The clock above the blackboard at the front of the lecture hall clicked to 8:01 and like clockwork, the lecturer entered the room. Rafik had voiced his disgust to his friends at being lectured by a female. He watched with disdain as she placed her coffee cup on the desk and bid them good morning.

Rafik looked out for his friends, but still they didn’t show. He thought back to the previous Friday. Had he said something that may have scared them off? He had tweaked the rhetoric up slightly but not dramatically. He was playing the long game, gaining their trust. At 8:10, they had still not arrived. Perhaps he had pushed it too far. He began to consider that he might be in danger. He looked around and recognized all the faces. The exits appeared to be unmanned. At 8:15, Rafik got up from his seat. Something was definitely amiss. He made his way out of the lecture hall and, checking the corridor carefully, to an exit. There was still no sign that he was being watched.

He crossed the street and walked the short distance to Central Park, losing himself amongst the early morning joggers, tourists and sun worshippers. He withdrew a cell phone from his backpack and swapped the SIM card with another from his backpack. A pre-programmed number on the SIM required him to dial a code to access the number. He entered the code number into the cell, hit the dial button and waited.

NCTC

Special Agent Sarah Reid had arrived at 6:00 a.m., having left only five hours earlier. Many joked that she had no life. It wasn’t a joke; she didn’t. She lived for her work. She was forty-five years of age, single, a little too short for her weight and not a looker. She was the stereotypical definition of a plain Jane. If there had been a pictorial example in the dictionary, her picture would have fitted perfectly. However, her personal lackings were the Bureau’s gain. Special Agent Sarah Reid was without doubt one of their best and most talented investigators. When Deputy Director Paul Turner put his team together, there had never been a doubt he would select Reid as his number two. There was not a more hardworking or tenacious investigator in the Bureau. She had refused promotions into management and training many times. She lived to catch criminals, particularly terrorists. Her father had died in the North Tower on 9/11. It was one of the many reasons she lived for her work.

There were over a hundred Joint Terrorism Task Force Centers across the country, all feeding into the main National Task Force at the NCTC where any patterns could be noted and analyzed. Resources could be shifted as and when required at any particular hotspot.

Updates throughout the day were normal. The regional centers were encouraged to notify the National Center of anything out of the ordinary.

By 8:00 a.m., the phone lines at the National Centre were struggling to cope. By 8:30, Reid had secured additional resources and lines to take the sudden and unexpected increase in calls.