‘And what sort of budget do you have?’ asked Pickering.
Salih shrugged, as if money was of no concern to him. ‘Three million. Four, perhaps.’
Pickering grinned. ‘I’m not sure we could run to a cricket pitch, but we could certainly get you a decent-sized garden for that. Close to Windsor?’
‘Please,’ said Salih. ‘Somewhere with character.’
Pickering stood up and went to a filing cabinet, pulled open a drawer and searched through a row of pale green files. ‘I’ve a selection of properties in that price range,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you have a look through them and let me know which ones you want to view?’
‘Excellent,’ said Salih. ‘Windsor’s a lovely town. We thought our son might go to Eton.’
‘It’s a great school,’ said Pickering.
‘Do you have children?’
‘A daughter.’
‘Does she go to Eton?’
Pickering laughed. ‘It’s for boys,’ he said. ‘Our daughter is away at another boarding-school.’
There was a pine-framed photograph on Pickering’s desk. Salih turned it to face him. It was a family group – Pickering with a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties and a girl with her mother’s dark brown eyes. ‘You have a lovely family,’ he said. The woman was a few years younger here than she had been in the photograph Merkulov had given him.
‘Thank you,’ said Pickering. He went back to his desk and passed Salih a handful of printed brochures. He pointed to one. ‘This is a little above your budget but it’s quite special. There’s a heated pool and an amazing snooker room.’ He opened a drawer and gave Salih a typed form. ‘If you put down your contact details, I’ll send you anything new that comes on to the market. Where are you based?’
‘Dubai,’ said Salih, ‘but I have an office in London.’ He took out his wallet and gave Pickering a newly printed business card. ‘The mobile is the best number to use but you can send any information you have to the address there.’ It was an office in Mayfair that would collect any mail and divert phone calls to his pay-as-you-go mobile.
‘Excellent, Mr Hassan,’ Pickering said. ‘I’ll jot down the details and we’ll get them on to the computer.’ He began to fill in the form.
‘What about you? Where do you live?’ asked Salih, casually.
‘A village called Virginia Water,’ said Pickering. ‘Nice area, but I don’t know that there’s much available at the moment. There’s a lot of competition for houses in this area just now. Russian buyers have been snapping up anything that comes on to the market and they’ve got money to burn. There are two very good American schools locally so we get a lot of Americans too. We’ve an office there so I’ll find out if anything’s come on to the books in the last few days. There might be something on the Wentworth estate. Beautiful homes, and they have access to the golf course. Do you play?’
‘Not well,’ said Salih. ‘What about your house? Could I persuade you to sell?’
Pickering looked up. ‘Without seeing it?’
‘I’m sure you’ve got good taste,’ said Salih. ‘And I’m sure that as you’re in the business you’ll have chosen well.’
Pickering chuckled. ‘I do have a beautiful home, it’s true,’ he said, ‘but if I were ever to think of selling it, my wife would kill me.’ He returned to the form.
Salih nodded at the framed photograph. ‘She doesn’t look dangerous,’ he said.
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Pickering. He laughed. ‘I’m joking, of course,’ he said. ‘At least, I think I am.’
Salih put the brochures into his briefcase, stood up and shook Pickering’s hand. He smiled to himself as he left. He had everything he needed. He knew where Charlotte Button lived, where her husband worked and where her daughter went to school. Now it was just a matter of time.
Shepherd pressed Elaine’s doorbell and took a step back. He was holding a bunch of flowers he’d bought at a local filling station. He waited for a minute or so, then pressed the bell again, for longer this time. Maybe she was in the shower. He glimpsed movement at the bedroom window, and cursed under his breath. She wasn’t in the shower, she was ignoring him. He’d hoped that after a night’s sleep she’d have calmed down but now it seemed it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. He decided against kneeling down and shouting through the letterbox or leaving the flowers at the door. Better to try later. He hoped he hadn’t blown the investigation.
Richard Yokely flashed his embassy ID at the marine standing guard at the door to the Secure Communications Room. The soldier’s hands tightened around his M-4 carbine. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but beverages aren’t permitted inside,’ he said.
Yokely held up his Starbucks cup. ‘My
latte
isn’t exactly a security threat, son.’
The marine looked even more uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, sir. There have been spillages in the past so beverages are now not permitted inside.’
‘If I were to promise to be careful with mine, would you let me take it in?’
‘Sir, I’m just following the rules, Sir.’ The marine’s voice had gone down an octave.
Yokely put his face close to the soldier’s. ‘And what if I were to tell you that generally rules don’t apply to me? And that if you continue to be an officious prick I’ll have you transferred to the Iraqi desert where you’ll spend the rest of your military career picking up body parts? What would you say then?’
The marine’s jaw tightened. ‘Sir, I’d have to say that beverages are not allowed in the Secure Communications Room, Sir.’
Yokely’s face broke into a grin. ‘Good for you, son,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever be intimidated by a big swinging dick because he’s got the power of life and death over you.’ He patted the marine’s arm. ‘Without rules, where would we be? Living like savages, right? That’s why we’re in the war against terror, to preserve the rules that make our world such a joyous place to live.’ He handed the cup to the marine. ‘Hold on to that until I come out, will you?’
Yokely swiped his ID through the card reader. The lock clicked and he went into the windowless room. The concrete walls were double-layered and between the layers a network of wires blocked all radio frequencies. The only communication between the room in the basement of the American embassy and the outside world was through the shielded wires that led from the two computer terminals and the half-dozen phones, most of which were dedicated lines to offices in the United States.
Yokely swiped his ID through a terminal and typed in a six-digit identifying number. A Homeland Security logo filled the screen. Yokely moved the cursor to click a button marked ‘Video Conferencing’, then tapped in the number of a secure terminal in Washington DC. Thirty seconds later he was looking at Karl Traynor, a senior analyst with the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. Traynor was in his early forties, with slicked-back hair and was wearing one of his trademark tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows. He was tapping at his computer keyboard. ‘Testing, testing, one-two-three,’ he said.
‘Karl,how’s Washington?’said Yokely. He pressed a button on his keyboard and one of the plasma screens on the wall opposite the door flickered into life to show a larger-than-life image of the analyst.
‘Threatening to snow,’ said Traynor. ‘How’s London?’
‘Spring has sprung,’ said Yokely. ‘The birds are singing, and all’s well with the world. Well, except for the three hundred home-grown terrorist groups that are actively working to bring about mayhem and destruction.’
‘I can never get a decent steak there,’ said Traynor.
‘Then you’re not trying,’ said Yokely.
‘Aren’t all their cows mad or something?’
‘Mad or not, they make great steaks. I need a favour or three, if you’ve got the time.’
‘FinCen is here to serve,’ said Traynor. ‘Your wish is my command.’ FinCen collected data under the Bank Secrecy Act and worked with law-enforcement agencies and Financial Intelligence Units around the world to follow money trails that led, hopefully, to the paymasters of terrorism. Much of the agency’s work was the checking of suspicious-activity reports filed by the country’s banks and financial institutions, which were now running at almost three-quarters of a million annually. The vast majority of SARs were false positives and only a very small percentage led to investigations. But once a positive lead had been generated,Traynor and his team were put on the case, following the money trail with the tail-wagging enthusiasm of bloodhounds after an escaped convict. FinCen also had access to the eleven million financial transactions that went through some eight thousand banks in two hundred countries using the SWIFT network. The agency’s supercomputers allowed it to sift through the raw data like prospectors panning for gold.
‘I need someone looked at,’said Yokely. ‘He uses a number of aliases, but in the UK he’s known as Hassan Salih. He’s a Palestinian, but is very well travelled. Other names he has used include Shafquat Husain, Asif Iqbal and Majid Jasim.’ Yokely spelled out each name and Traynor wrote them down. ‘I need to know about any large financial transactions he has made over the past twelve months.’
‘Large being?’
‘Six figures and above.’
Traynor chuckled. ‘Richard, I know they tell you that size isn’t everything but six figures is not large. Six figures, no matter what the currency, is a drop in the ocean. I don’t even get out of bed for six figures.’
‘Remind me again what the total cost of Nine Eleven was,’ said Yokely, drily. ‘A few hours’ flight training, a dozen box-cutters and nineteen first-class tickets, I seem to remember.’
‘Actually, we’ve been able to track half a million dollars that was used to fund Nine Eleven,’ said Traynor, ‘but I take your point. So, this Hassan Salih is al-Qaeda?’
‘Almost certainly not,’ said Yokely, ‘but it’s quite possible that he’s worked for al-Qaeda members on a freelance basis. A hired gun, you might say. Can you ID any accounts he has?’
‘Sure. Give me a day, yeah. You can do me a favour in return. Two, as it happens. Chocolate HobNobs. Two packets.’
‘Can’t you get them in Washington?’
‘If I could, would I be asking you? Plain, not milk.’
‘Your cookies will be in the post.’ Yokely jabbed at a button on the console and the screen went blank. He tapped out a second number. There was a buzz of static, then the screen flickered into life again. This time a balding man in his late forties was grinning at Yokely and waving a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Dean Hepburn was a senior analyst with the National Security Agency. He was based at the NSA’s headquarters in Forte Meade, Maryland, known to the forty thousand or so men and women who worked there as Crypto City. It was practically a small town of fifty buildings half-way between Washington and Baltimore, hidden from prying eyes by acres of woodland. ‘Dean,how are the wife and kids?’asked Yokely.
‘Bleeding me dry,’ said Hepburn, swinging his feet on to his desk. ‘How goes the fight between good and evil?’
‘Never ending,’ said Yokely. ‘I need a favour.’
Hepburn grinned. ‘Ask and you shall receive. I’m here to do your bidding, O Master.’ He raised his glass in salute and took a long slug of his whiskey.
‘If I give you a UK cellphone number, can you give me details of all traffic through it and positioning?’
‘Does the pope shit in the woods? I was hoping you might want something that would challenge me.’ Yokely knew that what he was asking Hepburn to do wasn’t remotely challenging for an organisation with the resources of the NSA. It had listening stations around the world, which monitored all phone and Internet traffic and passed it to the analysts at Forte Meade and their multi-billion-dollar supercomputers, which sifted through millions of daily calls and transmissions looking for key words or voices. Anything suspicious was passed to human experts for analysis. The NSA was a key weapon in the fight against terrorism, identifying and locating targets, then sending on the information to the CIA.
Yokely told Hepburn the number Merkulov had given him. ‘The phone belongs to a Palestinian who uses a number of names,’ said Yokely. ‘The one I have is Hassan Salih but that doesn’t count for anything. He’s in the UK at the moment, but there might be a Belfast connection. I need to know every call he makes and receives, and a location. I also need you to get a voice print next time he makes a call and run it through the computers. See if you can get a match.’
‘You think this guy’s active?’
‘Oh, he’s very active, I’m just not sure in what field. That’s why I’d like you to keep it off the books for now, until I know for sure what he’s up to.’
‘I hear and obey,’ said Hepburn.
‘I’d appreciate an SMS on my cellphone anytime you get anything,’ said Yokely. ‘I might be under some time pressure here.’
Hepburn raised his glass. ‘See you in Crypto City some time,’ he said.
‘You can bank on it,’ said Yokely. He winked and ended the conference call. He swiped his ID card through the reader to get out of the secure room. The marine was still holding the cup of coffee. Yokely took it from him. ‘Thanks, son,’ he said cheerfully. ‘All’s well with the world and we can sleep easy in our beds tonight.’
‘Sir, glad to hear it, Sir,’ said the marine, stone-faced.
‘You and me both, son,’ said Yokely.
Shepherd was lying on the sofa reading the
Belfast Telegraph
when his doorbell rang.
He found Elaine, wearing dark glasses, outside. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Sorry for what?’ he asked, genuinely confused. The flowers he’d bought for her by way of apology were on the coffee-table in the sitting room.
‘Snapping at you. I drank too much wine. Sorry.’
Shepherd put his hand on his heart. ‘Elaine, I was ringing your bell this morning to apologise for the way I behaved. It should be me saying sorry.’
‘I was drunk,’ she repeated.
‘And I was an arsehole,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t open the door when you rang,’ she said. She gestured at her sunglasses. ‘I did some more drinking when I got home and my eyes look like the proverbial piss-holes.’