Victor thought for a moment being typing. I have it.
What do you need from me?
An explanation.
I don’t understand.
Then allow me to enlighten you. Besides myself, the only people who knew where I would be finalizing the deal are you and whoever you work for.
What are you getting at?
I’m not in the habit of sabotaging my own contracts.
This is not what you think.
Then what is it?
Whatever happened had nothing to do with us.
Victor sat back. The use of the word us made him think that the broker and the client were more closely connected with each other than he had thought.
Victor didn’t type anything.
The broker continued. I know nothing about what happened except for what you’ve just told me. You have to trust me.
If there was a button to simulate a loud laugh on the broker’s computer, Victor would have pressed it.
I prefer to trust myself.
So how can I convince you?
You’ve had your chance.
What about the item?
I won’t be delivering it.
There was a long pause. Please reconsider.
At best you were so incompetent as to allow a third party to find out about our arrangement. At worst just stupid enough to try and undercut me. Regardless, this is where we part company.
Wait.
You won’t see or hear from me again, Victor typed. But I may be seeing you.
He logged off as the broker was still typing a reply. It felt good to end with a threat. An old friend used to tell him any victory, however small, was still a victory.
The broker had said us. It could have been a momentary lapse in concentration revealing the broker and client had colluded to set him up, or it could be nothing. There was no way to be certain at the moment.
A noise made him look up. The annoying novelty ringtone of a cellular phone. The Chinese student fumbled in her pocket to retrieve it. Victor typed in another memorized Web address. There was a momentary delay before the new site appeared on the screen. He clicked one of the twenty links available and watched as the program downloaded.
It was only a few megabytes in size and it took just seconds on the cafe’s fast Internet connection. Victor then ran the program. He watched passively as a grey box popped up and a rapid stream of numbers and file names appeared, scrolling downwards. Two minutes later the program had run its course, having deleted all records of recent Internet activity from the computer’s hard disk. The program had not only deleted these records but also overwritten with useless data those sectors of the hard disk where the Internet records had been stored. It had then deleted that data and overwritten it again. This process repeated itself thousands of times in rapid succession, ensuring that the original data could never be recovered.
It then repeated the process on itself. Thirty seconds later there was no trace of what sites Victor had visited or what he had done there. A skilful technician might be able to find evidence of the program, but that would be all.
Victor rose from his seat and left the cafe. There was a security camera watching the front door, so he kept his face angled away as he’d done on the way in.
He headed for the train station.
CHAPTER 11
Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, USA
Monday
13:53 EST
Five time zones west stood the CIA’s sprawling Langley headquarters. At the centre of the 258-acre site over two million square feet of glass, steel, concrete, and technology housed the world’s most highly funded espionage organization. Composed of the original sixties headquarters and the eighties upgrade, the CIA complex employed around twenty thousand men and women. Of these only a handful could rightly call themselves Roland Procter’s superior, and of this fact he was immensely proud.
Procter sat behind his desk in his enviable top-floor office. The office was light and spacious, climate controlled, tastefully decorated, and of a noticeably large size. The best feature by far was the beautiful view Procter enjoyed of the Virginia countryside surrounding the agency’s headquarters. The associate director for the National Clandestine Service placed the phone down, stood, breathed in to button up his suit jacket, and exited the office.
With long strides Procter made his way through the featureless corridors to the conference room. He was there in less than a minute and pushed open the door. Everybody else was already seated around the long oval table. Only about half actually needed to be there, all big dogs from his department. The others were mandarins from across the hierarchy who had seats because of their status instead of their usefulness. The Ozols operation had been a big deal and plenty of people, even if they had personally contributed nothing towards it, had had a stake in its success and now its failure.
The pleasantries were kept brief as Procter took his seat. Sitting across from him was the department’s deputy director. Meredith Chambers was short and slim, with a narrow face and greying black hair that she vehemently refused to dye. She was a good few years Procter’s senior, but he had to admit she looked pretty good for her age, even if he usually preferred women with far more meat on the hips. Wearing a fine navy pantsuit, Chambers looked as regal as ever. She had been in charge of NCS for less than a year and was still a bit wet behind the ears in Procter’s opinion. Her office was a fair chunk larger than Procter’s own but he had the up on the view. He’d bet his pension she was a firecracker in the sack.
‘Right,’ Chambers began. ‘I understand Alvarez is on the line. Can you hear me?’
Alvarez’s voice came through the table’s speakerphones: ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Procter knew Alvarez pretty well and knew that as well as having all the attributes necessary for a good field officer, he was also one of the true good guys. There was a sense of duty and patriotism so ingrained in him that his blood wasn’t just red but white and blue as well. Over a long career in the CIA Procter was surprised to say that he found straight shooters like Alvarez few and far between.
Chambers said, ‘Okay, then. A few of us are up-to-date with what’s happened today, some are not, so if you could begin by giving us a summary of the operation’s background.’
‘This morning, Paris time,’ Alvarez began, ‘I was due to meet one Andris Ozols, a retired Latvian officer of the Russian navy and the Soviet fleet before that. Ozols claimed to know the location of a Russian frigate that had sunk in the Indian Ocean a couple of years back. The Russians have never acknowledged the accident, a catastrophic engine malfunction that led to the deaths of all sailors on board, one because it came embarrassingly soon after the Russians and Chinese navies had been doing exercises in the area, and two because, according to Ozols, the ship was carrying eight Oniks antiship cruise missiles.’
Chambers said, ‘I’d now like William to tell us about the Oniks.’
William Ferguson sat on Procter’s side of the table. The head of the Russian office, Ferguson was one of the company’s true old boys. He was in his late sixties, and his face was deeply wrinkled, but he hadn’t lost a strand of the grey hair that was combed back from his high forehead. Unless he wore his long overcoat to bulk him out, he looked thin, half-starved almost, but never weak. He had fought three tours in Vietnam and had received more major medals than Procter had fat fingers. The old guy was a staunch patriot and career spy who had done
