Gertz’s secretary, a refugee from Headquarters named Pat Waters, rolled her eyes when she saw that Marx had temporarily joined the front office. She knew enough about her boss’s predatory social life to be suspicious of the new arrival. Marx ignored the secretary until she balked at a request for access to Hamid Akbar’s 201 personnel file.
“You’re not cleared for that,” Waters said brusquely.
Marx asked again, as if she hadn’t heard the first time, and when she got the same answer she thought of summoning Gertz for help. But that was exactly what the secretary would expect her to do. She asked Waters to step into her small office, little bigger than a closet.
“I am here on Mr. Gertz’s orders,” she said. “I don’t have a lot of time. I’ll ask you again, politely, and if that doesn’t work, this will get unpleasant for you in a hurry.”
Waters didn’t answer, but she nodded her head in submission. Marx was good that way: She wasn’t a shouter, but she usually got what she wanted.
The watch officer, Julian, came in regularly with reports from the operations center. A flash cable had arrived when the Pakistani police found Egan’s BlackBerry. The Paks reluctantly agreed to turn over the phone for forensic analysis. When it arrived at the consulate, the SIM card was missing.
The FBI had a team based in Islamabad, so two agents flew to Karachi to take apart the BlackBerry, along with the local representative from the NSA. They were able to document what everyone assumed: Egan’s last communication had been his email message to The Hit Parade with the coordinates of his meeting in Baldia Town. After that, silence. The GPS signal showed movements that were consistent with a normal surveillance detection run until just after eight p.m., when he stopped, or was stopped, in Rasheedabad, a district north of downtown on the way to Baldia. The GPS signal stayed there for about twenty minutes, moving a hundred yards north, then fifty yards west.
Rasheedabad seemed to be where disaster had struck. Then the GPS track moved rapidly north toward Ittehad Town, where it stopped dead around nine. That turned out to be the dumpster, where the Pakistani police found the phone.
Gertz’s first priority was to find the taxi driver. Egan would have taken a cab to the meet, probably a string of them. You didn’t need special intelligence to find a taxi, you just needed a lot of cops. He had Steve Rossetti work it through Langley, after his initial conversation with Hoffman.
Headquarters sent its man in Karachi a photo of Egan that the consulate could show to the cabbies. The Pakistani police were already pulling in drivers. Once they had a photo to work with, it became routine police work.
The cops quickly located two of the taxis that Egan had taken that night. The drivers confirmed that they’d carried the passenger in the photo. A third driver hauled into the dragnet said he had seen the gora, the white man in the photograph, getting into a red Toyota sedan. He remembered it because the passenger had sat in the backseat for a long while, as if he was thinking of getting out, and the driver had hoped maybe he could get the fare instead. But the Toyota had driven away.
Late in the afternoon a call came in from Headquarters. The Pakistani police had found the red Toyota, at three a.m. Karachi time. It was in Orangi, a district south of Ittehad Town where the BlackBerry had been found. The driver’s throat had been slit. The police guessed the driver had been dead about five hours, since that was about the time Egan went missing.
Gertz called Thomas Perkins late that night, L.A. time, early morning in London. He wanted to reach him at home before he went to the office. Perkins had been Howard Egan’s nominal boss at Alphabet Capital. Sophie was in his office when he made the call, and he nodded for her to pick up the muted extension phone. As he dialed the call, Gertz silently mouthed the word, Shit. This was the moment when the bad news would become as real and messy as a turd.
“My name is Mr. Jones,” Gertz began. His voice had risen an octave, and it had a nasally sound and a bit of a posh accent. It sounded so different that Marx wouldn’t have known it was him if she hadn’t been staring at him. He winked at her, acknowledging his impromptu tradecraft, as he continued speaking.
“I work for the United States government. I’m sorry to disturb you at home so early in the morning, but I have some bad news about one of your employees.”
“Where are you calling from?” The voice had the fragility of morning.
“From the U.S. government.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “This is about Howard Egan, isn’t it?” Perkins seemed to know it before Gertz said a word. He had been worrying about this moment for a more than a year, and now here it was.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Egan is missing. He was meeting a client of your fund in Karachi last night, and after that he disappeared. I’ll tell you honestly, we are concerned.”
“Who is this?” asked Perkins. “Do I know you?” There was a tightness in the hedge fund manager’s voice now.
“Sorry, Mr. Perkins, can’t say much. I’m Mr. Jones. And your man Egan is missing.”
“Fuck! I knew something like this would happen. You need to take care of this.”
“We are, sir. We’re doing our best. But we need your help.”
“No. This is your mess. You clean it up.”
Gertz’s voice was firmer now. He had a way of establishing control by inflection.
“It’s not that easy, Mr. Perkins. Without your help, this will get very complicated, especially for you.”
The financier was still angry, but more compliant.
“What should I do? What should I tell people?”
“You need to put out a statement, sir, to your employees and everyone else. That’s why I am calling. You need to send a statement to the British police and to the wire services saying that one of your people has disappeared in Pakistan while he was on a business trip for your firm. You should say that you’re hoping he’s just lost, but you would appreciate any information. You need to do it this morning.”
“Okay, a statement. Let me get a pen. What should it say again?” The hedge fund manager spoke with an American accent, even though he had been living in London for almost a decade. He was trying to sound calm.
“The statement should say what I just told you. Howard Egan went missing last night while he was on a business trip to meet with investors in your fund. You are very concerned. Anyone with information should contact the Pakistani police or the U.S. consulate in Karachi.”
“Will it get picked up by the media? I don’t want a lot of reporters tromping around here. People promised there would be no publicity about…this. Ever.”
“There won’t be. The media won’t care about his disappearance. Not unless they find a body.”
“A body? You mean he’s dead?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, my god. What a mess. Poor Howard.”
“I’m sorry. Let me make a suggestion. Why don’t I send someone by your house this morning, right now, to help you draft the statement? Would that be a help?”
“Yes, it certainly would. At home, not in the office.”
The hedge fund chief was thinking. He was calculating risks, and he didn’t like what he saw.
“Can I ask you a question, whoever you are?”
“Sure,” said Gertz. “Fire away.”
“What happens if Howard gets, um, tortured? And he reveals during interrogation that he, ah, worked for the government. That his work for my firm was, ah, you know, a cover story. What happens then? Because that could, um, destroy my business.”
“You deny it. We deny it. We say it’s a complete fabrication. Outrageous falsehood. If need be, the State Department spokesman will say it’s propaganda to smear an innocent businessman. That’s the deal. Total denial. And it goes away.”
“Sorry to break this to you, whatever your name is, but people don’t believe the U.S. government.”
“Well, too bad for them. But nothing bad will happen to you. I promise. And your country appreciates what you have done. Deeply. And we know how to show our appreciation, as you are aware.”
“More help from the government. Just what I need.” There was a note of sarcasm in his voice now.
“I don’t think any of this is going to happen, Mr. Perkins. I should tell you that. I mean the interrogation and all that.”
