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
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.’
