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Mitchell sat forward in the chair and began the calls.
‘Dick, this is Mitch Mitchell. Doing a job for the Senate Banking Committee and wondered if we should get together …’
To a lawyer at the Fed.
‘Angelina, this is Mitch Mitchell. Assigned to Senate Banking for a while and thought I should give you a call …’
A banker in Detroit.
‘Jay, this is Mitch Mitchell. Yeah, good to talk with you. How’re you doing … ?’
To a journalist on Wall Street.
Look for his own investigation, try to find something that nobody else had, and he’d spend light years on it and get nowhere. Pick up on something somebody else was already working, though, take it beyond where their expertise or resources could go but offer to cut them in on the final play, and he might make it.
‘Andie.’ Drug Enforcement Administration in Tampa, Florida. ‘Mitch Mitchell, long time no see. How’d you mean, you knew I was going to call. Why, what you got going?’
It would have to be good, though, have to be right. And he wouldn’t mention Donaghue unless someone asked, because Donaghue was money in the bank and only to be used when necessary.
By lunchtime he had spoken to ten contacts, by mid-afternoon another three, two more phoning him back. Tomorrow it would be the same, the day after the same again. And after he’d talked to them he’d hit the road, get hunched up over a beer with those who might have a runner. Sometimes it would be coffee, sometimes dinner, sometimes twenty minutes behind closed doors. And not all the contacts male, some of the best would be female.
‘Jim Anderton, please.’ Anderton was an Assistant District Attorney in Manhattan, smart waistcoats and friendly manner. When it suited. Political ambitions and on the make.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Anderton’s in court. Can he call you back?’
Mitchell gave the receptionist his name and new office number. Anderton would call back even if he didn’t have anything, because assistant DAs with political ambitions always did.
Tampa and Detroit seemed front runners at the moment, he decided, plenty of other options already emerging, though. He switched on the computer, built in a personal security code, and opened the first file of the investigation.
The armoured Chevrolet collected Brettlaw at seven. The family were seated round the breakfast table. Great house, great wife, great kids – he always appreciated being told. Great barbecues in the summer, great hiking trips in the fall, great skiing in the winter. When he’d had the time.
Fifteen minutes later the driver swung through the gates at Langley and turned under the main building. Brettlaw collected his briefcase and took the executive lift to the seventh floor. By nine, shortly before his meeting with the DCI, he was on his third coffee and his fourth Gauloise.
Costaine telephoned at eleven, via Brettlaw’s secretary, asking if the DDO had ten minutes. If Costaine, as his Deputy Director for Policy, asked for ten minutes, it was Costaine’s code for saying something was wrong. Not necessarily something that would change the world, just something which the DDO should know about, perhaps something which it would take the DDO to sort out. Besides, Costaine was Inner Circle; not Inner Circle of Inner Circle, but still part of the black projects.
Brettlaw told him to come up, and asked Maggie to put the remainder of his morning’s engagements back ten minutes.
Costaine arrived three minutes later.
‘There’s a slight problem with Red River.’
He was seated in the leather armchair in front of Brettlaw’s desk.
‘What exactly?’
Red River was a worn-out mining town turned ski resort eight thousand feet up in the Southern Rockies. Apparently run down, apparently redneck. Great people and great snow. Red River was also the code for one of the black projects.
‘Certain funds which should have been in place two days haven’t arrived.’
‘Important?’
Costaine ran his fingers through his crewcut. ‘Delicate rather than important, but we should get it sorted out.’ But he couldn’t, because he was operations, not finance.
‘Leave it with me. If it’s not sorted by tomorrow let me know.’
He waited till Costaine left then telephoned for Myerscough to come up.
‘The Nebulus accounts. Apparently some of the funds which were scheduled for transfer two days ago haven’t made it.’
‘No problem.’
Almost certainly it would be something as obvious as a bank clerk transposing two digits, Myerscough thought. It had happened before and would happen again. It was probably better to start in the middle rather than at the beginning or end of the chain – that way he’d reduce the work. Therefore he’d contact the fixer and get him to check that the funds had passed through the switch account in London. That way they could narrow down the problem area. And if the funds hadn’t reached London he’d go back to First Commercial and ask why the money hadn’t exited the US.
It was eleven Eastern Time, therefore he might just catch Europe before it closed down for the night. He left the seventh floor and returned to his own department on the fourth.
His office was in one corner, the rest of the section open plan, desks and computers, the technological whizz kids bent over them, sometimes fetching a coffee or iced water and leaning over someone else’s shoulder, cross-fertilizing ideas and statistics or just talking. It was a good department with good people. He closed the door, called the first number before he’d even sat down, and looked through the glass.
Bekki Lansbridge was in her late twenties, an economist by training, and had been with the Agency five years and his department for the past eight months. She was five-seven, he guessed, almost five-eight, blond hair and long face. And there his description of her slipped in to the vernacular. Great ass, great chassis, great mover. Probably moving it for someone, except that it wasn’t him. Perhaps one day she would.
The ringing stopped and he heard the voice of the personal assistant. Swiss and efficient.
‘Is he there?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid not.’
No enquiring who was calling and no suggestion he might like to leave a message. If he wished either then he would say so.
‘When will he be back?’
‘Probably tomorrow.’
He called Milan.
‘Good afternoon. Is he there?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘When could I speak to him?’
‘Possibly tomorrow.’
There was the slightest hesitation, he thought. Certainly the day after … it was implied, but without conviction, as if the secretary was unsure herself.
It was unlike the fixer. The contact was often away setting things up and meeting people like Myerscough. The two of them tried to meet at least twice a year and to talk at least once a month, even when there was nothing much to discuss, because the two of them had set up the system, and set it up good. So it wasn’t unusual for the Italian to be out and about – that was his job. What was unusual was for him to be out of touch – not phoning his office at least twice a day, even if he couldn’t tell his people where he was and who he was with.
‘Thank you.’
There was no problem, though. All he had to do was check with the bank which would have made the wire transfer to BCI in London, and if the problem had come up before London there’d be no reason to worry about Europe. He glanced at Bekki Lansbridge again and punched the number.
‘Good morning,’ the switchboard operator answered immediately. ‘First Commercial Bank of Santa Fe.’
‘Good morning, may I speak to the president?’
The lawyers were waiting. For forty minutes Brettlaw checked with them the testimony he would deliver to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence that afternoon, then took a working lunch of coffee and Gauloises. The committee was at two. At one-thirty the Chevrolet pulled out the main gate and turned on to Route 123.
At any other time, perhaps, on any other day, he might have sat back and allowed himself thirty seconds to think about Nebulus, about the money going into and through it. Perhaps he was about to. Perhaps he would have told himself there was no need, that it was Myerscough’s job.
The secure telephone rang. The sky above was crystal blue, he would remember later, and the trees were a peaceful green.
‘Red Man.’ The code – even on the encryptor – for Operations. ‘Bonn’s hit the panic button. Nothing more yet. Will keep you informed.’
Nobody hit the panic button for nothing; Ops didn’t inform the DDO unless it was five-star. His mind was calm and ordered. There were two things he could do: order his driver back to Langley, or tell Ops to keep him informed and continue with his schedule. He had been in crises before, that was his job. Had worked out – in the dark of the night, when a man was alone with himself or his Maker – what he would do in certain scenarios. It was how he had survived Moscow, how he had made himself the man he was.
‘Keep me informed.’
The Chevrolet crossed Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and headed east up Constitution Avenue, the crowds in the parks and the bands playing. So why had Bonn hit the panic button, what was happening?
The secure phone rang again.
‘Bonn Chief of Station down. Repeat. Bonn CoS down. No more details.’
Oh Christ, he thought.
Zev Bartolski was Chief of Station in Bonn, and Zev Bartolski was his friend. More than that. Zev Bartolski was his point man in the black projects. Zev Bartolski was Inner Circle of Inner Circle, Zev Bartolski was Wise Man of Wise Men.
‘The DCI knows?’ He sliced through the disbelief and the shock.
‘Yes.’
‘Keep me informed.’
He raised the partition between himself and the driver, and considered what might be happening. Shut his eyes and tried to work out the connections. Sealed off the image of the man, wiped out every trace of Zev’s wife and children, and focused on what the hell might be going down.
Who? Why? How? What was Bonn working on that connected to anything else? At least the CoS hadn’t been kidnapped, at least they wouldn’t have to worry as they had worried over poor Bill Buckley in Beirut. At least Zev wasn’t going to be tortured for what he knew.
The logic divided, separated Zev Bartolski as Bonn CoS from Zev Bartolski in his role in the black projects. The position of Chief of Station almost a cover. For the other side, even for his own people.
A problem with Red River, Costaine had said that morning, certain monies not through on time. Now Zev taken out. The link screamed at him. Except that the two were separate – in personnel and region, in objectives and functions. No connection at all, different and distinct parts. Except they were both black ops.
He keyed in the DCI’s number and activated the Gold Code.
‘This is Tom. I’ve just heard. I’m on my way to the Hill but will return if necessary.’
There was no panic in his voice, not even an edge of excitement or adrenalin.
‘What do you think?’ The DCI had a Texan drawl.
‘No need at the moment. Perhaps the best thing is an even keel, show everyone we’re not panicking.’
‘Agreed.’
The Chevrolet passed by the Washington Memorial. The phone rang again. In Europe it was early evening.
‘Red Man. Bonn CoS was killed when the car in which he was travelling was blown up.’
‘His car?’ Brettlaw asked. ‘How was it blown up? Where was he going and what was he doing?’
Zev’s car was armoured, but even the best armoured cars were vulnerable to a bomb or land mine exploding beneath them.
‘Unclear. The First Secretary has also been killed.’
Brettlaw was still calm, still almost cold. He could speak to Bonn direct, but everyone would be speaking to Bonn. Bonn would be so jammed with communications that they’d be snowed under. Even so he was tempted to call off the session that afternoon and return to Langley.
‘Check on the vehicle the CoS was travelling in,’ he issued the orders. ‘Check whether the First Secretary was killed in the same incident or a separate one. Find out what they were doing and why. Get some indication why the CoS might have been targeted.’
The Chevrolet passed Senate Russell Building and approached Senate Hart. He keyed his secretary’s number and activated the encryptor. Maggie Dubovski was mid-forties, career Agency like himself. One of the warhorses, one of the reliables. When he made DCI Maggie would go with him, would consider it the pinnacle of her career as he would consider it the pinnacle of his.
‘You’ve heard?’ he asked her.
‘Yes.’
He named those officers to be placed on standby. ‘Meeting in my office at five, unless you hear from me before.’
There was one other thing.
‘Find out where Martha Bartolski and the kids are. Make sure they’re okay.’
The driver showed his pass to the policeman on duty at the entrance to the parking area below Senate Hart and drove down into the half-light. The Director of Security for the Intelligence Committee was already waiting. Brettlaw shook his hand and was escorted to the set of rooms known simply as SH 219.
SH 219 housed the most secure room on Capitol Hill. The lift from the parking area was connected to it by series of other internal lifts, therefore no member of the public was able to see who was entering or leaving. The room itself was on the second floor of Hart Building, the hallway outside overlooking the courtyard round which Hart was built. The reception desk was opposite a set of double doors, but the doors themselves were opaque so that no one could see inside, and there were imitation doors along the rest of the wall on to the walkway. The committee room proper was entered through steel doors, the walls of the isolation area in which the committee held its deliberations were lead-lined, and further protection against electronic surveillance was provided by white noise.
Brettlaw smiled at the receptionist, signed the register, including the time he was entering the isolation area, and went inside.
The members were already waiting in the semicircle of seats on the platform in front of him. Today was the bad one, today the bastards would be after his blood. He took his place, and the doors were closed and locked, sealing off the committee. Then, and only then, did the chairman call the meeting to order and ask Brettlaw for his opening remarks.
‘Before I begin, I have an announcement to make.’ It would soon be public anyway, but there were certain members who would remember that the DDO had seen fit to brief them first. ‘I have just been informed that the CoS Bonn has been assassinated.’ He waited for the room to settle. ‘This information was passed to me on my way here, as yet no other details are available. If any do become available during this session I will, of course, inform you immediately.’
The senior Republican rose. ‘Mr Chairman, may I put on record the committee’s horror at the news, and its appreciation of the Deputy Director’s decision to attend despite it.’
‘Noted.’
Even the liberals were shocked, Brettlaw thought wryly. Zev serving the Agency in death as in life.
The questioning began, slightly less ferocious than on previous occasions, but barbed anyway.
There were tricks, of course, almost tradecraft. Never tell a lie, because one day they might come back at you on it. But never tell the truth. Unless, of course, it suited you. Make what the politicians call lawyer’s answers, play one committee against another, the Senate against the House of Representatives. And if they had you, if you were really up against it, run a dangle, either to them or the press, lay a bait that would make them think they were on to something but which would take them so far off course they were the other side of the globe from what you wanted to protect. But never make enemies, because one day you might be sitting in front of them at a confirmation hearing for the job at the top.
‘Item 12d in budget document 4.’ The committee man was like a buzzard, Brettlaw thought, hungry eyes and hooked nose.
