The problem was that they didn’t seem to belong together. In any way. Instead of developing a more detailed description of a terrorist organisation, the BSC Unit had outlined a single individual who used people the way that others used tools, and showed the same lack of loyalty or other human emotion to his helpers that anyone else would to a toolbox.
Nothing was done to look after or help the various actors afterwards. Once they had played their role, done their bit, there was no protection. Gerhard Skrøder had been thrown to the wolves, as had the Pakistani cleaner and all the rest of the pieces in this complex jigsaw puzzle.
Which must mean that they didn’t know who they were working for.
Warren yawned, shook his head briskly and opened his eyes wide to force back the tears. His hand, which was still holding the report, felt heavy as lead. He pulled himself together, lifted it up and caste his eyes over the front page.
The title was modestly placed at the top of the page in the same font size as the rest of the document, only it was in bold: The Guilty. A profile of the abductor.
Warren wasn’t sure whether he liked the name they had chosen. On the other hand, it was neutral, with no ethnic or national connotations. Again he tried to make himself more comfortable, and then started to read:
I.i. The Abduction.
As usual, their starting point was the key event.
The actual kidnapping of the President gave the BSC Unit strong characteristics in terms of the perpetrator’s profile. Ever since he had been woken in his flat in Washington DC at some ungodly hour by an emotional agent who told him that the President had apparently been kidnapped in Norway, Warren Scifford had been thoroughly perplexed. On the flight to Europe, he had constantly been expecting, and in some absurd way hoping, that he would arrive to be told that Madam President had been found dead.
He had already dismissed the possibility that she would be found alive.
The key question was: why kidnapping? Why not kill Helen Bentley instead? By all accounts, it was far easier to carry out an assassination, and therefore far less risky. Being the commander-in-chief of the US was definitely a high-risk job, due to the simple fact that it was impossible to fully protect any individual from sudden fatal attacks by other people, unless that individual was kept in isolation.
The kidnapping had to have a purpose, its own value. And this had to be something to do with what could be gained by keeping the US in suspense, rather than letting the American people gather in shared shock and grief over their murdered president.
The obvious effect of the disappearance was that the country was now more vulnerable to attack.
Just the thought made Warren’s skin crawl.
He turned to the next page before taking a swig of Coke. He still had a feeling in his stomach that he couldn’t define, and wondered for a moment whether he should order some food to see if that would help. The clock on his mobile phone showed three minutes to six, so he abandoned that idea. Breakfast would be served in an hour.
The use of Secret Service agent Jeffrey Hunter was as genius as it was simple. Even though it might in theory be possible to kidnap the President without the help of an insider, he could imagine no way in which it would be possible to carry it out in practice. The fact that the Guilty had an apparatus in the States that could abduct an autistic boy, twice, in order to frighten a professional security agent into cooperation was one of the elements that made the profile increasingly clear. And even more overwhelming.
The phone rang.
The sound gave Warren such a surprise that the Coke bottle that was wedged between his thighs fell over. He cursed, managed to catch the bottle of sticky dark fluid and grabbed the phone.
‘Hello,’ he grunted, drying his free hand on the duvet cover.
‘Warren?’ a distant voice said.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Colin.’
‘Oh, hi, Colin. You sound very far away.’
‘I have to be quick.’
‘Sounds like you’re whispering. Speak up!’
‘Dammit, Warren, listen to me. We’re not exactly in people’s good books at the moment.’
‘No, I noticed that here, too.’
Colin Wolf and Warren Scifford had worked together for nearly ten years. Warren’s first choice when he was putting together the BSC Unit was his peer. Colin was old school. His name might be Wolf, but he looked like a bear and he was thorough, calm and compliant. His voice was higher than normal and the delay on the line made him stressed.
‘They won’t listen to us,’ Colin said. ‘They’ve made up their minds.’
‘About what?’ Warren asked, even though he knew the answer.
‘That there’s some Islamist organisation or other behind it all. And they’re back on the al-Qaeda track again. Al-Qaeda! They’re no more involved in this case than the IRA. Or the Scouts, for that matter. And now they’ve seen red. That’s why I’m calling.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘They’ve discovered an account.’
‘An account?’
‘Jeffrey Hunter. Transferred money to his wife.’
Warren swallowed. The brown stain on his groin was disgusting. He pulled the duvet over it with his sticky hand.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, I’m still here,’ Warren said. ‘Well I’ll be damned.’
‘Quite. It’s all too good to be true.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Listen, but I have to be quick. I want you to know. The amount was two hundred thousand dollars. The money was of course filtered through the usual channels so there is no identity, but we’ve managed to trace it back to the sender all the same. It only took the boys over in Pennsylvania Avenue five hours.’
‘And who did they find?’
‘Are you sitting down?’
‘I’m lying in bed.’
‘The cousin of the Saudi oil minister. He lives in Iran.’
‘Shit.’
‘You can say that again.’
Warren picked up the BSC Unit report again. The papers stuck to his hand. That wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right. They were right: Colin and Warren and the rest of the small, marginalised group of profilers who no one would listen to.
‘That just can’t be right,’ he said pensively. ‘The Guilty would never have done anything in such an amateur way that the money could be traced.’
‘What?’
‘That can’t be right!’
‘No, that’s why I’m calling! It’s too simple, Warren. But what about if we turn the whole thing on its head?’
‘What? I can’t hear, there’s…’
‘Turn the whole thing on its head,’ Colin shouted. ‘Let’s suppose that the trail to Saudi Arabia was laid on purpose. If we’re right, and the intention was that the money would be found and traced…’
Then everything falls into place, thought Warren, aghast. That’s the way the Guilty works. He wants this to happen. He wants chaos, he creates crises, he’s…
‘Don’t you see? Do you agree?’
Colin’s voice was so distant.
Warren wasn’t listening properly.
‘It won’t take long before this leaks,’ Colin said, as the connection deteriorated. ‘Have you been watching the stock exchange?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘When the link between Saudi Arabia and Iran becomes known…’
Oil prices, Warren realised. They’ll rocket, like never before in history.
‘… dramatic fall in the Dow Jones, and it’s so bloody sharp and…’
‘Hello,’ Warren shouted.
‘Hi. Are you still there? I’ll have to stop, Warren. I have to run because…’
The crackling was unbearable. Warren held the receiver out a few centimetres from his ear. Suddenly Colin came back. The connection was crystal clear for the first time.
‘They’re talking about a hundred dollars a barrel,’ he said grimly. ‘Before the end of next week. That’s what he wants. It fits, Warren. It all fits. I have to go. Call me.’