Bobby Freedman looked from his boss to the CIA’s deputy director of operations. “Like Mr. Halsey said, I was walking out the Holy Land Charitable Trust’s transfers when I came across these four. Sixty-five thousand dollars each to an account at an American bank. At first, I’d thought it was a mistake. I didn’t see them the first time around. And if you’ll excuse me, sir, it isn’t like me to miss something like this. I thought maybe it was a mis-”
“Go on, Mr. Freedman.” Glendenning had folded his arms and was physically leaning toward the beefy analyst in an effort to make him hurry up.
“Well, sir, as I was saying, I was curious. If the Holy Land Trust is, in fact, a front for Hijira, then the transfers would constitute the first evidence of an American connection. Proof that they’re operating on home soil.”
Glendenning raised a hand for Freedman to shut up. “And, who exactly did you see about getting a warrant to look into these accounts?” he asked, sniffing as if he detected an unpleasant odor.
“John Oglethorpe at Hunts.”
“Is that ‘Judge’ John Oglethorpe or just your good buddy John?”
“Mr. Oglethorpe is in charge of government relations at Hunts, where Chapel kept his account. I recognized the ABA number, so I gave him a call and asked if he might do me a favor.”
“The favor being to illegally obtain a U.S. citizen’s private banking records.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Freedman, who looked like he was catching a whiff of the same lousy brew.
“Allan, get on to legal posthaste. Have them issue me a warrant for Chapel’s accounts at Hunts and make sure it’s stamped twenty-four hours ago. See Judge McManus about it. He’s one of the good guys.”
Halsey made a gesture like he was throwing in the towel. “Glen, please, that’s not-”
“Allan. Remember. If we’re not stepping on somebody’s rights, we’re not doing our job.”
Swallowing hard, Halsey lowered his head and moved a few steps away to contact the judge.
Glendenning returned his attention to Bobby Freedman. “Now then, Mr. Freedman, am I to believe that this fount of information is wholly the product of some below-the-table cooperation?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Glendenning chuckled, his face brightening. “Call me Glen,” he said, clapping a hand on Freedman’s shoulder before leading him to a glassed-in office at the rear of the room. “I’m glad somebody around here realizes this is a goddamned war we’re fighting. You know what happens to the nice guys in a war? The ones who swear by the rules of engagement and won’t open fire until they get the four star’s go ahead? Do you? They get slaughtered, Robert. Slaughtered,” he said, banging his cane for emphasis. “Now, Robert, I want you to blastfax Chapel’s social security number to every bank in these United States and all the others with whom we maintain any kind of cordial relations. Feed his every particular into your database, your witches’ cauldron-isn’t that what you call it?”
“How’d you-”
“Feed everything you have on Chapel into that,” continued Glendenning. “Driver’s license, home address, passport-all of it. Let’s have a look and see where he might have turned up before. I want to see every transaction Chapel has made in the last five years. I want to know where he earned his every last red cent. Once you get that, I want you to walk out every transfer Chapel made to another bank. If he’s got some coconspirators running around, I want to know who they are. And pronto. Am I clear?”
“What about a warrant?”
“I’ll have a warrant on your desk ready to read to those banks in two hours. This is a section three-fourteen-A case, if ever there was one.”
Glendenning was referring to subsection 314 (a) of the Patriot Act, which allowed members of the law enforcement community access to all of an individual’s most private records if deemed to be vital to the protection of the nation.
Freedman nodded uneasily. “Come on, sir,” he complained, shifting his heavy shoulders. “Don’t you think this whole thing kind of stinks. I mean, this is Chapel we’re talking about.”
Glendenning was careful not to dismiss the comment too easily. “I understand your concerns, Robert,” he said solemnly. “I can’t divulge too many elements of the case history, but please know this: From the beginning it was clear that task force Blood Money had been penetrated. I am as shocked as you are to learn it was Adam Chapel. Still, it had to be somebody. Betrayal always wears a human face.”
Freedman nodded, but Glendenning could sense his hesitance, his distrust. It wouldn’t do. “Who said numbers don’t lie?”
“Chapel, sir. It’s his favorite expression.”
“Thank you, Robert. Now get on out of here, and get me my facts.”
Allan Halsey snapped his cell phone closed and returned to Glendenning’s side. “Judge McManus is on it. He just needs the account info and he’ll have the warrant taken care of in an hour.”
“Sonuvabitch’s been leading us by the nose for a week,” said Glendenning, allowing his anger to show now that it was only he and Halsey. He rubbed his face, sighing. “We’ve got to keep this quiet. Another mole now? The public won’t accept it. Is Chapel still in Paris with Sarah Churchill?”
“Yes.”
“Call Neff at the embassy over there. Arrest him.”
Chapter 48
Sarah Churchill turned down a street and craned her neck to read the addresses. “We’re looking for number sixteen.”
“Two… four,” said Chapel, calling out the numbers. “It’s still a couple blocks up.”
Sarah hit the accelerator as the Cyclops lamp of Leclerc’s motorcycle trailed in the rearview mirror.
“Just the three of you go,” General Gadbois had said, after Chapel had finished with George Gabriel and Sarah had revealed the crux of her conversation with “Yossi,” better known as Colonel Yigal Blum, chief of the Mossad’s European Intelligence Directorate. “Take a look. Ask some questions. If you find our men, back off. We’ll send over some boys from the Action Service to lend a hand. We can’t risk the same clusterfuck that killed Santos Babtiste. This one stays with us.”
Leclerc had caught Chapel’s accusing glare. “Still think it was us who blew the whistle?” he asked. “Think again. Leaks are an American specialty. Maybe you should look closer to home.”
“Enough,” Gadbois had barked, adding in a pussycat’s growl, “Allez maintenant. Mais doucement.”
If he could be accused of not taking the threat of a rogue nuclear weapon in his jurisdiction as seriously as he might, it was because he had been deceived. Sarah had neglected to mention the stolen weapon. Kahn was on the run, she’d said, but he was carrying plans, nothing more.
Entering the next block, Chapel resumed his search for addresses. He spotted number eight. Number ten. All were three-story town houses with short flights of stairs leading from the street to large front doors and narrow alleys between them. The façades were identicaclass="underline" sandblasted granite, dark shutters, steep mansard roofs.
“By the way, you were very impressive back there,” Sarah said.
“Yeah, we had a moment, didn’t we?”
Chapel felt winded by his victory; a sprinter who against all odds had come from nowhere to capture the race. George Gabriel had opened up. He had talked. The problem was that he hadn’t answered the hard questions. Who? What? When? How? To say his father wanted to “get even” got them precisely nowhere. “Getting even” wasn’t enough. Not from a son who lived under the same roof as the architect of a plan that “would bring a flood tide of blood” to the United States.
George Gabriel had offered other nuggets, but they had confirmed what Chapel and Sarah had already pieced together. His father had flown to Buenos Aires two days earlier. A check of flight logs showed one Claude François, first-class passenger, continuing to Asunción, Paraguay, returning to Charles-de-Gaulle early this morning. The mention of the name Inteltech provoked a positive response from the prisoner.