“What’s wrong?” Rajiid said.
“The American froze my accounts and somehow moved the securities.”
Rajiid looked at Dattar in alarm. “All of them?”
“All six in Switzerland. There are three left in the Caymans, but they don’t hold much. The American must be stopped before those are located.”
“I thought you neutralized the American threat.”
“I thought so too. Give me the phone,” Dattar said.
Rajiid got a wary look on his face. “You shouldn’t use mine. It can be traced. What do you wish to know?”
“I wish to know why the American isn’t yet dead!” Dattar screamed the words at Rajiid, who blinked but didn’t remove his eyes from the road. They were on a highway, moving fast.
“The American must be dead. You sent Khalil for that one. The best. He cannot be beaten.”
“Like Ali? I sent him for Smith, and he still lives.”
Rajiid kept his eyes on the road, but his lips were set in a tight line. “I heard about that. But that was an unusual circumstance. Ali succumbed early. Khalil wasn’t part of the suicide crew.”
“Has anyone heard from him? Has he reported in?”
Rajiid shook his head. “No, but if there is a job to do, Khalil will do it. If the American isn’t dead already, then it will happen soon. Along with the Englishman.”
“We’ll need to get the freeze order reversed.” Dattar stared out the window while his mind raced with ideas.
“To do that you must bring the United States to its knees. And to do that you must continue with the plan.”
Dattar nodded. His plan was brilliant. The way to instill respect was to threaten the lives of the many. When they were controlled, the rest would fall into place.
“Do we have the coolers?” he said.
“Yes.”
At least something went right, Dattar thought. “I want Smith dead. I won’t allow him to interfere with me again. And the American as well. Is that understood?”
“It was always understood. It will be finished.”
8
Russell leaned over Wendel’s shoulder and watched the stream of updates. “Which one is the agent?” she asked. Wendel pointed to a sentence from Blackhat 254.
“That’s Tyler Biggs. He’s positioned at the train station. And here,” she pointed to another stream of information, but this one coming from a secure CIA line, “is his personal system. Right now he’s transmitting on both, and pretty much the same information, from an aggregating software program. It sends the message to his CIA site, which verifies the sender and then posts it here.”
“What if he messes up? Punches in CIA information on the public site?”
Wendel shook her head. “Not likely. He needs to verify his CIA log-in before he can use the aggregator, and that aggregator software is proprietary to us. It’s not available to just anyone. He doesn’t use it unless he’s transmitting public information in any event.”
Russell watched as Biggs gave a running description of what he was watching from a street corner in The Hague. His updates matched those of several other Dutch civilians standing around him who were also recording their observations on the public website. The CIA stream, however, didn’t match. Russell watched the sentences on a split-screen display.
“Shouldn’t his CIA stream and the public stream match then?” Russell said.
Wendel frowned. “Theoretically, yes.”
“Then why don’t they?” Russell said.
Wendel shook her head. “I’m not sure. Perhaps the ISP system used by the public site is built on a faster platform?”
Russell didn’t like the sound of that. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since the CIA had updated their cable systems, but she hoped that they could manage to at least match a public-access Internet site in speed and quality. The Internet had become the largest, most lucrative trolling ground for criminals the world over, and keeping one step ahead of the hackers, phishers, and terrorists required that they stay cutting edge.
“That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, though, because the public site is accessed by millions daily, and the CIA site is handling only a tiny percentage of that,” Wendel said. “Something else must be causing the lag.”
“Maybe the aggregator software isn’t pushing out the two windows equally,” Jordan suggested.
Russell felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Cromwell with a grave look on his face.
“Can you join me? There’s been a new development.”
Russell followed him out of the situation room. They moved down a long corridor with gray walls and dark industrial carpeting. Cromwell pushed through a door marked “Conference B.” The room contained a large dark wood table surrounded by black leather chairs. A triangular speakerphone sat in the table’s center, and a flat-screen television, this one turned off, hung on one wall. Seated at the conference room table was Steve Harcourt, the CIA’s Mideast senior operator currently on loan to the New York Police Department, where he was supposed to be providing assistance and intelligence on outside threats. Harcourt had an office in Langley and another in New York and shuttled between them. Tall, with slicked hair, a slender face, and intelligent eyes that swept over Russell in a quick, discreet assessment, Harcourt was only a bit older than Russell, in his late thirties, and had a reputation as a ladies’ man. He wore a dark sweater, black pants, and expensive wing-tip shoes that shone from a recent polishing. When the door closed behind them, Cromwell nodded to Harcourt, leaned against the table, and crossed his arms.
“I don’t know if you two have met. Steve, this is Randi Russell. She’s heading up a test initiative in which we’re considering bringing in field officers on a rotating basis to analyze and improve our home base capabilities. With her lengthy field service, she brings critical knowledge to bear on our office operations here.”
Harcourt rose to shake Russell’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about your exploits. It must be difficult to work at a desk.”
“Not at all. I’m finding the change refreshing.”
“We’re here as you requested. You have news?” Cromwell said to Harcourt.
“Oman Dattar escaped from Scheveningen prison.”
Russell groaned. “The Butcher? You’ve got to be kidding. When?”
“An hour ago. He escaped during transfer. The Mideast division got the call first, based on his connection to Pakistan, and contacted me.” He turned to Russell. “I work in connection with the NYPD, and New York is considered a first target, so whenever something occurs that involves possible terrorism, I get the call. I told them I’d brief the European Division, since he’s stomping around in your area of concern.”
“I have to tell you, I’m thinking the escape and the attack on the Grand Royal can’t be a coincidence,” Russell said. Her alarm was growing; the situation in the Netherlands was fast spiraling out of control. She ran through in her mind the available operatives that could assist in a hunt for Dattar.
“Any idea where he might be heading?” Cromwell said.