“Oh, that’s better. How can I recognize him?”
“Don’t worry about that. He’ll recognize you. And another thing-”
“What’s his name?”
“Rafael. His name is Rafael. One other thing, don’t use your name anywhere, and never say where you are… And pay cash for everything.”
“Why?”
“Don’t use your credit card.”
“Oh, I just paid at McDonald’s with the same card I’m using for this call,” she responded, her eyes gleaming with anxiety. She glanced around, not feeling safe at all.
“Hang up immediately and go where I’ve told you.”
“Didn’t you say your phone could be tapped? How can you now be sending me to such a specific place?”
“I’m sure you’ve never heard of King William IV Square.” With that, he hung up.
13
Staughton was an analyst of confidential data. That meant he was a professional who collected important private data for an operation and then transferred it to the agents in charge of the case. In fact, his position was known as a “real-time analyst,” meaning the data he collected referred only to the immediate present. For example, phone calls, bank transactions, or if necessary even satellite images. The degree of confidentiality varied according to the particular operation, and it was divided into four levels. Level four, the most confidential, was available only to the president of the United States. Staughton worked for the Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA.
There were many sophisticated devices in Staughton’s room. It looked more like an airplane cockpit than an office. He pressed a few buttons and then, with the ease of an expert, waited for the results.
What mess am I in now? he thought. Oh, come on, give me a sign, one simple sign.
“So, nothing yet? Nothing?” a man thundered, barging into the room.
A novice would have been petrified by the sudden appearance of the man in charge of the CIA London office. But Staughton was unruffled. Such outbursts were not unusual for Geoffrey Barnes, a man of great bulk who managed to walk incredibly lightly and noiselessly. His question came in a booming voice, and then he leaned expectantly over Staughton.
“Zero, zilch, nada.”
“It’s a matter of time. Let’s hope it’ll be soon.”
Geoffrey Barnes headed back to his office, on the same floor. A glass-and-metal panel separated him from the rest of the staff, a symbol clearly indicating who commanded and who obeyed. There were people above Geoffrey Barnes, namely the CIA director at Langley, and the president who, as a rule knew very little about most of the agency’s doings. But the president had no idea whatsoever about the present operation, and if it were up to Geoffrey Barnes, he never would.
A phone rang on a mahogany desk that seemed totally out of place in Staughton’s futuristic setting. Of the three phones on the desk, the most important was the red one. It had a direct connection to the Oval Office in the White House, and with the president’s plane, Air Force One. The second most important was the one ringing now. Geoffrey was upset.
“Shit,” he said while it kept ringing. “I’m coming. The boss is out. I’ll go look for him.”
The worst thing that could happen to any intelligence service was not to have timely information when someone asked for it. How else to justify the agency’s existence, if not to supply needed information? As his predecessor used to say, “When the phone rings, you better have what they want to hear. If not, you’d better have a fertile imagination.”
But in this case, his imagination would be of no help. Eliminating a target couldn’t be invented. It happened or it didn’t. Whether it was about to happen wouldn’t be of any help.
“I’m coming,” he yelled at the phone, and lifted the receiver. His greeting was in Italian because the man calling him spoke the language of Dante, in addition to being fluent in a handful of dead languages that for Barnes didn’t count.
A tense conversation ensued, in which Barnes attributed his lack of information to various external elements that caused the loss of one of his agents right when his operation was nearly completed. This had resulted in temporary confusion, allowing the target to escape. Barnes was fuming.
“We’ve got some movement!” Staughton announced at the door.
“Just in time,” the big bulk of a man thought. “What is it?”
“A credit card in Victoria Station, used at McDonald’s.”
“Did you tell the staff?”
“They’re on location right now.”
“Good,” he said, and relayed this to the person at the other end. After a while, he hung up, visibly upset. “Staughton, tell our people to stay in the background. Their people are going to act.”
“What do you mean?” Staughton asked, failing to see the implications. “Are you sure, sir?”
Barnes glowered at him, in a more than eloquent reply.
“I’ll give the order right away, sir.”
“And by the way, Staughton, tell them to bring me a hamburger.”
14
The old man hung up, annoyed. “How stupid. Damned Americans!” he said to himself, getting up from the sofa with the help of his cane, and hobbling over to the small bar cabinet. He dropped two ice cubes in a glass and poured himself a drink. The death of an American agent about to complete his job brought to mind all sorts of questions, besides problems of logistics. Who knew about the previously and secretly planned proceedings? How did he know to arrive in time to save the victim? An unexpected participant had joined the game. From this, a second scenario arose. Who’s trying to interfere with our business? How did they get advance information on our plans? The two questions might have a single answer: an infiltrator. A traitor belonging to the CIA, the agency now responsible for the business of old Albion.
No doubt the best way to resolve this situation was to call in the Guard, his organization’s group with a well-earned reputation for never failing. Given the present circumstances, he should activate this select cadre and have Geoffrey Barnes stand by, pending new instructions from general headquarters, his Italian villa.
The old man had always favored direct action and quick decisions, but lately he preferred to consult with his assistant, though informally, at critical moments. All his life he’d chosen his collaborators well, but this assistant was a real find. The man was diligent, competent, persistent, and willing to be at his service 24/7, year-round. The old man, having no children and no relatives, felt reassured to know he could count on this man, down the line. When his own time came to abandon this world, there would be someone to shepherd his organization. His right-hand man was his natural successor, sharing his vision of the organization’s future.
His assistant would be coming to the villa within an hour by private plane. Although both of them had access to satellite phones, even in flight, there was no need to consult him about the present case. There was no doubt the assistant would agree with his decision. Besides, a call now from the old man might be interpreted as a sign of weakness, like begging for advice. If they were both already at the villa, things would be different. He would start a casual conversation and easily find out what his assistant thought about the situation.
Old age is a curse, he mused. For many years, he alone had made all the important decisions, but now the simple objective of doing away with one woman disconcerted him. Under normal conditions, he had to admit, she would have been dead by now. But a mole presented a serious problem. The Guard would resolve this problem in less than an hour. As for the infiltrator, he would take this up with Barnes once the target was neutralized.
His glass was now practically empty. He put it on the table and picked up the phone. It was time to start moving the pieces.