Jacob was sucking on his pipe again. He shook his head.
"Any individual names?"
"As I said, Mossad isn't particularly interested. I had to call a lot of favors due to get what, I did."
"What about Jersey? Is the island just a mail drop or does Pegasus have some sort of operation there?"
"Can't say. I can tell you that a disproportionate number of communications go through a Lisbon exchange. Could be just a switching point, could mean they do business there."
Impatiently, Lang watched his friend apply yet another match to the bowl of his pipe and suck until blue smoke poured out of it.
"One really strange thing," he said at last. "Little hamlet in the southwest of France, Burgundy. Rennes-le something… Rennes-le-Château. Wire transfers there to what I'd guess is a dummy corporation. Small amounts but on a regular basis. They've got no operations there we – Echelon – could find."
Lang leaned back in his chair, more leather slung on a chrome frame. "Rennes-le-Château? Never heard of it."
"I found it in the atlas. Somewhere near the Pyrenees."
"The Languedoc region?"
Jacob was knocking the pipe's contents out into a glass ashtray that seemed fragile enough to shatter from the effort. The intensity in Lang's tone made him look up. "I think so, yes."
The American stood. "The atlas, you have it here?".. Jacob was clearly puzzled at Lang's sudden interest in geography. "Well, yes…"
The doorbell rang.
Jacob carefully laid his pipe in the ashtray and went to the door, squinting through the peephole. "Sure you weren't followed?"…
"Followed? By whom?"
Jacob's eye was still against the hole. "Coppers, by the look of 'em."
3
London, Mayfair
At the same time
The computer screen washed Gurt's face in blue light. Overhead, the glare of the unremitting fluorescent bulbs made the basement of 24 Grosvenor Square resemble an operating theater. In its own way, the room was as antiseptic as any surgery, as clear of electronic bacteria as a hospital of the conventional kind. Electronically swept daily, every inch was videotaped on a continuing twenty-four hour reel. Even so, the room was partitioned off by seamless glass, a feature that prompted its regular occupants to refer to it as "the fish bowl." It was the most secure part of the American embassy's secured sections, the part where the Agency did its work.
Gurt's security clearance was high enough to access the information she was seeking, a closed personnel file, but clearances did not impress the cybergods who dictated the time required to comply with a request of the system.
She hit the "enter" key for the second time in a fruitless effort to speed a response, impatiently muttering a curse to which her native tongue gave special emphasis. As though she had spoken a magical password, the file she sought appeared. Scanning it, she committed parts to memory. Note-taking of any sort was forbidden.
She was about to close out when a blinking red light at the bottom of the screen caught her attention. She frowned, entering another access code.
Someone had managed to hack into the system, into this specific file.-Unbelievable! The network's complexity made the Pentagon's look like a child's puzzle in comparison. Ten minutes' further investigation was useless. This was a case for the Agency's supernerds, cybergurus who, unknown to the public, had successfully traced the worldwide Love Bug and Melissa viruses of a few years back to their authors.
As with those viruses, the intruder had routed his inquiries through a number of computers belonging to individuals and companies across the globe, innocent hosts for electronic burglary. But whoever he was, the Agency's reverse cookie had made certain he had left cyberevidence of his entry and departure, the time and date. The date, she saw, was yesterday.
Presumably the hacker wanted the same information she had just garnered. Gurt exited the system hurriedly. She didn't have a lot of time. Lang's ass was slung worse than he knew.
4
London, South Dock
1645 hours
"Cops?" Lang asked, pointing to the kitchen. "Where does that lead?"
There was a loud knock, the sound of the door being struck with something harder than a human hand. A gun butt came to mind.
"Leads to a back staircase," Jacob said. "Want to wager they don't have it covered?"
Rachel had come out of the kitchen, started to ask what was going on and decided against it. Her years of marriage to Jacob had taught her to question little. She was, however, following the conversation with astonishment that Lang would be wanted by the police.
Lang stepped to the glass wall, sliding it open.
"There's no way down from…"Jacob cautioned.
On the narrow balcony, Lang climbed onto the metal railing about four feet above the cement, using a hand against the building's wall to steady himself. The balcony below was identical, too narrow. Even though it was only twelve feet or so below, it would be too easy to miss if he jumped.
From inside Jacob's apartment, Lang heard renewed and determined banging on the door, accompanied by loud and demanding voices.
Jacob shot him a glance before shouting, ''I'm coming, I'm coming!"
The adjacent balcony was too far to simply step over onto it. But a good jump… Lang didn't have a lot of choice. He resisted the urge to close his eyes as he stooped, coiling his leg muscles, and sprang into empty space.
The sole of his shoe slipped on the edge of the concrete and Lang grabbed for the iron railing as he fell. His weight yanked his arms straight with a jerk that felt as though they were tearing from the sockets. For what seemed an eternity, Lang's fingers grasped for purchase on the cement and he tried not to notice how far away the street looked twelve stories below.
Through the open glass, he could hear voices above. Jacob's sounded angry. He sensed, rather than heard, footsteps. It hadn't taken the police long to conclude Lang was no longer in Jacob's place and search elsewhere.
Like outside.
Finally Lang was able to grasp one of the railing's uprights. He tugged gently, making sure the slender metal would hold his hundred and ninety pounds. His other hand found a second upright and he slowly began to chin himself up as though on a crossbar.
As his head was coming level with the cement floor of the balcony, he heard something that made him turn his head. On Jacob's balcony, a pair of shoes were at eye level, the soles and rubber heels unevenly worn. Lang extended his arms, lowering his head below balcony-level and hoping his hands weren't visible in the growing dusk. He was hanging in a twelve-story void but they would hardly look for him beneath the adjacent balcony. Jacob's balcony would block out the rest of him unless someone came to the very edge and looked over.
Scuffed toe caps the color of butterscotch turned away and a voice announced, "Bloke's not 'ere. Sure we 'ave the right flat?"
Lang couldn't make out the words of the reply but the tone was affirmative.
He heard the glass door to Jacob's apartment slide shut, and he glanced upward, risking the paleness of his face showing against the dark background if anyone were still outside. He was alone. Once again he chinned up until one hand, then the other, could reach the top of the railing and he could pull himself up, over and onto firm footing.
The drapes on the glass were pulled, so Lang couldn't tell if there were lights burning inside. He put an ear to the cold surface. No voices, human or electronic. Either the occupants were the rare ones who didn't watch the BBC news at this time of day or the place was empty. He tugged at the grip. Locked. Who would lock a door on the twelfth floor, he asked himself as he took a credit card from his wallet. Someone seriously paranoid, came the answer as he inserted the card and pressed back the latch.