Still, this confidence trick took the cake. As Garza had essentially admitted, they’d gleaned the information about himself and Britton from the video surveillance tapes recovered from the wreck of the Rolvaag. But then to gin up a story of a hastily scribbled note of Sally’s, entrusted to Garza at the very moment her ship was foundering…It wasn’t in her nature. Even if she’d wanted to write such a note, she would not have had the time. The whole con was transparent. And so easily disproven.
So easily disproven…
Glinn sat up in bed. His heart was suddenly beating fast. This, he began to realize, was the unsettling thought at the back of his mind that had kept him up all night: how Garza and Gideon had not understood how easily their con could be refuted. Maybe they understood—all too well.
Sleep was hopeless. He might as well get up and make coffee. He stood, stretched, and as he did so paused to appreciate the unaccustomed strength once again surging through his legs. Strolling to the nearby floor-to-ceiling window, he gazed over the sweeping views of the Hudson River and the bejeweled skyline of Lower Manhattan. So easily disproven…It seemed extraordinary that two such intelligent individuals would not have realized how flimsy their scam was.
They had come up to his apartment, tried to pull their little trick, and acted like damn fools when he exposed their lies. That was quite a moment, he had to admit: that video segment showing that Sally had never touched the log, never written the note…
Didn’t they realize he would check the tapes?
A chill crept up his spine. Maybe they had realized. Maybe they’d anticipated that. Maybe the con was meant to be easily disproved.
He felt he was letting his mind run away with speculation. But what if, in fact, they’d had another purpose in mind? What could that purpose have been? Had he been “pretexted,” to use a social engineering term? But pretexted to what end? What could they have possibly gained by coming in with that ridiculous story, attempting to extort him, and then getting thrown out?
What had they gained?
For one thing, they had gained access to the highly secure EES computer center. He recalled Gideon leaning over his shoulder, pointing his finger at the screen, demanding that they watch, that the crucial moment was about to occur. When he must have known that moment never would occur. That in itself was strange. He recalled the position of Gideon’s body, leaning over his shoulder, his right hand pointing at the screen, his left hand braced on the side of the computer console…
Where there were various input ports, including USB.
A cold, ugly feeling crept outward from his gut. He turned, picked up his secure intercom line, dialed a number.
“O’Bannion? Could you check the EES central computer system and compile a list of all activity that took place between three and three thirty this afternoon? I need to know specifically what files were accessed, from what location, and at what exact time. Thank you.”
He hung up the phone and waited, staring out at a sliver of moon floating above the Freedom Tower. The sky was just starting to change from black to deep blue, the first light of the approaching day.
The phone rang. Glinn picked it up, listened for a moment, and then slowly replaced it in its cradle. Although it was dark and cool in the private aerie, Glinn felt the heat of humiliation invade the capillaries of his face and spread like an infection over his body. All his self-satisfied sense of comfort and triumph vanished in a moment.
He had been duped. And with the greatest of ease.
This would not stand.
9
GIDEON STEPPED UP to the balcony and slid open the polished doors, letting in a cool, predawn breeze. The din of Cairo was already rising, interwoven with the honking of cars and the shouts of early-morning vendors setting up their wares along the Nile Corniche. Gideon gazed out at the waking city, cup of strong Turkish coffee in hand, breathing in the heady scent—car exhaust, dust, and the richness of the Nile itself, which lay like a sheet of blued steel in the distant light. They had taken a suite at the Ritz-Carlton at Gideon’s insistence—he’d banked close to half a million dollars from his work at EES, and whenever he could he would make damn sure he enjoyed the two months that were left him, no matter the cost. Garza, a born cheapskate, had grumbled a little but finally relented. It was just one of many disagreements they’d had in the five days since they’d hatched this plan—and getting to Cairo, Gideon knew, was the easy part.
And now Gideon heard a faint, singsong cry, then another and another, rising over the dawn: a melodious pentatonic chanting. For a moment, he wondered if it was some kind of musical performance, until he recalled it must be the muezzin’s call to prayer coming from the many minarets that dotted the city.
He had never been in the Middle East before, and he found Cairo entrancing: a profusion of color, sound, and exotic sights. They had arrived the previous afternoon on a flight from New York. The journey from the airport to the hotel had been wild, plunging them into epic traffic jams, where limousines were crammed cheek-by-jowl beside semi-trucks, lorries, carts being pulled by donkeys, and shabby taxis, all going every which way with no regard for traffic lights or the proper side of the street. The scene had annoyed Garza, with his mania for order, and he’d issued a steady stream of disparagement as their taxi stopped, started, and honked, the driver enthusiastically participating in the mayhem. Gideon, on the other hand, had been energized by the chaotic atmosphere.
He heard a door open and turned to see Garza emerge from his room. He looked drawn.
“I made a pot of Turkish coffee,” said Gideon. “It’s on the warmer.”
“Turkish? Any good old American coffee around here?”
“Sure, but you’ve got to make it yourself.”
Garza went into the kitchen and soon Gideon heard him fussing with the drip machine. Since departing from New York, Garza had put on what Gideon privately called his “game face,” an expression of humorless, cautious determination to get the job done. Gideon remembered it well from their previous missions. The engineer, he thought, might prove to be a challenging traveling companion.
As he mused about Garza, he understood that in many ways the man was a lot like Glinn, which perhaps explained the depth of the engineer’s resentment. Strange that, after several missions with Garza, Gideon still didn’t know much about his background, beyond the fact that Garza and Glinn were in the Rangers together, coming up through Airborne, and that Garza had been Glinn’s second in command. The engineer had always presented a taciturn, gruff exterior and openly disapproved of Gideon’s way of doing things. In the beginning, he’d even opposed Glinn’s hiring of Gideon. This disapproval had slowly ebbed during their ops together, and at times the man seemed capable of surprising acts of independence and rare courage—his commandeering of the chopper during the Lost Island mission, for example.
He heard footsteps and Garza returned from the kitchen carrying a steaming mug of coffee. He held a manila folder in his hand.
“What’s that?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Garza replied. “Jet lag. So I put the time to good use.” He handed Gideon the folder. “Background on our destination, the Hala’ib Triangle. It’s going to be quite a trek, and we still have to determine the optimal form of travel.”