The Cloud Collector

by Brian Freemantle

  Eventually Monkton said, ‘My instructions were quite specific.’

  ‘To me. Not to Fellowes. It’s caused unnecessary friction.’

  There was another pause. ‘Which has now been resolved. The rezidentura is to provide everything you ask for but you communicate directly to me, both verbally and electronically. It’s to be an absolutely restricted case file, shared with no-one at the embassy, up to and including the ambassador. And if there’s difficulty with the ambassador, tell him to channel all his queries through the Foreign Office and the foreign secretary, whom I’ll be personally briefing.’

  Now Sally hesitated. ‘You surely can’t believe this embassy is insecure?’

  ‘If any of the information we’re getting from the Sellafield and Italian prisoners becomes a reality—which I hope to God it doesn’t—there’s going to be chicken-coop panic and conspiracy theories up to and including Martian invasion with Armageddon finally upon us,’ lectured Monkton. ‘And some of that panic and those conspiracy theories will be engendered by supposedly levelheaded diplomats and intelligence agencies talking to other supposedly levelheaded diplomats and intelligence agencies, each anxious to provide just that little bit more than the others, to justify their existence. MI5’s function is to advise the government of what dangers truly and genuinely exist, totally without embellishment that might lead to the wrong reaction or conclusion. That’s what I want you to provide, information and analysis and judgement without any embellishment, which you overwhelmingly proved yourself capable of doing not just with Sellafield but by making the connection with Rome and Washington. That’s why I’ve tolerated the insubordination with which you began this conversation.’

  ‘Which might have been avoided if it had been explained to me earlier,’ persisted Sally, despite the warning.

  ‘Now it has been,’ said Monkton briskly. ‘Have you made contact with Johnston?’

  ‘The message I got was that he’s at a meeting but will return my call as soon as it ends.’

  ‘He spoke to me earlier, asking for any overnight developments.’

  Sally frowned. ‘Are there any?’

  ‘No. I told him you’d be making contact.’

  She had to ask, insubordinate or not, Sally decided. ‘You intend maintaining separate contact with Johnston?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ said Monkton at once. ‘It’ll give us two sources from which to ensure that we’re getting as much as we can realistically imagine they’ll share.’

  Which made good, pragmatic sense, Sally conceded. ‘Isn’t this too serious for territorial nonsense?’

  ‘You’re the last person from whom I expected that degree of naïvety.’

  Shit, thought Sally. ‘I’ll try to avoid it.’

  ‘I hope you do.’

  13

  The pendulum swung completely from commendation to condemnation. That afternoon there was no White House TV link, no West Wing staff presence; the largest Homeland Security contingent was from a disgruntled FBI, closely challenged by a State Department group. There were altogether too many individually to identify beyond department or organization-table designations.

  ‘Let’s get the latest update,’ brusquely opened Conrad Graham.

  The demand was directed at his successor. His preparations completed, Charles Johnston didn’t hurry, looking pointedly instead to James Bradley as if the responsibility for losing Ismail al Aswamy were personally that of the field supervisor. Satisfied the unspoken accusation had registered, Johnston said, ‘There’s nothing positively new to take the search forward. But I’ve already got a preliminary analysis of what we’ve had from the Brits and the Italians.’

  Johnston had headed the CIA’s Profiling and Analysis division before this new appointment, remembered Jack Irvine. He couldn’t imagine the man would contribute a worthwhile analysis this soon.

  ‘With what result?’ Graham frowned, his similar doubt obvious.

  ‘There are four separate disclosures of more attacks from the UK detainees,’ noted Johnston, setting his own pace. ‘And they are separate, taken individually from three men and one woman kept apart from each other to prevent any collusion over their stories. Each, predictably, worded their account differently, but the essential facts remained identical—at different times in the buildup to Sellafield, al Aswamy talked of six other already chosen and attack-rehearsed targets, three in the U.S., the others in Europe. No definitive location for any of them. The Italians also kept their prisoners apart. Two talked of other attacks. Again, of six, three in America, three elsewhere, the attackers already trained. Again, there were no specific locations.”

  Irvine thought Bradley overdid the impatience., Johnston at once capitalized, stretching his pause for the other man’s anticipated interruption. Forced into making one, Bradley said inadequately, ‘We already know all of that, don’t we?’

  ‘What about the significance?’ immediately returned Johnston, seizing the unexpected opening.

  Bradley was lost, guessed Irvine. As was he, as well as quite a few others judging from the facial expressions around the table.

  Conrad Graham broke the impasse. ‘Let’s quit the guessing games, start talking straight, okay!’

  ‘The initial analysis is that the similarity of the prisoners’ accounts makes the threat credible: that there are definitely going to be further attacks unless we stop Ismail al Aswamy,’ declared Johnston, once more looking directly at Bradley.

  ‘Where the hell’s the evidence for that!’ challenged Conrad Graham.

  ‘Six people separated from the moment of arrest—two of them additionally distanced by the thousand miles between London and Rome—all telling the same story, with virtually no deviation or embellishment,’ insisted Johnston.

  ‘That’s not evidence of anything!’ disputed Bradley, emboldened by the deputy director’s doubt. ‘Aswamy was blowing smoke, trying to impress everyone with what a big important guy he is. We’ve got to get him, sure. But there’s not enough to make predictions about more attacks.’

  ‘Trying to impress everyone with what a big, important guy he is!’ echoed Johnston. ‘Ismail al Aswamy trained three terrorist groups—one still running loose here in America—to attack an iconic American monument, a British nuclear facility, and Italy’s most famous antiquity. You really think he needed to prove to anyone that he’s the current numero uno?’

  ‘Is this discussion applicable right now?’ intruded a heavily built, immaculately suited, black State Department delegate. ‘We’ve got matching information we need to treat as positive threats until it’s proven otherwise. So we’ve got to maintain the ongoing high-security status in all three countries. But if we’re going with psychological profiling, how sure are we that bagging Aswamy is the answer to the problem? He wasn’t personally there in the UK or Italy when the hits were attempted. The attacks could go ahead whether or not we get the son of a bitch.’

  There was a silence, people seeking opinions from other people rather than offering their own. Too many people were here—quite irrespective of their security clearances—to disclose details of Operation Cyber Shepherd, Jack Irvine decided.

  Conrad Graham once more broke the logjam. ‘I don’t think at this stage we can be sure of anything. And for that reason, quite apart from the analysts’ input, we’ve got to go along with al Aswamy being the key to future outrages: cut the head off the monster and it all dies with him.’

  This was futile, Irvine thought. This supposedly coordinated—in reality, totally uncoordinated—assembly had been brought together for a later media release to satisfy the public that they could sleep safely in their beds at night, without a single member having an achievable proposal to confront the crisis. The check he’d made fifteen minutes before entering the room showed the Vevak botnet still undetected, and there’d been no activity alert from the computer-linked cell phone in his jacket pocket. But to disclose the botnets existence would be seized upon in the desperation permeating the room as the best hop
e of re-locating Aswamy. Which it couldn’t be. It was inconceivable that Iran’s seasoned intelligence apparatus would contemplate again using a Control route linked to the loss of three global spectaculars.

  Was he entitled—empowered—to make such an arbitrary decision to keep secret the Vevak penetration? Irvine asked himself, conscious of Harry Packer’s questioning look from beside him, mirrored by that of Bradley from the CIA group opposite. Leaning sideways to Packer, Irvine said softly, ‘I’ll take any queries.’

  ‘You think there’s a possibility of another chance interception, Jack?’ questioned Graham, seeing the exchange. ‘For Christ’s sake, give me something positive to sort this mess out!’

  Chance interception, seized Irvine, recognizing his escape from any later accusation of withholding the Vevak coup. ‘No, I don’t, not in the time frame we’re considering here.’ Irvine came to an awkward halt as an idea began to formulate, but forced himself on while he resolved the other abrupt thought. ‘It’ll obviously remain our highest priority, and with so many people involved in Italy, the UK, and here we’ve got to hope Tehran will believe their intended sensations failed because of a human leak or infiltration, not from a NSA intercept, and re-open electronic communication with Aswamy. But if they do, they’ll bury it as deeply as it’s technically possible. We’re not likely to get anything new anytime soon.’ The second pause was for breath to articulate the idea now clear in his mind. ‘But there’s surely something practical we can do? A million bucks got us Saddam Hussein in his desert hidey-hole. And twenty-four million dollars got us bin Laden. Why don’t we offer another bounty, up there in the millions, same relocation promise for the person who comes forward to lead us to al Aswamy? His crew is still loose somewhere in America; a couple of million bucks and a new life could put a hell of a strain on an adopted ideology.’

  A positive stir went through the room, Conrad Graham pushing back into his seat in physical satisfaction. ‘Why’s the obvious always so obvious that no-one sees it?’

  ‘Let’s not confine it to the U.S.,’ Johnston bustled in. ‘Through the MI5 officer I’ve got seconded here and the close relationship I’ve established with MI5’s Director-General, we can widen the bounty offer to the UK.’

  ‘Why stop there?’ demanded the immaculate State Department spokesperson, enthused by a practical suggestion. ‘We can get our embassies to push it throughout the European Union.’

  ‘And the Arab states,’ encouraged Irvine. ‘Tehran’s still a pariah regime in the Middle East.’

  An assembly line had virtually formed, Irvine observed, to register on the official record in support of a substantive idea. Charles Johnston was thinking the same, conscious of the palpable relaxation around the room. He forced his way back into the discussion with the announcement that Sally Hanning, whom he didn’t name, would coordinate the debriefings of the UK detainees’ supposed knowledge of new attacks after the debacle of the CIA’s losing al Aswamy. And then produced his carefully prepared denouement.

  Matching further CIA analysis, he went on, the British suspected that some, if not all, of the four, in their custody claiming additional attacks knew more, possibly even the attack locations, though they had been denying it. As of that morning following the publication of the terrorist’s photograph, there had been 1,230 possible sightings of al Aswamy, resulting in 580 arrests. That provided a bargaining lever, reciprocal access for the MI5 agent to those arrested in the U.S. in exchange for the British four being made available to U.S. interrogators. He’d use his special relationship with MI5 to make that request, Johnston promised. But London and Berlin were already in a jurisdictional dispute over Horst Becker, the leader of the Sellafield assault. At the moment, London was guaranteeing every debriefing co-operation except personal access.

  ‘We go with the bounty proposal,’ abruptly concluded Conrad Graham, turning to Johnston. ‘And keep pressing for access to those who are talking. A million bucks might be more attractive to them than a rendition flight to one of our amenable persuasive friends.’

  * * *

  Charles Johnston was at the door when Sally entered his office and courteously led her to its side annex, where easy chairs were arranged around a low table upon which a coffee tray was already set. He remained standing until Sally settled herself. She was glad he hadn’t clung as tightly to her hand as Nigel Fellowes.

  Finally sitting, Johnston said, ‘I’m sorry about the delay. It turned into a long meeting.’ It had also taken him a good half an hour to get rid of his lingering anger at failing to make the impressions he’d intended.

  ‘A development!’ hopefully demanded Sally. It really would be new if there was. There’d been no indication from David Monkton when she’d telephoned London an hour after what she knew to be Johnston’s morning call to London.

  ‘A lot of empty talk, going around in circles,’ dismissed Johnston. ‘We’re going to put a million-dollar bounty on al Aswamy, with a witness-protection promise to anyone who leads us to him. I’m going to press Dave to put it to your four to see if it’ll unlock any doors.’

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ agreed Sally, although doubtfully.

  ‘It got us Saddam Hussein.’

  Obediently following Monkton’s suggested approach until she formed her own objective route, Sally said, ‘My director greatly appreciates this degree of co-operation.’

  ‘It’s going to work out just fine. Which it’s got to, with something this big. That’s why we’re glad to have you aboard. Dave’s told me how you led the way.’

  How would Johnston respond to being called Chuck? idly wondered Sally, deciding the man’s flattery was a good enough opening. ‘My advantage in London was being at the very centre of things, able to assess the raw intelligence ahead of any other analysis or pre-conception.’

  ‘Which is what you’re going to have here: everything channeled through me.’

  It was uncomfortably like a reprise of the Nigel Fellowes encounter, which she had to block from the outset. ‘I’m not fully clear how Cyber Shepherd works in practise.’

  Johnston paused, belatedly offering coffee that Sally didn’t want, but she insisted on pouring for them both to show unfelt deference, intent on manoeuvring her own version of co-operation. ‘How Cyber Shepherd works?’ she prompted.

  Johnston’s response still wasn’t immediate. Eventually he said, ‘A tight unit: the inner core’s headed by a NSA whiz kid, working with a CIA control. It’s an Agency—which means me—covert operation.’

  It was little more than confirmation of what she’d already inferred, but Johnston’s vague generalization was to prevent her from getting a true picture of the operation from any inadvertent mistake he might make. It was her moment to generalize to get the potential difficulty out of the way. ‘An operation that pulled off a hell of a coup isolating what turned out to be three attacks.’

  There was another pause from the man. ‘With the exception of losing al Aswamy.’

  He’d introduced it, not her, Sally recognized, relieved. Which didn’t sync with his earlier effort to impress. ‘Mistakes happen.’

  ‘This one shouldn’t have happened. And it sure as hell wouldn’t have if I’d taken over this job a week or two earlier.’

  Now it synced. Which direction could she safely follow? Feed the ego, she decided. ‘And if we’d had al Aswamy the threat of six more imminent attacks might not be so great. I can understand the problems you had with today’s meeting.’

  ‘The only practical discussion, apart from the bounty, was the initial assessment I had our analysts here carry out. I was grateful for Dave’s heads-up with that, of course.’

  Sally had been curious if the man was going to more openly refer to his independent contact with the Director-General, but now that he had, she wished she understood what Johnston was alluding to. ‘I’m not sure I’m keeping up with you here.’

  ‘The matching accounts of further attacks confirming that they’re genuine, not empty boasts by al Aswamy
.’

  Monkton hadn’t said that! Certainly not to her. The reference had virtually been a dismissive afterthought illustrating the hysteria of some European security services at the prospect of further outrages on their soil. Sally remembered Monkton’s warning of diplomatic and intelligence-service exaggerations in times of national crisis: MI5’s function is properly to advise the government of what dangers truly and genuinely exist, totally without embellishment that might lead to the wrong reaction or response. That’s what I want you to provide. She said, ‘My director-general didn’t put it to me as strongly as that. I took it as a description of the over-reaction in Europe to the threats, not a confirmation of them.’

  Johnston’s face briefly tightened, then relaxed. ‘Profiling and Analysis was my division until very recently. I know their abilities and have a lot of respect for their judgement. They think the similarities strongly indicate genuine attacks.’

  Because that was the assessment they were guided towards, guessed Sally, mentally flagging the exchange for her next conversation with Monkton. Time to get back to the more immediate objective. ‘This tight, inner core unit is based here at Langley, right? Everyone moved down from Fort Meade?’

  ‘You’ve done your research, know where the National Security Agency is.’

  Along with millions of cyber buffs from age eight upwards who knew Google wasn’t the sound made by a newborn baby, thought Sally, weary of the facile patronizing. She shifted in her seat, slightly smiling in expectation, saying nothing.

  Finally Johnston said, ‘Split. All the interception stuff starts over in Maryland. Control’s up here, answerable to me.’

  ‘There’s no-one from NSA here?’

  The face tightened again, longer this time. ‘The whiz kid I spoke about; worked on the Stuxnet sabotage of the Iranian nuclear facilities. Came up today with the bounty idea. Diplomatic family, spent all his life in the Middle East until college here; knows it like the back of his hand.’

  ‘Not American?’

  Johnston, who’d labored his answer to deflect her, frowned. ‘American diplomatic family.’