The Cloud Collector

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘I’m sure there are some social possibilities you might very much enjoy.’

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t imagine I’ll have a lot of time for socializing.’ Protocol decreed she comply with Fellowes’s summons outside the communications room, knowing he was relaying it from the ambassador, but she wished she could have avoided this. She had to make contact with Johnston in thirty minutes and didn’t want to create any excuse for the man to change his mind about her meeting the coordinators of the unit or the NSA cryptologist.

  ‘Quite so,’ bustled Podmore. ‘You’re going to be extremely busy, involved, I appreciate. But my ambassador has asked me to arrange some time within your busy schedule for contact between us: the ambassador, myself, and of course our Mr. Fellowes. And let me say at the outset that we appreciate our meetings will have to fit into your schedule, not ours.’

  She breathed in deeply. ‘I must repeat that mine is a specific, strictly governed assignment. I am instructed by my director-general to tell you that all information about the ongoing search for the missing terrorist, Ismail al Aswamy, and any wider aspects of the investigation have to come from your usual contacts with the American State Department, who we know to be fully involved, or any other source through which Mr Fellowes works.’ She wished it hadn’t sounded as if she were reciting from a headmaster’s school report but hoped the formality would cut short a pointlessly protracted argument. Podmore would have been warned by Fellowes, but Sally was impressed by the man’s portrayal of bewildered outrage.

  Podmore did not speak immediately but stared at her in wide-eyed, feigned amazement. Then he said, ‘This is ridiculous … totally unacceptable. We’re talking about the ambassador! You can’t refuse the ambassador.’

  ‘I was advised to tell you that if you felt the need to protest, it should be done through the Foreign Office, which is being fully briefed by the Director-General. That briefing will also include everything in which I am involved, here in Washington.’

  ‘There will certainly be the strongest protest, both through the Foreign Office and personally to your director-general,’ threatened Podmore. ‘And I expect you to hold yourself in readiness for further meetings between us.’

  ‘Of course.’

  With less than ten minutes before her scheduled call with Johnston, Sally headed to her unused office. After a jump of satisfaction when he told her of the eleven o’clock meeting the following morning, she was then quickly disappointed—although objectively not surprised—that Johnston stipulated the encounter would be in his office.

  Fellowes, at his immaculately clean desk when she opened the linking door, asked, ‘What’s it feel like to commit suicide?’

  ‘Painless.’

  15

  The bounty offer was politically orchestrated to achieve the maximum impact. America led at midnight eastern time, with $12 million. The United Kingdom’s carefully timed £2 million was next, and by varying breakfast times the following morning the European Union’s euro contributions brought the total to $20 million. Every televised and newspaper announcement was accompanied by genuine although technically sharpened photographs of Ismail al Aswamy, as well as enhanced facial images of the man without his beard—some retaining the moustache—from several generated angles.

  Government anti-terrorist ministers announced their contributions in eight European countries, including Britain. In America it was declared by the head of Homeland Security. He was accompanied in television studios and at a general press conference by the deputy director of defence and the directors of the FBI and CIA. The timings of the declarations were coordinated. The accompanying statements, intended to be reassuringly calming, were not.

  The political needs of each country to show concerted resolve achieved the opposite. The FBI director misdirected the tone by declaring al Aswamy number one on the Bureau’s most wanted list; every agent in the country was specifically assigned to the manhunt. At 1:30 A.M. in London the anti-terrorist minister was unable to properly read his auto-cue and repeatedly referred to an overwhelming scourge of international terrorism and ad-libbed that Interpol, which is a police information-disseminating system with no operational capability, was mobilizing an armed, continent-wide force authorized to use “ultimate force,” inevitably translated as a shoot-on-sight edict. From Berlin, consumed by the Sellafield seizure of the man wanted for the Hamburg massacre, came the positive assertion that al Aswamy was the hitherto unidentified successor to Osama bin Laden, which was seemingly doubly confirmed within thirty minutes by France. The Parisian spokesperson suggested that specialized army forces were on standby with police units protectively emplaced around such iconic landmarks as the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. In Italy, its government basking in public approval for saving the Colosseum, the flood finally spilled over the dam. Sufficient details of the Iranian-sponsored international structure of Al Qaeda were being disclosed by the would-be perpetrators of the Colosseum outrage so as to totally destroy the organization’s existence. Also emerging from those disclosures were al Aswamy’s further intended attacks, none of which would now succeed.

  Throughout two continents a slew of supposed media and intelligence specialists analyzed the individual government statements—initially intrigued by their nocturnal timing from America’s midnight announcement—and concluded with assessments far more closely correlated than the individual countries’ disconnected efforts. The $20 million confirmed that al Aswamy was bin Laden’s successor as the ultimate leader of the disparate Al Qaeda. That was further confirmed by the magnitude of the three failed attacks: had they succeeded, they would have been far greater than the 2001 Twin Towers atrocity. The ambivalence of the Italian statement clearly indicated that the new targets were unknown. Al Aswamy and the terrorist group he led were still at large in America, but that Europe was contributing to the bounty proved the assaults were going to be global. Which further proved that Al Qaeda had regrouped into an international force capable of striking globally. Sellafield was a clear indication that one—or even more—of the forthcoming atrocities would involve a nuclear weapon.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ demanded Sally in her morning telephone contact with London, the monitoring TV in the embassy communications room loud enough for her to hear the continuous news coverage.

  ‘Everything that I was afraid would happen,’ replied David Monkton.

  * * *

  Sally delayed leaving the compound apartment until the last possible moment, expecting the meeting to be cancelled, and drove out to Langley waiting for the cell phone call that never came. She entered Johnston’s office with five minutes to spare. The two men she’d come to meet were already there, their chairs forming a vague semi-circle completed by Johnston at his desk. They reminded her of the three wise monkeys, although ready rather than reluctant to see, hear, and speak of evil. Or were they? Their body language was scarcely that of a combined team: each seemed to want space from the other. Her already positioned chair made her their focus, like a job applicant, which by a long stretch of imagination she supposed she was. If the seating arrangement was meant to unsettle her, it didn’t work.

  She’d correctly identified the two strangers while she was still standing, before Johnston’s introduction. James Bradley’s tightly corseting suit looked as if he’d uncomfortably slept in it, which considering the unfolding mistakes of the previous night was a distinct possibility. The handshake was overly firm—which she anticipated and so didn’t flinch—but at the same time dismissive, matching the fixed expression with which he was now regarding her. He probably had more reason than she did to be uneasy, Sally supposed, remembering her previous day’s conversation with Johnston. As the CIA supervisor, he would be held directly responsible for the failure of al Aswamy’s surveillance. Jack Irvine, by comparison, hadn’t attempted any finger-crushing nonsense and instead smiled an even-toothed smile and said, ‘Good to meet you,’ as if he’d meant it, even if he didn’t.

  Sally put him at
at least six feet two, the height accentuated by a slimness she guessed to be more naturally than athletically achieved. The freshly laundered chinos were barely creased, and the deep blue George Washington University sweatshirt looked fresh, too. He wasn’t wearing socks with the loafers.

  Johnston said, ‘Well, what do you think of what’s happened overnight?’

  As of an hour ago Johnston hadn’t spoken with Monkton, Sally knew. ‘The leak of further possible attacks was inevitable, with so many people involved in so many countries. But it shouldn’t have happened this way. It was ridiculous to pander to individual country posturing instead of centralizing the bounty offer, and even more ridiculous to let the announcements run like an all-night film, which is precisely what it’s turned out to be, a Hollywood catastrophe movie. The biggest error was the ignorance it showed. Al Qaeda isn’t a cohesive organization with al Aswamy at its head, like an army general. We all know it’s a collection of disparate cells, only very loosely connected.’

  This wasn’t what she was there for, but Sally accepted the previous night couldn’t be ignored. Bradley’s face had initially tightened as she’d begun talking, but he relaxed by the time she’d finished without having referred to the missing Iranian.

  ‘What about you?’

  Bradley too obviously didn’t expect Johnston’s direct question. Recovering badly, he said, ‘It’s kind of a mess, but everyone in the world will know what al Aswamy looks like now. Twenty million will get him.’

  The demand for Bradley’s opinion hadn’t been part of whatever preparation there’d been before her arrival, Sally guessed. So it was the continued humiliation of the man. She said, ‘Last night’s damage can’t be undone.’ The remark wasn’t compassion for Bradley: she wanted to get to the purpose of this meeting, not play a CIA who-did-what-wrong game.

  ‘What about you?’ persisted Johnston, coming to Irvine.

  There was no surprised reaction. Without any hesitation Irvine said, ‘What more is there to say? It was a screwup, from a bad start to a worse finish, and now there’s worldwide panic, and al Aswamy, Tehran, and every half-assed terrorist in every cave, hole in the ground, ashram, or mosque is risking cardiac arrest laughing so hard at not having had to do a goddamned thing to generate that panic. So why don’t we talk about something else, something constructive?’

  Irvine enjoyed the restrained but approving smile from the woman, though he was still adjusting to her presence. He hadn’t thought about what she would be like, hadn’t thought anything about her beyond that their encounter was delaying his getting to the Moscow Alternative chat room. But he’d briefed everyone at Fort Meade beforehand and had his cell phone in his pocket. He could spend a little more time here.

  There was definitely a Middle East connection, he decided. If Sally Hanning was her real name—and during his first week at Langley he’d learned exchanged names were rarely if ever birth names—she’d had mixed parentage. Caucasian features, so the most likely was a Western father—British even more likely because she’d been accepted into Britain’s MI5—and a Middle Eastern mother. Milked-coffee complexion, deeply blue eyes, blond hair fashioned to Western shortness, maybe five feet eight, maybe an inch taller. Didn’t fit a Maghreb profile; farther north than Israel—the strongest contender—Syria, Lebanon, or Jordan. Flawless face, flawless body, catwalk couture, in-your-face confidence. Not the right combination, came the abrupt caveat. Another first-week lesson: professional intelligence agents didn’t exist. They were never there, never seen, never remembered: like ghosts, they didn’t cast shadows, didn’t photograph, neither on camera nor in mind. Sally Hanning was break-your-neck-turnaround beautiful to look at, which he was having a hell of a job steeling himself from too obviously doing, glad at that particular moment he didn’t have to try so hard because she’d picked up on his remark.

  ‘Why don’t we do that?’ snatched Sally. ‘There’s nothing we can do or say that’s going to affect anything else at this moment, is there?’

  ‘I’d hoped there might have been something,’ said Johnston, refusing to be hurried. Still talking to Irvine, he said, ‘Something you might have come up with?’

  Moving in the right direction, thought Sally: it actually sounded like an easy transition into what she was there to hear.

  ‘If there’d been anything, anything at all, I wouldn’t have waited until now to tell you,’ disappointed Irvine.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to London yet today?’ switched the covert operations chief, implying the question as he turned back to Sally.

  ‘There’s disbelief at what happened last night, nothing more,’ replied Sally shortly, determined to force the pace as well as the direction. ‘Perhaps we can talk about what part I can play in the Shepherd operation?’

  Bradley stirred. ‘Yes, that’s what we’re here to talk about.’

  Sally thought she detected some resentment, which wasn’t so easy to understand. There was no authority, no way, her presence could affect him.

  Johnston said, ‘Shepherd’s a specialized operation, targeted against terrorist groups using social networks, predominantly Facebook. We identify, isolate, infiltrate, and misdirect.’

  Too generalized, too glib, assessed Sally, at once; go along with it, prise it out a scrap at a time, she told herself. Overly generalizing in return, she said, ‘Isn’t that what NSA does anyway?’

  Both Bradley and Irvine frowned at the demand. Johnston came close and said, ‘Identifying, certainly; more suspecting, maybe, before passing it on as we did with Sellafield and the Colosseum, in Rome. But we confirm the suspicion when it directly affects America.’

  Better, but not by much, thought Sally. ‘And having isolated and confirmed the suspicion, the CIA infiltrates?’

  This time Irvine didn’t frown. Bradley did, though, and Johnston came closer than before. With a vague hand gesture to Irvine, the man said, ‘You want to come in here, Jack?’

  ‘It’s not physical infiltration. We do it electronically—’ started the cryptologist.

  Sally broke in, ‘Hacking?’

  ‘Yes. You up to speed with that?’

  Sally shook her head but didn’t speak, wanting everything to come from one of the three.

  ‘We don’t do it direct: we get into other sites, without the account holders knowing, and from the first go into a second and from the second go into a third. They’re our firewalls. Our targets can’t ever get past them. They self-destruct the moment they’re detected. There’s no danger of our being detected.’

  ‘And access all their planning; get ahead of them?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Shit! She shouldn’t ask questions that only got single-word answers; there’d even been a hint of a patronizing smile from Johnston. ‘Where and how does misdirection fit in?’

  For the first time Irvine hesitated. ‘It gives us logistical time to get the CIA in position.’

  Sally was conscious of a facial relaxation from Johnston and Bradley. Keeping her attention more on Bradley than Irvine, she asked, ‘What happened to the Washington Monument logistics?’

  ‘We weren’t properly in position when the media leak happened,’ said Bradley hurriedly.

  ‘Which won’t happen again,’ said Johnston just as quickly.

  They were treating her like a fool, Sally decided; shut up or put up time. ‘I came here, was accepted here, on an understanding between you, Mr Johnston, and my own director in London that I could make a contribution to Operation Cyber Shepherd, as I made a contribution to an intended assault upon an English nuclear installation. I was able to do that because I was at the absolute centre of the investigation, able to fit the pieces together—’

  ‘We’re aware of your success,’ intruded Johnston.

  ‘I’m not trailing success stories,’ dismissed Sally impatiently. ‘I’m setting it out solely to illustrate why I was able to achieve it, why a potentially fatal leakage of nuclear material was stopped.’ She looked directly at Bradley. ‘If al Aswamy is
controlling other attacks, through other groups, and some of those we’ve detained in Britain and Rome know more than they’ve so far admitted, you could well get al Aswamy for twenty million dollars. But getting him doesn’t guarantee that none of his other targets won’t be hit; every indication is that he’s too committed to disclose them even if he’s seized. And it wouldn’t reduce the threat if he is caught and gives up every location. One of his groups could—and probably would—get through. Which again isn’t any guarantee that a catastrophe will be prevented. That twenty million dollars and all the hysteria it’s generating is a direct challenge to enough jihadists and fundamentalists to stage outrages entirely unconnected with al Aswamy and anything he might or might not have planned.’

  ‘We know that,’ persisted Bradley.

  There wasn’t the resentful attitude of the beginning, judged Sally. ‘I’m reassured, which I haven’t been up to now.’

  ‘You are here by invitation,’ threatened Johnston stiffly.

  Almost too far, Sally accepted warily; no farther. ‘To do what! Work how? With whom? At what level?’

  ‘You’ll work here, at Langley. Through me,’ said Johnston.

  A virtual repeat of the Patrick Fellowes charade, Sally recognized; confirmation of what she’d feared from the outset. ‘With access to all the raw intelligence, as and how it comes in?’

  ‘Eighty percent arrives in Arabic,’ said Irvine, staging a personal experiment.

  ‘Which I have,’ responded Sally, seeing an opening. ‘I could work with your linguists if there are any dialect or regional difficulties.’

  It confirmed Irvine’s first impressions, but he hadn’t expected the reply. ‘We’ll sort any problems out as and when they arise.’

  ‘You’re a linguist?’

  ‘Some Arabic,’ minimized Irvine, aware of the concentration from the other two men.

  ‘That could work well, with both of us being here at Langley.’ She’d pushed the promises well beyond what Johnston had been prepared to accept, Sally thought contentedly.