‘I’m totally serious in arguing just that, and I’ve already told you why,’ insisted Sally.
‘I don’t want to be told what we shouldn’t do!’ complained Smith. ‘I want to hear what we should do!’
‘Play the misinformation game against them,’ declared Sally shortly.
‘Go on,’ urged Smith hopefully.
‘You’ve got media sources through which you leak unattributed stories to spur bad guys into detection reactions, right?’ Sally asked FBI director Frederick Bowyer.
Smith impatiently overrode Bowyer’s hesitation. ‘Of course he has!’
‘Use a prestigious one: The New York Times or The Washington Post. But only one. It’s got to be believed. The story is that al Aswamy has been detained and turned, that he’s co-operating with the bounty guarantee and a new and safe life in a witness-protection programme. And then have every Homeland Security agency refuse to comment—but not deny—in the media rush to catch up on the story, which will be interpreted as confirmation that it’s true. It’ll dampen down the public frenzy, which needs capping. More important still could be a response from al Aswamy, desperate to let Tehran know he hasn’t defected.’
The stir moved around the table, the frowning Joshua Smith the focus. Before Smith could react, Bowyer said, ‘What happens when it’s shown to be untrue, if there is another attack to prove it isn’t true!’
‘The story was unattributed; every Homeland agency refused to comment. We’re not responsible. So what that it was untrue! It still gives us a chance—and more time—to get al Aswamy.’
‘It’s still “what if?”’ said Bowyer.
‘Okay,’ said Sally, thrusting back into her chair. ‘Someone come up with a better idea.’
* * *
‘I may have been a little too outspoken,’ admitted Sally.
‘You were, and I warned you not to be, at that level,’ said David Monkton.
Not for the first time Sally wished for more inflection in the man’s flat-tened voice to get a better indication of his mood. ‘There was no point in my being here without knowing everything, which in the beginning I didn’t. I’m still not sure I know it all now.’
‘And trying to take over the meeting was the way to get it?’ asked Monkton, heavily sarcastic.
‘I didn’t try to take over the meeting. I was invited to give an opinion, which I did. And then to put forward a proposal, which I also did: the only proposal.’
‘That, hopefully, will keep us where we are,’ allowed Monkton doubtfully.
‘When the meeting broke up, it was only being considered?’ qualified Sally.
‘There was a fuller meeting immediately afterwards where it was agreed.’
‘Was it Johnston who complained about me?’ demanded Sally. ‘Or someone higher?’
‘Johnston. And it hardly amounted to a complaint: it was a comment during a longer conversation.’
‘About what?’
For the first time there was hesitation from London. ‘They’re desperate to get one of our prisoners.’
‘I thought that had been decided?’
‘I’m delaying as long as possible to keep us—which means you—where you are now.’ Monkton paused again. ‘There’s also further Foreign Office pressure over your independence from the embassy. Have you had any fresh approaches?’
‘I got back to a message from the first secretary, asking me to call. I haven’t responded, obviously; waited until we’d spoken.’
‘Don’t agree to a meeting until tomorrow, to give us time to see if your idea is adopted. And when it happens, let’s cut the aggression.’
I’ll try, Sally thought.
20
The New York Times ran the seizure of Ismail al Aswamy—together with his acceptance of a bounty payment in return for co-operation—as a three-inch-deep band across the top of its front page, giving the impression of its being the lead story. Specific details were limited by the need to agree to bargaining arrangements and the amount of the bounty payment with other countries, particularly the United Kingdom and Italy. Al Aswamy had already disclosed the extent of Iranian financial, matériel, and manpower support to Al Qaeda in Mali, Yemen, Somalia, and Kenya. Newspapers, wire services, and television news organizations throughout the world—including Al Jazeera—interpreted the refusal of Homeland Security agencies to comment on or to deny the New York Times story as confirmation that it was true. The story was either re-published, with attribution, or re-written without acknowledging the source. Both versions were supplemented by archive material and stock film footage. Understandably the most commonly re-published pictures were of the deserted Washington Mall, Rome’s Colosseum, and the Sellafield nuclear plant.
Sally began monitoring the coverage from the embassy communications bunker just after dawn, channel-hopping from American TV to foreign stations to establish the global pickup. Its extent, in such a comparatively short time, surprised her. Al Jazeera’s Arabic coverage was greater than on its English-language service and appeared to be the basis for Arab print, radio, and television reportage that appeared throughout the Arabian Peninsula and the Maghreb. There was no coverage from any of the limited media outlets in Mali, Yemen, Somalia, or Kenya, which was predictable. Sally considered Tehran’s continued silence sufficiently curious to raise the issue with Jack Irvine ahead of her regular morning contact with David Monkton. Irvine told her there’d been no progress deciphering the new codes. He added that the more senior members of the Fort Meade team weren’t impressed with the New York Times bait.
Sally was irritated by the dismissal, suspecting that Monkton wasn’t, either. The Director-General took her patiently through the forthcoming encounter with the ambassador, insisting that she show the respect that the man would expect. At the end of their preparation Monkton warned, ‘Don’t get into any details of the bounty offer with the embassy people.’
‘I didn’t intend to,’ said Sally, hoping she’d kept the indignation from her voice. From Monkton’s initial silence, she knew she hadn’t.
Eventually the man said, ‘You clear on everything else?’
‘Quite clear.’
‘Let me know how it goes as soon as it’s over.’
‘Of course.’
The Director-General again disconnected without any farewell.
Sally arrived politely early, but Giles Podmore, the first secretary, was waiting, apparently impatiently, in his outer, secretarial office to turn her immediately back out into the corridor. ‘Now it’s a matter for the ambassador.’ His voice changed at the word ambassador. Sally wasn’t sure if it was out of respect or intended intimidation.
Nigel Fellowes was already waiting outside the ambassador’s suite, with the usual uncoordinated neckwear. Sally took the anteroom chair. The two men remained standing. No-one talked; it reminded Sally of awaiting punishment outside principals’ offices at embassy schools she’d attended. Even the black Chanel dress over her white blouse would at a stretch have qualified as a school uniform. They were summoned precisely on time. Sally led.
Sir Norman Jackson was a prominent-nosed, heavy-featured man whose thick, white hair was swept back into wings on either side over a pink, polished face. In marked contrast to Fellowes’s outfit, the ambassador’s broadly striped blue suit perfectly matched the Eton tie.
Sally thought all of it—even the old school ties—pretentious, although predictable, but she didn’t expect Podmore to lead the inquisition that came next.
‘This encounter is all totally unnecessary!’ declared the diplomat.
‘I totally agree,’ said Sally.
‘That is impertinent … insubordinate!’ accused Podmore.
Just like a principal’s office, Sally decided. ‘I don’t believe it to be necessary, either. My position has been fully explained to both you and Mr. Fellowes.’ She switched her attention to the ambassador. ‘As it would be to you, Your Excellency, if you speak with my director-general.’ As she spoke, Sally saw Podmore’s fac
e tighten at what she belatedly realized he’d see as her dismissively going beyond him to the ambassador. Which, she supposed, was exactly what she had done to get this meeting over as soon as possible to get to other things she considered more important than massaging egos.
Podmore went to speak but stopped at a gesture from Jackson.
‘I regret what appears to be a problem, which I am anxious to resolve to avoid it affecting your future career, Miss Hanning.’ Jackson smiled as he made the threat. The teeth were evenly sculpted.
So much for diplomatic nuance, thought Sally. ‘I’d hoped both Mr. Fellowes and your first secretary would have explained the situation to you.’
‘Both recounted their conversations with you. I found your explanations totally unacceptable. I will not tolerate any United Kingdom agency sending its officers into—or under—the protection of this embassy imagining they can conduct themselves entirely independently of myself or my senior staff.’ Jackson was still smiling his even-toothed smile, his voice level, conversational.
Her early-morning rehearsal with David Monkton had been inadequate, Sally acknowledged, recalling her late father’s dictum that one Your Excellency was sufficient subservience. ‘My director-general is equally anxious to discuss this matter with you personally, if you’ve sufficient time in your schedule today.’ That hadn’t specifically been discussed during that morning’s call but it had previously, and Sally didn’t see why she should shoulder the entire opprobrium. Which wasn’t giving in to bullying: it was being pragmatic. Irrationally Sally was caught by further embassy-school déjà vu. Some of those schools had actually been part of the embassy complex, customarily in rooms attached to their libraries, a facility she should have remembered earlier.
‘I wanted to give you the opportunity to settle the matter without officially escalating it further, Miss Hanning.’
No, you didn’t, was Sally’s immediate thought. Why the reluctance? ‘I appreciate your consideration.’
‘Which I wish you’d reciprocate. What reason is there for your behavior, MI5’s behavior?’
‘To answer that I again ask you to speak with my director-general.’
‘Did you know of the arrest of this man Aswamy before the New York Times disclosure?’ intruded Podmore.
‘Yes,’ snatched Sally, seeing the opening. ‘As did the Director-General with whom I’m asking you to establish direct contact.’
The two diplomats exchanged hesitant looks. Fellowes frowned, in matching uncertainty, looking to the other two for guidance, which didn’t come.
Jackson said, ‘It was a Homeland Security disclosure, wasn’t it?’
They believed they were being politically sidelined! guessed Sally. And Jackson would, in effect, be admitting it by contacting Monkton. ‘Can I give my director-general a convenient time to call you today, to make everything clear?’
‘Two this afternoon, Washington time.’ The surrender was blurted out, reluctantly, to Podmore’s visible surprise.
Sally didn’t slow when Fellowes caught up with her in the hallway. She didn’t look at him, either, as he said, ‘You must have a damned good reason for being as arrogant as you are!’
Never, despite what she believed to be her complete self-honesty, had Sally ever considered herself arrogant. Unhelpfully she said, ‘Yes, I must have, mustn’t I?’
* * *
‘I’d hoped it was something about al Aswamy,’ said Conrad Graham.
‘I wish it were. But I think this is important, too,’ said Jack Irvine. It was Sally’s interpretation of Tehran’s silence at the Aswamy arrest claim, not his. And her original idea. It was for her to introduce, not him.
‘No-one likes seniority leapfrogging,’ warned the CIA deputy director.
‘I don’t like being under surveillance,’ said Irvine. ‘It’s either Johnston or Bradley, doesn’t matter which. Either would have denied it if I’d gone to them and kept it on, like they’ve kept it on Sally.’
‘You sure they’re maintaining it on Sally?’ asked Graham, a man of Ivy League neatness still unsure of choosing the greasy pole of Langley promotion over the adrenaline of ankle-holstered fieldwork.
‘It was she who picked up mine, as well as her own. And that was after she complained to both Johnston and Bradley. Which doesn’t say a hell of a lot about your surveillance unit, especially right after losing al Aswamy. To impose it on someone like Sally, a professional, was insane. She seems to have a hell of a lot of clout, and you haven’t got your Sellafield detainee yet.’
‘You really think she could screw that up?’
‘What’s the point of taking the risk? Al Aswamy’s still more likely to be here in the U.S. than anywhere else. He’s your target, not Sally Hanning or me.’
‘The surveillance will be lifted, from both of you.’
‘And from the rest of my team?’
Graham frowned, head to one side. ‘You sure they’re being surveilled?’
‘Let’s cover all the bases at the same time.’
‘This doesn’t create a precedent,’ warned Graham.
‘I’m not trying to create precedents. I’m trying to prevent Cyber Shepherd from being thrown off track by something this stupid.’
‘I told you surveillance is over.’
‘Let’s hope it isn’t replaced by something just as stupid. Or worse.’
‘You telling me something else I should know about?’
‘Not yet. If I think there is, I’ll write a memo, with copies to everyone. That’s the ass-covering system, isn’t it?’
‘That’s the ass-covering system,’ agreed Conrad Graham.
* * *
The vigil had become monotonous, as vigils always do, eroding its very purpose as it always does. Anis was there on the screen in front of him, with Mohammed’s and Nek’s presence posted on the screen above him, before Akram Malik saw his target on the Action subcatalog! He blinked, clearing his vision, annoyed at the concentration lapse: the rest of the team were at their screens, unaware. Anis was simply posted, waiting. As Malik was waiting. Should he initiate the contact, which he wanted to do, despite Irvine’s warning? Or wait to be approached? He could call him, at Langley, or ask Burt, just feet away, locked into his own Vevak vigil. Marian, even. Or make his own decision, which again he wanted to do: go on proving his right to be part of the elite group. Jack had admitted he couldn’t have handled the last encounter any better. And Jack wasn’t there, wasn’t in contact.
Malik reached out to his keyboard, but before he could touch a key, Anis was there with the essential As-salamu alaykum.
Malik hesitated, flexing his fingers, then responded with the obeisance to Allah.
Anis: Do you agree that the unliftable stone should be kissed?
Malik sighed at the frustrating familiarity of the aphorism-dependent text, although he hoped an omen was in the friendship proverb. He matched the tone with A chameleon does not leave one tree unless he is sure of another.
Anis: We are sure.
The rejoinder jolted Malik, his mind momentarily frozen. But only momentarily. He couldn’t hesitate, appear surprised or confused into inaction! No more aphorisms, no longer working their way through Arab ambiguity. He replied, Are we still alone?
The reply was the arrival of Redeemer on his screen. The newcomer wrote, I welcome and greet you as a friend.
Malik: As I greet you.
Redeemer: There are more to encounter.
Malik: As I hoped there would be.
Anis: Have you many friends?
Malik was conscious of someone at his side and felt Marian’s hand encouragingly on his shoulder before he detected her perfume. She said, ‘Good! Keep going! Shab thinks he’s getting this new guy’s IP!’
Malik: All whom I consider unliftable stones.
Redeemer: Do you follow the work of al-Ghazali?
‘Shit!’ exclaimed Singleton, who’d joined Marian and recognized as Malik did the Moslem denominational test. Marian pressed Malik’s
shoulder again but said nothing, although she knew the significance, too. Abu Hamid al-Ghazali was the greatest of eleventh-century Moslem philosophers, revered today throughout the Arab world. And a Sunni. Iran, the predominant Al Qaeda sponsor, was overwhelmingly Shia. If he identified himself from the wrong denomination, the moment—his chance—would be lost. Malik hesitated, hands hovering once more, before abruptly writing, I am more familiar with the words of Ali.
The hesitation now was from the darknet chat room. Malik remained staring fixedly at his screen, unsure of his choice. Ali was the foremost disciple of the Prophet Mohammed and in Shia prayers is accorded the highest honour by being referred to as the friend of Allah; by proclaiming him Malik had identified himself as a Shia. Neither Singleton nor Marian spoke.
Then …
Redeemer: I welcome you to the work we have been called upon to perform.
Singleton said, ‘You got it right! For Christ’s sake don’t let them go!’
* * *
Anis: Are you prepared?
Malik: As a warrior is always prepared.
Redeemer: Are you really in Russia?
Malik: I can be anywhere.
There was no immediate response. Then …
Anis: Can you travel?
Malik: Where?
Anis: Europe. Satan’s lair.
Malik: Yes.
Redeemer: With companions?
Malik: Possibly.
Redeemer: Are you trained?
Malik: Yes.
Redeemer: Do you have weaponry?
Malik: They can be obtained.
Redeemer: In what quantity?
Malik: What are the requirements?
Redeemer: Considerable.
Malik: Provide a list.
Redeemer: It will come.
Malik: When? I am talking with others who are impatient.
Anis: It will come when the moment is right.
Redeemer: Marg bar Amrika.
Malik: Marg bar Amrika.
Anis: Inshallah.
Malik: Inshallah.
From his computer station Shab Barker said, ‘It’s Redeemer@raidtaker, openly with an IR, Iranian identification, and I’ve got him all the way back to Malmö!’
The Cloud Collector Page 16