‘He wouldn’t say, but he said he needed to see you immediately, and to interrupt you. Oh . . . here he is now.’
Jenner burst into the room, out of breath. ‘Jackson, I must speak with you!’ he blurted. ‘Alone,’ he added, glancing at Harris’s secretary.
‘Thanks, Alison. Have a seat, Elmer,’ said Harris, reaching for his coffee cup. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘Our problem, Jackson. Our problem. I’ve set an alert on my computer so that if anyone hacks into it, I will know. Last Friday night, Bartók took control of my computer remotely and changed the download permissions.’
Harris could feel the blood draining from his face. ‘Where is he now?’
‘I’m not sure, but he’s not in his office.’
Harris clicked the intercom on his phone. ‘Alison, do we know where Bartók is at present?’
‘One moment . . . he’s going to a conference in Paris, but he’s not due to depart until tomorrow.’
‘Flights? Arrival times? Do we have that detail?’
‘Yes . . . I’m just scrolling through now . . . he’s due out of New York on American Airlines Flight 44 at 5.09 p.m. Tuesday – so 3.09 p.m. our time – and he’s due in Paris at 6.19 a.m. local – so he will arrive there at 10.20 p.m. our time.’
‘Start chasing him down, please. Urgently.’
Harris flicked off the intercom. ‘Do we know if he’s downloaded anything?’ he asked, dreading the answer.
Jenner, still agitated, nodded vigorously. ‘We have video of him in his office. We know he managed to change the download access and he downloaded a copy of “The Path to Fusion Plasma Fuel” which is top —’
‘I know. Top Secret Dragon NOFORN,’ said Harris, his mind racing. He knew that if it got to a senate inquiry it would be vicious and it might well cost him his job.
‘It’s worse than that,’ said Jenner.
Incredulous, Harris waited for his tech chief to continue, wondering how it could possibly be worse.
‘He’s wiped every copy of the data, so he now has the only copy.’
‘Jesus Christ! How the fuck did he get into your computer?’
Jenner consulted his printout. ‘At 1829 hours last Friday, Bartók connected with our Wolf mainframe, and ran a program that was specifically designed to crack internal passwords. My password is as secure as you will find anywhere. It has two salts . . .’
‘Yes, I get that,’ Harris interrupted irritably, not wanting to be subjected to any more of Jenner’s tech speak than was necessary, ‘but does that mean anyone on this campus who is connected to the mainframe can break into our compartments?’
Jenner shook his head. ‘Bartók used some very sophisticated code-breaking software. I’ve never seen anything quite like it and I doubt that even the NSA or CIA could match it, so how Bartók would have got hold of it is a mystery. And even then, unless you have the enormous power of something like our Cray Wolf, it would be of no use to you. It’s a weakness, but one that is entirely defendable, given the sophistication of the software.’
‘If we don’t run him down, can we do anything about Bartók logging in from overseas?’
‘Already done. I’ve completely disconnected his computers and changed my own password, so unless he gets access to a very powerful mainframe overseas, which is highly unlikely, he’s effectively locked out.’
‘Okay. Leave it with me. And not a word to anyone else. Even my deputy.’
When Jenner had left, Harris looked out the window of his office, deep in thought, but he was interrupted by his secretary.
‘We’ve checked Bartók’s house. Neither he nor that wife of his are anywhere to be seen, and Bartók’s car’s in the driveway. I’m working on the airline but they’re not being too helpful. Passenger confidentiality, although the girl did hint that Bartók had changed his flights. I’ve been able to check on his accommodation in Paris though, and Bartók’s cancelled it.’
‘Thanks, Alison, keep looking.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Harris muttered again. He felt almost numb. Arguably the most classified document in the country had just been stolen. Harris could hear his enemies on the Senate Committee for Homeland Security. How could you let that happen, Doctor Harris? Yet, given the very few people who were cleared into the Dragon compartment, it might yet be possible to keep the theft out of the Senate’s domain. But what if it later became known he had hidden it? Should he again contact the FBI, he wondered. For the moment, other than to try and track Bartók’s movements, Harris resolved to do nothing.
Bartók gripped his armrest as the Boeing 777 touched down at Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport. A poor traveller, flying always made him nervous and with the top-secret thumb drive in his laptop case in the overhead locker, Bartók was more nervous than ever.
After what seemed like an age, the pilots nudged the 777 into their gate at Terminal 2A. Bartók finally exited the aircraft and he was immediately confused as to what part of the terminal he was in. He reminded himself that he wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last to have to navigate the huge airport. After Heathrow, Charles de Gaulle was the second largest airport in Europe. With multiple terminals and hundreds of gates, it resembled an octopus and Terminal 2 alone had seven satellites. Bartók waited at the baggage carousel before he anxiously followed the signs that read ‘Tous passeports’.
‘Les affaires ou le loisir, Monsieur? Business or pleasure, sir?’ the attractive immigration officer asked, comparing Bartók’s passport photograph with the man standing in front of her.
‘I am here for a conference – nuclear science,’ Bartók replied, fingering his laptop bag.
‘That sounds very interesting, monsieur,’ she said, handing Bartók his passport. ‘Enjoy your stay in Paris.’
Bartók followed the ‘Sortie’ signs and decided on a taxi. It would be more expensive than the train, but he was suddenly feeling very tired. He followed more signs, including the warnings against unlicensed cabs until he reached exit 6 where he was relieved to find the ‘Taxi Parisien’ queue relatively empty.
An hour later, he was dropped in the narrow Rue de Richelieu, at the front of his hotel, La Clef, not far from the Louvre.
No sooner had Bartók reached his room than the phone Cohen had given him vibrated with a text.
So looking forward to seeing you. Night in Boston was one of the best. Nights in the romantic capital of the world will be even better. Lisa xox
Bartók was torn. He stared out of his apartment window at the fountain in the small park below, Place André Malraux. Lisa had been the only woman to ever tell him he was good in bed. In fact, before Darlene, there hadn’t been many women, and certainly no long-term relationships. Lisa and her client offered him a new life. He’d never been to Israel, but from what he’d seen of it in documentaries and on the news, despite the terror attacks, Tel Aviv looked like a nice place to live and a place where he and Lisa could settle down. A family was probably past him, although if she wanted one, he would certainly consider it. There were beaches and parks, and he wondered if Lisa would be interested in the archaeology. And the salary that went with his new job, whatever that might entail, sounded almost too good to be true. But what if she wasn’t telling him the whole story? What if she was Russian, as the likeness in the journal seemed to suggest? Was that just where she was born before she emigrated to Israel? He’d never got around to asking her too much about her background, and in any case, being Russian was something of which to be proud. His own roots to the mother country were still there, and after the way he’d been treated by those in his adopted home, his nervousness was driven less by a fear of betraying the United States and more by a fear of getting caught.
Bartók got to his feet and moved to the wardrobe to check on the instructions for setting the room safe. He set his own code, retrieved the thumb drive and locked it away, resolving not to take it to the Ritz in the first instance. Bartók grabbed his laptop case and extracted the conference papers. He’d already n
oted that General Dragunov would be the keynote speaker and now, it had become imperative that he get to speak with him in private. If Lisa was not who she purported to be, then it might be necessary to have a second string to his bow. Before he’d left, Bartók had found time to pack his sparse belongings and his books, and he’d consigned them to a warehouse in San Francisco. The authorities probably wouldn’t have to dig very deeply to find them, but there was an outside chance they wouldn’t, and he planned to have them forwarded on when he finally landed in what would be his new home. One thing was for sure. He knew he would be arrested the moment he set foot back in the United States, so returning was no longer an option. It was either Israel, or perhaps Russia.
The traffic flowing past the palm trees on the roundabout on HaMa’apil Street and Derech David Ben Gurion was light but constant. The pedestrian traffic was constant as well and every so often a red bus pulled up at the bus stop across the road. It wouldn’t matter, Rashid Suleiman thought. The attack had been ordered for tonight and he had determined to carry out his mission after midnight when his target would be asleep and the streets all but deserted. Suleiman, like all of the cannon fodder at the bottom of the ISIS food chain had been given the bare minimum – a description and the name of the target. He had no idea of the break-in to the Kremlin’s systems through Sarov, nor did he have any idea why the assassination was being ordered. His task was to obey, without question. He focused his binoculars and kept watch on the entrance to the units on the other side of the roundabout. The unit that was occupied by Doctor Lisa Cohen was on the third floor. Suleiman looked at his watch. It was nearly 6 p.m. If she kept to her regular pattern, she should be home by now, but as yet, there was no sign of her. Hopefully, tonight was not the night she had chosen to be home late. Suddenly, he recognised her car, a red Corolla. Cohen came through the roundabout and parked in her normal spot in the street outside her apartment block.
Suleiman’s pulse quickened as he watched her get out, retrieve a briefcase from the back seat, and disappear toward the unit’s common entrance. Suleiman almost spat out the window. His target was wearing a short skirt and her long legs were clearly visible. One day, he promised himself, the world would be the way Allah had always wanted it. All women would adhere to the laws of Sharia and cover their bodies. As was so often the case, Suleiman was angry. Angry at the way women had treated him. He’d never had a relationship that lasted more than a few weeks, and he knew that was not his fault. They were all the same. His last girlfriend had left him after only a fortnight. Dalia had been like all the rest, he thought bitterly. Refusing to cover up when they went out and allowing other men to stare at her. Allah had never meant it to be that way, and tonight there would be one less for Allah to worry about.
Suleiman moved from the window and returned to the laptop ISIS had provided him. He typed in the codes he’d been given and minutes later he had posted on the ISIS page in the Dark Web:
Target will be dealt with tonight. Distracted the night watchman with a story about a burglar trying to break in at the rear. While I minded his desk, watchman was away long enough for me to make spare key impressions of the building and target’s apartment.
He was surprised to get a reply almost immediately from the codename #Sultan.
Well done! Allahu Akbar!
Suleiman had no idea who #Sultan was, or where he was, but it was clear from the traffic on ISIS’s Dark Web site that #Sultan had complete authority over ISIS’s tactics and strategy. One day, he would perhaps have the great honour to meet him, but in the mean-time, he exited the web and prepared for his mission. Suleiman withdrew his large Janbiya from its sheath. Suleiman’s uncle had been killed by the Israelis, and the Arab dagger had been handed on to him. He felt the smooth rhinoceros horn hilt and then fingered the blade. It would be more satisfactory to behead the scientist, and he would, but only after he’d driven the dagger into her heart while she slept. That way, he could minimise the noise, although, he thought, fingering the blade, it would be very satisfying to hear her scream, to see the fear in her eyes. He poured a little sewing machine oil on the sharpening stone he kept for the purpose and deftly ran the double-edged wootz steel blade back and forth across the stone. Suleiman continually fingered, sharpened and fingered the blade again until he was satisfied it had the consistency of a razor.
Rabinovich checked her encrypted phone. As yet, there was no reply from the nerdy scientist. Just an encrypted text confirming he had possession of the thumb drive, and she imagined he would be packing for the trip to Paris. Rabinovich sighed. She would no doubt have to prostitute herself again to seal the deal and gain possession of Bartók’s priceless research data, but at least he had it, and if he got cold feet, she had the recordings of their conversations. Bartók, whether he realised it or not, was trapped, but the hardware had yet to be secured. Once again, she reminded herself that she was doing this for President Petrov and her beloved mother Russia.
She glanced at her phone. Ten p.m. Tomorrow would be an early start for the monthly progress conference on warhead yields, but the Israelis were certainly not ahead. If anything they were behind what she had achieved at Sarov. Bartók held the key. Time to have a shower and turn in.
Suleiman checked up and down HaMa’apil Street. It was 1 a.m. and a solitary car was headed in the opposite direction toward Sderot Golda Meir. With the coast clear, he crossed the road and entered the complex through the second entrance, away from the night watchman’s desk. He took the stairs to the top floor and worked his way back to apartment number 21. Suleiman checked the corridor again, withdrew his Janbiya from its sheath and slowly turned the key in the lock.
Rabinovich tossed in her bed. For some reason she was restless, but she forced herself to relax. The day after tomorrow she would be flying to Paris, and if all went to plan, instead of coming back here, she would be on her way to Russia with the priceless thumb drive. Her handlers had confirmed that once she had the thumb drive, a private jet would be waiting at Le Bourget to whisk her back to Moscow. Perhaps she might even get to share another dinner with the president. No doubt Madam Brezhnev would not be pleased . . .
In an instant her thoughts of sharing another evening with the president were interrupted. She was yanked out of her half-asleep state by the piercing high-pitched beep-beep of her security system and the lights turning on. Rabinovich had rigged the alarm to the master light switch.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ Her assailant held a large knife aloft and he charged down the hall toward her. Rabinovich’s self-defense training kicked in and she was out of bed in an instant.
She let him come until he was within a metre and she thrust toward him and grabbed his knife wrist with both hands open, thumbs overlapping. With the knife blocked, in the same powerful movement Rabinovich drove off the floor on the ball of her left foot and slammed her right knee into her attacker’s groin.
Suleiman dropped the knife and gasped as the excruciating pain tore through his body. Rabinovich smashed her left elbow into his face and he dropped, semiconscious, to the floor of her bedroom. She dragged him into the kitchen by the hair and cut the electric cords from the toaster and from the jug. Suleiman groaned as she bound his hands viciously behind his back, followed by his feet – just as viciously. Rabinovich went through his pockets and she shook her head. Not only was he young, but he was a complete amateur. He was carrying on his person his wallet, containing an ISIS card exhorting members to behead the Infidel, his driver’s licence and his cell phone.
Rabinovich retrieved her own encrypted phone, regained her breath and dialled Regev’s number in Tel Aviv.
‘Yes?’ The head of the Mossad sounded alert.
‘I’ve just foiled an assassination attempt by a young thug from ISIS, but apart from that I’m fine, which is more than I can say for him,’ she added. Suleiman was still writhing in agony. ‘He’s had the pleasure of my knee in his groin, and he’s on my kitchen floor. I realise it’s late at night, but if someone could come and
take him away, I’d be most grateful.’
Regev shook his head. His latest recruit to Dimona was one cool lady.
‘I’ll have the police from the base there inside ten minutes. Are you sure you’ve got him covered?’
‘He’s trussed up like an American turkey, so he’s not going anywhere, although I’m going to need new cords for my toaster and my electric jug.’
‘That we can fix, just wait . . .’ Rabinovich could hear Regev on another phone, issuing crisp orders for two cars to be despatched to her apartment immediately. ‘As it happens, I was about to ring you. Have you heard from Bartók?’
‘Not since I sent you the report on his successful retrieval of the data, why?’
‘I’ve just received another report, which has taken far too long to reach me,’ Regev said, still angry that young Hannah had not thought Bartók’s early departure worthy of anything but a routine weekly transmission. ‘For reasons that are not yet clear, Bartók’s left early and is now in Paris. We’re tracking the cell phone you gave him from our station at our embassy in Paris and he’s changed his accommodation. He’s now staying at La Clef, which is a boutique hotel near the Louvre, and we’ll keep tabs on him. In the meantime, a Black Hawk will be on the Dimona helipad at first light, and you will be flown straight to Ben Gurion where you’ll be met on the pad by one of our liaison officers. You’re booked direct to Charles de Gaulle. Unfortunately, there are no seats left in economy or business, so you will have to fly first class.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Rabinovich reflected she was actually getting on well with the Mossad chief.
‘Make the most of it, it doesn’t happen very often. Good effort this evening. The Dimona base security should be there very soon and good luck in Paris. Hopefully we will soon have that thumb drive.’
The Russian Affair Page 22