by Tom Clancy
The man grabbed Banfield by the coat and slammed him up against a cement support column, then yanked him around behind the column, hiding him from anyone else who might come out of the elevators.
Banfield was too breathless to scream, but when he saw the gun, just a squat black pistol his attacker produced from inside his coat, he managed a small cry of alarm that emanated from the back of his throat.
The man slammed Banfield again into the column, his head against the cold concrete by the attackers forearm, and the gun disappeared from view.
But Banfield knew where it went. He felt a hard metal object pressed against his crotch.
The attacker was face-to-face with him now. He wore a mask, and Banfield could see nothing of the man’s eyes even though they were just inches away from his, because the light was so bad here in the corner of the underground lot.
“Who are you?” Banfield tried to put power into his words, but they came out in a hollow vibrato.
The masked man said, “I’m the guy who’s going to blow your fuckin’ nuts off if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”
“Wh-what do you want?”
“Ethan Ross. Start talking.”
“Ethan Ross? Who’s that?”
Banfield could see the man’s mouth, and realized he was grinning. “That’s how you’re going to play it?” He jabbed the barrel of the gun harder against Banfield’s manhood. “This is how I’m going to play it.”
“Wait! Please.”
“I’m not going to wait. I’m going to shoot you. I’ve got to prove to you I’m not fucking around, don’t I?”
“No! I know you are serious. I know who you work for. You are CIA.”
“Not even close, asshole. Those pussies over at Langley have rules. I’m calling my own shots.”
“Christ almighty. You. You were the one who killed Eve Pang. And the FBI men.”
The masked man cocked his head. “What are you talking about? Ross killed them.”
“Ross? No. That’s ridiculous. Ross couldn’t hurt a fly. It was you.”
The man in the mask seemed confused for a moment, but he recovered. He jammed the gun in tighter between Banfield’s legs.
Banfield said, “I’ll . . . I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Where is he?”
“I swear I have no idea.”
“That sucks for you.” The man pulled the hammer back on the pistol. The click echoed around the parking garage.
“Wait! I can find out.”
“How?”
“I have a secure messaging service on my computer. I can check with someone.”
“Jitsi? ChatSecure? Cryptocat?”
Banfield nodded. “Cryptocat.”
“Who is your contact?”
Banfield shut his eyes. He hesitated, but only for an instant. “The head of the ITP.”
“Give me a name.”
“Bertoli. Gianna Bertoli.”
“You are going to contact her, right now, and you are going to find out what they did with Ross.”
Banfield nodded his head.
DOMINIC CARUSO TOOK BANFIELD upstairs to his office at gunpoint. He had to remove his mask for this, he couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t pass others on the way, and walking through a downtown D.C. office building with a black neoprene balaclava would pretty much ensure the police would arrive en masse.
But he stayed behind Banfield, nudging him with the gun in his pocket.
Dom hadn’t fired this gun in years, and he sure hoped he didn’t have to test it. It was a Walther PPK his brother, Brian, had given him as a gift when he graduated from the FBI Academy. It was more a show gun than anything, but right now Dom’s Smith was somewhere under the control of Darren Albright, so he’d pulled his Walther out of his gun safe, cleaned, lubed, and loaded it with .380 hollow-point ammunition, and then rushed over to Banfield’s place of work.
In the elevator ride up Dom saw the older man positioning himself to catch the reflection of his attacker in the polished metal doors. Dom just said, “Head down, or I’ll shoot you through the kneecaps when we get to your office.”
Banfield looked down the rest of the way.
Inside the tiny one-room office, Banfield made his way to his computer at his desk and logged on. His hands shook while he typed; Dom stood behind him and held the pistol to the back of his head. “Any chance I could get you to move that gun just a little?”
“No chance at all.”
“It makes me nervous.”
“You should be nervous. Fear is a reasonable reaction for you right about now. I’ll be honest. If I were you, I’d be scared shitless.”
Banfield did his best to concentrate on what he was doing. Finally, he initiated the chat.
The relief he felt when Bertoli answered on the other end of the Cryptocat connection was blunted by the angry and armed man behind him.
He said, “If I even suspect you of trying to tip her off, you won’t live to see the sunrise. I’ll kill you right here, right now.”
Harlan held his quivering fingers over the keyboard. “I wouldn’t think about it.”
“Of course you would think about it. You are thinking about it right now. But if you do it, if you try one little thing, you die slow and nasty. I won’t ask you if you understand, because I see it in your eyes. You do understand. You were a foreign correspondent. I know you’ve been to some of those Third World shitholes where they’ve made torturing people into an art.
“Well, guess what, asshole? I have, too.”
“Who . . . who are you?”
“I’m that thing you’ve always known was out there. In the shadows. Except I’m not out there. I’m here, with a gun pressed to your kneecap.”
Banfield only uttered a hoarse “Dear God.”
“Relax. I’ll slip away quietly and let you live if you just make a series of correct decisions over the next few minutes. But I will kill if you give me any cause to do so.”
Harlan was certain this man was one of the operatives he’d spent the last several years trying to uncover. A group deeper and darker than the CIA, working here with in America’s borders, against journalists and others that would reveal the existence of the shadow government.
The man behind said, “Find out where he is.”
Harlan typed.
I wanted to make sure you are okay.
I am fine.
And our friend?
He is fine.
Anything I can do?
Not at this time. Thank you.
Banfield hesitated a long time, then typed: I need to know if I am safe here. If there is any exposure to me.
Why would there be?
Banfield looked up at Caruso. “I don’t know what to say.”
Caruso told Banfield what to write, and he typed.
The FBI has been in his house. Can you ask Ethan if there was anything that could lead the FBI back to me? He called me on my primary cell phone once, many months ago. Any chance he wrote the number down? If so, I might still have time to leave town.
Banfield finished typing and then his finger moved to the Enter key. But before he could depress it, Dom reached down and snatched the older man’s hand back.
Banfield was startled. “What’s wrong?”
Dom stared into Banfield’s eyes, a hard cruel glare. “Ethan? Above you called him ‘our friend.’ That was early on. You were scared. You’ve done what I’ve asked, so you relaxed a little, and now you are trying to tip her off. You don’t call him Ethan in your comms to Gianna, do you?” Banfield did not answer, but his face twitched. Dom said “No. You wouldn’t. Not Ross, either. You just call him ‘our friend,’ don’t you?”
Banfield nodded.
“If you are lying, I will fail in my mission. If I fail in my mission, I will have a lot of free time. Plenty of time to find you.”
“I swear it.”
“Fix the message and send it.”
Banfield did so, and there was a long pause.
And then a reply.
He says he might have written your number down. He doesn’t remember. I think you should get out of town.
“Does that tell you where he is?” Dom asked.
“It does. Ethan Ross is in Geneva.”
“You are sure?”
“Absolutely. The world HQ of ITP is Gianna’s home right there in the city.”
“And she’d take him there?”
“She has support from local government, other European nations with consulate or UN offices there. It is safe ground.”
“You have an address?”
“No.”
Dom lifted the gun again.
“Not an address. But they work out of the University of Geneva!”
“Good enough.”
Dom watched while Banfield ended the chat and logged off.
“It’s your lucky day, Banfield. You don’t die.”
Dom ripped the computer out of the wall and picked it up. “I’m taking this with me as collateral to ensure your silence. And if, at any time, I find out you communicated with Ross or anyone in the ITP, one of my colleagues will come for you, and my colleagues aren’t nearly as much fun to be around as I am.”
“I won’t talk. I swear it.”
Dom left Banfield alone and shaking in his small office.
42
THE FOUR SEASONS HOTEL des Bergues in Geneva sits overlooking the Rhone River next to the Mont Blanc Bridge. From her sixth-floor suite, Gianna Bertoli gaze out at the view, a cup of coffee in her hand and a placid smile on her face. Switzerland felt so much more secure and civilized than Panama. Even more than Washington, D.C. She was glad to have the experiences of those cities behind her, in all her time with the ITP she’d never done anything at all “in the field,” and now she doubted very much she ever would again.
It was good to be home in Geneva, safe among friends. She turned away from the view, stepped off the balcony, and sat back down with Ethan. He’d just poured himself his first cup of coffee of the day, and she regarded him while he sipped.
He looked terrible, as if he had aged a decade in the week she had been around him. Even though he had a suite as large and comfortable as hers just across the hall, it was obvious he hadn’t slept, she saw veins in his eyes, dark circles under them, and his hands seemed to have developed a tremor she hadn’t noticed before.
“Ethan, why don’t you have some orange juice? You need the vitamins.”
He sipped coffee with a jittery hand and ignored her comment. “When we got here last night we had the entire floor to ourselves. This morning there were a dozen people moving luggage into their rooms. Who are all these people?”
“Colleagues with ITP. I’ve called everyone in Europe here.
A show of force, let’s say. They are staying four or five to a suite, by the end of the day we will have twenty-five friends close by. Journalists, hacktivists, attorneys, human-rights proponents, university professors.”
Ethan put his cup down. “And they all know about me?”
“No. Absolutely not. None of them do. They know I am here, and I invited them. When we arrived from Panama I decided we needed to wrap ourselves in the organization. It is best for you right now. We have the entire floor to ourselves.”
“Not exactly. I noticed Mohammed had more men with him. There are the four who pulled us out of Panama, and now two more guys that look just as dangerous as the first four have showed up.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Who are they?”
Gianna said, “Mohammed told me they were friends of his who could help us with security.”
“Why does a computer hacker have friends who can provide security?”
“As I understand it, they are part of his organization.”
“His Lebanese organization?”
Gianna sipped coffee. “Yes. Why do you say it like that?”
“The four on the plane. They were speaking Arabic,” Ethan said, but did you hear what they called each other?”
“I did not understand them.”
“Shiraz, Isfahan, Kashan, Ormand. They are cities in Iran.
I don’t know about Mohammed, but those guys are Iranian.” Gianna shook her head. “I’ve been to his offices in Beirut. I know who he is. I don’t know about the other men. What does it matter? They saved us from the American assassins. I, for one, am grateful.”
“We don’t even know the men who attacked in Panama were Americans.”
“Who else could they be? Who else wants you dead? The Israelis, maybe, but does it really matter? We know they work together.”
Ethan conceded the point. “The question remains, what do I do now?”
“I’d like to talk to you about just that. I hope you will listen to me, and continue to put your trust in me.”
The two of them spent the morning discussing Ethan’s future, and by eleven a.m., Ethan had reluctantly agreed to Gianna’s plan. He went back to his suite, and soon Gianna knocked on Mohammed’s door. She found him working in his room, on his phone with his laptop in front of him. Four of his six colleagues were here as well, but they were just sitting around. Gianna did not have the impression they were computer hackers themselves.
She sat with Mohammed at a table just inside his closed balcony. She said, “I have spoken to Ethan, and together we have come to a decision. The Americans have gone to great lengths to kill him. There will be no détente. He realizes this now. The only way he can save himself is to get out in the open.” Mohammed did not understand. “What does that mean, ‘out in the open’?”
Gianna said, “Ethan and I have decided we will go public.
Very public.”
Mohammed shook his head with an apologetic smile. “You can’t do that.”
“We will hold a press conference here in the hotel, tomorrow at noon. I will reveal myself as director of the Project. This is of no consequence to me, as I will not return to the field. I prefer to remain here in Geneva, and to work as a figurehead promoting our work. Ethan will detail the events that brought him here, including America’s attempts to kill him, both on the streets of Washington and in Panama.” Gianna smiled. “By the Monday news cycle both the work of the Project and the Crimes of America will be on the lips of every journalist in Europe.” Mohammed stood, crossed around the table and in front of the Swiss woman. “Gianna, that is a very bad idea.” She put her hand on his shoulder. He looked at it awkwardly, and she pulled it away. Recovering quickly, she said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but publicity is not your area of expertise. We will make an announcement that Ross was a prisoner of conscious working for the American government, he was chased out of the country by assassins, assassins who killed his girlfriend, and then he was pursued by the Americans in Central America. Once we go public like this, he will be safe. He will be surrounded by people here in Europe who will protect him, and the Americans won’t dare try anything once the word gets out.”
Mohamed banged his fist on the table. “And the data in his possession? Our entire objective was to get control of that data.
Have you forgotten?”
“Relax. Of course I haven’t forgotten. You’re plan was brilliant, and it worked almost flawlessly. When you told me you had software that could raid the U.S. government’s top-secret databases, I knew Ethan Ross could serve as our inside man, if only we created a situation desperate enough for him. But we never counted on people dying in the process.”
Mohammed did not reply.
Bertoli’s chest heaved. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? In our efforts to portray America as a lawless nation, we have found ourselves surprised by their capacity for lawlessness.”
“Nothing has surprised me to date, Gianna. Except for the astonishing fact you want to tell the entire world about Ross.
I’m sorry, but the moment you do that we will be swept to the side as the world’s intelligence agencies begin to muscle in.
The Four Seasons will be crawling with spies from all o
ver the planet. They will all have their sights on Ross and his data.”
“We will protect him. Hotel security will protect him. The canton police will protect him. When we go public with the news of the assassinations and their attack in Panama, America will be embarrassed, and we will capitalize on that. Ethan will, in his own time, allow the ITP access to the cache.”
“When America learns he is here, we won’t have any time!” The Swiss woman cocked her head slightly. “You do want to help the ITP, yes? Your allegiance is to us, is it not?” Mohammed said, “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Ethan seems to think you are working for Iranian intelligence. I told him this was crazy, I’ve been aware of your operation in Lebanon for years. But I have to admit, you are acting strangely now, as if you have some other objective for the American files.”
He took a calming breath before saying, “I simply believe you are making a mistake.”
Bertoli eyed the small man across the table for a long moment. Finally, she replied. “The decision is made. We’ve notified the media.”
Mohammed stood and stormed out of the room without another word.
ETHAN ROSS sat at dinner in a private banquette room in the Four Seasons, surrounded by more than two dozen prominent hacktivists, human rights lawyers, journalists and other hangers on of Gianna Bertoli and the ITP. A ring of security officers, all provided by the hotel, stood just outside the door to the banquet room.
While the American NSC employee had made no statement today—that would come tomorrow—the ITP members present had been putting the pieces together themselves. This American in their midst obviously came from Washington, Bertoli’s major announcement would detail who he was and what exactly he had done. Bertoli herself had leaked out a little to some of her guests. It was publicity 101, she knew she needed to create a buzz before tomorrow’s big reveal.
Wine and champagne flowed throughout the meal, any excuse was a good excuse for a celebration among the members of the Project on those few occasions when they all got together, but tonight’s revelry seemed to be in keeping with the magnitude of Bertoli’s announcement.
Mohammed was noticeably absent tonight. He’d been on his telephone all day. Ethan had seen him in the lobby, up on the fifth floor, and even standing out on his balcony. His colleagues stayed close to him at all times, almost like some sort of bodyguard detail.