The Devil's Banker (12 page)

“And you?” asked Leclerc. “You are all right? A quick recovery, is it?
Tant mieux.
” He averted his gaze, but not before Adam caught the veiled admonition, its hint of duty unfulfilled, or worse.

Before he could respond, Glendenning was motioning past Leclerc toward the sole woman in the room. Standing crisply, she extended a hand along with a sympathetic smile. “Sarah Churchill,” she said, before Glendenning had the chance. “I heard what happened yesterday. I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Chapel.”

She was nearly as tall as he was, dressed in dark slacks and an ivory silk tank top that highlighted her tanned arms and face. She kept her black hair pulled off her forehead and bundled into a thick ponytail that fell below her shoulders and shone in the fluorescent light like Chinese lacquer. She wore no makeup—no eyeliner, no lipstick, no mascara. Her eyebrows were thick, her eyes brown flecked with gold and narrowed with suspicion, and for a moment, Chapel wondered if despite the accent, she wasn’t English but Middle Eastern—Egyptian, Lebanese, or even Turkish.

“Miss Churchill’s on loan to us from our British cousins,” said Glendenning, as if in answer to Chapel’s question. “She’s a military brat like me. It was Sarah running the other side of the operation.”

“I guess it was a bad day for both of us,” said Chapel, grasping her hand, finding the grip cool and firm.

“Rather,” she said, the smile souring just long enough for him to question her goodwill.

“Let’s get this show on the road, shall we, folks?” said Glendenning. “All those present are to consider themselves members of joint counterterrorism task force Blood Money. All information discussed in this room is subject to the highest security clearance, classification Whirlwind. Is that enough of the bullshit, or do I have to give it to you in writing? Mr. Chapel, Mr. Leclerc,” he continued. “I want to thank both you gentlemen for making the effort to be with us today. Miss Churchill, likewise. If you’ve got any jet lag, I can guarantee you that the film you are about to see will keep your eyes wide open.”

The lights dimmed. A nervy stillness fell over the room. A video screen four feet by four lowered from the ceiling. Chapel leaned forward in his seat, tasting a sour bile in his throat, as his heart drummed faster. The tape began. A man dressed in a fatigue jacket, Arafat’s red-checkered
khaffiyeh,
and mirrored sunglasses filled the screen.

“Americans, Zionists, and your sycophantic allies, I address you in the name of Muhammad, peace be unto him, and in the name of everlasting peace between all peoples. . . .”

The language was English, spoken with a colloquial American accent. The man was either native-born or a gifted linguist. Glancing around him, Adam noted that everyone had assumed his own posture of stiff anticipation. Everyone except Leclerc, who stared at the screen with undisguised nonchalance.

“In your holy book, David rose up and slew Goliath with a stone. And with a stone we have slain those who oppress us, who force an unjust peace on the land of Abraham, and who occupy the Land of Two Holy Places. The time of humiliation and subjugation is over. On this day, a new history has begun, and its first pages have been written in the blood of the Zionist Crusaders. Feel our hate, for it is yours. Know our desperation, for it is yours. Choke on our rage, for it is yours. It is time for the hypocrites to leave and take their reign of false values with them. The light of Islam shall sear every trace of Western corr—”

Abruptly, the tape dissolved into a stuttering patchwork of black and white lines, interrupted by stretches of darkness.

“From here on out, the picture quality is quite poor,” said General Gadbois, pulling his muscled forearms more tightly around his chest. “The original is at our lab. They tell me that it is unlikely we shall be able to recover anything further.”

The images regained clarity, but it was clear that this portion of the tape had been damaged by the blast. The speaker moved jerkily. His words were garbled. For the next sixty seconds, Chapel was unable to make out more than a phrase here and there, a few stray syllables. “Struggle has come . . . land . . . attack . . . ’tember morning . . . die . . .”

The audio cut out, and a moment later, the picture began to deteriorate. Color bled from the images. Darkness peeled across the screen. As the figure faded to obscurity, Glendenning froze the picture.

“Look at him,” said Glendenning, and for once, Chapel heard real malice in his voice. “Smug bastard. He’s smiling. Thinks he’s pulled one over on us.”

Chapel scooted forward an inch. Yes, the bastard was smiling, and for a shocking moment he reminded him of Leclerc, that smirking, know-it-all look he wore to beat back the world. Then he saw something else. “Hold it,” he said, barely containing his urge to shout. “Keep it there.”

Chapel walked to the screen. “There!” he declared, his index finger touching the mirrored lens of the speaker’s sunglasses. “That’s a reflection of someone else in the room.”

“Probably Taleel,” said Leclerc. Despite his dismissive tone, he was pulling himself out of his chair, craning his neck toward the screen.

“Maybe,” said Chapel. “Maybe not. This figure looks like it’s on the side of the room.”

It was hardly a figure, more an hourglass pastiche of red and blue.

“No, no, Mr. Chapel’s got something,” said Sarah Churchill. Rising, she walked to the screen, a silver-dollar smile to move him aside and allow her a closer view. “I’d be inclined to agree that it’s a human form,” she announced after a few seconds.

Glendenning offered Gadbois a tired, disappointed glance that summed up the history of the two nations’ relations. Cooperation without trust. Friendship without affection. “Let’s get a copy to our boys in D.C. They can blow up the image to a hundred times that size, manipulate the pixels and lighting. If someone is there, they’ll be able to tell us their height, weight, and what they ate for breakfast.”

“We can do the same,” said Leclerc.

“Then do it!” chided Glendenning, with an angry turn of his head.

Overhead, the panels of fluorescent lights blinked to life.

“We have no idea who this man is,” Gadbois announced with evident frustration. “Or who filmed him, though we are assuming that since the tape and camera came from Taleel’s apartment, he was the cameraman. Let’s hope our respective photographic laboratories can shed some light on the question. Until then, we are working with the Sûreté to canvass the area. They are going door-to-door with members of your FBI showing Taleel’s picture. Give us a few days. We’ll have something about him and his friends.”

“Excuse me,” said Chapel, tentatively. “Is that it? Is that all there is to the tape?” To his eye, it appeared that the speaker had been cut off midsentence. He felt puzzled. While the threat was sobering, it was hardly specific enough to warrant the DDO flying to France at the drop of a hat. There had to be something more. “Seems like he’s got something else to say. Is that really the end of the speech or was the tape damaged at that point?”

“That is the entire speech,” said Gadbois, turning his bulk toward Chapel, his bullfrog’s glaring eyes and blemished features all but telling him to shut the hell up and stop making waves. “We’re lucky we got it at all.”

“Of course,” said Chapel, sinking back into his seat. “I’m sorry.”
Exception noted,
he mused sourly.

“Miss Churchill’s been closer to the case than anyone,” said Glendenning. “She’s the one who first posited the existence of this group. ‘Hijira,’ you call them. Why?”

“From what I gather, it’s what they call themselves,” Sarah answered. “Hijira marks the beginning of the new Islamic calendar and dates to the time Muhammad fled his persecutors.”

She was back in the debater’s corner at Cambridge, first affirmative making her team’s argument. She didn’t know why she felt so nervous. She’d done the same thing often enough with the analysts back at Legoland, which was what everyone called MI6’s new modernistic headquarters on the south bank of the Thames. She kept her voice even, her eyes passing from one man to the next, mustering support, always ready to deploy a smile when necessary to bring the doubters to her side.

“Who are they? Why have we heard so little of them until now? And, mind if I ask just exactly what new era it is that they hope to usher in?”

It was Chapel, and behind the polite demeanor she sensed a challenge. Another “newbie” not content with being low man on the totem pole.

“Pan-Arab nationalists,” she explained. “One more group sick and tired of Western cultural and political hegemony. You heard what he said about allowing ‘the light of Islam to sear every trace of Western corruption.’ He wants a solution to the Palestinian question, and the Yanks out of Saudi Arabia. Saudi’s what the man in the video called the ‘Land of Two Holy Places. He was referring to Mecca and Medina, the two holiest cities in the Muslim world. As Admiral Glendenning hinted, until a few days ago, pretty much everything we’d gathered about Hijira was supposition, if not speculation. Their primary focus appears to be generating income to support their operations. They’re into drugs—cocaine, heroin. That’s nothing new. Al Qaeda’s up to its neck in the poppy trade. Bin Laden doesn’t have half the money everyone likes to believe, and he spent what he had ten years ago. Hijira’s taken it a step further. More than once we’ve picked up chatter that they’re involved in more sophisticated enterprises: gold smuggling, software piracy, conflict diamonds.”

“To what end?” asked Chapel. “Any idea what kind of operation they’re going after? Who their primary adversary is?”

“Not until today. We do know this: They’re operating in Afghanistan, Pakistan, the UAE”—here she hesitated as a shadow crossed her face—“and, now, in Europe. If they’re in Paris, we can assume they’ve got cells in other cities on the continent as well. We believe they’re headquartered in the Middle East—Yemen, the mountains of Oman, or Saudi’s Empty Quarter. They appear to be a close-knit group, quite small. Judging from communication patterns, we reckon there are between six and eight key operatives.”

“One was killed yesterday,” Glendenning cut in. “Abu Sayeed. At one time or another, he was tight with Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, and Al Qaeda. We don’t know why or when he crossed the fence to Hijira.”

“Sayeed was the man killed yesterday?” asked Leclerc, shaking his head as if his death were a bungle.

“It was a messy takedown. Our boys were a little late to the party. Sarah did a fine job keeping Sayeed until we could get to him.”

“Another corpse to interrogate,” said Leclerc.
“Super.” Soop-air.

Biting back her contempt, Sarah pulled her notes closer, and ran a broken nail over the words. “I think we’d all agree that the man we’ve just watched is no ordinary player. He’s smooth, this one. Someone very special. Very frightening. He’s educated, probably in the West. Hardly your run-of-the-mill
jihadi,
is he? They’re usually younger, poorer, and for the most part illiterate. As to an objective, I can’t offer anything, other than what he obviously stated. ‘The struggle will come to you.’ As he was addressing ‘Americans and their sycophantic allies,’ I think we can take it that means the attack is to occur on U.S. soil. A few other observations, then I’ll be finished. First, he mentions ‘ ’tember morning.’ I heard that as September. Anyone think he may have been saying November or December?”

“It is September,” said Leclerc, unequivocally. “I have watched the tape a dozen times.” Lifting a hand, he motioned for her to continue, and even graced her with a smile. “Please, go ahead.”

Sarah nodded diplomatically, scolding him from behind frozen eyes. The pompous, misogynist prick.
Eet ees Septemburr.
“It’s tempting to take this as a date of the attack, but we can’t be sure. What puzzles me is his saying ’versary.’ Is that ‘anniversary’? If so, should we be looking at an anniversary in September as a possible date of the attack?”

“Nine-eleven’s the big one,” said Glendenning.

“True,” she said, “but September is chock full of important dates in Middle Eastern affairs. The Yom Kippur War started in late September of seventy-three.”

“The twenty-eighth, actually,” Chapel added, a little too assertively for her taste. “But it’s called the ‘October War.’ It’s hardly the kind of event they’d want to commemorate. It was a resounding defeat for the Arab states. Israel took the Golan Heights from Syria, territory from Egypt, and destroyed the armored capabilities of their three neighboring states. Maybe that’s the ‘humiliation and subjugation’ the freedom fighter wants to rectify.”

“Maybe.” Sarah looked closer at the Treasury agent. He was some kind of monetary specialist and Glendenning had told her they would be working together. He didn’t look like a quant jock. Too rough around the edges. More of a brute than a finesser. Here it was only twelve o’clock and he needed another shave. He reminded her of one of Daddy’s enlisted men who muscled his way into the officer ranks. All energy and good works, but God help you once he got his pips.

“I have one question,” Chapel continued, and she felt as if he were grilling her and she didn’t like it one bit. “You mentioned that when our friend on the tape used the expression ‘the land of two holy places,’ he was talking about Saudi Arabia, right? Mecca and Medina?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It’s similar to what bin Laden liked to talk about, except that bin Laden was referring simply to the presence of U.S. soldiers on Saudi soil, whereas this man seems to be referring also to U.S. influence. I guess he doesn’t want his MTV.”

To her mind, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was one of the most repressed countries in the world. It had one TV station, two newspapers, several state-sponsored radio networks, and the government controlled all of them with an iron hand. Less than ten percent of the female population had attended school at any level. Travel into and out of the kingdom was frowned upon and required a rigorous vetting process. Oil workers were confined to company towns. The Al-Saud family had done everything but hermetically seal the borders to keep out the “traces of Western corruption” the madman on the tape had talked about.