The Crimson Code
“Make sure he does not move too quickly,” the Londoner replied. “You must remember that our plan depends on a confluence of events. The Vatican will doubtless object to the use of nuclear weapons, and the Catholic Church still has great sway in many quarters of the world. We need to preempt that objection.”
“Our friends are on the cusp of finding the Codex,” the Austrian added, nodding. “Its revelation will be major news, despite all that is happening, much as was the St. James Ossuary a few years ago. This, however, will be much greater—proof that Mary Magdalene was the wife of Christ, and that her grandson brought the true gospel of Christ to pre-Columbian America. That will demolish the voice of the Vatican in world events and leave us with an open field in which to operate.”
“I am familiar with our plans,” Morgan said, trying to contain his displeasure at being lectured. Would Europeans never accept that Americans were not recalcitrant children who needed to be reminded at every step of a process? “But you must understand the nature of American politics. While Harrison Rice is ours to control—to a point—have no doubt that he and he alone is the president of the United States. He and he alone has the power to authorize the use of nuclear weapons. Do not expect him to totally cede that authority, not even to us.”
“Hold on,” the German said. “You told us that if this worked, we would—in your son’s words—own the President of the United States. We took grave risks in underwriting Edward’s plan. Were it not for our contacts in your news media, the conspiracy to assassinate Grant Lawrence—and your son’s involvement—would have been exposed for the world to see. Now you are telling us that, despite those risks and the ultimate success of the plan, we cannot rely on President Rice to do what he is told, when he is told?”
Morgan paused to light a cigar, both because it allowed him time to frame his response and because he felt it necessary to make them wait for his answer, in order to regain the initiative. He was not accustomed to being interrogated, and the fact that the three of them had obviously prepared privately for this meeting did nothing to make him more amenable.
“Yes,” he said, finally, “that’s exactly what I’m telling you. He holds the most powerful elected position in the world. It takes little time for the import of that to settle upon a man. He was no one’s lapdog, even when he was in the Senate. Now, my friends, he will cooperate with us. But cooperation and slavish obedience are different, and we must accept the former without demanding the latter, lest he decide to use the power of his office in ways that could be even more harmful to our cause.”
“Unacceptable,” the Londoner said. “If you are implying that he might become a threat, then we remove him and replace him with someone more amenable.”
“You can’t do that,” Morgan said, leaning forward, his anger flashing. “I don’t have to tell you the geopolitical realities. You now have your European Union, but have no doubt that you are not yet a global superpower. The United States could crush you several times over, with little or no damage to itself. While the U.S. can no longer lead Europe around on a leash like a captive hound, the roles have not been reversed. And there are political sensitivities that Harrison Rice cannot ignore.”
“What sensitivities exceed our having bought and paid for his office in blood?” the German asked.
“Anti-Arab violence is on the rise,” Morgan said. “We knew it would happen. It was part of our plan. But do not forget the pressure that places on Rice. The American people are demanding a response. He cannot afford to look impotent in the face of what is nothing less than a global declaration of war. And we have told him that only one response is possible. We cannot now ask him to sit on his hands and wait for permission to act.”
Morgan rose to his feet, his anger demanding physical movement, lest it manifest in words he might not live to regret. “Your friends must accelerate their search for the Codex. They have been searching for nearly two years. The Codex was to have been revealed months ago, and now you tell me that the president must commit political suicide by waiting indefinitely before responding to Black Christmas? No, my friends, that simply is not possible. At the very least, we must give him a politically acceptable interim response. We must provide a way for him to appear prudent without appearing cowardly.”
“Yes, I understand,” the Austrian said, his tone softening. “The European people are also demanding a response. Obviously we cannot expect Herr Rice to, as you put it, sit on his hands.”
“Yes, of course,” the Londoner agreed. “Perhaps we have been too…forceful…in our approach today. I assure you, Jonathan, we are all aware of the political realities. We have spent decades creating those very realities.”
“I believe I can offer the necessary alternative,” the Austrian said. “We know one of the Black Christmas cells is in Vienna. If we could arrange for their…disposal…in a manner that could be attributed to a joint U.S.-European action, would that assuage the political pressure on Herr Rice?”
“The American people will want results they can see,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “After the 9/11 attacks, if you recall, there was a demand for visible action. The fact that covert teams were all over the world, taking down Al Qaeda cells, was not enough. The American people wanted, needed, to see tanks rolling across the desert.”
“I am sure it can be arranged for this to be very visible,” the Austrian said. “And there will be no U.S. casualties.”
“What do you have in mind?” Morgan asked, curious.
“Unless I am very mistaken,” the Austrian replied, “our friends will want revenge for their plans having been twisted to our ends. So we will let them have it. Except that we will arrange for Herr Rice take the credit for it.”
The plan had merit, Morgan thought. It was elegant, a quality he had always admired, all the more so in recent months. Edward’s plan had been too complex, and that had very nearly been its downfall. It was, Morgan thought with satisfaction, good to be working with professionals again.
“That should work,” Morgan said, returning to his seat. “Yes, that should work well.”
“Very good,” the German said. “Which brings us to the final item. How do we find and kill Bookworm?”
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Ahmed Ahsami studied the report that his lieutenant had brought that morning. It fit in well with other reports he had gleaned over the past days. Knowing that Saif Alsharaawi would find them in the Arab world, the traitors of Black Christmas had instead chosen to hide out in Europe. He should have expected such cowardice.
“Yes, Yawi,” he said. “This is quite good. And we’re sure of the source?”
“Our colleagues in the Arab Bank are loyal,” Yawi said. “I asked them to flag that account number and notify me immediately of any transactions. They have no idea why I asked for the information. But they complied.”
“Eight thousand euros,” Ahmed said, folding his hands on his belly and looking up at the ceiling. “That is an odd amount. Not enough to buy new identities. Not enough to relocate into anonymity.”
“Perhaps they believe they already have,” Yawi said.
“I believe they do,” Ahmed said. “I think this is for living expenses.”
“What a shame,” Yawi said, a faint smile on his face.
“What is that, my friend?”
“Their living expenses will be their deaths.”
Ahmed couldn’t resist the chuckle, though he made a note to pray for forgiveness in tonight’s evening prayers. He ought not to take joy in what he was doing, however necessary it might be.
“How soon can we get a team to Vienna?” Ahmed asked.
“We can be ready to leave in two days,” Yawi said.
“Fine. See that you are. And leave none alive.”
Once Yawi had left, Ahmed considered what he had just done. He had ordered the death of fellow Arabs, fellow followers of Islam. The Koran forbade killing, but most especially the killing of other Muslims. But may Allah forgive him, it had to be done.
Al Jazeera hadn’t been alone in reporting on the rising tide of anger against Arabs. It had been too much for even the Western media to ignore. Mosques had been desecrated. Two Arab businesses burned in Los Angeles. Unless the world could see that Arabs would police themselves, there would be no alternative save for more Western intrusion into the Arab world.
And so these traitors must be found and killed. And it must be made clear that they were found and killed by Saif Alsharaawi. Then, perhaps, Ahmed could finally release the video he had made before Christmas and begin to paint for the world a picture of a more civilized, if equally determined, Arab leadership.
Ahmed trusted that Allah would understand.
7
Frankfurt, Germany
“Well, there’s hope,” Niko said, shrugging off his down jacket, careful not to let the melting snow drip onto the sensitive electronic equipment that crowded the office. He looked at Renate. “Your old friends in the Brotherhood are good, but they aren’t perfect.”
“Meaning?”
“They’re smug.”
“I assume we finally have some good news?” Renate said, the tension evident in her voice. During the past week she had grown thinner, and everyone in the group had taken to pressing food on her. She had begun to eat again only that morning after Assif had shouted at her.
“If you want to starve yourself to death, okay!” he’d said in exasperation. “But can you at least wait until after the mission? You could endanger someone’s life if you’re not at the top of your game.”
Since then she had eaten two full meals, although it was clear she hadn’t enjoyed them.
The past six days had seemed like an exercise in futility. Every plan they had conceived had run into a morass of technical difficulties. Berg & Tempel AG, the target bank, was a tough nut to crack. Any hope of tapping into their communications without making a physical entry into the bank itself had been lost in the spaghetti of optic cables that ran beneath Frankfurt’s streets. And Berg & Tempel’s ornate, nineteenth-century stone building sat squarely amidst the towering steel-and-glass monoliths of the banking district, where the underground electronic labyrinth was at its most complex.
“I spent the day eating pommes frites in the Jürgen-Ponto-Platz,” Niko said, taking a seat. “I learned more than I want to know about the murder of Jürgen Ponto, and if I never eat another fried potato, it will be too soon. But it was worth it.”
“Yes?” Renate asked. She was in no mood to play the game of twenty questions. “So what did you learn?”
“Berg & Tempel is right across the street, at the corner of Kaiserstraße and Westendstraße,” Niko continued, as if unaware of the tart tone in her voice. “I was able to watch their comings and goings all afternoon and into the evening. They’re good, but they’re also lazy.”
“How so?” Lawton asked.
“It’s a private bank. No lobby. Customers visit by appointment only.”
“Right,” Renate said impatiently. “We know this. This is what makes them so difficult to penetrate.”
“On the contrary,” Niko said. “This is what makes them easy to penetrate. Their security is very lax. They probably don’t have a vault, or if they do, it holds no cash to speak of. Most of their work involves shifting investments around and sheltering their clients from taxes. There is little to attract thieves, and thus little reason for the kind of tight security you would find in an ordinary bank. I was able to walk right in, under the guise of delivering a parcel. What’s more, once I got past the front desk, I was able to wander the building for fifteen minutes before someone saw that I looked lost and gave me directions.”
“So Lawton could make his entry as a Fahrrad-Kurier,” Renate said. “A bicycle courier.”
“Yes,” Niko said. “Easily, in fact. And that’s not all. I checked out the internal security. Unless they’re very good at hiding cameras, there aren’t any except at the front door. The computer room uses key cards, as do the senior executives’ offices, but beyond that, anyone in the building can go just about anywhere.”
“Nighttime security?” Renate asked.
“A guard at the front desk,” Niko said. “Unless there were other guards that came in by other entrances, he’s the only one. He looks to be a college student making some extra money by working as a night watchman. He locked the doors after the employees left, and twenty minutes later he was drinking coffee with his head buried in a textbook.”
“Key cards,” Lawton said. “If they have key cards, they probably log entries automatically.”
“Right,” Assif said, “but those logs would be kept on their computers. Once I know what system they use, I can tell you how to modify the log files.”
“This could work,” Lawton said, nodding. “I go in just before close of business and disappear into a men’s room or closet. Once everyone’s gone, and assuming I can get a key card, I’m into the computer room, with comms to Assif, in the utility tunnel below the bank. He tells me what to do to send a SWIFTNET message, so he can tap the correct line, and tells me how to erase my key card entry from the log file. Then I hide out until morning, wait until things are busy, and leave as if I had just dropped off the parcel. It’s simple, and clean.”
“Yes,” Assif said. “That can work.”
“If we can get a key card,” Renate said. “And if we can get Assif to the right utility junction box.”
“And don’t forget the bicycle,” Niko said.
Lawton looked at him. “I don’t understand.”
“The couriers lock their bicycles at a rack outside the bank,” Niko said. “Someone will notice if it’s there when they leave and still there in the morning. So one of us will have to pick up the bicycle without looking as if we’re stealing it, then return it the next morning.”
Renate walked to the whiteboard and began to write. “Lawton in the bank. Assif in the utility tunnel. Niko, you will handle the bicycle, and be on watch when Assif enters and exits the tunnel. I’ll be here, monitoring our communications and the police scanner.”
Lawton nodded. “So we need to find the utility junction box and get a key card. Then, I think, we’re good to go.”
Renate looked at Niko. “I need you to go back to the Jürgen-Ponto-Platz and watch the bank employees as they come to work. We need to identify those who work in the computer room.”
“And how am I supposed to identify which employees work in the computer room?” Niko asked.
“I’ll go with you,” Assif said, breaking into a smile. “I can spot a fellow geek from a kilometer away.”
“Good,” Renate said. “Then we start surveillance on the computer room employees. One of them is sure to be single and male. And I will get the key card from him.”
Her tone left no doubt that she would do anything, anything at all, to achieve the downfall of those who had killed her family. Whatever conscience she might once have owned had been blown away by a bomb in a simple church.
Vienna, Austria
Yawi Hassan had spent the day in a café on the Gellerplatz, watching the apartment house two blocks down Quellenstraße. Three hours earlier, laughing children had streamed from the Catholic school across the street. Yawi was struck by the irony: terrorists who had murdered thousands of Catholics on Christmas Day were hiding out in an apartment house two blocks from a Catholic school.
Now a last group of students, young teenage boys, Yawi guessed, freshly showered after an athletic practice, approached him. With his limited German, Yawi realized they were asking him to settle a dispute over which Austrian football club would be strongest that year. Although he knew nothing of Austrian football, Yawi chose from among the team names the boys pressed upon him.
“Rapid ist sehr gut,” Yawi said.
“Ja!” answered the boy who had offered that club. “Rapid wird immer dominieren! Die san leiwand!”
As the boy broke into a wide grin, the other boys objected. Much to Yawi’s relief, for he had not understood the boy’s reply, they took the disagreement with them as they walked to the tram station. He smiled and shook his head as they left. In whatever language, in whatever culture, boys would be boys.
Now alone again, Yawi reviewed the plan in his head. All the pieces were in place. The last of their seven targets had returned to the apartment only a few minutes before, after a quick stop at a corner market. Even now, Yawi knew that his men were moving into their final preassault positions.
The target was a third-floor apartment, and Yawi and his men had gone over the interior layout several times. Each of his men had a specific assignment from the moment they burst into the open front room. They had rehearsed the assault in an identical apartment building across town until everyone on the team could perform his mission in total darkness and absolute silence. There would be no arrests tonight. Their orders were clear.
Kill them all.
“Ready,” a quiet voice whispered in Yawi’s earphone.
Yawi strolled down the street, taking a final look around. His secondary objectives were to minimize civilian casualties and to extract his men without their being identified. He saw no Polizei in evidence, and at this late dinner hour, there was little traffic on the street.
“Two minutes,” he whispered.
Ninety seconds later, he entered the building and began to ascend the back stairs. He didn’t need to check to ensure that the back exit was neither locked nor blocked. The Austrians were very careful about such matters. And even if they hadn’t been, his men had already verified that fact. As he climbed the stairs, he screwed a silencer on his Tek-9 automatic pistol and cycled the bolt to chamber a round.
Yawi reached the third-floor landing and pulled his ski mask down over his face, then placed his left hand on the shoulder of the last man in his team. That man in turn placed his left hand on the shoulder of the next, until the fifth commando, first in the line, placed his left hand on the door leading from the stairwell into the interior corridor. Now, simply by squeezing the shoulder of the man in front of him, Yawi gave the silent signal to go. In less than a second, the message had been relayed to the lead man, and he pushed open the door.
The corridor was clear, and they moved silently, each holding up fingers to count the doors they passed. One…two…three…four. Yawi checked each man’s count, for in the stress of an assault, he knew not to overlook even the smallest, most basic detail. Certain that they were at the right door, he patted the shoulder of the man in front of him.
That action was repeated up the line, and the lead man extracted a tiny video camera with a fish-eye tubular lens. As the tube slid beneath the door frame, Yawi studied the distorted image on the handheld monitor. He counted six people in the room, two on a sofa along the left wall, two in the kitchen area to the back and two at a small dinner table. A shadow moving in the distance marked the seventh target, walking along the back hallway.
As the lead commando withdrew the camera tube, Yawi relayed the information to his men with hand signals. Each nodded. Now the second man squeezed two small gobs of putty into the gap between the door and its frame, one at the catch for the doorknob, the other at the dead bolt. As that man pressed detonators into the plastic explosive, Yawi and the others readied flash grenades. The second man held up a thumb.
All was ready.
The men flattened themselves against the wall, and Yawi nodded. The second man squeezed a tiny plunger, and two muffled pops sounded almost simultaneously. Yawi felt a momentary rush of satisfaction. His man had done his job precisely as he had been trained, using the minimum amount of explosive necessary to blow the door. The satisfaction was quickly lost in the moment, however, for now he and his men burst into motion.
The lead man kicked the door open, and four flash grenades were tossed in immediately. Two seconds later, the grenades exploded with a rushing whoosh, as Yawi and his men shielded their eyes against the blinding, blue-white glare.
“Go!” he snapped.
The command was unnecessary, for his men were already in motion. The first two men burst in, pistols leveled, marking their targets, the quiet pops as they fired lost in the cries of panic within. Yawi followed and saw that two of the targets were already slumping to the floor, red holes punched in their chests.
Yawi pressed on toward the back of the apartment, his arms extended, left hand beneath his right, supporting the weight of the weapon, moving it side to side, tracking with every turn of his head. A light beneath the bathroom door flicked off, and Yawi fired through the door at the same instant that it seemed to spout holes from within.
He felt the three rapid punches in his chest, knocking him back against the wall, but kept firing, the flimsy door now almost disintegrating before his eyes. He realized he was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, with an unbelievable tightness in his chest, making it all but impossible to breathe.
Through a gaping hole in the door, he watched his target rise and come toward him, gun in one hand, the other vainly trying to staunch the angry geysers of blood spurting from the side of his neck. Yawi was dimly aware of one of his comrades coming around the corner to check on him, of the target turning and raising his pistol, of three more shots, of the target finally crumpling to the floor, half-atop him.
Mission accomplished, Uncle, Yawi thought. We killed them all.
And then the darkness swelled around him.
Frankfurt, Germany
It all sounded so simple, but Lawton knew it wasn’t. Nothing could be that simple. He drew Renate from the back room into one of the executive offices. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“This sounds too simple.”
“Anything sounds simple when it is laid out this way.”
Damn, she was so distant again, as if everything that made her Renate had flown away to another star system.
“Renate, listen to me.”
“I am listening, Law.”
“Then think about it. If this bank really contains the kind of information you think it does, why isn’t it better guarded? The entire Frankfurt Brotherhood could take a fall if their computer records were breached.”
She turned to face him directly. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the only reason they’d do this is if their records are so heavily encrypted that we’ll probably be wasting our time anyway.”
She shook her head. “First we go for their communications. We hack into their computer system and view their private Internet messages. If we find what we need there, we can talk about what to do next to nail them. But trust me, if we follow the money we’ll find them.”
“But how will we break their encryption? Even the NSA can’t hack SWIFTNET. When they want the information, they get a subpoena.”
She gave him a tight smile. “You must have faith in me. And in Assif. We have done this before.”
“Why do I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me?” he asked.
“Because there are some things that it’s better not to know,” she replied, her icy eyes fixed on him. “Trust me, Lawton. I know what I’m doing here. And we will get what we need.”
She left to rejoin the others, and he followed reluctantly, thinking that he didn’t mind putting his neck in a noose if he could be certain it would serve a purpose. He wasn’t sure of that with this job yet.
Niko was regaling Assif with the story of the murder of Jürgen Ponto.
“He was the head of the Dresdner Bank, back in the 1970s. It was a terrible time in Germany, in Europe. Lots of terrorist groups active. Suzanne Albrecht was Ponto’s godchild, the daughter of a man he’d known since childhood. But he didn’t know she’d joined the Red Army Faction. She showed up at his door carrying a bouquet of roses, acting like the loving godchild. Then she and her two companions tried to kidnap him. He fought back. They shot him five times.”