Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

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      Costaine telephoned at eleven, via Brettlaw’s secretary, asking if the DDO had ten minutes. If Costaine, as his Deputy Director for Policy, asked for ten minutes, it was Costaine’s code for saying something was wrong. Not necessarily something that would change the world, just something which the DDO should know about, perhaps something which it would take the DDO to sort out. Besides, Costaine was Inner Circle; not Inner Circle of Inner Circle, but still part of the black projects.

      Brettlaw told him to come up, and asked Maggie to put the remainder of his morning’s engagements back ten minutes.

      Costaine arrived three minutes later.

      ‘There’s a slight problem with Red River.’

      He was seated in the leather armchair in front of Brettlaw’s desk.

      ‘What exactly?’

      Red River was a worn-out mining town turned ski resort eight thousand feet up in the Southern Rockies. Apparently run down, apparently redneck. Great people and great snow. Red River was also the code for one of the black projects.

      ‘Certain funds which should have been in place two days haven’t arrived.’

      ‘Important?’

      Costaine ran his fingers through his crewcut. ‘Delicate rather than important, but we should get it sorted out.’ But he couldn’t, because he was operations, not finance.

      ‘Leave it with me. If it’s not sorted by tomorrow let me know.’

      He waited till Costaine left then telephoned for Myerscough to come up.

      ‘The Nebulus accounts. Apparently some of the funds which were scheduled for transfer two days ago haven’t made it.’

      ‘No problem.’

      Almost certainly it would be something as obvious as a bank clerk transposing two digits, Myerscough thought. It had happened before and would happen again. It was probably better to start in the middle rather than at the beginning or end of the chain – that way he’d reduce the work. Therefore he’d contact the fixer and get him to check that the funds had passed through the switch account in London. That way they could narrow down the problem area. And if the funds hadn’t reached London he’d go back to First Commercial and ask why the money hadn’t exited the US.

      It was eleven Eastern Time, therefore he might just catch Europe before it closed down for the night. He left the seventh floor and returned to his own department on the fourth.

      His office was in one corner, the rest of the section open plan, desks and computers, the technological whizz kids bent over them, sometimes fetching a coffee or iced water and leaning over someone else’s shoulder, cross-fertilizing ideas and statistics or just talking. It was a good department with good people. He closed the door, called the first number before he’d even sat down, and looked through the glass.

      Bekki Lansbridge was in her late twenties, an economist by training, and had been with the Agency five years and his department for the past eight months. She was five-seven, he guessed, almost five-eight, blond hair and long face. And there his description of her slipped in to the vernacular. Great ass, great chassis, great mover. Probably moving it for someone, except that it wasn’t him. Perhaps one day she would.

      The ringing stopped and he heard the voice of the personal assistant. Swiss and efficient.

      ‘Is he there?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m afraid not.’

      No enquiring who was calling and no suggestion he might like to leave a message. If he wished either then he would say so.

      ‘When will he be back?’

      ‘Probably tomorrow.’

      He called Milan.

      ‘Good afternoon. Is he there?’

      ‘I’m afraid not.’

      ‘When could I speak to him?’

      ‘Possibly tomorrow.’

      There was the slightest hesitation, he thought. Certainly the day after … it was implied, but without conviction, as if the secretary was unsure herself.

      It was unlike the fixer. The contact was often away setting things up and meeting people like Myerscough. The two of them tried to meet at least twice a year and to talk at least once a month, even when there was nothing much to discuss, because the two of them had set up the system, and set it up good. So it wasn’t unusual for the Italian to be out and about – that was his job. What was unusual was for him to be out of touch – not phoning his office at least twice a day, even if he couldn’t tell his people where he was and who he was with.

      ‘Thank you.’

      There was no problem, though. All he had to do was check with the bank which would have made the wire transfer to BCI in London, and if the problem had come up before London there’d be no reason to worry about Europe. He glanced at Bekki Lansbridge again and punched the number.

      ‘Good morning,’ the switchboard operator answered immediately. ‘First Commercial Bank of Santa Fe.’

      ‘Good morning, may I speak to the president?’

      The lawyers were waiting. For forty minutes Brettlaw checked with them the testimony he would deliver to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence that afternoon, then took a working lunch of coffee and Gauloises. The committee was at two. At one-thirty the Chevrolet pulled out the main gate and turned on to Route 123.

      At any other time, perhaps, on any other day, he might have sat back and allowed himself thirty seconds to think about Nebulus, about the money going into and through it. Perhaps he was about to. Perhaps he would have told himself there was no need, that it was Myerscough’s job.

      The secure telephone rang. The sky above was crystal blue, he would remember later, and the trees were a peaceful green.

      ‘Red Man.’ The code – even on the encryptor – for Operations. ‘Bonn’s hit the panic button. Nothing more yet. Will keep you informed.’

      Nobody hit the panic button for nothing; Ops didn’t inform the DDO unless it was five-star. His mind was calm and ordered. There were two things he could do: order his driver back to Langley, or tell Ops to keep him informed and continue with his schedule. He had been in crises before, that was his job. Had worked out – in the dark of the night, when a man was alone with himself or his Maker – what he would do in certain scenarios. It was how he had survived Moscow, how he had made himself the man he was.

      ‘Keep me informed.’

      The Chevrolet crossed Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and headed east up Constitution Avenue, the crowds in the parks and the bands playing. So why had Bonn hit the panic button, what was happening?

      The secure phone rang again.

      ‘Bonn Chief of Station down. Repeat. Bonn CoS down. No more details.’

      Oh Christ, he thought.

      Zev Bartolski was Chief of Station in Bonn, СКАЧАТЬ