Borderless Deceit (32 page)

Jaime's laughter reverberated off the lab's metallic walls. “Irv, did you smoke up before coming over? Listen, I've got a bunch of facts all right, but the problem is, they don't add up. I can't figure out the game your lady ambassador friend is playing.”

“Rachel? Rachel doesn't play games. She's intellectually vigorous. Her moral spine is strong. I was hoping to hear about those two characters in Carson's file – the Egyptian and the Berliner. Do they exist? Is Carson in cahoots with them?”

“They exist, sure, though I doubt Carson's hooked in with them. As for Miss Dunn, I'll use your word. She is vigorous. Vigorously involved too, I mean with that pair. On the surface, it's all fab and spiffy. Miss Dunn and them are providing a service to the world community. Brownie points for all three. But beneath, Irv, beneath. Interesting things. Your Rachel is no angel.”

Heywood sighed. “Let's hear about that pair then,” he said, his heart turning sour.

Facts spilled out. First, profiles of a Berlin bank and an Egyptian trading company. Infiltration into the bank's data systems had yielded Jaime a list of Krause's travels, and the corporate jet's log often showed that, as he had gone to and fro' his destinations, there were regular short stops in Geneva, about half a dozen times a year. This had been going on for four years.
R.D. am Bord
, the cryptic entries read. So, clearly, Miss Dunn accompanied Krause to Chile, Argentina, Barbados, Costa Rica, Cape Verde, the Seychelles, Sri Lanka. She flew with him to the annual board meetings of the Abou-Ghazi Foundation located in Monaco. And the records of the Foundation meetings Jaime accessed contained details on numerous projects that advanced the well-being of children in poor countries. A project in Costa Rica turned out to be especially successful and Miss Dunn went there several times with the banker to inspect it before staying on for a brief rainforest, bio-diversity filled vacation.

“But something about that foundation is fishy, Irv. Even though the flow of cash into it is huge, in reality diddley-squat gets spent. It mostly disappears into wacky banks in loopy countries.”

“I'm familiar with patterns like that,” the knowledgeable Czar said gruffly.

Krause travelled to places without Rachel too. Turkmenistan, Kazakstan, Kirghizstan, Ukraine, Russia, Georgia, Iraq, Iran, Sudan, Nigeria, Ghana, Congo, Philippines, North and South Korea. The log often showed a fellow traveller to African and west Asian countries after stops in Alexandria or Cairo. “Morsi Abou-Ghazi,” Jaime confirmed.

“I get it,” the Czar said. “The picture is clear. What we have is a typical, high-powered banker keen to finance every deal he can find which will draw on Germany's industrial might. Ever studied the structure of Germany's exports, Jaime? High-end stuff, I tell you. Packed with value-added. So he links up with a reliable outfit. Egyptians are no slouches when it comes to commerce. That Egyptian is probably expert at smoothing out the vagaries of customs authorities in all those rickety parts of the world. Makes sense from a business perspective. The cash must be sloshing in.”

“You said it. Humungous waves of it, mostly rolling into that weird foundation. What doesn't add up is the role of your young ambassador. She's a member of the Morsi Abou-Ghazi Foundation Board – no fee paid, expenses only. So she's overseeing money getting allocated to no end of do-good projects.”

“Rachel would enrich any board devoted to international progress.”

“Except, most of the projects are fake.”

“Fake? Why do you say that? Maybe not. Project execution is difficult even with good people.” The Czar, drawing on rich experience, said this with particular authority. “As for her private life, vacations in Costa Rica and the like, I can only say that she's smart, good-looking and unmarried, and there's no law that says she can't have a boyfriend. So she likes a banker? I was a diplomat when I met my future wife. Why shouldn't women set lofty aims?”

“Okay,” Jaime continued her calm reasoning. “Miss Dunn does some tumbling with a Berliner. Like you say, why not if he's a turn-on? But suddenly it's curtain time. Next she's hot for the Egyptian. That was six months ago.”

“Rachel in a relationship with an Egyptian?”

“Sure. Look at this.” Jaime scrolled through data on her screen with the Czar behind her looking over her shoulder. “The bank jet
stops landing in Geneva. Three, four months go by. Then suddenly she's a regular at the El-Salamlek Palace. What's she doing there? Your guess is as good as mine. Carson caught it with finesse.
Searching the horizon for a yacht. Waiting for its silhouette
.”

“Those visits could be bona fide, you know. She could be there for duties on behalf of that foundation. Anyway, the thing that worries me, the missing piece in all this, is Carson. What's his interest? Why does he keep this material on file? You know he likes to pull funny strings. My intuition tells me Rachel is being used.”

“Carson's been keeping tabs on the happy threesome, sure, but he's not part of it. No hot poop on him, Irv. Sorry. All indications are he's a straight shooter.”

Because that's the way he wants it
, were Heywood's unspoken words.
Like with a Punch and Judy show, he creates hidden plots, then makes his puppets dance
.

Jaime's debrief proceeded. Further disjointed bits of information, some drawn from Krause's student record at the LSE and Abou-Ghazi's at Yale.
Boring as hell
, thought Heywood. When Jaime started running out of steam, he thought his time had come. Cautiously he asked, “And I can study all these facts?”

Jaime shrugged. She wasn't really satisfied yet with what she had and answered with an annoyed little nod. “It's all posted in Zadokite Port too, Irv. All you need to do is look.”

The Czar continued smoothly. “Was it difficult? I mean, did you have trouble getting into the Berlin bank's database? And the records of Yale and the LSE? Did you do it the same way you broke into the files of the Dallas Police Department? I was impressed that day. I really was. It was great fun.”

Jaime looked up. “You shittin' me?”

“My child! I?” He had difficulty sustaining a look of innocence. In the darkened room he directed his gaze from monitor to monitor. The luminous boxes seemed to have transformed. They now peered at the Czar more like a row of sharp-eyed jurors. They made him feel queasy, so he closed his eyes.

“Irv,” Jaime ordered severely, “wake up. Why the sudden interest?”

The Czar bent forward. “I'll be honest, Jaime,” he whispered, eyes still tightly shut. “I need instruction.” With hands clasped
together, as if begging forgiveness for an unclean act, he looked up, first at her, then at the ceiling? “I don't know how to say this. I have an unusual request…I mean…for someone in my position…you know…having to model high standards…being true to my ethical responsibilities.”

“Cut out the crap, Irv,” Jaime said. “Crap leads nowhere.”

The Czar nodded. “No crap. You're right…” He paused once more. “What I really want…what I hope you can do…Jaime, please teach me how to hack.”

Jaime's carefree laughter resounded through the lab.
That's the sound of celebration
, Heywood thought,
the sound of a seal being stamped on a pact, and of the Devil triumphant
.

With undisguised mirth Jaime asked whether he wanted to learn her art so as to contribute directly to the high cause of maintaining the nation's security.

“Yes, yes,” he admitted quickly. “The fight against evil. Sometimes I feel lost. Your generation is so skilful at it. You live on the cusp of all embracing knowledge. You make progress effortlessly. But I often think: I'm not that much over the hill. I can still learn.”

These blurted words, this taking refuge in humility, had the effect of erasing Heywood's sense of moral lapse. Filling the vacated space was the prospect he desperately wanted, of being the resident authority on Ivy Crescent on all matters pertaining to the Internet.

“No probs,” Jaime said. “That's cool. My method's become pretty efficient. I've automated it a lot. I can give you a little stick to plug into your computer. The Zadokite Port program on it is called Viewing Made Simple. Carry it around in your shirt pocket, or on a key chain. Anytime you want to know something about somebody else, slip it into a computer, click on Zadokite Port, get on-line, ask a couple of clever questions and let my algorithms spin. With practice you'll get at almost anything.” Jaime's optimism infected Heywood. He broke into a broad grin. “Hey Irv,” she continued expansively, “when you get really good at hacking you can start up a business. Let's think of a name. Hmm…I got it.
Irving Heywood: Ace Voyeur
. Imagine that on your calling card.”

The Czar, leaning back and chuckling, was already indulging in the happy anticipation of soon having a first customer.

The many long years of pawing through paper files were useful preparation, Heywood realised, for what he was now learning. Files are files, and his knack for getting the most out of them – giving free rein to lightning bolts of intuition – was wonderfully transferable. Access to paper files had always increased as he moved up the Service hierarchy, and whenever that happened so did his pleasure that he'd now know more. Yet, as the joy level went up, so did anxiety. Because of what this knowledge expansion implied. The nagging question was always this: if each time he was promoted there were new files, were there still more, ones he knew nothing about? Who in his position would not feel insecure? But now, under Jaime's tutelage, the question was becoming moot because
all
restrictions were falling away. “Should have learned this long ago,” he would say curtly, as she showed him the finer points for gaining still wider access. “Quite the nipper, you are, Irv,” Jaime would reply. “Your fingers are on a tear on that keyboard.” And it was true. His fleshy hands were learning to dance with blinding speed. Had confidence tricksters observed it they would have marvelled at his skill.

Every day three hours were set aside for practice. They'd start with the easy pickings: some do-good organisations. “Let's get to the ones that promote political correctness,” was Heywood's opening gambit, because he had never admired that crowd. Step by step Jaime showed him how to get at them. The next easiest batch for developing good hacking technique were the journalists. “I love this,” he said, taking time to read e-mails, reports and feature articles in various stages of completion. “It's good to know I can have fun when I eventually retire.” Jaime suggested they have a go at the prime minister's office. “An inspired suggestion,” the Czar agreed. “Let's see if we can find out whether there's truth to the rumour that he's about to recall our ambassador in Washington.” Next came The Supreme Court, which was a disappointment, because they were expecting that getting into that network would be tougher. All the same, it confirmed that the exalted judges were spending much of their time being just petty rivals.

“You're getting the hang of it. Keep practising. Try it at home,” was Jaime's suggestion.

And thus Irving asked for, and received, Hannah's permission to use her new computer. “But darling,” she said, “of course you may use
it. It's there for both of us. Why ask? Go to Google if you want to locate something interesting.”

“Might do that,” he said nonchalantly. “And I'll take a peek at some of the international papers.”

“I've already bookmarked
The Guardian
and
The New Statesman
,” Hannah replied helpfully.

Heywood licked his lips. He inserted Jaime's memory stick into Hannah's computer. Its feel was different, not as light and responsive as the ones in Jaime's lab, not as instantly out of the gate.
Thoroughbreds are always unmistakable
, he thought. The noises were different too, and the keyboard was like punching away at an old upright piano. But it worked. And it being Saturday evening when entertainment is appropriate, Heywood had a plan.

First, a warm-up. He repeated a few practised moves. He followed the sequence of steps that popped up on his screen and in minutes found himself in the main records library of the Dallas Police Department.
Peek into a couple of cases?
he thought.
How many Texans are in jail so far this weekend for buggery? Was any of the evidence caught on video?

Next, something new. Why not the UN? Hannah's computer whirred as Jaime's program did the reconnaissance. Now click the button to activate a search for a valid PIN. Hey, presto. The previous day's correspondence of the Secretary General stood itemised on Hannah's screen.
Why that son of a gun
, Heywood thought when he clicked and opened a letter.
Making a private deal with the African Task Force in the Congo? We should know that. And this one too. Why does that dipstick SecGen want to go easy on Mugabe? Hadn't he learnt a lesson with Saddam?

“Irving, darling,” Hannah called from the next room, “are you enjoying yourself? Do let me know if you come across quality articles. Print them for me, won't you.”

“The usual dross, so far, sweet,” he yelled back. “The UN is dysfunctional. As if we didn't know.”

“Sounds beastly boring,” confirmed Hannah.

“Now some fun,” Heywood whispered to himself. “Let's see what the neighbours are up to.” Smiling like a demon he typed in an innocent e-mail to Gerry next door.
Hello Rita and Gerry. This is from the head
honcho one house over. I'm practising on Hannah's new computer and if you get this message it's proof I can run with the herd on the Crescent. Your dependable neighbour, Irving
. Heywood next activated a tagging function on Jaime's disk and then clicked “Send.”
Like a periscope
, he thought,
except this one is limitlessly extendable
. Heywood visualised his message speeding along: from his house to a telephone exchange, then maybe to a satellite high up in the sky, on to a server somewhere in the California desert maybe, from there through more wires and switches to the server Gerry had a subscription to. The message would sit for a while in a mail slot if Gerry wasn't busy on-line just then. A string of symbols, letters, numbers – an impressive list of routing data accumulated on his screen.
Oh lucky me,
Heywood thought when he saw the message hadn't halted yet. It was continuing onto the last leg of its journey, because Gerry was on-line and his e-mail was running. When the screen showed Heywood that he had arrived next door, he clicked again, and in less than a blink, Jaime's fancysoftware offered him a view of the inside of Gerry's computer. A final instruction would capture the image on Gerry's screen. Would Gerry be corresponding, sending grammatically incoherent pigeon-English e-mails to his friends? Or would he be on-line tending to his financial investments? Heywood savoured the moment.
Was snooping ever this delicious?