The Zero Hour (20 page)

She paused. “I don’t know. You can’t stop maniacs.”

Taylor leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “All right. We noticed that you’ve been doing some deep background investigation into a New York banker named Warren Elkind. That seems a little outside your jurisdiction, unless there’s an OC connection I don’t know about.”

Sarah looked at him penetratingly. So that
was
it. “A prostitute who happened to be one of my key informants—helped me wrap up a couple of important cases—was killed. A call girl, actually, not a prostitute—in her line of work they make certain distinctions. Anyway, the Boston police have cleared the case, but I’m skeptical, to be honest. It appears that the call girl was hired to steal something—a CD-ROM disk, I believe—from this Elkind guy.”

“What’s the connection between Elkind and this prostitute?” Russell Ullman asked.

“A preexisting relationship. She did bondage-and-discipline sessions with him whenever he was in Boston. She was his ‘top,’ or dominatrix. His mistress. Someone who knew she worked for Elkind must have hired her.”

“What was on the CD-ROM?” asked Vigiani.

“I don’t know. Bank records, I’d guess. Obviously something pretty valuable.”

“But how do you
know
the call girl was hired to do this?” Vigiani persisted. “You haven’t talked to Elkind, have you?”

“No,” Sarah said. “Not yet. He wouldn’t take my call, actually. The reason I know is that I have it on tape.”

“Really?” Taylor said, hunching forward. “Phone cover on the prostitute?”

“Her answering-machine tape.” She explained how the tape was unerased.

“FBI Crime Labs,” Taylor said with a proud smile. “Best in the world.”

Sarah cleared her throat. “Actually, I had to go outside the Bureau. MIT. We don’t have the technology.”

“You have a transcript?” Taylor asked.

“Better than that,” Sarah said. “I have the tape right here. I had a hunch you’d want to hear it.”

After Sarah played the tape twice, on an old Panasonic that Ullman had rounded up from a nearby desk, Taylor said: “Now we’ve got a transcript we’d like you to take a look at.” He handed Sarah a transcript of the NSA intercept; the three were silent as she scanned it.

Sarah read with puzzlement. When she got to Warren Elkind’s name she looked up, then resumed reading. Once she finished, she asked, “Who’s speaking here?”

“We don’t know,” said Taylor.

“Where was the conversation picked up?”

“Switzerland.”

She exhaled slowly, looked around at the others. “The ‘target,’ as they put it, is either Warren Elkind or Manhattan Bank, or both. Elkind is not just one of the most powerful bankers in the world, but he’s also a major fund-raiser for Israel. A lot of Palestinians would probably love to see him roast in hell.”

Vigiani shrugged, as if to say,
This is news to you?

Sarah continued, “And this Heinrich Fürst, however it’s spelled, who’s ‘accepted the sales assignment’—what have you turned up on him?”

“Nothing,” Taylor said.

“Big fat goose egg,” said Ullman. “Under every variant spelling, every homophone, anything remotely close. Nothing.”

“Fürst…” Sarah said aloud. “You know, I do have an idea.”

“Let’s hear it,” Taylor said dubiously. “We’ll take anything.”

“Well, I spent a lot of time, when I was in Germany working SCOTBOMB, looking into timing devices for bombs. I talked to one colonel at DIA—an old guy, who died a couple of years ago—about an attempted coup in Togo in 1986. This DIA guy mentioned, really in passing, the name of someone thought to be involved in the Togo affair. He was a mercenary terrorist who went by the alias Fürst. One of many aliases this mere used.”

Taylor, who’d been massaging his eyes, suddenly looked at her.

Vigiani said sharply: “
Heinrich
Fürst?”

“Just ‘Fürst’ or ‘Herr Fürst.’”

“German?” Ullman said.

“No,” Sarah said. “I mean, the alias was, obviously, but not the mere.”

“Did you get a true name on the mere?” Taylor asked.

“No. Just that, and a nickname, sort of a nom de guerre.”

“Which was?”

“Well, the guy was good, really good, and apparently as amoral as they come. Brilliant, ruthless, every adjective you can come up with—top-notch in his field. A white South African—rumored to have once worked for BOSS, the old South African secret intelligence service. And some of his admirers called him ‘Prince of Darkness.’”

“Loves kids, dogs, Mozart, and walks on the beach,” said Vigiani dryly.

Sarah went on: “Well, my German’s pretty rusty by now, but doesn’t
Fürst
mean—”

Ullman interrupted: “
Fürst
—Prince—oh, Jesus.
Fürst der Finsternis.
Translates as ‘Prince of Darkness.’”

“Right,” Sarah said. “Just a possibility.”

Taylor gave a lopsided grin. “Nice. I think I’m beginning to understand why all the raves in your file. You’ve got a mind for this stuff.”

“Thanks. I did, once.”

“You still do. Now, if it’s true that our good Prince is really a South African, we should reach out to Pretoria. See what they have on anyone with this alias.”

“I’d—I’d be careful about that,” Sarah said.

“Oh, come on.” Vigiani scowled. “The new South African government is as cooperative as can be. If you think the guy used to work for BOSS, that’s where the answer will be. Pretoria.”

“Wait a second,” Taylor said. “What’s your thinking, Sarah? That it might get back to him?”

“I think we’ve got to consider the possibility—however remote—that certain
white
South Africans might be the ones hiring Herr Fürst.”

“White South Africans are out of power,” Vigiani said irritably.

Sarah gave Agent Vigiani a blank look. “I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” she said calmly. “Who do you think mainly staffs the South African intelligence service? White South Africans. Anglos and Afrikaners. And they’re not happy about how the rug was pulled out from under them.”

Vigiani continued to scowl. Sarah noticed that Duke Taylor’s brow was furrowed, so she elaborated: “Say we contact the South African service and ask about a terrorist who calls himself Heinrich Fürst. And some group within that service is in fact running this agent for some nefarious purpose of its own. Suddenly you’ve set off all kinds of alarms.”

Taylor grunted. “So if we’re not going the official route to Pretoria, that rules out both State Department channels and our new legat.” The FBI had sixteen legal attachés, or legats, in American embassies around the world, which exchange information with foreign police and intelligence agencies. For years the FBI did not have a legat in Pretoria, because of the sanctions applied by the U.S. government. Only recently, since the election of Nelson Mandela as president, had the FBI opened an office there. “We need to reach out and touch some people. Some trusted, private source.”

“Do we have a paid asset over there?” Sarah asked.

“Not that I know of. I’ll ask around, but I don’t think so. At least, not a paid asset high enough in the government.”

“Someone with whom the Bureau or the Agency or the government has a relationship, someone reliable?”

“We’ll have to shake the bushes. But the first step is to set up an elite, completely secret task force, Sarah, and I’d like you to be on it.”

“Where? In New York?”

“Right here,” Taylor said.

“I’ve got a little boy, remember?” Sarah said.

“He’s portable. Anyway, it’s summer. He’s not in school now, is he?”

“No,” Sarah said. “But I’d really rather not.”

Taylor regarded her for a moment in puzzled silence. In the old days—during the Hoover era—it was unheard of for an agent to refuse an assignment. In the old days, you’d be told, “You want your paycheck, it’ll be in Washington in thirty days.” They’d have said, “We didn’t issue you a son. You want him, bring him.”

“Agent Cahill,” Taylor said icily, “if our intelligence is accurate, we’re looking at a major act of terrorism that’s going to take place in New York City in a matter of weeks. You want to tell me what the heck you’re working on that’s more important, more urgent, than
that
?”

Surprised by his sudden intensity, Sarah sat up straight. She leaned forward and said, returning intensity for intensity: “You’re asking me to disrupt my life, pack up my boy, and move out of Boston for what could be weeks or months. Okay, fair enough. But to work here? In Washington? Why don’t we set up shop in Altoona?”

“Excuse me?” Taylor said incredulously.

Agents Ullman and Vigiani watched the exchange with fascination, spectators at a bullfight.

“If the terrorism is to occur in New York, we’ve got to be in New York. You want to do a search, that takes massive shoeleather. That means working closely with the NYPD. It’s crazy to be in D.C.”

“Sarah, all the resources are here, the computers, the secure links—”

“For God’s sake, I had secure links with the Bureau when I was in Jackson, Mississippi, just out of New Agents school. You mean to tell me you can’t do that in New York City? I don’t believe it.”

“Then you’re talking about running a secret Ops center out of 26 Federal Plaza,” Taylor said. 26 Federal Plaza was the headquarters of the New York office of the FBI.

“Why not take out a full-page ad in
The New York Times
?” Sarah said.

“
Excuse
me?”

“If you want to keep it secret, forget about 26 Federal Plaza. We’ve got to find another location in the city.”

“I take it from your use of ‘we’ that you accept.”

“With a couple of conditions.”

Vigiani shook her head in disgust. Ullman studied his notes.

“Such as?”

“We’re off-site, for one.”

“That’s incredibly expensive.”

“Look, we’re going to need a lot of phone lines, some secure phones. NYO isn’t going to have the facilities anyway.”

“All right. I’m sure the New York office has something available. What else?”

“I’d like to bring a couple of people with me. A friend of mine on the OC squad, Ken Alton. He’s a computer whiz, and we may need his skills.”

“Done,” Taylor said. “And?”

“Alexander Pappas.”

“Alex Pappas?” Taylor said. “I thought he retired a couple of years ago.”

“Last year, actually.”

“What would he think about going back on the job?”

“I could twist his arm,” Sarah said, “but I think he’d secretly jump at the chance. They called him in on TRADEBOM.” This was the Bureau designation for the World Trade Center bombing.

“Well, it’s highly unusual, but I suppose it can be arranged. All right. So you’re on?”

“Yeah,” Sarah said. “I’m on.”

“Good. Now, how about leading it?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The components of a sophisticated bomb are not difficult to obtain. Quite the opposite: the fuse components, wires, and fittings can easily be purchased at any electronics supply shop. Explosives and blasting caps are available at most construction sites.

But the fusing mechanism—the device that fires the bomb at a specified time or under specified conditions—is a far trickier thing. Often it is constructed uniquely for each bomb. It must function under set circumstances with a high degree of reliability. In fact, it takes a good deal of skill to construct a reliable fusing mechanism. For this reason, most terrorists or operatives would no sooner think of assembling their own fusing mechanisms than building their own automobiles. You can’t be expert at everything.

Baumann arrived in the small industrial city of Huy, in a manufacturing belt southwest of Liège, by sunrise as he’d planned. The proprietor of a stationery store directed him to the modern brick multistoried building that housed Carabine Automatique of Liège (CAL), a small manufacturer of assault rifles and related components that had long since relocated to Huy, but had kept its name. Although he had no interest in assault rifles, he had made an appointment to see the marketing director, Etienne Charreyron.

It had been easy to arrange the meeting. Posing over the telephone as a British subject named Anthony Rhys-Davies, Baumann had explained that he was a munitions salesman for Royal Ordnance, the vast British arms manufacturer that makes virtually all the small arms for the British military. He was, he explained, a military-history buff on holiday, making a tour of famous Belgian battlefields. But he was mixing business with pleasure and thought he’d stop by to meet Mr. Charreyron and discuss the possibilities of doing business with Royal Ordnance. It would not look at all strange for a businessman on vacation to be dressed in casual attire.

Mr. Charreyron, of course, was happy to arrange a meeting at any time convenient for the British salesman. The possibilities were irresistible. Charreyron’s secretary was expecting Mr. Rhys-Davies and greeted him cordially, taking his overcoat and offering him coffee or tea before showing him into Charreyron’s cramped office.

Baumann went to shake Charreyron’s hand and momentarily started. It was bound to happen, in the small and insular world in which he operated. He and Etienne Cherreyron had known each other years before, though under different names. This was potentially a disaster. Baumann’s head spun.

Etienne Charreyron reacted as if he’d seen a ghastly apparition. “What—you—I thought you were dead!” he gasped.

Baumann, who had quickly gained an outward semblance of composure, smiled. “Sometimes I feel that way, but I’m very much alive.”

“But you—Luanda—Christ Almighty—!”

For the next ten seconds or so, Charreyron did little more than babble and stare in horror and incomprehension. His secretary stood in the doorway, uncertain what to do, until he dismissed her with a wave of his pudgy hand.

Ten years earlier, Charreyron and Baumann had served together in Angola. A former Portuguese colony, Angola had since 1976 been racked by civil war, with the Cuban-supported, Marxist MPLA battling the pro-Western UNITA forces, aided by South Africa.

Baumann’s employers had sent him there to help orchestrate a covert campaign of terrorism. There he had met a bomb-disposal specialist who went by the nom de guerre Hercule, a mere who had once worked for the Belgian police.