“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