The Crimson Code Page 6

  Jonathan nodded. "I agree."

  Wilhelm smiled. "I am told the Hunter is on the trail, Jonathan. He is closing in."

  Jonathan felt his heart leap as it had not leaped in years. "How close?"

  Wilhelm's smile broadened. "Let's discuss it with the others over the very fine meal my chef is preparing. I even have a bottle of that fine Riesling you enjoy so much."

  Jonathan forced himself to be patient, but it was not easy. That the quest might be completed in his lifetime! And if so, he knew exactly what that completion would trigger—and who would rake in the profits.

  6

  Guatemalan Highlands

  This was the dry season? Hah!

  The Hunter lay among the thick growth while rain dribbled onto his back. This was supposed to be the best time of year in this godforsaken country, but instead it was miserable. He supposed some weather forecaster would blame it on El Niño or something like that. As if it made a bit of difference on the ground.

  He'd been out here for weeks now, following some priest who was supposedly looking for the Kulkulcan Codex. His masters believed the priest would find it faster than the Hunter could. They, of course, were reckoning without adequate knowledge of the Hunter's exquisite interrogation techniques. But then, they wanted the priest, too, as if they suspected him of holding some special information apart from the Codex.

  His finely honed sense of people told him the priest was nowhere near finding the damn Codex. Even if that had been Lorenzo's mission, affairs had pushed him onto another tack. The Hunter hadn't experienced the least difficulty learning the story, even after all this time. These Indios had little to occupy them other than work, religion and gossip. They loved to talk about almost anything, but they particularly liked to talk about injustices against themselves and their fellows. The story of what had happened at Dos Ojos was beginning to take on all the proportions of an epic myth. Some were even murmuring that the bruja at Dos Ojos had made all the survivors invisible.

  The Hunter knew better than that. They were invisible, all right, but there was no magic involved. It was simply that they knew the ways of these mountains better than he ever could. No matter what he did, he always seemed to be two or three days behind these people.

  And as he plotted each campsite he discovered on his map, it began to seem to him they were moving in circles. Very big circles, but in no particular direction, unless you counted the miles they had put between themselves and Dos Ojos.

  He bit into a piece of jerky and watched the rain drip from the narrow brim of his olive-drab pork-pie hat. He prided himself on his skills, smarts and utter ruthlessness. But right now he was beginning to wonder if a bunch of ignorant natives were going to outsmart and outrun him forever.

  Neither his employers nor his masters would accept that. Either he found the priest and the Codex, or he died trying. There were no alternatives. Cursing silently, he pressed on into the jungle.

  Frankfurt, Germany

  Jonathan Morgan was pleased with his suite. While the Steigenberger Hotel was comparatively new, especially in a country where businesses proudly proclaimed centuries-old heritages, it offered both luxury and convenience, and had a well-earned five-star rating. Had he been merely a tourist visiting Frankfurt, he might have thought he had tumbled into a traveler's delight.

  But he was not on a tourist visit, and as he surveyed the faces of the other men in the room, he found himself unable to relax in the posh comfort of his accommodations. This was business, pure and simple. And it was an ugly business, at that.

  "So," the German said, "is your president prepared to use nuclear weapons?"

  "He seems resigned to the prospect," Morgan replied. "But this is hardly an easy decision for any man to make. He is a bold man, however. Once he accepts that there are no alternatives, he will move forward with our plans."

  "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."