They took the stairs to the third floor, C wing, and were led by the staffers through a set of doors and into a suite of offices where they were obviously expected. Major Roland himself was standing by, waiting. He was about sixty, still looking trim and fit in his khaki uniform. Introductions were made, and he invited them into his conference room. At one end of the long, wide center table, three technicians were busy checking out a large computer that had evidently just been rolled in.
Major Roland asked Joel’s permission to have two assistants present. Certainly. Joel had no objection.
“Would you mind if we video the meeting?” Roland asked.
“For what purpose?” Joel asked.
“Just to have it on film in case someone higher up wants to see it.”
“Such as?”
“Perhaps the President.”
Joel looked at Clayburn, his only friend in the room, and a tenuous one at best.
“What about the CIA?” Joel asked.
“Maybe.”
“Let’s forget the video, at least initially. Maybe at some point during the meeting, we’ll agree to switch on the camera.”
“Fair enough. Coffee or soft drinks?”
No one was thirsty. Major Roland asked the computer technicians if their equipment was ready. It was, and he asked them to step outside the room.
Joel and Clayburn sat on one side of the conference table. Major Roland was flanked by his two deputies on the opposite side. All three had pens and notepads ready to go. Joel and Clayburn had nothing.
“Let’s start and finish a conversation about the CIA,” Backman began, determined to be in charge of the proceedings. “As I understand the law, or at least the way things once worked around here, the director of the CIA is in charge of all intelligence activities.”
“That’s correct,” Roland said.
“What will you do with the information I am about to give you?”
The major glanced to his right, and the look that passed between him and the deputy there conveyed a lot of uncertainty. “As you said, sir, the director is entitled to know and have everything.”
Backman smiled and cleared his throat. “Major, the CIA tried to get me killed, okay? And, as far as I know, they’re still after me. I don’t have much use for the guys over at Langley.”
“Mr. Maynard’s gone, Mr. Backman.”
“And someone took his place. I don’t want money, Major. I want protection. First, I want my own government to leave me alone.”
“That can be arranged,” Roland said with authority.
“And I’ll need some help with a few others.”
“Why don’t you tell us everything, Mr. Backman? The more we know, the more we can help you.”
With the exception of Neal, Joel Backman didn’t trust another person on the face of the earth. But the time had come to lay it all on the table and hope for the best. The chase was over; there was no place else to run.
He began with Neptune itself, and described how it was built by Red China, how the technology was stolen from two different U.S. defense contractors, how it was launched under cover and fooled not only the U.S. but also the Russians, the British, and the Israelis. He narrated the lengthy story of the three Pakistanis — their ill-fated discovery, their fear of what they found, their curiosity at being able to communicate with Neptune, and their brilliance in writing software that could manipulate and neutralize the system. He spoke harshly of his own giddy greed in shopping JAM to various governments, hoping to make more money than anyone could dream of. He pulled no punches when recalling the recklessness of Jacy Hubbard, and the foolishness of their schemes to peddle their product. Without hesitation, he admitted his mistakes and took full responsibility for the havoc he’d caused. Then he pressed on.
No, the Russians had no interest in what he was selling. They had their own satellites and couldn’t afford to negotiate for more.
No, the Israelis never had a deal. They were on the fringes, close enough to know that a deal with the Saudis was looming. The Saudis were desperate to purchase JAM. They had a few satellites of their own, but nothing to match Neptune.
Nothing could match Neptune, not even the latest generation of American satellites.
The Saudis had actually seen the four disks. In a tightly controlled experiment, two agents from their secret police were given a demonstration of the software by the three Pakistanis. It took place in a computer lab on the campus of the University of Maryland, and it had been a dazzling, very convincing display. Backman had watched it, as had Hubbard.
The Saudis offered $100 million for JAM. Hubbard, who fancied himself a close friend of the Saudis, was the point man during the negotiations. A “transaction fee” of $1 million was paid, the money wired to an account in Zurich. Hubbard and Backman countered with half a billion.
Then all hell broke loose. The feds attacked with warrants, indictments, investigations, and the Saudis got spooked. Hubbard got murdered. Joel fled to the safety of prison, leaving a wide path of destruction behind and some angry people with serious grudges.
The forty-five-minute summary ended without a single interruption. When Joel finished, none of the three on the other side of the table was taking notes. They were too busy listening.
“I’m sure we can talk to the Israelis,” Major Roland said. “If they’re convinced the Saudis will never get their hands on JAM, then they’ll rest much easier. We’ve had discussions with them over the years. JAM has been a favorite topic. I’m quite sure they can be placated.”
“What about the Saudis?”
“They’ve asked about it too, at the highest levels. We have a lot of common interests these days. I’m confident they’ll relax if they know that we have it and no one else will get it. I know the Saudis well, and I think they’ll write it off as a bad deal. There is the small matter of the transaction fee.”
“A million bucks is chump change to them. It’s not negotiable.”
“Very well. I guess that leaves the Chinese.”
“Any suggestions?”
Clayburn had yet to speak. He leaned forward on his elbows and said, “In my opinion, they’ll never forget it. Your clients basically hijacked a zillion-dollar system and rendered it useless without their homemade software. The Chinese have nine of the best satellites ever built floating around up there and they can’t use them. They are not going to forgive and forget, and you really can’t blame them. Unfortunately, we have little leverage with Beijing on delicate intelligence matters.”
Major Roland was nodding. “I’m afraid I must agree with the senator. We can let them know that we have the software, but this is something they’ll never forget.”
“I don’t blame them. I’m just trying to survive, that’s all.”
“We’ll do what we can with the Chinese, but it may not be much.”
“Here’s the deal, gentlemen. You give me your word that you’ll get the CIA out of my life, and that you’ll act quickly to appease the Israelis and the Saudis. Do whatever is possible with the Chinese, which I understand may be very little. And you give me two passports — one Australian and one Canadian. As soon as they’re ready, and this afternoon would not be too soon, you bring them to me and I’ll hand over the other two disks.”
“It’s a deal,” Roland said. “But, of course, we need to have a look at the software.”
Joel reached into his pocket and removed disks one and two. Roland called the computer technicians back in, and the entire group huddled around the large monitor.
A Mossad agent with the code name of Albert thought he saw Neal Backman enter the lobby of the Marriott on 22nd Street. He called his supervisor, and within thirty minutes two other agents were inside the hotel. Albert again saw Neal Backman an hour later, as he left an elevator carrying a briefcase that he had not carried into the hotel, went to the front desk, and appeared to fill out a registration form. Then he pulled out his wallet and handed over a credit card.