Another overt attempt, in broad daylight and in a crowded part of town this time.
Things were spiraling out of control.
He had to move with care.
Corben had walked him down to his office after their initial meeting with the ambassador the day before. He’d sensed that Corben wasn’t going to be particularly open or forthcoming, but then he expected that, given what the man did for a living. Obfuscation and deceit were to be expected. These guys couldn’t even share information with other law enforcement agencies. Still, Corben had agreed to let him check out the Polaroids, and seeing the photo of the codex had confirmed his suspicions. The two events — the call from the scout in Iraq, out of the blue, a little over a week ago, telling him about the book, and Evelyn’s call to the Haldane switchboard, five days later — were connected.
He played things out in his mind and didn’t doubt that whoever had kidnapped Evelyn Bishop was after the same thing he was. Someone else out there had, somehow, found out about it and was clearly willing to do whatever it took to get his hands on it.
Which complicated matters for Kirkwood.
He had some strong cards to play. But they involved trade-offs, and besides, he wasn’t sure he’d be given a chance to play them.
He pulled out his mobile phone and, making sure no one was within earshot, hit a speed-dial key. It took a few seconds for the signal to bounce off a couple of satellites before the slightly crackly, foreign ring-tone whined through. Two rings and it was answered by a man with a beefy, throaty voice.
“How’s it going?” Kirkwood asked.
“Fine, fine. It took a bit longer than expected to get across the border. So many people trying to get out of here. But it’s fine now. I’m on the way.”
“So we’re still on schedule?”
“Of course. I should be there in a few hours. We’re still meeting tomorrow night, as agreed?”
Kirkwood wondered whether a change of plans was merited, but decided to stick with what they’d agreed. The timing was probably right anyway, and besides, he didn’t really see a shortcut that didn’t present dangers or complications. “Yes. I’ll see you there. Any problems, you call me immediately.”
“There won’t be any problems,” the man answered cockily.
Kirkwood hung up, wondering if he’d made the right decision.
He looked out the window and thought back to Mia Bishop. He’d watched her earlier as she’d followed Corben into the annex.
The firmness in her step surprised him, given what she’d just been through. He wondered what was going through her mind, how she felt about being dragged into this. More important, he knew she was the last person to see her mother. How close were they? Did Evelyn confide in her? Was the young geneticist telling Corben everything she knew?
He needed to talk to her.
Preferably, without Corben present.
Chapter 37
Corben hurried up the stairs to the third floor, headed for the communications office. It was past nine thirty, and Farouk’s call was due in a under three hours’ time.
He’d already called Olshansky from the car and told him to start working on the tap.
The briefing hadn’t gone too badly. They were letting him get on with things, which was all he needed right now. Kirkwood had sat back and hadn’t asked any obtrusive questions.
He found Olshansky in his batcave, sitting in front of an array of three flat-screens. Muffled sounds and the occasional garbled voice were coming from the computer’s speakers. The middle screen had a number of open windows. One of them was a rolling graphic display of a waveform plotting the noise. Under it was what looked like an on-screen synthesizer, which Olshansky was manipulating using the keyboard.
“How are we doing?” Corben asked.
Olshansky didn’t look up, his eyes riveted to the screens. “I’ve managed to download the rover into his phone, but so far, I think it’s still stashed in someone’s pocket. It’s just garbled mumbo jumbo.”
Olshansky’s predecessor had hacked into the computers of Lebanon’s two cell-phone service providers without too much difficulty. Having a few of its employees on the payroll probably helped. Corben was hoping to use that access to listen in on what was going on within the pickup range of the microphone on Ramez’s cell phone, using a “roving bug,” a remotely activated wiretap. The technology was alarmingly simple.
Most cell-phone users didn’t realize that their phones weren’t necessarily fully powered down, even if they were switched off. You just needed to set the alarm on your phone for a time when it’s switched off and watch it light up to see that. The FBI, working with the NSA, had devised a surveillance technique — though it denied any existence of it — that allowed it to remotely download eavesdropping software onto most cell phones. This software would then enable the phone’s mike to be switched on and off on its own, anytime, remotely and surreptitiously, effectively turning the phone into a bug, whether the phone was powered up or not. They didn’t even need to have physical access to the phone to set it up. It was a clever evolution of an old and simple technique that was pioneered by the KGB, which involved upping the voltage on a landline just enough to activate the phone’s mike even when it was on the hook.
Corben listened to the noise coming from Ramez’s phone. It sounded like fabric rubbing against the phone’s mike, as if the phone was in someone’s pocket. In the background, some distant voices were barely audible.
“Can’t you boost the voices?”
“I tried. The distortion’s across the range. I can’t isolate them.” He shrugged at Corben. “This is as good as it gets right now.”
Ramez couldn’t stop shivering. His chafed wrists pulsed against the plastic straps, the constant movement generating an irritating, burning sensation. At least, that’s what he imagined was happening. He couldn’t see out of the burlap sack covering his head.
They’d shoved it on seconds after stuffing him into their car, then — not that he’d resisted — they’d sadistically thrown in a couple of heavy punches to his face for good measure before pushing him down to the footwells of the backseat and pressing down on him with their shoes to keep him there.
The ride hadn’t taken that long, and although being in that car — with his head covered in that stinking sack, the occasional stomp to the ribs, and the muffled sounds of the city wafting by — was horrific enough, he would have preferred it to drag on if it meant delaying his current situation.
They’d dragged him out of the car, into an echoey building and down some stairs, then thrown him into the chair and strapped him in. The maniac with the concrete knuckles couldn’t resist landing another blow, which was all the more terrifying as, like those before it, it came unannounced, exploding onto his face through the stifling darkness of the sack.
He could hear occasional movement, footsteps around him, and there were voices a bit farther off, men’s voices. The accent was unquestionably Syrian, which didn’t bode well — not that anything else did. His mouth quivered as he tasted the sweat that trickled down his bruised face and mixed with the blood from his cut lip. The sack, which reeked of what smelled like an ungodly combination of rotten fruit and engine grease, wasn’t entirely opaque. A few tiny pinpricks of light found their way in, not enough to see anything, just taunting him with a hint of the outside world without allowing him any advance warning of the occasional incoming blow that his captors seemed to enjoy randomly inflicting upon him.
His body went rigid as he heard footsteps coming right up to him. He could feel someone’s presence, inches away, studying him. The silent shadow blocked out any light from outside, making Ramez’s world even darker.