“Yeah, well, sometimes you’ve got to count on a little luck. Think positive.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
In a great city like New York, Henrik Baumann was in his element. He disappeared easily into crowds, his appearance always changing; he made his arrangements, established his contacts, bought what he needed in absolute anonymity.
In the beginning he took a one-bedroom suite on the forty-first floor of the New York Hilton, in what they called the Executive Tower. There were less expensive rooms, and nicer hotels, but it was height he was after most of all.
He set up the MLink-5000 satellite telephone on the sill of an east-facing window and opened its lid to aim the flat-plate array antenna, checked the signal-strength meter, and readjusted the angle of elevation. Rather than use the handset, he plugged into the phone’s modular port a small fax machine he had purchased on Forty-seventh Street. On a table nearby he placed the cheap electronic typewriter he had bought at the same place, and several preprinted invoice forms.
For the first time he felt anxiety. The situation had changed.
He’d never intended to kill the FBI executive in charge of finding him, but the fellow had made it unavoidable. Baumann had done what he could to make the death look like a random act of violence. He had stolen Taylor’s wallet and with a silencer-equipped pistol had fired two bullets into Taylor’s head and throat. He had also removed from the briefcase the Airtel that listed members of the top-secret task force, but he took nothing else. Those investigating Taylor’s death would, he hoped, think that Taylor’s killer had not even gone into the trunk of the car. Even if they did suspect Baumann, they wouldn’t know that he had found the list of task force members.
In any case, the FBI had learned enough of his undertaking to form an investigative body to look into it. This was serious. There was now a possibility that the mission would be blown, that he would be caught. And for the first time he wondered whether he should go through with it.
He had already received a good chunk of Dyson’s money, and he knew he could disappear now if he had to and never be found. But he had never aborted a mission before, except on orders from above; men behind desks tended to be cautious, even fearful, by nature. He felt as if his work had barely begun. And he prided himself on his dexterity and cunning, his talent at remaining elusive.
The truth was, despite all the danger he felt sure he could forge ahead and not be caught. He had been hired to do a job-the largest, most ambitious undertaking of his lifetime-and he was going to do it. He knew he was the best at what he did; pride would not let him give up now.
So he turned his attention to where the leak might have come from. There were loose ends-there were always loose ends, you could not work in a vacuum-but he thought it unlikely the leak had come from his end. True, the bomb-disposal expert in Liège was aware of a small part of his operation, the nature and operation of the bomb. But he knew very little-and certainly not enough to have been the FBI’s source.
No, the leak had to have come from Malcolm Dyson’s team. The question was whether someone of Dyson’s associates had been bent, or their security had been compromised.
Assuming the first possibility-that one of Dyson’s people had talked-then the operation was as good as over. Godammit to hell, that was exactly why Baumann didn’t trust groups! If this was correct, then Baumann would know soon enough. He would proceed as planned, but with even greater caution, and prepare to abort the mission if need be.
But what if the leak had not been human but mechanical, technical? A tapped fax or phone call, a bug in Dyson’s offices? The Russians, the British, and the Americans all had the facilities to listen in on telephone conversations by means of satellites. But Dyson and his people would never talk on open lines; Baumann had specifically instructed them on this point. Yet what if Dyson’s people had spoken openly over amateur equipment, encrypting telephones bought on the commercial market?
This was possible.
It was utterly inconceivable that his one, brief satellite communication with Dyson had been the source of the leak, since he had said only a few words and had not been at all explicit. Yes, the CIA and the NSA and GCHQ had the ability to use a spectrum analyzer to pick up this SATCOM’s characteristic signal. But why would anyone be so motivated?
Baumann had learned through bitter experience how dangerous it was to communicate by even “secure” communications, and he tried to keep doing it to a minimum. When the Libyans had hired him to bomb the La Belle disco in West Berlin in 1986, they had been foolish enough to send a “secure” message from Tripoli to East Berlin predicting a “joyous event” to take place at a club in Berlin. The Americans had intercepted the message and had frantically tried to close down clubs in Berlin, but didn’t know which one was to be hit. The operation was almost blown, and Baumann was furious. Since then, the Libyans communicate only through couriers, human-to-human contact, the only safe way.
To use the SATCOM again was a risk, but a small one. Still, he would have to take extra precautions now. This would be his last telephone call to Dyson, unless there was a great emergency.
Hence the secure fax machine.
Baumann placed a secure call to the bank in Panama City, which confirmed that the second 3.3 million had been wired to his Liechtenstein account. Excellent; exactly one week remained until the strike date. Dyson had not been tardy with the money. Then again, 3.3 million dollars here and there was pocket change to Malcolm Dyson.
He then called the Liechtenstein bank and purchased slightly less than 6.6 million U.S. dollars’ worth of gold bullion. He lost a few thousand dollars in the transaction, but it would be worth it in the long run.
Then he wrote out a message, which began: LEAK YOUR END. AMERICAN INTELLIGENCE PARTIALLY KNOWLEDGEABLE. THOROUGHLY SWEEP HOME, OFFICES, COMMUNICATIONS EQUIPMENT, CHECK PERSONNEL. DON’T USE TELEPHONE. I WILL BE OUT OF CONTACT. He ended it: HEREBY ACKNOWLEDGE RECEIPT SECOND PAYMENT.
Using the red-plastic-bound Webster’s pocket dictionary he’d bought in Paris, a twin of which Dyson had, he encrypted the message by means of a simple substitution cipher and typed it out on one of the preprinted forms. The text appeared to be an authentic-looking invoice requesting prices on a list of things-item #101.15, item #13.03, and on and on. Dyson alone knew this referred to page 101 in the dictionary, fifteen major words down on the page, etc. This simple cipher was almost unbreakable.
Baumann had set a five-minute window for Dyson to fax a similarly encoded reply. He ordered a room-service lunch, took a brief nap, and once again set up the MLink-5000.
Precisely as the five-minute window began, his SATCOM blinked to indicate an incoming signal, then the fax machine warbled and out came Dyson’s reply.
He read it, and then, in the glass ashtray, burned it and all the other pieces of paper he had used. He flushed the ashes down the toilet, then went out for a stroll.
Christine Vigiani had been tasked to be liaison with the National Security Agency. In reality, this meant one thing only: find out whatever she could about the intercepted telephone conversation, and urge them to get more. Sarah had arranged to have her cleared at a high enough level to read the NSA telephone intercept.
Not only is the NSA notoriously secretive, but it is disinclined to share with rival agencies more than it absolutely must about its sources and methods. Vigiani was having a hell of a time finding anyone at NSA who knew what he was talking about and had the authority, or the willingness, to talk.
Finally, an NSA analyst named Lindsay called Vigiani on the STU-III secure phone. He was cordial and seemed familiar with the satellite intercept in question.
“The first thing we need to know,” Vigiani said, “is whether you captured the telephone numbers of the caller or the recipient along with the conversation.”