68

 

NATIONAL COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER, WEDNESDAY MORNING

Andrew Canning was in a pacing mood. He felt like he had swallowed fire. Burning fingers probed his guts. Last night’s barbeque and today’s frustrations were an inflammatory mix. Up and down he went along his office’s windowed walls, glowering through the glass. He paused, turned to Moira Zucker, who sat immobile on the far side of his desk, following his progress with her eyes.

“Where are we with those nominee companies and the puts?” Canning demanded.

“Nowhere, sir,” replied Zucker grimly. “All I got is the three counterparties who put on the trades on behalf of the nominee companies. I’ve rung all three. They’re big banks. They won’t spill. They’re all citing client confidentiality and—”

“Fuck client confidentiality!” erupted Canning in a rare show of fury. “Which banks, exactly, put on the trades? Please tell me it was US banks.”

“Yes, sir. As it happens.” Zucker reeled off three US banks.

“Let’s give them a choice,” mused Canning. “They can cooperate, offer up whoever they are acting for, the identity beneath the nominees, or we get a court order, force disclosure.” Canning gave a broad smile, teeth gleaming. “Trouble with a court order is that it’s messy. Might even leak to the press that they’re acting for terrorists.…”

He hit his intercom. “Coop, get me Richard Bull on the line. He’s CEO of—”

“I know who he is,” cut in Coop. “I see his and his wife’s pictures in all the glossy magazines, at charity things.” Coop’s Southern accent made it come out “theeangs.” Canning smiled, waited. Five minutes later, Coop buzzed him. Bull was on the line.

“Mr. Bull, thank you for your time. I need a little information here, sensitive information,” intoned Canning.

“If I can give it, appropriately, it’s yours,” replied Bull in a tone of deep distrust.

Canning paused. “Mr. Bull, Dick, you’re a busy man. I’m a busy man. Wall Street might not sleep, but neither does terrorism. And me? I know which one I’m more afraid of … so let me make things simple for you.” Canning leaned forward over his speakerphone. He spoke softly, conversationally, his level tone quietly sinister. “I am investigating a planned terrorist atrocity. We have evidence that a financial transaction undertaken by your bank is directly related to that potential outrage, so, one way or another, your bank will need to divulge the identity of the organization or individual for whom you placed that trade.”

Canning waited, imagining his words spreading like the force field from a grenade. Even a desk warrior got to lob a few.

Bull gathered himself quickly. “All of our clients and counterparties are vetted, Mr. Canning. You must know that,” he replied, with rote-like monotony, deliberately omitting Canning’s title.

Canning smiled nastily. That just made his job even more enjoyable.

“So, let me get this straight, Dick, you are assuring me that there is zero possibility that any of your counterparties could ever be involved in a terrorist outrage, one that might cause thousands of deaths. You want to go on the record with this? You’d be happy with all that blood on your hands.…”

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Canning imagined the fury contorting the other man’s features. The aptly named Bull was a bully, as were many investment banking CEOs, and similarly unused to being on the receiving end.

“Give me ten,” grunted Bull, then the phone went dead.

*   *   *

Bull rang back after twelve minutes. Through what sounded like clenched teeth, he offered up the name behind the nominee company.

Canning wrote it down. “Thank you, Mr. Bull,” he said crisply, terminating the call.

Canning called the other two banks, applied the same pressure. Two hours later, both had yielded up the same name.

A beaming Canning called in Zucker.

He nodded at a chair. “Sit.”

He leaned forward toward her, smiling still. “Bull spilled!” he announced. “As I knew he would. So did Hackman and so did DelAcardia. Amazing what an appeal to naked self-interest can achieve.”

Zucker raised her eyebrows speculatively.

“Broke through the nominee walls, got the name,” announced Canning. “The same name in all three cases: one Ronald Glass, aged thirty-five, resident of Manhattan.” He reeled off the address.

“Way to go, sir!” cried Zucker.

Canning gave a mock bow. “Apply for a FISA warrant,” he instructed.

Zucker nodded. She scribbled the name down on her notepad. “Consider it done. Think he’s a terrorist?”

Canning stroked his bald head, looked intently at Zucker. “Probably not. But he’s gotta be connected in some way. Whoever he is, and whatever his agenda is, we’re gonna rock his world.”