77

 

NATIONAL COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER, MONDAY MORNING

Rain pattered against the bulletproof windows of Andrew Canning’s office. Dead leaves scuttled along the ground outside, dank and depressing. He hated the slow prelude to winter. Slow death. It made him feel old, and he was only fifty-three. He sat defiantly in his shirtsleeves, scowling at the weather. He had his weekly golf game scheduled that evening.

He turned away from the window. The core of what he regarded as his Sheikh Ali team sat before him: Del Russo, Peters, Furlong, Zucker, and Southward, whom he had co-opted to CTC for as long as he needed her. By special arrangement, she traveled back and forth between Fort Meade and Tyson’s Corner.

Canning could see Southward was pleased with the arrangement. NSA must get a tad dry, and the woman was flourishing here at the sharper end. She seemed to be on a mission to get Sheikh Ali. Canning liked that. A zealot with brains. A rare combination, in his experience.

He eyed his team in turn.

“Briefing at the White House tomorrow at five,” he declared. “I’ll need to talk about Sheikh A. Give me something to take to POTUS.”

Del Russo, Peters, and Furlong all came up with versions of nothing new, some wordier than others. Southward shook her head, lips pursed in disappointment.

“We haven’t lucked out on the algorithms again. We’re trying, but no more successful intercepts.”

Moira Zucker gave Southward a pitying look. Displaying the big-game temperament that had accelerated her rise up through CTC, she had waited till last.

“As it happens, sir, I have something. It’s to do with the puts. I’ve been following the markets, seeing what gets registered, using some real useful software which flags up these specialized trades. More have been put on over the past ten days. And some shorts. Someone’s doing it with finesse, not wanting to overload the market. But it’s systematic, and it’s huge. This is the Big Player.”

“Excellent!” declared Canning.

“The trading pattern is extremely intricate,” continued Zucker. “Layer upon layer of nominee companies. I’ve peeled some more layers back, only to find yet more. Cunning sonofabitch, whoever put them on.”

“Recognize any of the nominees? Got anything real under the layers?” asked Canning.

Zucker curled her lip. “Yet again, Wall Street’s finest,” she replied, reeling off a list of specific names.

“Reallllllly…” Canning rolled out the word, stroking his shiny pate thoughtfully. He smiled. His desk warrior would get to play again.

“I might be able to help,” he said musingly. “In the meantime, I think we should get SEC more involved in this. At the small end. Let’s see what they have to say about our little player. They might have some extra insights. I got the feeling Bergers was holding back. We got the FISA warrant on Ronnie Glass?” he asked Zucker.

“Up and running as of nine a.m. this morning,” she replied. “I’m gonna start snooping soon as we’re through here.”

“And I’m gonna ring Troy Bergers at SEC,” replied Canning. “Might just make his Monday.”