79

 

NATIONAL COUNTERTERRORISM CENTER, TYSON’S CORNER, VIRGINIA

At Tyson’s Corner, the weather built. The rain sluiced down, weaving a series of rivulets on Canning’s windows, snaking, crossing, merging. Golf would have to be postponed, but Canning was bolstered by the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach that came with progress. Ronald Glass was their first break. It often took just one, then the chain could build, link by link, taking you right to the end.

Technology was a wondrous thing, and he had at his disposal an arsenal of toys that would have been deemed science fiction just a few years ago. Asymmetric warfare, another way of saying play to your strengths … the US had money, still, and technological tools at the razor end of cutting edge, but, just as important, it had agents with skills and brilliance and just the right measure of larceny in their souls. In this case, it was a measure of his own larceny that had served up Ronnie Glass in quick time, but it was technology that would slice and dice him, show all his hidden angles.

And in the meantime, a tad more larceny was called for. There were times when Canning felt like a mere administrator, a paper pusher, not even a desk warrior. The excuse to rattle some cages delighted him.

Through the morning, he made a series of further phone calls to a number of Wall Street CEOs. At noon he called in Zucker again.

He could sense her own larceny, see it in her eyes, veiled and proper, just occasionally unveiled for him in the safe sterility of his office. Every boss had favorites, couldn’t help it. Zucker was at the very top of his favorites list, seemed to know it too.

“Close the door,” he instructed.

“Sure,” she answered carefully. She folded herself into the chair, sat demurely, hands in lap, face uptilted like a child awaiting a favorite story.

“Amazing how cooperative Wall Street can be when the pressure’s really on,” Canning began, smiling broadly at his analyst. “Helps that we’re on the side of the angels tho,” he conceded.

“Always,” agreed Zucker. “So, tell me, sir,” she urged throatily.

“They sold out the next layer. Three names cropped up repeatedly. Canning named the banks.

“The Far East,” mused Zucker. “I’ll bet those banks are another layer in the cake. There’ll be yet another level of nominees underneath.”

“I’m with you. It’ll be harder to make them talk,” observed Canning, running his finger up and down his nose. “Might have to get creative,” he concluded.

Zucker nodded slowly, conveying with her eyes that she had taken his meaning perfectly. “There’s more than one way to peel an onion, I believe.”

The word hovered unsaid between them: hacking. The Chinese weren’t the only ones who excelled at it.

Canning nodded sagely. He didn’t say a word. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

As if to underline her point, Zucker removed her red-framed spectacles, laid them on Canning’s desk.

“Depending on how successful I am, we might have to get someone on the ground if it does turn out to be Singapore or China, depending on how fast you need answers,” she added.

“Let me think about it. We do not want to alert Mr. Big, whoever he might be, not until we’re ready to close him down. Time and discretion, usually enemies,” cautioned Canning.

Zucker smiled. She put on her glasses.

“I’ll tread softly,” she said, proving her point as she rose smoothly, turned, and glided noiselessly from Canning’s office, high heels soundless, even on the carpets worn thin in the corridor beyond.