Kate slid the letter and its envelope into the shredder, which, after shredding, reduced the paper to ashes. First of all, she didn’t believe Ed Rawls; second, she was still extremely angry with him because of his betrayal of the Agency. He had been her mentor for all of her early career, and a close, personal friend.
She thought about it some more, and decided that she did believe Ed. But if Ed knew this guy, it would have been through work. She might even have known him, too. Still, they had run all the records of former employees of the technical services department and had come up with nothing. She buzzed her secretary. “Please call Harold Broward in personnel and ask him to come up here soonest.”
Broward appeared within minutes. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Harold, I want you to do another personnel search—same time parameters, but I want you to expand it from technical services to the whole of operations. Some of our agents have had the training it would take to pull off these murders, and I want to isolate all possible candidates.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How long do you need?”
“We’re talking about more files, but I’ll try to have something for you by the end of the day.”
“Bring all the files to me, just like last time, and we’ll go through them together.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Broward went back to his office, and Kate called Bob Kinney.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Morning. It’s occurred to me that some of our operational people have the training it would take to pull off these murders, so I’m expanding our search to other areas of the Agency.”
“Excellent idea,” Kinney replied. “I’ll look forward to the results.”
“I suggest you do the same at the FBI and at the other agencies you’ve been looking at.”
“I’ll issue the instructions immediately, Ms. Rule, and I appreciate your suggesting this.”
Kate hung up and tried to think about something else.
KINNEY WAS ANNOYED that he had not thought of this; it was simple enough. He called Kerry Smith in and issued the instructions.
“I’ll get on it, sir, and a man in computer operations has some information for you. Shall I send him up?”
“Right away, please.”
THE MAN LOOKED like no more than a boy. He had an awful haircut and a scraggly beard. The kid could not be an agent; he would never have made it through Quantico, Kinney thought. “What have you got for me? And skip the gobbledygook, because I won’t understand it.”
“Okay…” the kid began.
Kinney hated people who started sentences with “Okay…”
“Okay… this guy is very smart. He changes his setup daily, sometimes more often, which makes it harder for us to trace him back to his home server. But I’ve got it, now.”
“Let’s have it.”
“Have you ever heard of Sealand?”
“No. Sounds like a contradiction in terms.”
“It’s an island in the North Sea, off the coast of England.”
“What does this have to do with our suspect?”
“As I understand it, we don’t have a suspect, exactly, but let me finish.”
Kinney sighed.
“A few years ago a group of—I don’t know—anarchists, radicals, whatever…”
Kinney hated the use of “whatever.”
“… landed on this island, claimed it for themselves, and proclaimed it the Republic of Sealand. They waited for the Brits to come get them, so they could get on TV, but they didn’t bother, and they haven’t bothered since. So these people stayed on the island, and to support themselves, they set up an Internet support and cell phone service, offering confidential Internet access to individuals who didn’t want to be traced. It’s sort of like the electronic equivalent of a Swiss bank. Our guy’s website is based there.”
“Can you hack into it and find out who he is?”
“Well.. not yet is the best answer I can give you. It involves more than hacking into his website. That doesn’t contain his identity. It involves breaking into the Sealand company records for the information, and they have very good and constantly updated security software in place.”
“And, I suppose, he could be registered under a false name.”
“Possible, but not likely.”
“Oh? Why would he use his own name when he could use an alias?”
“Because the Sealand people are punctilious about checking out their subscribers. They don’t want to be liable for, say, protecting a pedophile or, as in our case, a murderer.”
“But by concealing his identity, they are protecting him.”
“Of course, but the way they see it, as long as he’s registered under a real name, they’re not protecting him.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“I didn’t say these people were logical, though they’ve been smart enough to succeed at what they’re doing.”
“Can we get a court order through the British?”
“Since they consider themselves a separate nation, they would ignore a court order, and it would require a good-sized police or military operation on the part of the Brits to enforce it. The Brits regard Sealand as something less than a flea on a dog, and, since the island isn’t much more than a rock in the sea, with no harbor, it has no strategic or tactical significance for them. There’s a case on record of Interpol’s trying to track down one of their subscribers, and they hit a stone wall with the Brits.”
“So what you’re saying is, that if we want the name and address of this murderer, we’re going to have to launch a military invasion of Sealand?”
“That’s about the size of it. And although the Brits obviously care nothing about Sealand, they might take umbrage if a foreign nation invaded what is, after all, British soil.”
“An international incident,” Kinney muttered.
“Exactly.”
“How does one communicate with these people?”
“They started their own cellular phone company some time back, and they’re plugged into all the usual networks. You can call or fax them—I can get the numbers—or you can email them.”
“All right, give my secretary the fax number, and thanks for your help.”
“You bet,” the kid said, then left.
Kinney dictated a letter to the Sealand Company requesting the name and address of the operator of the website, and gave his reasons.
“Fax it,” he said. “Let’s see what happens.”
28
KATE CLOSED THE LAST of the stack of files and looked at Broward. “It’s surprising how mundane are the lives of people who used to be spies,” she said. “We’ve got a man running a filling station in Arlington. Another is an innkeeper in Lynchburg. Still another is working for the NRA.”
“And not a single one of the twenty-odd people who are candidates fit the profile,” Broward said, “or would seem to have the time, the politics, or the inclination to be the killer.”
“Send them over to Kinney at the FBI and let him make that determination for himself,” Kate said. “He’s not going to take our word for it.”
BOB KINNEY closed the last of the files and handed it on to be passed around the table. “Has anybody seen anything in these files that he thinks would be worth investigating?”
His question was greeted with silence.
“I didn’t think so,” Kinney said glumly. “Anything of promise from any other agency?”
Smith spoke up. “The retired employees of the other agencies we’re canvassing are much less likely to have the kind of comprehensive training in multiple skills that the CIA employees have. All the other agencies, including the Bureau, rely on departmental units to supply the skills in things like explosives, and nearly all their attention is devoted to prevention, rather than action. The Agency is the only one that trains its employees to shoot, explode, and poison.”
“What about Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms?”
“Again, their emphasis is the defensive. The CIA operations department is the only offensive agency in government, outside the military, and we’ve checked with every special ops unit in every branch and checked out maybe a dozen likely candidates. We haven’t come up with a shred of evidence that could connect any of them to these crimes.”
“We’re adjourned,” Kinney said, standing up. He went back to his office where his secretary was waiting with a sheet of paper.
“Here’s your answer from Sealand,” she said, handing him the paper.
It was his own letter, upon which someone had scrawled in large, block capitals, “GO FUCK YOURSELF.”
“I guess that’s clear enough,” Kinney said.
“Have you read this morning’s
Post
?” she asked, handing him the paper.
“No.”
“Upper right-hand corner.”
British Prime Minister Arrives in D.C.
“He’s coming in this afternoon,” she said. Kinney read the piece. “Call the president’s secretary and request an appointment soonest.”
The president blinked. “You’re not really suggesting we send in the marines, are you?”
“No, sir, I’m not. I’m suggesting you raise the issue with the prime minister white he’s here.”
“You mean ask him to send in the Royal Marines?”
“I’m not sure what to ask of him, Mr. President. All I know is that these ridiculous people on this little rock in the North Sea might have the information we need to arrest the man who’s been doing these killings. Maybe there’s something he can do to help us get it.” He handed the president a copy of his letter to the Sealand Company with their scrawled reply. “They have not been cooperative.”
The president looked at the letter. “I guess not. Have your people tried hacking into their computers?”
“Yes, sir, repeatedly. Their security has, so far, been impenetrable.”
The president laughed. “Maybe we should hire them to work on White House security. Somebody got in last week and read some of my email.”
“The Bureau is working on that, sir.”
“All right, Bob, if I have an opportunity, I’ll bring this up with the PM, but don’t expect much.”
“Thank you, sir, that’s all I ask.”
IT WAS LATE, and the two men sat alone in the residence, their black ties undone, sipping brandy. Will thought that John Ridgeway, the prime minister of Great Britain, was a little worse for the wear. Must be the jet lag, he thought.
“John, I suppose you’re acquainted with this island off your coast called Sealand?”
Ridgeway laughed. “It wasn’t called anything until those people made camp there. Do you know they helicoptered in Porta-cabins?”
“What?”
“Prefabricated buildings. They choppered in a cement mixer and poured pads, then they sent in these buildings and put them together.”
“They must have financing, then.”
“I suppose. My people estimated they spent three, maybe four hundred thousand quid. We thought that at the first sign of cold weather they’d pack it in, but it’s been three years now, and they seem to be thriving.”
“Have you given any thought to ousting them?”
“Well, yes, but the consensus among the cabinet and the military is that it’s hardly worth the effort. Plus, we’d be fighting them in court for years, spending a lot of the people’s money. Why does this interest you, Will?”
“Well, we have a little situation with Sealand, and I thought I might mention it and see if you have any ideas.” He went through the problem.
“Yes, of course I’ve read about these murders, and it’s awful— even if the killer is eliminating your enemies.”
“A senator actually accused
me
the other day.”
“Good God! Was he serious?”
“He was preaching to the converted, as we say, getting in a dig to appeal to his right-wing constituency.”
“So this is becoming a real problem for you?”
“No one really believes that I have anything to do with the murders, but the fact is we have a serial killer on the loose, and the FBI and the relevant local law enforcement haven’t been able to track him down. He’s very intelligent and has left us without any traceable evidence.”
“I see. And you’d like me to ask my people to get this information for you?”
“If you can see a way to do it without causing an uproar in your press or otherwise compromising your personal position.”
“Gosh, I just don’t know,” Ridgeway sighed. “Let me talk to some people and see if anybody has a suggestion.”
“I’d appreciate that, John. I wouldn’t bring it up if I thought we had any other option—at least, at the moment. I mean, eventually, the man will make a mistake and we’ll catch him, but how many more murders is he going to commit before that happens?”
“Quite.”
WILL CLIMBED INTO BED, his bones aching.
“Was Ridgeway willing to help?” Kate asked.
“He says he’s going to talk to his people.”
“That sounds like a no.”
“Probably. When he gets home, he can drop me a little note saying that he can’t help. I suppose it’s easier than looking me in the eye.”
Kate almost told him about the latest letter from Ed Rawls, but she thought better of it. Maybe the Brits would surprise them.
29
ED RAWLS WAS WORKING at his desk in the library when his mail was delivered by a trusty pushing a metal cart. He picked up the stack—three magazines and a couple of envelopes—and set it next to the computer where he was working. He had intended to look through the stack later, but he recognized his own prison-issue envelope in the pile.
He picked it up and looked at it. NO LONGER AT THIS ADDRESS, NO FORWARDING ADDRESS, the stamp said. “Shit,” Rawls said aloud, attracting a frown from the librarian, a fiftyish schoolmarm type who Rawls had been screwing on a sofa in her office for two years, twice a week, like clockwork. “Sorry, Imelda,” he said.
“You must learn to control your language, Ed,” she replied, then went back to her filing.
Rawls finished his work, read the other letter, which was a fund-raising appeal from a Republican candidate, who hadn’t figured out yet that his box number address was the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. He threw that away, ripped the returned letter to shreds and put the pieces in his pocket, then he went back into the stacks as if he were looking for something.
He found the volume,
Songbirds of North America,
a book that had never been checked out of the library, and opened it. He had cut out the pages enough to allow him to hide a cell phone in the book. The charger was hidden elsewhere in the library. He switched on the phone and dialed a number.