Fly by Wire

Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN

Coyle burst down the hall to the Oval Office, but came to an abrupt halt at the entrance. Two Secret Service men blocked a door shut tight. A woman at a nearby desk controlled access, and Coyle pleaded his case. She knew who he was, so she got on the phone. The door opened thirty seconds later.

Coyle found a strange scene inside. President Townsend, Martin Spector, General Banks, and Darlene Graham were all in the room. And they all had stunned looks on their faces.

"What's happened?" Coyle asked guardedly.

Graham was the first to leave her stupor. "The Iraqis found Caliph."

"That's wonderful news!"

No one reacted.

"Isn't it?" he prodded weakly.

"He was taken alive," Graham said, "but there's a problem."

"A problem?"

"Remember, Dr. Coyle, I told you that we tried to take him out about two years ago?"

Coyle nodded.

"Well, General Banks was right about the soldier who took that shot — he didn't miss. Caliph took a bullet in the head. He wears a wrap around his skull now — that's how he has appeared in every recent picture."

Banks said ruefully, "I can't believe I didn't pick up on it. And he always had that damned vacant look in his eyes."

Coyle thought about this. It was true. Caliph always wore something on his head.

Graham continued, "The damage doesn't appear all that bad, at least not on the outside. Caliph has had some work done. In fact, it was his plastic surgeon who gave us the location. But the man has suffered severe brain damage. He can't speak, barely walks. And he doesn't seem to understand a thing that's said to him."

The president said, "So all those Web postings, they really were a PR campaign. That's why there was never any video or audio. His image has been kept alive to retain support, to keep his networks strong — with the distinct advantage that Caliph himself, such as he is, could be hidden indefinitely in a dirt cellar in Mosul. "Townsend leveled his eyes on Coyle. "Dr. Coyle, didn't you say something about Caliph not being responsible for all that's been happening?"

Coyle had almost forgotten why he'd come. "Yes, I did. And now I can back it up."

He laid out the financial patterns he and Marta Ventrovsky had uncovered. He told how a group of men had been making huge financial plays on markets all over the world and explained that they had spent years putting themselves in position to benefit from the refinery strikes.

It jolted the room back to life.

Townsend said, "So you think this entire series of attacks was done for profit — not ideology?"

"Not completely," Coyle cautioned. "Those men and women who dressed in explosives and threw themselves at crude oil furnaces — they were clearly after religious martyrdom. They were the soldiers. But after hours of research, I think my team and I have identified the creators of this entire disaster."

"Who the hell are they?" General Banks demanded.

"There are six," Coyle said. "The names would mean little to you, but their titles are much more relevant. As you all know, certain oil-rich countries have been amassing tremendous wealth in recent years. However, realizing that there will someday be an end to this sole means of support, they've begun to diversify, investing in natural resources, corporations, universities. Even building entire cities from scratch."

Spector said, "But what does that have to do with wrecking refineries? No oil-rich country would do that."

"Mind you," Coyle said, "I am not talking about countries. The tool of choice for investing oil-derived dollars is the sovereign wealth fund. These funds hold incredible reserves of capital and are essentially unregulated, allowed by their respective states to be run by any committee or individual who can show a good return on investment." Coyle looked at the president, saw that his attention was full. "We have identified a network of six individuals who are in line to benefit from these attacks, by a very conservative estimate, to the tune of one hundred billion U. S. dollars."

"A hundred—"

"Billion," Coyle repeated. "These individuals are the principle actors of sovereign wealth funds involving five countries — Russia, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, and Abu Dhabi."

"I thought you said six," the president remarked.

"The sixth is a Swiss national. I would place his skill more in the category of obfuscation. He is a lawyer, an expert with shell companies, offshore banking, wire transfers. For anything dirty, he creates institutional rinse cycles."

"Not expert enough," the president said. "You found him."

"But I knew where to look. Once we spotted one of these fellows, the others came easily. You see, aside from managing vast amounts of wealth, these six individuals have one very significant thing in common." Coyle paused. "They are the board of directors of CargoAir."

"You can't be serious!" Spector cried out.

The others only stared in shock.

Darlene Graham was the first to apply the knowledge. "You're saying that this entire series of disasters was instigated by… by a handful of billionaires looking to get richer? We're talking about the board of directors of a major multinational corporation. You expect us to believe this, Dr. Coyle?"

"I am only delivering die facts as I know them, miss. I will leave it to you to decide what they mean."

Graham said, "There's no way men of such stature could have operational control over a terrorist organization. They wouldn't get their hands that dirty. And on the other side of it, no suicide bomber is going to sacrifice himself for a bunch of financiers."

President Townsend said, "I agree, Darlene. But… could there be somebody in the middle who's joining the two? Bringing them together in such a way that they don't even realize it?"

General Banks said, "It would have to be somebody very, very clever."

"And if it's not Caliph," Graham added, "then who?"

Fatima Adara stood admiring her work.

In a technique she had devised years ago, two layers of screen now covered the room's only window. It would make her nearly invisible from the outside. The telltale muzzle flashes would be muted, nothing more than what might come from a flickering television in a dark room. Yet she could see outside with just enough clarity, just enough precision to complete her objective.

She had used nails along the inside frame, small gauge to keep the pounding to a minimum. The tattered old window curtains were pulled aside. As for the window itself, Fatima had lubricated the ancient metal hinges and exercised its swing mechanism until the action was smooth — probably better than it had been in forty years. Presently, the window was closed to hold the heat, but soon Fatima would open it. When the time was right.

She checked her watch and saw that slightly over an hour remained. This was her final errand, the last act of her commission. Yet there was also a degree of self-interest. The man whose life she was about to end could give her trouble, one of two who might piece together the measure of her duplicity. The other was the Swiss doctor, a man too smart for his own good. You are the terrorist, Caliph, he'd said. Those words had sealed his fate.

Many others knew half the puzzle, saw bits of reality, but could have no way of discerning the entire truth. To misdirect the elders in Damascus had been simple. Indeed, they were simple men. Their awkward affiliation reminded Fatima of a movie she'd seen in which a group of Italian Mafiosi had met — preening crooks, brimming with false confidence, joined for a dubious cause. The atmosphere in Damascus had been useful. Civility on the surface, but swift undercurrents of distrust. So worried about one another, the men had never bothered to notice Fatima. And on the other end were the financiers, men not accustomed to dealing with ruffians. Men who simply paid for results, not caring how things were done. Or by whom.

Minutes earlier, Fatima had taken a call from Mosul. She now knew that the mystery of Caliph had been solved, though this had been inevitable. Today it no longer mattered. Fatima had no further use for her brother, and his captors would find only a shattered mind. Caliph could give them nothing. Her plan was working more smoothly than she had hoped. Events were running — she tried to remember the American phrase — "on autopilot" now. Fatima Adara, nee Fatima Taim, had to smile. She cared little if this insane plot succeeded. Deep in the vaults of a half-dozen banks across the globe, Fatima had what she wanted. What she deserved.

She edged to the window and looked out. There were still no lights in the flat across the street. Fatima trundled across the room and ended up in front of a full-length mirror that was mounted on the bathroom door. The lights were set low, a condition she had always preferred. But soon this would change. She had seen the doctor's results, seen his work on Caliph. He was good. Fatima put a hand to her gut, then let it run up over her breasts, shoulder, neck, and finally to her face. She stroked her flabby jawline, pulled a trestle of coarse black hair behind one ear. She fantasized briefly about buying designer clothing, custom-tailored garments of the highest quality. Perhaps she would have her hair done properly by a high-end coiffeur. So many possibilities.

She had been thinking about it more and more, ever since visiting the Geneva office where her transformation would take place.

Dreaming about what the surgeon could do. He had emphasized the magnitude of change possible, told her how different everything might be. And even if things were not perfect this time, there were other doctors. All Fatima had ever needed was the means, and now she would have it, enough to begin life anew. As if reborn. In the tall mirror she stared deeply into her own eyes, black pools in the dim light, and tried to divine if she really believed it.

Fatima turned away from her reflection and went again to the window. The room across the street was still dark. Her gaze dropped and she searched the street for her target. She saw only late night revelers, men and women heading for the nightclub district two blocks away. She spotted a skinny young woman in a thin dress strutting along. Without a coat, she must have been freezing. But the men looked at her openly. This Fatima had never known. She had never been one of the pretty girls. When Fatima turned heads on the sidewalk there were never leers or brazen invitations — instead, she took snickers and filthy comments.

She moved to the middle of the room where a pile of furniture sat neatly stacked. A solid desk would serve as her seat, and next to it she had placed the heavy closet shelf between two big chairs. It was a sturdy arrangement, but she checked again for stability. There could be no movement, no wobbling of a leg when she distributed the weight of her arms and the weapon. The rifle was her preferred Dragunov SVDSN, a compact variant of the base Russian weapon with a ten-round magazine, night sight, and custom sound suppressor. The load was a standard 7.62mm steel jacket projectile, lead core for maximum effect. At a range of ninety meters, the target would be unusually close. But Fatima never took chances.

In Iraq, Caliph had always been at her shoulder, though he wasn't any better a spotter than he was a marksman. Still, he had always been there — watching, preparing his firsthand account so that he could later take credit for her work. In spite of being good at the shooting, Fatima had never particularly liked it. Her first kill was from a mosque tower in Mosul, an American soldier. She'd taken the young man as he stood in the street talking to a child. It was in her thoughts for a time — what the child must have seen — but in the end Fatima decided this was the nature of things. With each new kill her thoughts drifted less. And with each new kill her brother's legend had grown.

" Caliph the marksman," she spat under her breath.

That her brother was now damaged gave Fatima no grief. In the end, he had become insufferable, awash in his own legend as a sniper, even if he could not hit the broadside of a camel from twenty paces. For all his ineptitude behind the trigger, however, the great Caliph was not without strengths. He was handsome, and exuded power and authority. It was, of course, all a swashbuckling facade. At base, he was a coward. It had been that way since they were children, Caliph taking credit for Fatima's accomplishments. There was really no other way in a society where women were granted so little respect — and even more so for women who were physically unattractive. Caliph was seen as the leader, while she was simply not seen.

Fatima the Invisible.

It was a terrible way to go through life. But a distinct advantage for certain applications. She looked out the window and saw night coming full. It was then that she first noticed a single, very faint light coming from the flat across the street. Fatima picked up the gun and trained it on the source. What she saw through the scope was dim and rectangular.

A computer screen.