Cyberstrike by James Barrington (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

about who can see what, when and why, and as a non-American citizen I’ve no doubt I wouldn’t even be entitled to look at a file cover, far less see what’s inside it. But if I’m going to be able to help you I will need an abstract or a summary of whatever leads you’re following. Ideally the names, addresses and if possible photographs of anybody your informants have fingered, something like that, just to give me somewhere to start.’

Rogers had nodded, then removed a thumb drive from his pocket, checked that the waitress was out of view and that nobody was paying them any attention. He slid the tiny memory stick across the table and as his fingers released it Simpson had deftly palmed the device.

‘You have got a laptop with you, I guess? Okay, I figured you’d need that sort of data so I prepped that thumb drive myself, with the approval of the director of the Counterterrorism Division, the man who’s more or less at the top of the FBI tree when it comes to this kind of operation. He’s a guy that I trust absolutely. That’s pretty much all we have, and it’s current as of about two days ago. Everything on it is copy-protected, so don’t try moving it onto your laptop because you can’t. It’s also password-protected.’ He’d handed her a thin slip of paper with about a dozen random characters written on it. ‘That’s it. Please memorise that as soon as you can and certainly before you leave this building. Then eat it. It’s rice paper and it doesn’t even taste too bad.’

Three days later Barbara Simpson had moved into a tiny studio apartment that had somehow been carved out of what had originally been a small two-bedroom flat in the Bloomingdale district in the northern part of Washington, not far from Howard University. It was a long way from the glamour and grandeur of Capitol Hill and the centre of DC, which suited her very well.

And for the next weeks and months she’d walked the streets of Washington, blending in with the crowds and watching. Always watching. She’d followed up the leads Grant Rogers had supplied and built up her own data files on an increasingly long list of persons of interest to her because of their behaviour and actions. She’d also identified links between certain individuals that the FBI hadn’t been aware of, and that she’d clarified to Rogers at their regular meetings in coffee shops and cafes.

But there was one particular link that really didn’t make sense to her and which she hadn’t told him about, simply because she was starting to think that she’d misinterpreted what she’d seen, or rather what she’d heard. In fact, she wondered if she’d seen something that wasn’t actually there, and the last thing she wanted to do was to raise it with the FBI only for it to turn out to be completely worthless. Or, worse, it could be a piece of disinformation, something deliberately planted to try to start an investigation designed to divert the Bureau’s attention away from the truth.

Trying to clarify that situation, she’d decided, was where she was going to have to concentrate her efforts for the next few weeks.

Her sixth sense had cut in, and she knew better than to ignore it.

Chapter 25

Heathrow Airport, London

Ben Morgan had been unsurprised to discover that as well as a British Airways ticket to Dulles Airport in Washington – predictably enough in economy class – he was also handed an A4 size manilla envelope emblazoned with a red cross on both sides, his name typed on the front and the flap sealed with wax. He guessed from his previous experience that inside would be a briefing document, most probably with a Secret classification if the envelope was any indicator. He had to produce his passport and sign a classified document register before the unsmiling man in the dark suit, presumably a courier sent out from either Millbank or Vauxhall Cross, would hand it over.

A few seconds later Natasha Black, standing right beside him at the desk, was given an apparently identical envelope in her name and was also required to sign for its receipt.

The anonymous courier nodded at them both, turned and walked away. Morgan and Natasha exchanged glances, both clearly thinking exactly the same thing, and looked at the British Airways official who had witnessed the proceedings.

‘I think,’ Morgan said, ‘that we would be more comfortable in premium economy or business class if that’s available, so can you please arrange an upgrade for us? We’re on official government business and we’ll also need access to a private lounge or office where we can read the documents that we’ve just signed for.’

The BA man – tall, slim, fair-haired, meticulously shaven and immaculately dressed – looked at their two economy class tickets still sitting on the desk in front of him.

‘A business class ticket includes lounge access,’ he replied.

‘That’ll do nicely,’ Natasha said, effortlessly taking control of the conversation. ‘We’ll leave you to sort out the tickets for us and we’ll go to the lounge now. We’ve got a lot of work to do.’

The man from BA didn’t look entirely happy at this turn of events, but he probably realised he’d to some extent been backed into a corner.

‘You need a business class ticket to get into the lounge.’

‘No problem,’ Natasha said breezily. ‘In that case we’ll wait here while you sort them out, but be as quick as you can about it.’

Slightly to Morgan’s surprise, about ten minutes later they found themselves seats in a corner of one of the restricted-access lounges. While Natasha used a nail file with a two-inch ceramic blade – an obviously highly dangerous and potentially lethal weapon that would no doubt be confiscated by airport security before they were allowed anywhere near the aircraft – to open up her envelope and extract the contents, Morgan organised coffee and a couple of plates of pastries and