The Devil's Banker Read Free Page A

had his orders. “The Sheikh will show his appreciation.”
    “How?”
    Abu Mohammed Sayeed clamped his hand over the Indian’s, allowing his eyes to deliver the threat.
     
     
    Four hundred seventy miles above the Indian Ocean, an Intruder Geosynchronous SIGINT (signals intelligence) satellite, tasked by the National Reconnaissance Agency to monitor mobile communications in the Pakistan–Northern India–Afghanistan triangle, responded to an emergency override command. In the freezing infinity of space, guidance boosters fired for a half second. Rectangular electromagnetic phased array panels minutely altered their attitude. In an instant, the satellite’s field of surveillance, or “footprint,” shifted forty miles to the north and twenty-two miles to the east, and centered on code name Emerald’s last relayed GPS coordinates.
    Several minutes later, the satellite intercepted an open-air cellular transmission based in Peshawar with a respondent in Paris. Along with two thousand three hundred and twenty-nine other calls it had concurrently captured, the satellite’s transponders relayed the signal to a ground-based listening station at Diego Garcia, maintained by the U.S. Air Force’s 20th space satellite group. In real time, the listening station directed the signals to the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland, where the conversation was analyzed by a team of parallel-linked IBM supercomputers for any of a thousand “keywords” in one hundred languages and dialects. In .025 of a second, the supercomputer determined the call was of “strategic or military” value, coded it “urgent,” and forwarded a digital copy of the conversation to an analyst at the Central Intelligence Agency’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
    The analyst, realizing he was in possession of “real-time intelligence,” or information of an immediate strategic concern, phoned the deputy director of operations and requested a crash meeting.
    “Sixth floor. CTCC,” said Admiral Owen Glendenning. “Get up here on the double and bring me a copy of the call.”
     
     
    “So,” trumpeted Faisan Bhatia, reentering the office after a fifteen-minute absence. “Everything is arranged. The money can be picked up at Royal Joailliers. It is located at the Place Vendôme in Paris. Do you wish their address?”
    “Of course.” Abu Sayeed smiled secretly. The Sheikh had informed him that Bhatia would use Royal Joailliers. Royal called itself an “haute joaillier,” meaning that nothing in its satin-lined showcases sold for less than ten thousand dollars. The cartels were their best clients—Colombians, Mexicans, Russians—and it was their practice to keep unconscionable sums of cash on the premises. When Sayeed had written down the address, Bhatia inquired if he would like to provide him with the recipient’s name.
    “That is not necessary,” said Sayeed.
    “Very well. The recipient must use a password to identify himself. In this case, a dollar bill will do nicely.” Bhatia slid a worn U.S. banknote across the table. “You will take it with you. As soon as possible, I advise you to transmit the serial numbers on the lower left-hand side of the bill to the recipient. When he presents himself to Royal Joailliers, he must give them the identical numbers in sequence. Only then will he be given the money. There can be no mistakes. It is agreed?”
    Sayeed knew the rules of hawala well. The Sheikh had made use of the informal banking system for years to funnel funds to his operatives. “It is agreed,” he said.
    “May I offer the use of my telephone?”
    “I have my own.”
    “Very good, then. You will join me for something to eat. If I may say, you look rather done in.” Bhatia clapped his hands, barking an order to an unseen consort. A moment later, his wife entered carrying a tray with two porcelain cups and a china teapot. A younger woman followed, bearing a goat’s head upon a silver platter. In the cloying,