The Old Man(44)

He took a deep breath and then typed in an online transaction, a request for an electronic transfer of a hundred thousand dollars from an account belonging to Daniel Chase to the bank account of a corporation called Ellburn Holdings he had founded twenty years ago to store some of his money. He took another deep breath, and then clicked on the box that said SUBMIT.

He watched a circle of dots appear on the screen, rotate counterclockwise for a few seconds, and then vanish. “Your transaction has been completed. Thank you for your business.” It had worked.

He opened the next account, and began to type the names and numbers for the next transfer. He submitted the transfer, and moved on to the next account. Before long he was moving much larger sums, but each transaction was accepted. He left some money in each account to avoid any reaction that would be automatically triggered by his closing an account.

Next he opened an account that belonged to Peter Caldwell. The first transfer was another small one, a test. This transaction was successful, so he moved immediately to larger transfers. He kept at it until he accomplished what he’d wanted.

He restarted his computer to be sure that he had closed all of the communications with the firms he’d been dealing with, and then added up all of the transactions he had made. He stared at the screen for a few seconds.

The screen said: $22,000,800.

He heard Marcia’s key card slide in the lock and the bolt open. As she stepped in, he cleared the screen. “Hi,” he said. “Have a good swim?”

“Great,” she said. “You should have come. I’ll dry my hair now so we can go to dinner.”

“Good idea. I’m hungry.”

She went into the bathroom. As soon as he heard the hair dryer he began to look at maps on his computer screen. He studied one, then typed in another request, and then another. Then he found the one he wanted.

He plugged his laptop into the printer on the desk and typed: “To J. H.: It’s a deal. Here are the coordinates for the meeting on November 5 at 5:00 p.m.” He thought for a moment. Much of the money he had requested would have to be raised by liquidating securities. That often took seven business days. He added three days to be sure the proceeds were transferred and deposited in the Ellburn Holdings account: “November 8 at 5:00 p.m.”

Marcia emerged from the bathroom brushing her hair. “About ready?”

“I just have to put on my coat.”





16


Julian Carson stood at the cable car stop on Market Street in San Francisco. He had been in San Francisco before, so he’d known this place as soon as he found the coordinates on a satellite map. He was at the Powell and Market turnaround. Tourists loitered here because there was always some chance of getting a seat right after the cars changed direction. Maybe the old man was going to show up on the cable car. The old man would know a cable car was a good place to keep from getting shot, because the cars were full of people, and the stop where Julian waited was crowded.

Julian had not smoked a cigarette except as part of a cover identity since he left the army after Afghanistan, but he was smoking now, using the cigarette as a prop. It made him look older and a little defiant, and clearly not a government employee. He inhaled and let the smoke roll off his tongue and drift away. The strong bite of the tobacco reminded him that he was doing something he would regret.

He took a last shallow puff, exhaled through his nostrils, snuffed out the butt on the lamppost, and then threw it in the trash. As an afterthought he tossed the pack into the barrel after it, and then the matches. Instantly he felt bad. He could have given the pack to one of the three dozen homeless men sitting on the sidewalk on blankets and sleeping bags a few yards off. If the guy didn’t smoke he could have traded it for something—goodwill, maybe. They sure as hell needed that.

Carson looked at his watch. It was five fifteen. He had been waiting on Market Street for fifteen minutes already. He had watched the cars, scrutinized the windows of hotels and office buildings. He had scanned the groups of tourists and streams of locals going in and out of stores and other businesses, and seen men who could have been the old man but weren’t. Carson knew he had plenty of backup. His worry wasn’t that there wouldn’t be enough agents to snap up one citizen, or at least to spot and tail him. The worry was that they might have so many out here that the subject would spot them.

This wasn’t a normal target, some guy who had been a shopkeeper until he got obsessed with a fanatical movement and went off to another country for a few weeks of half-assed military training. The old man had been trained when a member of the special forces was an expert at moving unnoticed not only through jungles, but also through foreign cities. They all spoke several languages, could do some field surgery, and could operate any piece of hardware they saw. Julian could easily be a breath away, a heartbeat away, from having a bullet plunge into his skin and tear through his muscle and bone before it came out throwing a spray of red mist.

Julian was not afraid exactly, but he was aware that he had a reason to be. He had seen years of combat, and he knew that if the action started he would feel a moment of fear, just the taste of it he allowed himself. Then he would do what he could.

He was in the game now, and there was no way to back out. The men who had been in that hotel suite in Chicago for the meeting were very high-level operational personnel, and they had given him this mission. He had been foolish enough to accept. He could have shut up and said “yes, sir” and “no, sir” until they dismissed him. Or he could have resigned on the spot. But he hadn’t.