Spider - Michael Morley [90]
Howie blared his horn at some idiot tourist trying to drive and read a map atthe same time. ‘Get afriggin’ cab next time, you friggin’ moron!’ he shouted.
Jack laughed. ‘Nothing’s changed then?’
Howie laughed too. ‘Nothing at all, buddy. As you can see, it’s the New York you always loved.’
The drive was good for Jack. It helped acclimatize him and sharpen him up for what lay ahead. ‘I caught the footage just before I took off,’ he said. ‘Grim stuff. You got anything new on it?’
‘A little something,’ said Howie. ‘Fernandez and I went to see this jerk Tariq. He was a gold-plated asshole to start with but we scared him about a bit and then he coughed more than a cancer ward.’
‘He briefed up?’
‘Yeah, some smart Alec, but he was no problem. Seemed BRK posted Tariq a mail with a website hyperlink and a password, and that’s how he got the footage they’ve been putting on air.’
‘We’re running webmaster traces?’
‘Of course, but both you and I already know a twelve-year-old can build sites this simple. BRK will have used a false identity when he spoke to the hosting service. He’s sure to have uplifted only the most innocuous of video during the testing phase. He will have waited and only made the real stuff available on the day he sent that electronic mail out to Pan Arabia. Tech boys think it’s dongle encrypted.’
‘Say what?’ said Jack. ‘Is that like catching your dick in your zipper?’
Howie laughed. ‘It’s a computer coding trick that makes the footage available only for a short period of time. The dongle is like a timer fuse on a bomb; it ticks away and then boom! It blows it up and you can’t work it any more.’
‘So it is like getting your dick caught in your zipper,’ said Jack.
Howie’s cell phone rang as they turned into Federal Plaza. ‘Yeah, hello,’ he managed as he spun the wheel.
‘Boss, it’s Fernandez. The boys in Myrtle have found a body. They think it’s Stan Mossman, our delivery boy.’
59
FBI Field Office, New York
It took Jack King ten minutes to shake everyone’s hand and another twenty to hug, kiss and say hi to all his female ex-colleagues.
‘Man, you really should go to the Men’s room and get brushed up,’ said Howie. ‘I’ve seen dudes come back from stag weekends with less lipstick on their collars.’
‘It’s a small price to pay for popularity,’ joked Jack, deciding to take his advice. ‘I’ll see you in the briefing room.’
The pow-wow was a big one.
It was chaired by FBI Field Office director Joe Marsh, a small, thin man in his early forties with hair greying at the temples and a natural smile that most politicians would pay half their campaign funds for. To his right was NYPD deputy commissioner of operations Steven Flintoff, a barrel-chested oxofa guy with short-cut ginger hair and his trademark rolled-up sleeves. Behavioural scientists Howie Baumguard and Angelita Fernandez came next around the circular table, followed by Elizabeth Laing, a Roseanne Barr lookalike employed as press information officer for the NYPD, and Julian Hopkins, the FBI’s local press guy. They were still pouring each other coffee and water when Jack walked in and greeted them with a confident, ‘Good morning everybody!’
A spontaneous ripple of applause erupted and Marsh rose to shake his hand. ‘Good to see you back, Jack. Come and sit here right next to me.’
‘Good to be back,’ said Jack. ‘Though I must say it actually feels like I’ve never been away. Same case, same room, just a few changed faces.’
‘Angelita Fernandez,’ said the profiler, leaning over the table to shake his hand. ‘We kind of met by video conference.’
‘We did indeed. Nice to meet you for real,’ said Jack.
The rest of the room took it in turns to table-stretch and introduce themselves, then Marsh got down to business. ‘For the sake of the press officers, Jack King is with us as a consultant. Ideally, we don’t want his name mentioned at all, but let’s be realistic, this ugly old mug of his is so well known that once he’s been around a few days, you can be sure the