The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [9]
“It wants a username and password,” I said.
“The username is extérieur, all lowercase. Password baiselareine. Bloody frogs having a go at me every time I turn around.”
I entered both, my high school French sufficient to translate the juvenile slur. I heard someone else on his end of the line as I pressed the enter key. It sounded like a child.
“I see a bunch of folders. You’re with your family?”
“On our way to the airport. Click the folder labeled archive, and then click the one inside that with today’s date, and then click the one inside that named Nord Stream.”
“Done.”
“You’ll see two files—EsatIIB135542 and EsatIIC141346. Clicking on either will download it to your desktop. They’re big files, but our server’s hooked directly to the Internet backbone, so the limitation will likely be on your side.”
“What are they?”
“Video. The first is the raw footage you’ve been seeing on television. The second is something else entirely.”
I clicked the second. We were connected to a dedicated fiber-optic cable as well. A dialogue box indicated that I had ten minutes to wait, the file transfer speed a number I’d never seen before.
“Give me a hint,” I said, wondering what the hell was going on. “I’m under a lot of pressure here.”
“You?” he sneered. “I’ve had the effing DGSE in my face all afternoon.”
“Remind me who the DGSE are?”
“French foreign intelligence creeps. Jackbooters. They turned up just after we released the first footage and put a lid on us. I went out for a cigarette and kept going. If I wanted to work for fascists, I would have taken a job with Murdoch.”
“So, what’s the second file?”
“It’s what it isn’t that bears thinking about. It isn’t our footage. We had one cameraman and one reporter on the ground, and we lost them both in the initial blast. I’m inside the airport now, on the ring road. I’m going to have to hang up in a moment.”
I scribbled the words “initial blast” on my yellow pad. I had to stay focused.
“Who shot the footage, then?”
“Our satellite truck kept running after our lads went off the air. Someone pirated one of the frequencies, and their feed uploaded automatically. We didn’t even realize we’d received it until an hour ago.”
“Does it show what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Is it bad?”
“It makes the guys who did 9/11 look like a bunch of shit-arsed kids. Be sure to watch the whole thing.”
“Will do,” I agreed, wondering fearfully what I was about to see. There was just one more question I had to ask. “Has anyone else got this yet?”
“No. I hadn’t figured out who to give it to. I want it distributed, but I don’t want my name mentioned. You understand?”
“You’re fleeing the country, Gavin,” I said, feeling obliged to point out the obvious. “It’s not like they aren’t going to figure it out.”
“There’s a difference between suspecting and knowing. I have your word?”
“Of course.”
“Fine, then. And listen, Mark—I’m going to need a job. Something in Dubai might be nice. I’m sick of the bloody winters. You know people there?”
“I do. Give me a shout when you want me to make some calls. And thanks.”
He hung up without saying good-bye. The dialogue box indicated that I had seven minutes to wait. I typed another urgent e-mail, warning my clients and Rashid that I’d had tentative confirmation of a major terrorist action and that full details were to follow shortly. The Dow was down one hundred points when I hit the send key. By the time Alex and Walter showed up in my office, it was down two hundred and fifty, and my phone turret was pulsing like it was going to explode.
“What the hell is going on?” Walter demanded. He had a raptor’s profile—aquiline nose, deep-set eyes, and short-cropped white hair. Part of his legend was that pressure only ever made him meaner. Alex looked as if he’d been run over.
“Two minutes,” I said, bristling at Walter’s tone. Gratitude for his professional help had never reconciled me to his habit of acting as if the entire world should jump when he spoke. I nodded toward my screen. “I have video of what happened. The guy who gave it to me said that