walked across the room, feeling the soft thickness of the custom-woven carpet under his bare, olive brown feet. His jeans and T-shirt were simple but very expensive. His watch was a Rolex. He took such things for granted. His entire life had been spent inside the cocoon that money provides for the children of the rich.
Yet for all its privilege, inherited wealth carries with it the stigma of being unearned. To outsiders, he was a mere playboy, a parasite feeding off his father’s achievements. He planned to change that. Very soon, the whole world would be talking about what he had done. A smile crossed his lips as he anticipated what was to come, pressed a button, and speed dialed a London number.
“We must talk,” he said to the person on the other end of the line. “Be ready on Monday. I have important news, good news about . . .” he hesitated, trying to find the right words, knowing that others might be listening. “Let’s just say, our mutual friend.”
The man’s attempt at discretion was futile. His conversation was picked up by the giant radomes scattered across the bleak Yorkshire landscape at Menwith Hill, where Echelon, the global surveillance system run by America’s National Security Agency, intercepts countless telephone and e-mail messages every day.
From there, a signal was sent via a satellite, in orbit nineteen thousand miles above the earth, to the NSA headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. Cray Y-MP supercomputers, capable of almost three billion operations per second, sifted through the never-ending multilingual babble. Like a prospector panning for gold, the Crays picked out nuggets from the onrushing stream. They sought key individuals, trigger words and phrases to be flagged for further investigation.
Data gathered by Echelon was also sent to British Government Communications Headquarters, on the outskirts of Cheltenham, Gloucestershire. More computers plucked more information from the human torrent. That information was passed on to the ministry of defence, the foreign office, and the law enforcement and intelligence agencies.
Fiona Towthorp, an attractive, freckle-faced woman of forty, worked as a senior intelligence analyst at GCHQ. She had just spotted an item she knew her masters would covet. But when she picked up the phone, the number she dialed had nothing to do with Her Majesty’s government.
The line was encrypted at a level even Echelon could not decode. This call would never be overheard. “Consortium,” a man’s voice answered.
“I have a message from the corporate communications department,” said Towthorp. “There’s something the chairman needs to know.”
Towthorp was put straight through.
2
They came for Carver in the morning. He’d got the call the night before, just as he was turning out the gas lantern that provided the only illumination in his mountain hut.
“Carver,” he’d said, not bothering to disguise his irritation as the GSM phone shrieked for his attention.
There were no formalities or introductions from the voice on the other end of the line with its flat Thames Estuary accent. “Where are ya?”
“On holiday, Max. Not working. I think you know that.”
“I know what you’re doing, Carver. I just dunno where you’re doing it.”
“Guess what, there was a reason I didn’t tell you.”
“Well, I may have a job for you.”
“No.”
Max ignored him. “Listen, I’ll know for sure within the next twelve hours. If it happens, trust me, we’ll make it worth your while interrupting your holidays. Three million dollars, U.S., paid into the usual account. You can have a nice long break after that.”
“I see,” said Carver, flatly. “And if I refuse?”
“Then my advice would be, stay on your holiday. And don’t come back. It’s your choice.”
Carver wasn’t bothered by the implied physical threat. But he didn’t want to lose his major client. This was his job. It was what he did best. And no matter how often he thought about packing it in, he still didn’t want a competitor taking his work. One day, maybe soon, he would be ready to quit, but it would be on his terms, at a time of his own choosing.
“New Zealand,” he said.
He cursed to himself as he turned off the phone and put it back on the bare wooden table that stood next to the stee-land canvas bed frame where he’d laid his sleeping bag.
Samuel Carver had the lean, spare look of a professional fighter. His dark brown hair was cut short. A dozen years in the Royal Marines and the Special Boat Service had left his face etched and weather-beaten. A fierce determination was evident in his strong, dark brow, bisected by a