Invasion of Privacy (22 page)

ONE 7 touched down on American soil at 7:01 p.m., sixteen hours and forty-seven minutes after departing Israel.

Ian Prince paced back and forth at the foot of the mobile stairwell, watching the plane approach. Until now all had been planning. The acquisition of Merriweather Systems, the upgrading of the Titan supercomputer, the agreement with the National Security Agency, the purchase of Clarus and the wooing of its senior leadership—each action constituted one iteration within a larger plan, no different from a line of software code within an application.

The arrival of the Israelis marked the turning point. Planning was over. The program had been written. The machinery was in place. It was time to hit Return and execute.

Founded in 2002, Clarus was a developer and manufacturer of surveillance systems designed to collect all types of electronic data from the Internet. Its primary product, Clarus Insight, was a supercomputer capable of intercepting voiceover IP (VoIP) calls through services such as Skype, phone and mobile communications that passed through the Internet. Clarus’s proprietary software utilized deep packet inspection to sift through the vast quantities of information traveling over the Internet and permit IP providers and network managers to inspect, track, and target content from users of the Internet and mobile phones as it passed through routers. A company press release stated that the Clarus Insight Intercept Suite was “the industry’s only network traffic intelligence system that supports real-time precision targeting, capturing, and reconstruction of webmail traffic…including Google Gmail, Hotmail, Yahoo!, and AOL mail.”

And now it belonged to Ian.

The plane reached its parking spot and stopped. The stairwell docked with the fuselage. The door opened inward. The executives of the Clarus Corporation descended the stairs eagerly, faces turned toward the sun, taking deep breaths of the fresh Texas air.

Ian greeted each warmly as he set foot on solid ground. “David,” he said, gripping the hand and arm of David Gold, the firm’s founder and CEO. “Welcome to the new world.”

“Ian, we are pleased to be part of your team.”

“Not team,” said Ian. “Family. Are you ready to make history?”

Gold nodded, but there was no mistaking the fervor in his eyes. Like Ian, he was a true believer.

“You’re sure about the decision?”

“To the core.”

Next came Menachem Wolkowicz, the company’s chief technology officer, a man considered by many to be the world’s leading cryptologist. “Menachem, so good to see you again. I’m honored by your presence.”

“The honor is mine.”

“Are you sure about your decision? There’s no going back.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And so on, until all ten men had deplaned and climbed into a fleet of luxury SUVs.

The vehicles transported the group to the customs hall. Formalities were handled briskly. Passports were examined, stamped, and returned to their owners. Bags passed directly to their owners without search.

Ian wished the men a pleasant ride and informed them that he would join them for a welcoming dinner that evening. He waited until the last man had stowed his luggage and the final SUV had left the airport grounds before walking back into the terminal and continuing to his own mode of transport: a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter.

The Visitors’ Lodge at ONE headquarters was a four-story building modeled on London’s famed Connaught Hotel. Inside his suite, each man found a chilled bottle of Cristal champagne, a tin of Beluga caviar, toast points with chopped egg and onion, as well as a platter of cold meats, sweets, and a selection of mineral waters.

An engraved invitation reminded the Israelis that dinner was at nine p.m. Formal dress requested.

The last instruction caused great consternation. None had brought a dinner jacket. Several had forsworn business suits altogether. What did Ian Prince mean by “formal dress requested”?

The men went to hang up their jackets and pants. Each one gasped as he opened the closet and beheld what was inside.

Years ago they had been soldiers.

Tonight they would be soldiers once again.

“One nail hammered,” said Peter Briggs.

Ian Prince entered his office, trying to conceal his anger at finding Briggs perched on the corner of his desk. “Which one?”

Briggs shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“And the other?”

“Don’t worry about that for the moment. We’ve got something else.”

Ian glanced up. The tone said everything. Her again. The woman.

“You’ll want to take a look,” said Briggs.

Ian stood alongside his chief of security and watched the twenty-second video clip taken outside the Grant home. In it, Mary Grant left the front door dressed in business attire and climbed into her car. Briggs froze the picture as she unbuttoned her jacket and slid behind the wheel. “See anything?”

Ian took the phone in his own hand to study the freeze frame. “She has a gun on her belt.”

“Does that look like a mother staying at home to care for her little ones? Or like a woman setting out to get into trouble?”

“Have her followed.”

“I already know where she’s going. Someplace called the Nutty Brown Cafe, on the way to Dripping Springs. She looked up driving instructions ten minutes ago.”

Ian put down the phone. His eye wandered across the office to the black satchel resting in its place in the far corner. For a moment he saw his father staring back at him. Peter Prince shook his head. The message was loud and clear.

“Follow her,” said Ian. “And that’s it. Send your man…”

“Shanks.”

“Yes, Shanks, the one who did such a fine job the other day. Have him follow her, but that’s all. I’ll take care of her later.”

“You’re playing with fire.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Tell you the truth,” said Peter Briggs, “no.”

“Anything else to report?”

“About the Israelis?” Briggs shrugged. “They liked the grub. No one opened the bubbly.”

“Anything I should worry about? Doubters? Anyone looking to jump ship?”

“They’re with us lock, stock, and barrel. Bloody well should be, all the dough you’re paying them. Just don’t tell me I have to call them General Gold and Colonel Wolkowicz.”

“Only if I do,
Sergeant
Briggs. Coming to dinner?”

“Need a shower first. Maybe a short kip.”

“Don’t forget we leave at six in the morning.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“It keeps me sharp.”

“How many years in a row is it now?”

“Seven,” said Ian.

“Lucky number.”

After Briggs left, Ian walked to the window and gazed across the Meadow. The sun rested in the lower quadrant of the western sky, its rays warming the stone ramparts of Magdalene and Brasenose. Normally this was his favorite time of day. The hard work was behind him. He could catalogue progress made and chart progress to come. By rights he should be ecstatic. The NSA had signed off on the demonstration of Titan early next morning.
(It worked!)
The Senate was in his pocket. The deal to build out the CIA’s new intranet was a formality. And the Israelis had arrived.

He could report progress on all fronts.

Instead he felt unsettled. And not just that, but something more troubling. An emotion he had not experienced in a long time. He felt powerless.

All because of one woman.

He poured himself a glass of acai juice, then moved to his desk, where he checked his agenda, confirming that he had scheduled a call with his sons, Trevor and Tristan.

He placed the call, and after a few seconds a floor-to-ceiling monitor blossomed, showing the kitchen of his new home in Bel-Air. His
wife had seized on the acquisition of Allied Artists as reason to move the kids to California for the summer and, Ian suspected, longer.

“Your stock price is in toilet. Earnings are down six percent since April. Ten hedge funds have dropped ONE from their core portfolio holdings in last year. What fuck is going on?”

Wendy Wong Prince sat on a high stool at the kitchen counter, Bluetooth in her ear, lululemon tights and T showing off the best body that Bikram yoga and the good doctors of Austin, Manhattan, and Beverly Hills could sculpt. She was a tall, striking Asian, Cantonese by birth, a Harvard MBA by way of Hong Kong and Vancouver, with a PhD in computer science from Carnegie Mellon in her back pocket for good measure.

Ian sighed. All that education and she still dropped the definite article. “And good evening to you.”

“So?” Wendy continued. “Did you close Titan deal?”

“On a conditional basis,” said Ian.

“Conditional? Ian Prince doesn’t do conditional.”

Ian smiled. Sometimes it was hard to remember that she was on his side. “This is a little different from our usual work with the government.”

“I know, I know,” said Wendy. “It’s confidential.”

“Above top-secret, actually. One day, sweetheart, I’ll fill you in. I don’t want to jinx anything.”

Wendy’s face darkened. “Is that what I am now, jinx? Your wife, jinx?” She let fly a stream of Cantonese vitriol. Ian fired back his own, if anything more insulting.

“Now I know why I married you,” she said. “You’re only man who swear better than me.”

“You married me, darling, because I was worth ten billion dollars, you received a prenup guaranteeing you a hundred million once the boys are out of the house, and you agreed that we never have to fuck.”

Wendy’s smile evaporated faster than a Hong Kong rain shower. There was a stirring at the far end of the kitchen. The boys ran into the kitchen, followed by their nannies.

“Hi, Dad,” they said.

Trevor was fourteen and Tristan eleven. Trevor was tall for his age, strapping, and a gifted athlete. Tristan was short for his, chubby, and preferred playing his ONEBox to any real-world activity.

“Boys. How was your day?”

“Mom’s not letting us miss any Chinese lessons,” said Trevor. “I’m sick of it. I want to go to the studio. They’re shooting the new James Cameron movie.”

“Can’t you go after your Chinese?”

“I have golf lessons at Bel-Air Country Club. Afterwards I get a massage.”

“What about you, Tristan?”

“I like Chinese. Mom taught me how to say
dew neh loh moh
. Do you know what that means?”

“That sounds like Mom.” Ian kept his smile in place.
Dew neh loh moh
meant “Go fuck your mother.” “Hey, Premier League starts next week. We’re flying over to catch the opening match. Arsenal’s playing West Ham.”

“Arsenal will destroy them,” said Trevor. “Are we sitting with the coaches?”

“We own the team, don’t we?”

Ian had purchased Arsenal Football Club, one of England’s oldest and most prestigious, three years earlier and thrown in a sponsorship deal that put the ONE logo on the football players’ jerseys.

“I don’t want to go all the way to London for a stupid soccer game,” said Tristan. “Can’t I stay here and look after the animals?”

Since moving to Los Angeles, the boys had assembled a veritable menagerie. There was a chinchilla, two hamsters, a cat, a boa constrictor, and a three-legged rescue mutt named Howie.

“We’ll see, Tristan. I’d love to have you in the cockpit with me. I’ll even let you land the plane. What do you say?”

Tristan shrugged, uninterested. “Maybe.”

“I’ll land it,” said Trevor. “Just as well as you, Dad!”

Ian laughed. “Gotta run, fellas. Take care of Mom. And Tristan, no more animals.”

He hung up, feeling lonely. He loved the boys dearly, and he didn’t see them nearly enough. He walked to the rear of his office and entered a large dressing area accessed through a revolving bookcase. He showered and changed for dinner, dressing in black slacks and a form-fitting black dress shirt. He gave himself a final check in the mirror and froze in horror. It couldn’t be. Not already. He brought his face closer to the glass. And yet…there it was.

A gray hair.

Not gray, white. As bleached as a snowflake.

He found a pair of tweezers, plucked out the offending hair, and dropped it into the sink, where it disappeared, blending with the porcelain.

Mortality was the one concept he could not grasp.

Peter Briggs walked down the High toward his own quarters.
Sergeant Briggs
. Ian had some cheek. Of course, he was the boss and was allowed. Still…

He lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke bitterly. Always the NCO, never the officer. So be it, then. He walked around the corner of the building and looked out across the Meadow toward the River Isis, or whatever name Ian had given to the dried-up excuse for a stream. Oxford in Texas. What nonsense. And yet Ian had done it. He had commissioned an architect. He had imported the stone. He had spent two years and more than $1 billion building a damn-near-perfect replica of one of the world’s oldest universities. And Peter Briggs had been at his side the entire time.

A batman.

That was the term they’d used in the Boer War for an officer’s noncommissioned adjutant. The batman took care of all his officer’s affairs. He arranged his clothing, shined his boots, prepared his meals when necessary, looked after his mount, tucked him in at night, and gave him a bloody kiss on the cheek. And after all that, he fought at his side.

Like it or not, Briggs was Ian’s batman. It was his job to look after his officer’s welfare, and that meant undertaking actions the officer might not realize were in his own best interest. The actions Briggs was considering regarded Mary Grant.

He called Shanks. “The woman. She’s on the move.”

“The Mole told me. I’m on my way.”

“I’m impressed. Now let’s see if you can impress me some more. This is what you’re going to do. Listen closely.”

It took him less than a minute to describe the actions he wanted Shanks to take in regard to Mary Grant. “Everything clear?”

“Crystal,” said Shanks.

Peter Briggs hung up. Satisfied that he had taken the necessary steps to protect his officer, he set off to shower and dress for the gala dinner.

A loyal batman would do no less.