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s talk about e-mail. Marco was never much of a hacker. Back in his glory day s
he lived on the phone-had four or five of them in his office, two in his car
, one in his pocket-always juggling three conversations at once. He bragge d
about charging five thousand bucks just to take a phone call from a ne w
client, that sort of crap. Never used the computer. Those who worked fo r him
have said that he occasionally read e-mails. He rarely sent them, an d when he
did it was always through a secretary. His office was high-tech, bu t he hired
people to do the grunt work. He was too much of a big shot.
"
"What about prison?
"
"No evidence of e-mail. He had a laptop which he used only for letters
, never e-mail. It looks as though everyone abandoned him when he took th e
fall. He wrote occasionally to his mother and his son, but always use d
regular mail.
"
"Sounds completely illiterate.
"
"Sounds like it, but Langley's concerned that he might try and contac t
someone on the outside. He can't do it by phone, at least not now. He has n o
address he can use, so mail is probably out of the question.
"
"He'd be stupid to mail a letter," Luigi said. "It might divulge hi s
whereabouts.
"
"Exactly. Same for the phone, fax, everything but email.
"
"We can track email.
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"
"Most of it, but there are ways around it.
"
"He has no computer and no money to buy one.
"
"I know, but, hypothetically, he could sneak into an Internet cafe, use a
coded account, send the e-mail, then clean his trail, pay a small fee for th e
rental, and walk away.
"
"Sure, but who's gonna teach him how to do that?
"
"He can learn. He can find a book. It's unlikely, but there's always a chance.
"
"I'm sweeping his apartment every day," Luigi said. "Every inch of it. If h e
buys a book or lays down a receipt, I'll know it.
"
"Scope out the Internet cafes in the neighborhood. There are several of the m
in Bologna now.
"
"I know them.
"
"Where's Marco right now?" "I don't know. It's Saturday, a day off. He's
probably roaming the streets of Bologna, enjoying his freedom." "And he's
still scared?" "He's terrified." Mrs. Ruby Ausberry took a mild sedative and
slept for six of the eight hours it took to fly from Milano to Dulles
International. The lukewarm coffee they served before landing did little to
clear the cobwebs, and as the 747 taxied to the gate she dozed off again. She
forgot about the birthday card as they were herded onto the cattle cars on the
tarmac and driven to the main terminal. She forgot about it as she waited with
the mob to claim her baggage and plod through customs. And she forgot about it
when she saw her beloved granddaughter waiting for her at the arrival exit.
She forgot about it until she was safely at home in York, Pennsylvania, and
shuffling through her shoulder bag for a souvenir. "Oh my," she said as the
card fell onto the kitchen table. "I was supposed to drop this off at the
airport." Then she told her granddaughter the story of the poor guy in the
Milan airport who'd just lost his passport and would miss his father's
ninetieth birthday. Her granddaughter looked at the envelope. "Doesn't look
like a birthday card," she said. She studied the address: R. N. Backman,
Attorney at Law, 412 Main Street, Culpeper,
Virginia, 22701. "There's no return address," the granddaughter said. "I'll
mail it first thing in the morning," Mrs. Ausberry said. "I hope it arrives
before the birthday."
At ten Monday morning in Singapore, the mysterious $3 mil lion sitting in the
account of Old Stone Group, Ltd, made an electronic exit and began a quiet
journey to the other side of the world. Nine hours later, when the doors of
the
Galleon Bank and Trust opened on the Caribbean island of Saint Christopher,
the money arrived promptly and was deposited in a numbered account with no
name. Normally it would have been a completely anonymous transaction, one of
several thousand that Monday morning, but Old Stone now had the full attention
of the FBI. The bank in Singapore was cooperating fully. The bank on Saint
Christopher was not, though it would soon get the opportunity to participate.
When Director Anthony Price arrived in his office at the Hoover Building
before dawn on Monday, the hot memo was waiting. He canceled everything [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]