NCIA 2-22-01 25 June 2001
Number 6-25-01
(DELETION)
AUTHENTICATED:
, NARA, DATE 6-25-01
[(IS) – deleted
2. (s) ~ Per CEC tasking, subject NCIA-235 was put under discreet physical and technical surveillance commencing 1 June 2001. In view of source sensitivities and specially compartmented programs, surveillance was conducted by |
rather than CEC. There was no indication that subject detected surveillance or was surveillance conscious.
3. (s), | | conducted a full financial on subject, including data as recent as 18 June 2001. FBI, NSA, Treasury, and other cooperating agencies provided independent traces. Positively identified accounts included "premier" checking at Riggs, an equities account at Legg Mason Inc., and two credit card accounts: Visa Platinum and American Express. (See Appendix A for deposit, withdrawal, transfer, and spending records.) All account activity was within parameters of subject's financial profile.
4. (s) Forensic investigation conducted by | | was unable to positively tie subject to]ose Marco Cabrillo. Neither could cooperating agencies. However, there was a consensus that subject's understanding of covert financial transactions would permit him to conceal financial ties to Cabrillo. Four Para 1 ref transfers to suspect Nauru account were referred to the Internal Revenue Service (IRS), which is currently conducting an audit for consideration of a possible criminal proceeding.
What insufferable shit. He jumped ahead. "Summary of Physical SurVeil'ance… On 23 June 2001 at 1230 subject boarded Amtrak Metroliner
*0lng to New York. Subject took a taxi from Newark to Terminal B at
I^Wark Airport, where he met at 1717 hours with an unidentified male.
pney were engaged in conversation for approximately twenty minutes.
Surveillance was able to identify UNSUB's license plate number, which is currently being traced…"
Blah. Blah. Blah. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. He flipped to "Recommendations."
• Task | | to unilaterally monitor subject's activities in Switzerland and other overseas locations.
• Inform the Government of Switzerland that the USG is in the process of considering criminal charges against subject.
• Request cooperative liaison services monitor subject's activities in Switzerland, and in particular contact with hostile entities.
Oh, sweet Mary mother of Jesus, did they understand nothing? The whole point was to get the SOB's copy of the photo. And God knows what else he's carrying around. Didn't they see what he had in his safe? How he'd been showing that photo around Washington? Who could know what the fool might stumble across? Did no one think to call Immigrations or Customs and have him searched before he got on the plane to find out if he had it on him? How hard would that have been? He was already under investigation for narcotics! Now we're going to have to do it in Europe.
But what can you expect from people who aren't familiar with the English language. "Was able"? "Was observed"? "Was interviewed"? Where did people learn constructions like that? Moron school? And the evasions, the words that weren't words, the people who weren't people, the blackouts and whiteouts, things said and unsaid. "Subject NCIA-235," for crissake? What world, what parallel universe did they all live in?
Channing dropped the pages on the coffee table-more bird's-eye maple, pretentiousness itself-opened his eyes again, and found Jesse hovering over him with a tray: blood oranges, peeled and sectioned; sprigs 01 fresh mint; a Coke chilled in a crystal glass. He counted the ice cubes: one› two, three, four. He nodded to the table, waited until he had put the tray down, then raised his eyes to the partition.
"Vanish." But Jesse already had. He was rolling up points by the minuteOne thing was clear: His little company couldn't do surveillance worth shit- Gordon's florid nose disgusted him. So did his sagging paunch. Who jjad brought him on? "Find out," he wrote, then added: "FLAY THE IMBECILE." Applied Science was done. "Call Berch," he wrote in the margins.
Waller's networks bothered him. The "UNSUB" at Newark Airport was a mess, an unknown. "Need trace the Regal immediately!" he wrote. "Don't Lire if you have to break into car and steal registration." A cop? He had a vision of Waller's Rolodex: hundreds of names and numbers, all of them coded in variations of some tongue seventeen people on earth still bothered to speak regularly. That he could admire.
Why, then, would Waller go to Frank Beckman, the sluttiest slut in the oil business? I could rent him for pennies. Waller had to know about him. Surely, he wouldn't trust anything Beckman had to say. Beckman at least he knew he could find a way to handle: Push a little business his way, make pirn a little more money so he could add to his nouveau riche I-have-arrived! art collection, and the man would do anything he was asked. Linear motivation-so refreshing. Waller was another matter. Everyone has buttons to punch, strings to play. What were his?
Bloomberg quotes streamed across the top of the flat screen built into jme paneling opposite him: sweet, crude, bunker; Nigeria, Caspian, Persian Gulf. Below them, the world passed by in CNN's banner shorthand: suicide bombers in Tel Aviv, retaliatory strikes in Gaza. Jihads brewing in the East, muscles flexing in the West. That was the beauty of this planet: its syner-JPes, its predictabilities. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction. Jews killed Arabs. Arabs killed Jews. With each new death, the world improved, and the price of a barrel of oil climbed, climbed, climbed. Go long P'l the way. When you made the history, there was no guesswork involved.
For centuries, adventurers had searched for the philosopher's stone: the
magic
substance that would turn base metal to gold. He'd found it. From
P°w on, G5's for him, graves for the rest. Comedy and tragedy. Survival of fre fittest.
Channing scanned his notes one last time, committed them to memory, pnd fed the fax pages into a shredder tastefully concealed in the base of the
coffee table. There was nothing you couldn't have in this world if you dreamed that it was yours. Then he called Jesse and handed him the little box of paper shreds.
"Destroy."
The man looked wide-eyed, nodded his head: Yes! Yes! And disappeared again behind his bulkhead. No wonder he liked him.
"Nils," he barked into the intercom, "are you fucking my wife?"
"Not yet, sir."
Not yet? Ha! Maybe he'd give him the damn G5 when he was sick of it. Nils could fit it with bomb bays and wing cannons-strafe the bastards, pound 'em back into the Stone Age, whoever the bastards were, which was just about everyone.