The Cloud Collector by Brian Freemantle

DO NOT DISTURB warning. All calls were on hold for him to properly evaluate the heaven-sent, career-protecting approach he wouldn’t have anticipated in a million years. His response couldn’t be delayed, though. It had to be today, within the hour; because of the time difference it was already afternoon in London, and it was imperative the request wasn’t extended to anyone but him.
    E-mail or telephone? E-mails created electronic trails. Telephone conversations could—and certainly would from his end—be recorded, but security was guaranteed between sender and recipient; he felt safer with telephones. It came with another absolute essential: every exchange was strictly one-to-one.
    The connection was quicker than Johnston expected. He’d gathered up what he thought might be necessary from the minimal briefing dossier, but wasn’t properly ready with his recording system when David Monkton came on from London.
    â€˜An unexpected surprise, hearing from you after so long,’ Johnston greeted, hurriedly activating the machine.
    â€˜Good of you to get back so quickly. Wasn’t sure the e-mail address I had would still work after the transfer.’
    â€˜It worked just fine.’ Johnston had met Monkton the previous year at a NATO security conference in Brussels, before Johnston’s transfer from the CIA’s Profiling and Analysis division to covert operations.
    â€˜Congratulations at the promotion.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ Johnston frowned, inherently cautious. ‘Didn’t expect the news to have reached London.’
    â€˜We’ve got an efficient embassy in Washington.’
    Too efficient, thought Johnston. ‘Your e-mail referred to terrorism?’
    â€˜It’s an imposition,’ apologized Monkton in advance. ‘You’re the only person I know at the proper level. What I’m looking for is an introduction to whomever I need to talk with in the FBI, Homeland Security, or NSA. And I’d appreciate guidance on which of the three I should go to.’
    It had to be the UK alert from the National Security Agency, decided Johnston, satisfaction at his initial guess surging through him. ‘That’s a pretty wide canvas. You want to be a little more specific?’
    â€˜From one of your NSA intercepts we’re now going to be able to prevent a terrorist attack on one of our nuclear installations. I’ve got an idea I want to talk through with the person in Washington who’s controlling those intercepts. I’m guessing NSA, but I don’t want to waste time going to the wrong place. There’ve been too many public problems involving all of us, haven’t there?’
    It was scarcely taking a chance, reasoned Johnston, picking the slip from the open dossier. He could always row back, excusing what he said as a misunderstanding about another totally different operation. ‘Did that intercept read, “Invite the brothers to the celebration?”’
    The silence from London lasted several moments. ‘That’s exactly how it read.’
    â€˜You’re talking to the person who’s controlling those intercepts.’
    Johnston had correctly guessed the subject of Monkton’s call, but the thirty-minute conversation that followed was completely different from what Johnston had imagined, so much so that to keep the eagerness from his voice he at times stayed with single-word responses to reassure Monkton that he was still on the line. Johnston’s longest contribution was to insist that his co-operation was dependent upon everything’s remaining strictly between the two of them and conducted solely by telephone until he decreed otherwise.
    â€˜Your project, your rules,’ agreed Monkton.
    *   *   *
    The thwarted attempt to kill hundreds of tourists in the destruction of one of the world’s greatest antiquities was obviously the biggest international news story of the day.