The phone buzzed. And again. Reluctantly, Kovalenko put aside the CAT scan report (mild atherosclerosis of the thoracic aorta!) and picked up the telephone.

“Yes, Jean?” He’d asked her to hold his calls. “I hope this is important.”

“It’s Berlin. Mr. Spagnola. He said it was urgent.”

On top of his anxiety over the CAT scan, Kovalenko had a hangover, a nagging throb behind his eyes that the word “urgent” seemed to propel into a new pain level. And it was just a couple of glasses of red wine! He cleared his throat, pushed the button on the phone, and forced his voice into friendly mode. “Joey, heyyyy. What can I do you for?”

“Remember the guy the BfV took down?”

Kovalenko blinked. If he moved a certain way in his chair, he got a pain in his lower back. Probably the lesion.

Kovalenko remembered. Sighed. Bobojon Simoni. Who could have been a gold mine. And the Germans screwed it up. “What about him?”

“Turns out, Simoni was like a switchboard for one of the al-Qaeda groups, posting ciphered messages on eBay,” Spagnola explained. “One of their people needs a surveillance report on the White House? A wire transfer, or a recipe for ricin? All they had to do was check out the Korans from Akmed’s Books.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m not. Anyway, I got half a dozen wire transfers in front of me. One of them’s on your watch.”

Kovalenko picked up a pen, and began to make notes. “Which one?”

“Looks like Mr. Simoni was feeding an account at the Cadogan Bank-”

“Cuh-dugg-in,” Kovalenko corrected.

“What?”

“It’s the Cuh-dugg-in Bank, not the Cad-aggin Bank. Cadogan was-”

Spagnola cut him off. “Whatever! It’s a bank on St. Helier – and don’t tell me it’s ‘Sont El-yeh,’ ’cause I don’t really give a shit! I got enough problems – I’m being sabotaged in my own house… by my own troops. Y’know what I mean?”

Kovalenko did not.

Spagnola took a deep breath. “St. Helier,” he said. “That’s Jersey, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, so… surprise, surprise! No name on the account,” Spagnola continued. “All we got is a number. December 20 – twenty-five grand arrives. Via Bobojon Simoni, from an account associated with an offshoot of al-Qaeda.”

“Which one?”

“They call themselves the Coalition of the Oppressed of the Earth.”

“Never heard of them,” Kovalenko said.

“Salafi jihadists,” Spagnola said. “Same old shit. They want to go back to the seventh century.”

“They want to go back to the Stone Age, but they’re using the Internet – eBay – to distribute money?” Kovalenko shouted. “It’s an outrage. Where’s the ideological consistency?”

“Technically, it’s the Agricultural Age.”

Kovalenko sighed. “And what is this particular agent of the Great Satan supposed to do?”

“Well,” Spagnola said. “I already told you the account is at the Cuh-dugg-in bank, St. Helier. Twenty-five K shows up on December 20. Numbered account.” Spagnola dictated the number. “You need to find out who holds that account. And where he is now. ASAP. Get back to me.”

Spagnola hung up.

Kovalenko sighed. Jersey. While not actually British (in fact, Jersey was closer to France than it was to England), the Channel Islands fell under Kovalenko’s jurisdiction because they had a constitutional relationship with the U.K. Not unlike the relationship between the U.S. and Puerto Rico.

Banking was big business in the Channel Islands, but after 9/11, bank secrecy was not as impenetrable as it once was. He could at least hope for a bit of cooperation. Maybe he’d get lucky and they’d give up the name on the account.

Kovalenko thought about it and decided that he’d handle it in person. If he “rang them up,” he had a feeling he’d be playing phone tag for days.

But how did you get to St. Helier? He buzzed Jean.

Ten minutes later, she called him back. “About St. Helier, sir?”

He’d been trying to seduce Jean, but so far she’d been impervious to the old Kovalenkan charm. His invitations to “have a drink” had so far been turned down. Probably a lesbian. And you had to be careful these days. No physical contact. A friendly hand on the arm and you were laying yourself open for a lawsuit. What a world.

“Yes, Jean.”

“How much of a hurry are we in?”

We? Wasn’t that chummy. Maybe she wasn’t a dyke, after all. “It’s urgent.”

“Well, there’s a flight from Gatwick. Orrrr… we could have you there in about an hour by helicopter.”

“Perfect. Let’s do that, then.” One of the bonuses of being in the antiterrorism business these days was that no one had to stint. Five years ago, a helicopter would have been out of the question, but now, no one would blink an eye. And that was good, because with the chopper, he could be back in time for his Pilates class. He’d only recently come to know how important it was to maintain core strength. If you let it go, sooner or later you’d face a whole cascade of musculo-skeletal problems. Which he did not need.

One thing he disliked about helicopters was the noise. Buckled into his seat, it was like being inside a vacuum cleaner. Terrible for your ears. He made a mental note to buy some of those earmuffs – the Princess Leia type that airport workers wore. Guys who ran leafblowers, construction workers, carpenters – they warranted ear protection, but not the FBI’s legal attachés, who were on the front line of fighting terrorism. He looked out the window. Above, a leaden sky; below, the gray and choppy sea.

“Guernsey!” shouted the pilot, nodding toward a landmass on the right.

Then he tilted his head to the left and screamed “Jersey!” Soon, they were yawing toward the painted cross on the helipad and then they were down. Kovalenko ducked under the rotors and ran toward the black Mercedes that was there to meet him. (Jean was a marvel, lesbian or not.)

The banker, Jonathan Warren, was forty and handsome in that fragile British way. He wore a suit that was definitely “bespoke.” Tasseled loafers. Manicured nails. “Refreshment? A drink perhaps…”

“I’m all set,” Kovalenko said.

A faint whiff of citrusy aftershave wafted toward him as Kovalenko eased himself into a leather club chair. “Is this an official inquiry?”

Kovalenko didn’t reply. He simply reached into his breast pocket and removed the small leather portfolio that held his identification. He flipped it open with a flick of his wrist and slid it across the desk.

Warren studied the ID without touching it. Then he nodded his head slowly. “I see…” A frown creased his features. “It’s just that, well, you’re an American.” Warren shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Another brilliant smile segued into pained speculation. “If you don’t mind…” He picked up the telephone receiver.

“If you’re reaching out to Five-” Kovalenko began.

“Oh, I don’t think we need to bother the spooks. I’ll just call my director.”

Kovalenko leaned back in his chair. He enjoyed exerting his power, enjoyed the unease he could inflict, especially on a huffy little prick like Warren. Just look at this room – all smoked glass and polished wood, elegant pen-and-ink sketches on the walls. An Aeron chair. The vast expanse of Warren’s desk was occupied by a single blue iris in a slim, cut-glass vase and an iMac. Kovalenko thought of his cluttered metal desk, his battered filing cabinets.

Across from him, the little prick was explaining the situation to someone with more authority. “Yes, all right, I understand…” He turned to Kovalenko. “I’m happy to say we can accommodate you.” Bright little smile. “Up to a point.”

“And what point would that be?”

“If I could see the account number?”

From his breast pocket, Kovalenko pulled out the plain white index card on which he’d printed the account number. He handed it to the banker.