Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  As he did each morning, Norton traversed the winding sidewalk from the executive parking garage to the front entrance of the main building that served as the headquarters for his company, McAllister-Norton Industries. The walking path was one of several cutting through the wooded and landscaped areas around the headquarters complex’s twelve buildings. It was a ritual he observed without fail, eschewing the notion of being delivered by limousine to the front door; the drive from his home on the outskirts of San Antonio was a peaceful way to start each day. Often, the quiet stroll, and the time it provided him to think without interruption, was all that was needed to help him gain a proper, healthier perspective on the issues he might tackle in the hours ahead. He almost was able to forget the pair of escorts pacing him at a respectful distance as he walked, the newest measure instituted by his head of security.

  And to think, you wanted to retire.

  It had been his original plan to retire altogether after leaving the CIA, rather than plunging headlong into the private sector, but he had been enticed by his longtime friend from college, Jonathan McAllister, to take a partnership with him in the massive company he had built almost from scratch into one of the nation’s leading defense contractors. McAllister had been looking for a trusted colleague to bring on as a partner, his intention being to divide the company in half with respect to oversight of function. McAllister himself would maintain control of most of the longtime contracts the company enjoyed, while Norton would be charged with seeking out new clients in emerging fields and technologies. It was a challenge Norton welcomed, and less than three months after accepting the offer, McAllister Industries was renamed to reflect this new collaboration.

  Then McAllister died in late 2001, leaving Norton to oversee everything, with the help of trusted department heads, of course. With the world shifting virtually beneath their feet in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks that had shaken the world on that fateful day in mid-September, and the United States taking bold and even controversial steps onto the altered global stage as it declared “war on terror,” the military-industrial complex was soon operating at a tempo unseen since the height of the Cold War. Large defense contractors such as McAllister-Norton and its competitors soon found themselves awash in engineering and manufacturing as well as consulting and support services contracts, to say nothing of the money that came along with them, all courtesy of a battered and bruised yet determined Uncle Sam.

  War’s good for business, Norton mused, with no small amount of bitterness coloring the errant thought.

  “Good morning, Mr. Norton,” he heard a voice call out as he emerged from the garden path and crossed the slim expanse of cobblestones toward the building’s main entrance. Looking up, he saw one of his assistants, Scott Pearson, walking toward him. A slim man in his early forties, Pearson carried a black leather ledger and was dressed in a well-tailored charcoal-gray suit and maroon loafers, his conservative attire at odds with the long brown hair he wore pulled back into a ponytail. His narrow frameless eyeglasses gave him the appearance of a professor at UC Berkeley. Though Norton usually preferred his senior staff to maintain a more clean-cut appearance, he permitted Pearson a few minor rebellions, owing to the fact that he had—over the years—become his indispensable right-hand man.

  “Morning, Scott,” Norton said as he drew alongside Pearson. “I take it you know what’s going on with the bid?”

  Pearson nodded as he fell in step and the two men continued into the building, the pair of glass doors parting at their approach. “Got the word a few hours ago. I’ve already got people working the phones and crunching the numbers to come up with some counterproposals for you. You should have it before ten o’clock.”

  “Give me whatever you have at nine,” Norton said, feeling the rush of cool air blowing down from air-conditioning vents as he and Pearson entered the headquarters building’s massive main lobby. “I don’t want to give the boys in Washington too much time before we come back with something. It’s too big a deal to give up that kind of yardage this late in the game.” He said nothing else for a few moments as they crossed the floor, nodding greetings to employees as they passed. The lobby itself was designed as an expansive atrium, its ceiling extending to the eighth floor and with open corridors on the outskirts of the upper levels. The morning sun streamed through the high glass windows, highlighting the bustling activity here even at this relatively early hour.

  “You’re still scheduled to head to the airport at four-thirty this afternoon,” Pearson said, reviewing the copy of Norton’s daily schedule he kept in his ledger. “Assuming we haven’t worked this out by then, I’m sure I can handle the details until tomorrow evening.”

  Norton offered a small smile of gratitude. “I appreciate that, Scott.” He needed to be on a plane to Atlanta tonight, with Fred Morehouse’s funeral scheduled for the following afternoon.

  His security director, the walking definition of “thorough” if ever Norton had seen one, had implored him to remain in San Antonio, particularly in light of Nick McFarland’s warning that Morehouse had likely been killed by Lona Callahan, who might now be gunning for either of them. To that end, security around the corporate campus had been heightened, to include personal escorts accompanying Norton—at a discreet distance—to and from work. Additional security also was present when he was at home, and his car was inspected at frequent, random intervals throughout the day while he was at the office. Despite this concern, Norton had refused to simply stay and hide. Morehouse had been his friend for thirty years, after all, and there still was something to be said for personal loyalty.

  Later, he reminded himself. First things first.

  “Even though I’ve got everybody jumping through hoops,” Norton said, “my gut’s telling me the new offer doesn’t have much bite. My sources inside tell me that the other group’s pulling every favor and ‘good old boy’ string they’ve got, hoping to find somebody who’ll tell us to pass on this one and wait for the next deal. DCMA’s recommending us, not just because we’ll be the better bid, but also to help turn around the bad press they’ve been getting.”

  The media had spent the past couple of years maligning the current situation with some contractors and the apparent favored status they received from the Defense Contract Management Agency—the organization within the Department of Defense tasked with obtaining materiel and services for the military from civilian vendors. One of the largest such firms was under prolonged scrutiny, accused of benefiting from several “no-bid contracts” handed out by the DoD. Such controversy was only furthered by the common knowledge that members of the current presidential administration had connections to the company. Perhaps most damaging of all were the growing number of accusations related to overcharging for many of the services provided to military forces currently deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. Congressional review had resulted in new bidding processes for the latest round of contract negotiations, with McAllister-Norton Industries primed to compete. With his company long respected for its integrity and dependability, Norton had no intention of making it easy on his competition.

  “If any of what they’ve been accused of doing is true,” Pearson said as they entered the elevator foyer, “DCMA might end up begging us to take the job.” He smiled at that. “That’ll make a nice addendum to the piece I hear 60 Minutes is putting together on the DoD’s wasteful spending.”

  Despite the flurry of demands on his attention, which would only worsen as the day progressed, Norton could not help the hearty laugh that escaped his lips. “Remind me to set my VCR, or digital recorder, or whatever damned gadget’s sitting on top of the TV in my office.”

  They reached the bank of eight elevators, four on either side of the foyer. Norton extracted a key card from the inside pocket of his jacket and swiped it across an electronic reader positioned next to the first elevator, the one dedicated to ferrying him directly to and from his executive suite on the building’s top floor. Before stepping into the car, he turned onc
e more to Pearson, “Do me a favor, Scott. I forgot to remind my wife about some of the new security arrangements. Let her know a car will be sent to take her to the airport.”

  Pearson nodded. “Consider it done. Anything else?”

  “Find a way to smuggle me to Hawaii for a couple of weeks,” Norton replied, stepping into the elevator. The car rose from the lobby floor, its transparent walls allowing him an unhindered view of the atrium and the growing number of employees streaming through the various entrances now as the start of the formal workday approached.

  Then the floor lurched beneath his feet and Norton felt the car stop its ascent. Frowning in confusion, he looked up to see that the overhead light was still functioning. He reached out and pressed the button to open the door and it illuminated, though the doors themselves remained closed. The button for the eighth floor lit up when he touched it, as well, but the elevator remained in place. Grunting now in irritation, Norton reached for the small access door situated below the buttons and containing a phone that would connect him with the security desk down in the lobby.

  There was a click and the panel sprung open and he flinched as something fell from the phone box inside, dropping to the elevator’s carpeted floor and rolling to a stop at his feet. It was cylindrical, somewhat smaller than a twelve-ounce beverage can, painted a slate gray with a yellow band around its center and additional yellow lettering along its surface. Norton had only a few heartbeats to realize he was staring down at an M15 white phosphorus grenade, its pin pulled and its safety handle missing.

  The flash of scorching white light was like a miniature sun against the lobby’s subdued illumination, followed by a concussive blast as the grenade exploded. Standing near the main lobby entrance, her true identity hidden beneath a blond wig and large-framed glasses, Lona Callahan flinched as glass and other shrapnel launched in all directions. All around her, people screamed as they scrambled for cover, but she ignored those panicked individuals. Instead, she was drawn to the sight of the shattered elevator car, suspended four floors above the lobby and awash in flame. Inside, whatever remained of Lynn Norton lay on the floor of the car, the fire quickly consuming that, as well.

  The grenade held fifteen ounces of white phosphorus, and the explosive’s burst radius ranged from fourteen to seventeen meters. Within the elevator’s confines, Lona knew that Norton’s chances of surviving the blast were nil. Indeed, he likely had died instantly, spared from suffering a horrific death as the phosphorus continued to burn up to a minute after the grenade’s detonation. Smaller fires were burning in the area beneath the elevator now, as pieces of flaming shrapnel rained to the floor and made contact with carpet, plants, scattered papers, or any other flammable surface. The tinge of burning phosphorus as well as scorched flesh was assailing Lona’s nostrils as she noticed other people standing transfixed, their expressions masks of mute horror as they watched the sickening scene unfolding above them.

  As had happened after killing Frederick Morehouse, Eric Wheaton, and Robert Fields—a 4400 who had been using his newfound gift for pattern recognition to break top secret code ciphers before selling that information to foreign intelligence agencies—Lona once more felt the now-familiar rush of momentary satisfaction and accomplishment. Unlike Wheaton and Fields, whom she was compelled to kill for reasons she still did not understand, Norton’s death was a necessary action as she continued her quest to sever all ties to her previous life. No matter the motive, the sense of fulfillment washed over her with the same level of delightful intensity.

  The feeling passed and Lona looked about the lobby, relieved to note that there appeared to be no other casualties. Lona was grateful for that, despite the rather dramatic method she had used to dispatch Lynn Norton—an admitted holdover from her previous life. Though the use of notable, even theatrical techniques to carry out her assignments had become something of a signature during her time as an active operator, she always had upheld the unwritten yet time-honored code of the professional assassin. For her, reducing or eliminating altogether the threat to bystanders or anyone else who was not the contracted mark was simply another aspect of whatever task she was contracted to accomplish.

  Alarms now blared through the expansive chamber, no doubt a result of the building’s security cadre finally reacting to the situation. Lona cast a glance to the main security desk, a circular station situated at the center of the floor, where three uniformed officers worked either phones or computer terminals, no doubt alerting emergency first responders and other appropriate personnel to the gruesome turn of events. Based on the research she had conducted as part of her overall preparation, Lona knew that she had between four and seven minutes before the first law enforcement or medical teams arrived on-site. Even without her own unique means of making an escape, she still would have plenty of time to blend in with other employees who were in the midst of evacuating the building before the scene was locked down.

  “You! Don’t move!”

  Lona turned at the sound of the voice to see another uniformed security officer standing less than twenty feet from her, his pistol drawn and held in a steady two-handed grip as he stared at her down the weapon’s barrel. He was well muscled, his brown hair cut close to the skull and with a trace of gray at the temples. The pistol’s muzzle was aimed at her chest, and the officer’s stance and expression—particularly the way his blue eyes bored into her—communicated a level of self-confidence that told Lona he was not at all inexperienced. Chances were good that he was not just some rental cop, but was either former law enforcement or perhaps even prior military.

  None of that gave him any real chance.

  “What?” she asked, affecting an expression of doubt and discomfort at the sight of the weapon in the man’s grip. “What’s going on?” She made a show of moving her hands away from her sides and the oversized purse slung over her left shoulder.

  “Just stand where you are,” the guard said, “and keep your hands where I can see them.” Taking his left hand from his pistol, he reached for the handset draped over his left shoulder, its coiled black cord snaking over and down his back to the radio clipped to his belt. His eyes fixed on Lona, he keyed the mike. “Central, this is Brooks. I’ve got a woman matching Suspect Callahan’s general description. I need backup immediately.” There was a pause during which someone on the other end of the radio said something, to which Brooks replied, “Hair’s different and she’s got glasses, but facial features match the photos they gave us at the briefing.” Though nothing about her own expression or body language communicated as such, Lona was impressed by the officer’s awareness.

  Of greater concern, even though she should have expected it by now, was that photographs of her were being distributed. This was something that might require her attention, but that was a matter for another time.

  Escaping would be simple, of course, even though Lona was not keen on allowing too many witnesses to observe her ability. Better for her to remain an enigma, she knew, especially to those who hunted her. The mystery would fuel their imaginations and perhaps even their fear, all useful weapons as she continued with her mission. Now, however, she had no choice.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Brooks, “but I really must be going.”

  To his credit, the security officer wavered not an iota. “Stand right there. Move and I’ll kill you.”

  “Good luck with that,” Lona replied.

  Seconds later—at least so far as Brooks and anyone who may have been watching her in the lobby were concerned—Lona stood in the garden ringing the headquarters building, concealed among the trees and smiling at what Brooks must be feeling at this moment after watching her seemingly vanish before his eyes. Even such a brief burst of time bending—as she had come to call it—had made her thirsty, and she reached into her purse to extract a bottle of water. Taking a long drink, Lona glanced around to ensure she was not being observed before walking in a casual manner toward the garden’s outer perimeter. Her rental car was parked in a conce
aled location on the outskirts of the company’s property, and she would be well away from here before the security force was able to lock down all of the entrances as well as the parking garages. With the ongoing confusion as well as a bit of luck, she should not even have to use her ability further to assure her escape.

  Only one person relevant to her former life remained: Nicholas McFarland. He likely would be the most difficult to reach, given his continued association with the CIA. That did not guarantee his safety, of course, but Lona knew that the Agency’s formidable resources would be brought to bear in order to protect him. Killing him would require careful planning on her part.

  Lona now wondered if, once McFarland and the distractions he represented were out of the way, she would be able to focus all of her attention on the other tasks she knew she must fulfill. Would some explanation for the compulsions that drove her finally become apparent, and would those responsible for what now motivated her reveal themselves?

  As she walked through the trees and as though in response to her unspoken questions, Lona once more felt her body quiver with that same sense of contentment. While it was no answer, it would do.

  For now.

  TWENTY-ONE

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  AMID THE CLATTER of dinner plates, the frantic piano pounding of Jerry Lee Lewis, and the distinctive clacking of roller skates moving across lacquered wood flooring, Alfred Twenter allowed a symphony of sounds from yesteryear to transport him from the glitz and bustle of this new world back to a simpler and more familiar time.