Spies Lie Series Box Set

by D S Kane

  Houmaz slammed the phone into its cradle. It missed and flew onto the floor. He managed to keep from emitting the scream sealed in his throat.

  Chapter Ten

  October 4, 3:29 p.m.

  Building Society headquarters, Marunouchi Building, Tokyo Station, Tokyo, Japan

  Omasu Maru checked his email. Sitting in his spacious office on the thirty-fourth floor of the Marunouchi Building at Tokyo Station, he drew his thin lips back over yellowed teeth. How to extract payment mixed with a healthy dose of vengeance and still make it look like leniency? The very idea that Sanji Morikono had thought he could get away with not repaying the Japanese Building Society for a half-billion-dollar loan made Maru’s jaw go rigid, feeling like a fool. He’d make the idiot into an example for others. His left hand scratched at the tattoo of a dragon on his right arm.

  He sat back into the overstuffed leather chair and tensed the muscles in both arms. Patience, it might take a while for him to think of something suitable.

  At the end of his official workday, he took a brief break from reviewing the “Problem Loans and Overdue Payments” report. He surfed the Internet, scanning gambling websites owned and run by Yakuza branches.

  One of the sites had a link to another site that claimed “Affect reality: make your bet and the outcomes you bet on actually happen.” Maru had never heard anything so ridiculous. He clicked the link to www.GrayNet.com. At first he just examined the web page, doubting what he saw. But within a few seconds, his jaw dropped in surprise. My god, he thought. Who thought of this? They should be tortured! This puts our private businesses under a searchlight. But as he examined the bets, his thoughts about Internet betting began to change in subtle ways.

  People placed bets about other people dying, politicians being defeated for reelection, and other things that had outcomes a person might indeed affect. Especially if that person was an assassin. He sat spellbound for several minutes, digesting the mechanics of a negative bet. He began to understand that if you bet a substantial amount of money against what you wanted to happen, the people wanting to win the money would bet that it could happen, and soon it became likely that at least one of them would make it happen. The original bet became, in essence, a hit man’s fee. He saw the web page called “Contracts for Death,” and it all snapped into focus for him. This is probably why so many assassins are busy and my hit contracts get backlogged.

  He was struck with a thought: his financial Laundromat was the construction business, with its huge cash flows. He could try this new method of dealing death. Instead of professional hitters, he could post bets enrolling low-cost amateurs to eliminate the competition and get work for his builders. Then, another idea formed, a test case of sorts. He outlined its details and picked up the telephone.

  He called OPEC to determine the name of the director. Over the last year, he’d requested bidding permits for the Japanese Building Society and submitted proposals on construction projects in Saudi Arabia. His spies there told him that so far, every bid they made was rejected, even when they had the low bid. But there was no one available at this hour to give him the name of the man who was responsible.

  He left his office for dinner and thought about refining his new plan. And before dawn he was back at his desk. This time someone answered his call. When he asked, he was told, “The OPEC director isn’t available. He’s just returned from a leave. He was at home mourning the murders of his brothers and father.”

  Maru scratched his chin. In perfect Arabic, he asked, “Please tell me your director’s name.” When he heard the reply, he terminated the call.

  Maru poured a cup of green tea and sat at his desk in front of the computer. He googled “Achmed Houmaz” and typed notes into a document file in preparation for contacting the man. He entered information about the Arab and OPEC’s building plans. Maru knew now his target was the sole surviving member of the Houmaz clan.

  He picked up the receiver and dialed. “Please connect me with Achmed Houmaz,” he said. “Tell him it’s Omasu Maru of the Japanese Building Society.” He waited, studying his notes, his face immobile.

  “Director Houmaz here.” Achmed removed a folder labeled “Omasu Maru” from his desk. He scanned the pages. “Omasu Maru. We met almost two years ago in New York. How can I help you?”

  “I think I may be able to help you, and perhaps then you might return the favor.”

  “How? I’m very busy. I don’t have time for a sales call. Maybe—”

  “One of my associates told me that your brothers were murdered. Do you know what the Japanese Building Society is?

  “Yes, of course. Yakuza.”

  “We could help you avenge the murders of your brothers.”

  “You mean assassinate the murderers. Put out contracts on them. It’s not worth it. I would forever be beholden to you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t be. All I want is the right to bid on construction contracts in your country and to have a guarantee my companies will be selected when their bids are the lowest. Just requesting the right of competitive access. Nothing more.”

  “Anyone can bid.”

  “True. But we have information that tells us we’ve not been selected even when we were lowest bid. Four times out of four over the past year. In fact, we’ve never received a contract to build for OPEC. We’ve bid on eleven contracts over the past six years and been low bidder on all six.”

  Masu heard a sigh on the other side of the line. “How can you keep me from being implicated?”

  “Let me worry about that. We use trade secrets, over a millennium old. What you need to know is that I can guarantee it. It’s what I know how to do best. All you have to tell me is who the murderers are. It would help greatly if you also tell me as much as you know about them.”

  Maru heard nothing and assumed Houmaz was wondering if he should tell anyone his family’s dirty secrets, especially an enforcer of the Yakuza. Maru held the phone tight to his ear, thinking how to encourage the Arab’s trust, but the silence made his face twitch. He used one hand to light a cigarette, and smothered a cough.

  Achmed spoke slowly. “Cassandra Sashakovich murdered my two brothers after they tried unsuccessfully to murder her. She’s murdered hundreds of people. Now she is betting that drug company CEOs will die if they can’t develop disease cures that are affordable. She has invested in one of the companies that hosts these bets. It owns a website called GrayNet.com. The bets are on a sub-page called “Contracts for Death.”

  There was silence for a few seconds, and Maru wondered if the man would lose his nerve. Then, Houmaz whispered, “I don’t know what to think about her.”

  Maru absorbed the intel and also Houmaz’s state of mind. He was pleased to see that the man hadn’t taken his grief to the next stage by trying to execute her without anyone’s help. That likely would have failed and would have left a messy trail. Maru could easily finish the job for him. It might be best for him to just push on and assume Houmaz was willing to pay for her death. “What’s the name of this betting company owning the website?”

  Houmaz told Maru “It’s called Predictive Markets, Inc. From what I can tell, it is interested in fomenting radical change through assassination.”

  Now to get the man to say it. “Would you like me to end her life?”

  Then Achmed Houmaz made Maru grin as he listened to the man’s instructions.

  Maru repeated back, “Let me make sure I have this correctly. You want the assassin to send Cassandra Sashakovich’s severed head to you in a wooden box, packed with dry ice?”

  Houmaz said, “Exactly. I require proof she’s dead, and the severed head will fulfill the requirement of Muslim punishment for murder. If I could have her extradited to Saudi Arabia, beheading is the punishment. But I am unable to convince our government. Can you do this?”

  “Let me think for a minute.” He opened a new document on his computer. “Uh, do you know where she is right now?”

  Houmaz said, “You can locate her using www
.gawker stalker.com.” Maru heard clicking of a computer keyboard. “She is somewhere in Washington, DC, right now. Can you do it? If you can, I will set the Japanese Building Society as a prime construction builders for OPEC in Saudi Arabia.”

  Maru formed the outline of a plan in his head. His two big problems would combine into one big solution. “Most certainly. And I believe that I have a very fitting plan for her demise. So, do we have an agreement?”

  “Yes. Contact me when you hold her severed head in your hands.”

  Maru terminated the call and laughed so hard he felt pain in his rib cage. He buzzed his assistant. “Get Morikono on the phone.” It took a few seconds, and he didn’t even have time to think. “It’s Omasu Maru. Morikono-san, there is still a way you might be of service. Do what I ask and I will bring your payments status to current and you can keep the hotel. Yes, yes. But you will have to find a way to remain current after that. Interested?”

  He heard Morikono agree. “Good. Send an email to Cassandra Sashakovich. You can find her through the website of Swiftshadow Consulting Group. Request that she personally fly to your hotel to meet with you to discuss an assignment to audit the hotel’s security. Say there have been computer hacking attempts and also physical security breaches where paparazzi tried getting close to celebrities staying in the Nippon Tower. Tell her you want security enhancements designed and implemented for the protection of your high-net-worth guests. And tell her that to test the hotel’s security you will give her one free week at the two suites on the top floor, so she can have a firsthand experience of the current state of security.”

  He couldn’t believe Morikono’s objection. “Listen, you fool, I certainly know how much they cost. But you haven’t rented them since the King of Jordan stayed there two months ago. So, do you want to keep the hotel or not? Do what I tell you or pack your bags and be gone tomorrow.”

  Now he smiled. “Good. No, you’ll never have to meet with her. She’ll want a few days to assess the current state of security before she calls you for a meeting. And you must not be available to meet during her visit. Two days after she arrives, I want all guests gone from the hotel. Empty it. And, I want you gone for at least a week while she’s there. Only Sashakovich and her party should remain there. Any questions?” This time Morikono agreed without argument.

  Maru smiled. “Sayonara, Morikono-san.” He hung up, and spent the next several minutes thinking about the projects he could build in Riyadh and Medina.

  Chapter Eleven

  October 5, 2:11 p.m.

  Offices of Swiftshadow Consulting Group, K Street, Washington, DC

  Dressed in a drab Burberry trench coat and fedora against the downpour, Cassie exited the construction elevator on the third floor of the building where the new offices of Swiftshadow Consulting Group on K Street were being built, one block away from the apartment where she’d lived a year ago. Sheets of plastic draping, debris, and dust were everywhere except where rain dropped through a few as yet un-paned windows. Electrical wires and telecommunications lines snaked along a span of untiled floor, few of the walls in place. The conference room was barely a room. Construction lamps provided streaks of patchy light, their cords twisting to outlets on the floor outside its doorway. No door yet in place, the noise from workers outside rattled into the room.

  Cassie set her attaché case down on a folding table and popped the lid from a cup of Starbuck’s café americano.

  Thirty feet away, at a makeshift desk amid the construction of his partially completed office, Avram Shimmel heard the noise of footsteps on the false flooring and guessed it was Sashakovich. He scratched his balding head as he reread the email he’d received. He could hear a hammer, and the air filled with dusty swirls as men moved Cat-5 cable under newly installed false-floor tiles.

  In the two hours since it came, he’d reread that email at least five times. Once again, he shook his head. This world is far too small, he thought. And what do I do now? Do I ignore it? Is it a warning that Achmed Houmaz knows about us? Do I dare reply?

  He thought about telling Sashakovich, but decided it was a very bad idea. She’d want to do something rash and she wouldn’t let him help her. He needed to have a planned course of action before he told her. So, he read it yet again, as if contained within, there might be some secret message he’d missed:

  Dear Principals of Swiftshadow Consulting Group,

  My name is Achmed Houmaz. About a month ago, my two brothers were brutally murdered in their home near Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. It is clear to me that you are capable of mercenary operations. However, I also read that you can conduct many different types of covert activities, including investigations using computers.

  My request is that you investigate the deaths of my brothers and discover the names of the responsible party or parties. At first glance it appears to be a covert operation of the United States, but they deny this. I want independent proof of who is responsible. Money is not an issue.

  Please be advised that I am sending this Request for Proposal to several similar companies that claim they can perform this assignment. Please reply to this email address, no later than two weeks from today.

  Kind regards,

  Achmed Houmaz

  Director in Chief, Ministry of Oil, Saudi Arabia

  Shimmel tried to ignore the bad taste in his mouth. It would be dishonest to accept the assignment in order to throw Houmaz off their trail. In fact, it was likely that this was a warning; that Houmaz knew who was responsible and was telling Avram to expect violence.

  In the end, all anyone has is their integrity, he thought. I must tell Sashakovich and recommend declining the assignment. But this will be a growing problem for us all.

  He sighed, tapping in a new file of notes on his cell phone, including ideas he hoped might morph into a plan.

  Ann sat alone in the school lunchroom. The food was labeled “organic” and was absolutely tasteless. Her face scrunched. Whatever this was, it wasn’t edible. Smelled like garbage from the tunnels. She decided not to eat anything. She watched an attractive boy, about a year older than she was. He exited from the register area and walked toward her, looking in her direction.

  “Is this seat taken?” His long brown hair swept over his shoulders. Tall and muscular, with golden brown eyes, a smile creased his cheeks.

  “Nope. It seems to have your name on it.” Ann stared at him. She pointed next to her.

  He sat and extended his hand. “Charles Breckenridge. Senior. Captain, varsity baseball.”

  “Ann Silbee Sashakovich. I’m the new girl.”

  “Your name’s a mouthful! From where?” He shifted in his seat and picked up half of his sandwich. Pulled out the meat and ate it, leaving the bread on the plate.

  She thought, I’m a former homeless whore. She’d tell no one about the last place she called “home.” She examined what was between the pieces of bread on her plate. “This is garbage. Absolute repulsion. Uh, I used to live in New York.”

  “Neat. Ever see our baseball team play a game?”

  “Nope. Listen, I got class in a few minutes.” She rose and he grabbed her hand.

  “Hey, Ann. Maybe we could meet after school for a soda?”

  I can tell he thinks I’m cute, she thought. Well, maybe. What harm would there be having a soda with him? “Okay. Where and when?”

  “Baseball field at four.” And with that, he was gone.

  She sat back down, needing a second to think. Her experience with men was nasty. Sex for money. But, didn’t my pretend-mom say that men are pull-toys?

  Somehow, though, this felt different. She felt shy yet warmer in his presence. What should she do?

  When classes ended at 3:45, Anne still hadn’t made up her mind. What should she do with Charles? Would they be friends, something more, or was she going to do what she’d always done with men? She sat in the stands, watching, wishing she understood the game. Charles stood far away on the right side of the field, close to the distant fence. When on
e of the other team hit the ball toward him, he ran and caught it. And when it was his turn to stand at the cream-colored pentagon with a stick in his hand, he hit the ball over the fence where the opposing team couldn’t catch it, and several of his team ran around to touch the flat pentagon before he did.

  They cheered him and swatted at his hand as he crossed the pentagon. So, he wasn’t just good looking. He also was admired by his teammates.

  She ran her hand through her hair. What should she do?

  Their game ended and Charles walked toward her. He smiled. “Didja enjoy watching?”

  “I’ve heard about it but never watched one before. Didn’t understand most of it. But when you launched that ball, your teammates loved it. So I guess you did well.”

  “Really? Never seen a baseball game before. Wow. I can teach you about baseball. It’s pretty easy and the basic rules are all you really need to know. Hey, I know a great place to get a soda. Chilly’s Ice Cream Bar. A few blocks away. Wanna go?”

  She looked at her feet. Worried about her next paper. She didn’t have time for this. “I’m not doing well at school. My English and reading suck. I better go home.”

  “My grades are good. I can help you.”

  No one besides Cassie had offered to help her. Ever. Could she trust him? She remained seated a few seconds longer, her face set, rigid in thought. “Sure.” But as she rose, her hands reached for his face and pulled him close. She kissed his lips gently. “Okay.”

  His hands remained at his side, clutching his book bag. His face framed the question, at first not responding. But then his hands reached around her head, drawing her face to his again. This kiss went on a long time, and when it ended, they were both breathless. He looked into her eyes. “Come with me.”