Power Play

by Joseph Finder

  "When these folks here are finished emptying out their pockets, I want you and Wayne to search 'em. Pat 'em down."

  "Gotcha."

  Buck began orbiting the table, watching everyone drop wallets and money clips onto the table. Ali and Cheryl unclasped their necklaces and bracelets, took off their earrings. The men removed their watches.

  Hugo Lummis, next to me, unbuckled his watchband and slipped it into the back pocket of his pants. I wondered if anyone else had seen it. I didn't think so.

  I whispered to him, "Careful. They're going to search us." But he pretended not to hear.

  Russell holstered his gun and began strolling nonchalantly around the room, picking up objects, examining them with idle curiosity, then putting them down. He walked with the loose-limbed stride of someone used to a lot of physical activity. An ex-soldier, I thought, but of an elite sort-a Navy SEAL, maybe, or a member of the Special Forces. There were crow's-feet around his eyes and deep lines etched in his leathery skin: He'd spent a lot of time in the sun. Not, I suspected, on the beach.

  He stopped at a long table on which one of the hotel staff had stacked blue loose-leaf Hammond binders. He picked one up and leafed through it for a minute or so.

  His two men were preoccupied, too-Buck was making a circuit around the table, his back to me, and Wayne was frisking Geoff Latimer. So for a moment, no one was watching us. I moved my hand slowly across the tablecloth, grabbed the handle of a steak knife, slid the knife along the table toward me.

  Then I lowered it to my side, held it flat against my thigh.

  I gripped its smooth black handle and ran my thumb along the knife edge. It would slice through human skin as easily as it dissected saddle of venison. Against a handgun it wouldn't do much, but it was the only weapon I had.

  Russell ripped out a sheet of paper from one of the notebooks, folded it neatly, and put it in his vest pocket.

  Hank Bodine was now struggling to get to his feet. His face was slick with blood; he was badly wounded.

  "You can just stay put," Russell told him. "I don't think you're going to get up and dance anytime soon." He grabbed a handful of linen napkins from the table and dropped them in front of Bo-dine. They fluttered to the floor like bird's wings. Bodine looked at them dully, then squinted his bloodied eyes at Russell, not understanding.

  "You got a choice, too," Russell said. "You can try to stop the bleeding or hemorrhage to death. All the same to me."

  Now Bodine understood. He took a napkin, held it to his nose, moaned.

  I flexed my left knee and brought my leg up behind me. Moving very slowly, I slid the knife carefully into the side of my shoe.

  Barlow turned to look at me. I glared back as I lowered my foot to the floor.

  The lights flickered for a second.

  "What the hell's that?" Russell said.

  No one answered. Had one of his guys hit some central switch by accident?

  "It's the generators," Kevin Bross muttered.

  "What's that?" Russell approached Bross.

  "This place is powered by generators," Bross said. "One of them's probably failing. Or maybe the system just switched over from one generator to another."

  Russell looked at Bross for a few seconds. "You almost sound like you know what you're talking about." Then he turned to Upton Barlow. "I like your wallet."

  Barlow just stared back, his expression fierce but his eyes dancing with fear.

  "Guy gives you a compliment, you say 'thank you,'" Russell said. "Where's your manners?"

  "Thank you," Barlow said.

  "You're quite welcome." Russell picked up the wallet, flipped it open. "What's this made out of, alligator? Crocodile?"

  Barlow didn't answer.

  "I'm going to say crocodile." Russell peered closely at the wallet. "Hermes," he said.

  "Air-mez," Barlow corrected him.

  Russell nodded. "Thank you. Why, look at this." He pulled out a black credit card. "Bucky, you ever seen one of these? A black American Express card? I don't think I've ever seen one before. Heard about 'em, but I don't think I've ever actually seen one up close and personal."

  Buck approached, looked closely. "That can't be real," he said. "They don't make 'em in black." Now that he'd dropped the phony bumpkin accent, he spoke with the flat vowels of a Midwesterner.

  "Sure they do," Russell said. "Friend of mine told me about it. It's one step higher than platinum, even. You can buy anything with it, I heard. Sky's the limit. Yachts, jet fighters, you name it. But you can't apply for this, my buddy told me. You only get one if you're important enough. If you're a big cheese. You a big cheese, uh-" He looked closely at the card. "Upton? That your first name, Upton?"

  Barlow just stared.

  Suddenly Russell had his pistol out and was pointing it at Barlow's heart.

  "No!" Barlow cried. "Christ! Yes, yes, that's my first name."

  "Thank you," Russell said. "Upton Barlow. Hammond Aerospace Corporation. You work for Hammond Aerospace, Upton?"

  "Yes," Barlow said.

  "Thank you kindly." Russell reholstered the pistol. "I've heard of Hammond Aerospace," Russell said. "You guys make airplanes, right?"

  Barlow nodded.

  "Probably flown in some of them," Russell said. "You make military transport planes, too, don't you?"

  No one spoke.

  "Been in one of those for sure. Never had one crash on me, though, so you must be doing your job. Good work, Upton."

  He chuckled, low and husky, and advanced along the table to Kevin Bross. He leaned over, picked up Bross's watch. "Good God Almighty, look at this thing, Buck," he said. "Ever see a wristwatch like that?"

  "Ridiculous piece of crap," Buck said.

  Bross was gritting his teeth, breathing in and out slowly, trying to maintain control.

  "Well, I kind of like it," Russell said.

  "It's a replica," Bross said.

  "Could have fooled me," Russell said, dropping it into a pocket in his vest. "Thank you, kind sir." He picked up Bross's wallet. "This isn't a…Hermиs," he said, pronouncing it right. He shook it, scattering the credit cards across the tablecloth, and picked one up. "This guy only gets a platinum," he said. "Kevin Bross," he read. "Hammond Aerospace Corporation. You all with the Hammond Aerospace Corporation, that right?"

  Silence.

  "You all must be here for some kind of meeting. Right?"

  No one said anything.

  "I saw those notebooks on the table back there," he went on. "Said something about the 'Executive Council' of the Hammond Aerospace Corporation. That's you guys-excuse me, you ladies and gentlemen-right?"

  Silence.

  "No need to be modest, kids," he said. "Bucky, I think we just hit the jackpot."

  The lights flickered again.

  PART TWO

  27

  The others had no idea what kind of trouble we were in.

  I'm sure they figured, like I did at first, that this was just rotten luck: a rowdy bunch of hunters, lost and hungry and larcenous, had stumbled upon an opulent lodge full of rich businessmen, miles away from anything else, no cops around to stop them.

  But I was sure this was something far more serious. At that point, of course, I was going on nothing more than vague suspicions and instinct.

  Still, my instinct hadn't failed me yet.

  Russell, the ringleader of the hunters, ordered the crew-cut one, Wayne, to go upstairs and search all the rooms. "I have a feeling we're gonna find laptops and whatchamacallits, BlackBerrys and all that good stuff upstairs," he said. "See what you can find. Anything that looks interesting."

  "Yup," Wayne said. He clumped across the floor and thundered up the stairs.

  "Bucky, will you please make sure none of our executives here…'forgot'…anything in their pockets? Now, I read something about opening remarks by the Chief Executive Officer. That's the boss, right? Which one of you's the boss?"

  He looked around the table. No one said anything. Buck started
at the far end of the table, frisking Geoff Latimer.

  "Come on now, gotta be one of you guys."

  Silence.

  Then Cheryl spoke up. "I am."

  "You're the Chief Executive Officer?" He looked skeptical, took a few steps in her direction.

  Cheryl swallowed. "That's right."

  "Chick like you? You're the boss?"

  "Chick like me," she said. Her mouth flattened into a straight line. "Strange but true." The slightest quaver.

  "A lady CEO, huh?"

  "It happens," she said, a little starch returning to her voice. "Nowhere near often enough, but it happens. How can I help you, Russell?"

  "So all these guys here work for you? A woman orders them around?"

  Her nostrils flared. "I lead," she said. "That's not quite the same as ordering people around."

  Russell grinned. "Well, that's a good point, Cheryl. A very good point. I have the same philosophy. So maybe you can tell me, Cheryl, what you're all doing in this godforsaken fishing lodge in the back of beyond."

  "We're on an offsite."

  "An offsite," he said slowly. "That's like-what? A meeting, sort of? Chance to get out of the office and talk, that it?"

  "That's right. Now, may I say something?"

  "Yes, Cheryl, you may."

  "Please, just take whatever you want and leave. None of us wants any trouble. Okay?"

  "That's very kind and generous of you, Cheryl," Russell said. "I think we'll do just that. Now may I ask you something?"

  She nodded. Her bosom rose and fell: She was breathing hard.

  "A lady CEO gets the same money as a man?" he said.

  She smiled tightly. "Of course."

  "Huh. And I thought I read somewhere how women CEOs only get sixty-eight cents for every dollar a man CEO gets. Well, live and learn."

  Cheryl looked momentarily flummoxed. "They pay me quite well. Not as much as some other CEOs, it's true."

  "Still, it ain't chump change. Bucky, what do you take home on your welding job?"

  Buck looked up. "Good year, maybe thirty-eight grand."

  "You make more than that, Cheryl?"

  She exhaled slowly. "If you want me to apologize for the inequities of the capitalist system, you-"

  "No, Cheryl, not at all. I know how the world works. I've got no beef with the capitalist system. I'm just saying you might want to spread some of that around." Now he was standing directly in front of her, only the table between them.

  "Our corporate charitable contributions last year totaled-"

  "That's awful nice, Cheryl. But I think you know that's not what I mean."

  She looked exasperated. "I don't carry much cash, and you're taking my jewelry."

  "Oh, I'll bet you got plenty more."

  "Not unless you plan on leading me to a cash machine at gunpoint so you can empty out my checking account. But I don't think you're going to find an ATM very close by."

  Russell shook his head slowly. "Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl. You must think you're talking to some rube, huh? Some ignorant Bubba. Well, don't misunderstand me. You run a very big company. Makes a lot of money."

  She pursed her lips. "Actually, we haven't been doing all that well recently. That's one of the reasons for this meeting."

  "Really? Says in that book there you have revenue of ten billion dollars and a market capitalization of more than twenty billion. Those numbers off base?" His thumb pointed at the long table stacked with loose-leaf binders.

  She paused for a few seconds, caught by surprise. "That's not my money, Russell. The corporation's assets aren't my own personal piggy bank."

  "You telling me you can't get your hands on some of that money? I'll bet you can make one phone call and send some of those…assets…my way. Right?"

  "Wrong. There are all sorts of controls and procedures."

  "But I'll bet you've got the power to do it with one phone call. You're the CEO. Right?"

  "It doesn't work that way in the corporate world. I'm sorry. I sometimes wish I had that kind of power, but I don't."

  He slid his pistol out of its holster and pulled back the slide. It made a snick-snick sound. He raised it, one-handed, leaned across the table, and pointed it at her left eye. His index finger was curled loosely around the trigger.

  She began blinking rapidly, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm telling you the truth."

  "Then I guess you're of no use to me," he said softly.

  "Don't!" Ali shouted. "Don't hurt her, please. Please!"

  Tears trickled down Cheryl's cheeks. She stared right back at him.

  "Wait." A male voice. We all turned.

  Upton Barlow.

  "We can work something out," he said.

  Russell lowered the gun, and Cheryl gasped. He turned to Barlow with interest. "My friend Upton, with the good taste in wallets."

  "Let's talk," Barlow said.

  "I'm listening."

  "We're both rational men, you and I. We can come to an agreement."

  "You think so?"

  "I know so," Barlow said. "I have no doubt we can work something out to your satisfaction."

  "Kind of a win-win situation," Russell said.

  "Exactly." Barlow smiled.

  "So you're the go-to guy. You're the man."

  "Look," Barlow said, "I just hammered out an offset deal with South Korea on a fighter plane. A coproduction agreement. Everyone said it couldn't be done."

  I remembered that offset arrangement. Basically he arranged for Hammond to transfer billions of dollars in avionics and proprietary software to Seoul so they could build our fighter jet for us. Which meant we gave the Koreans everything they'd need to build their own fighter jet in a few years. It was a monumentally lousy deal.

  "You sure you got the juice to make it happen?" Russell said. "Your boss says she doesn't, but you do?"

  "There's always a way."

  "I'm liking the sound of this, Upton."

  "And in exchange, you and your friends will agree to move on. Fair enough?"

  "Now we're talking."

  "So let's get specific," Barlow said. "I'm prepared to offer you fifty thousand dollars."

  Russell gave that low husky chuckle again. "Oh, Upton," he said, disappointed. "And here I was thinking you were the man. Guy who makes things happen. But we're not even talking the same language."

  Barlow nodded. "Do you have a figure in mind? Why don't we start there?"

  "You think you can get us an even million, Upton?"

  Barlow examined the table. "Well, I don't know about that. That's a huge amount."

  "See, now, that's too bad." Russell strolled along the table, head down as if deep in thought. When he reached the end, he circled around behind me, then stopped. "What if I kill one of your friends? Like this fellow right here? You think that might get us to 'yes,' Upton?"

  I felt the hairs on the back of my neck go prickly, and then I realized he'd put the gun against the back of Hugo Lummis's head. Lummis started breathing hard through his mouth. He sounded as if he were about to have a heart attack.

  "Put that gun down," Cheryl said. "Aren't you the one who was talking about 'no unnecessary violence'?"

  Russell went on, ignoring her: "You think you can dig up a million bucks, Upton, if it means saving Fatso's life?"

  Droplets of sweat broke out on Lummis's brow and his big round cheeks and began dripping down his neck, darkening his shirt collar.

  "Yes," Barlow shouted. "For God's sake, yes! Yes, I'm sure it can be arranged if need be."

  But from my other side came Ronald Slattery's voice. "No, it can't. You don't have signing authority for that kind of money, Upton."

  "Signing authority?" said Russell, keeping the barrel of the Glock against Lummis's head. "Now, that's interesting. What's that mean? Who has signing authority?"

  Slattery fell silent. You could tell he regretted saying anything.

  "For God's sake, Ron," Barlow said, "the guy's going to kill Hugo! You want that on your con
science?"

  "You heard the man, Ron," said Russell. "You want that on your conscience?"

  "Give him the goddamned money," Lummis pleaded. "We've got K &R insurance-we're covered, situation like this. Good God!"

  "All right," Barlow said. "Yes, I'm sure we can arrange that. We'll make it happen somehow. Just-please, just put down the gun and let's keep talking."

  "Now we're cooking with fire," Russell said. He never raised his voice, I noticed. He seemed supremely confident, unflappable.

  He lowered the gun. Walked up to Upton Barlow and stood behind him. "This is starting to sound like a productive conversation. Because if you can get me a million dollars, company like yours, you can do better."

  After a few seconds, Barlow said, "What do you have in mind?"

  "Upton!" Cheryl said warningly.

  "I'm thinking a nice round number."

  "Let's hear it."

  "I'm thinking a hundred million dollars, Upton. Twelve of you here, that's"-he paused for maybe two seconds-"eight million, three hundred thousand bucks and change per head, I figure. Okay? Let's get to 'yes.'"

  Ali looked at me, and I knew she was thinking the same thing I was: This nightmare was only beginning.

  28

  The stunned silence was broken by Ron Slattery.

  "But that's-that's impossible! Our K &R insurance coverage is only twenty-five million."

  "Come on, now, Ronny," Russell said. "Aren't you the CFO? The numbers guy? Read the fine print, bro. Gotta be twenty-five million per insuring clause. Twenty-five million for ransom, twenty-five million for accident and loss coverage, twenty-five million for crisis-management expenses, another twenty-five million for medical expenses and psychiatric care. That's a hundred million easy. Did I add right?"

  "This is ridiculous," Cheryl said. "You're dreaming if you think our insurance company's going to write you a check for a hundred million dollars."

  Russell shook his head slowly. "Oh, no, that's not how it works, Cheryl. The insurance companies never pay. They always insist that you folks pay, then they pay you back. Legal reasons."

  "Well, we don't have access to that kind of money," she said. "No one does."