The room and everyone in it danced and jiggered before my eyes, turned liquid. I could see Russell, purple-faced, reach back to slip something out of somewhere (was it his boot?)-and in his fist something glinted: a blade, a long-handled knife, the point of a spear-and he drew it back in his fist with a guttural, bestial roar, aiming directly at my heart, and I was paralyzed, watching Russell in his animal rage, the silvery gleam of the knife blade, and I was too numb to fully grasp that he'd finally won.
I thought: This is the bad wolf.
I tried to plead, but only a grunt came out, and I was slipping away, no longer had the strength to grab the gun out of my pocket, to do anything but-
The top of his head came off.
Red mist. The blast numbed my ears.
He toppled, blood everywhere.
Ali held the Smith & Wesson in a perfect two-handed grip, shoulders forward, an ideal stance.
Her hands were shaking, but her eyes were fierce.
AFTER
78
The Canadian police kept us in Vancouver for almost four days.
There were a lot of legal matters to deal with, an investigation to conduct. The two surviving kidnappers were immediately arrested by the Major Crime Unit of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who actually turned out not to ride horses or wear those funny-looking red uniforms or the silly wide-brimmed Stetson hats.
Buford "Buck" Hogue was evacuated by helicopter to Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster, where he died in surgery. Travis Brumley was placed in a detachment cell at Port Hardy, then brought before a judge for arraignment.
I felt strange telling the police investigators that, of all the hostage-takers, Travis seemed the least violent and therefore the least guilty. As far as I knew, he hadn't killed anyone. He'd even tried to stop the bloodshed. But as they kept pointing out, Travis was still the perpetrator of a violent crime. He'd be charged with murder, no question about it.
Then again, these were Canadians. I didn't know what Canadians did with murderers. Maybe gave them a very strict talking-to.
The bodies of the victims and the hostage-takers were all airlifted to Vancouver for autopsy. All the rest of us were subjected to some pretty lengthy questioning by the Major Crime Unit team, no one longer than I, after my wounds were bandaged up in the hospital.
Once the exuberant relief of our rescue had worn off, the exhaustion set in. We were all pretty traumatized. In between police interviews and statutory declarations in front of justices of the peace, we slept a lot, talked, called our families and friends.
I couldn't help noticing that Clive Rylance and Upton Barlow and even Kevin Bross were a lot friendlier to me. I suspected it wasn't simple gratitude for what I'd done. These were men who could smell power shifts from miles away, and they all knew that Cheryl had big plans for me. I had become someone they needed to cultivate. They wanted to stay on my good side.
But something seemed wrong with Ali: She'd become quiet, withdrawn. On the second day, I finally got a chance to talk to her alone. We were sitting in a waiting room of the RCMP's E Division headquarters outside Vancouver, a depressing room with linoleum floors and ratty couches and that pine smell of disinfectant I loathed.
"It's eating me up inside," she said. Her eyes were bloodshot.
"What?"
"What I did."
I drew closer to her on the couch, took her hands. "You saved my life."
She stared at the floor, unable to meet my eyes. "I keep replaying it in my head. I'm not like you, Jake. I don't think I'll ever shake it."
"You never will," I said very quietly. "I understand, believe me. More than I ever wanted to tell you."
And then, taking a deep breath, I told her everything.
On our last morning in Vancouver, I was having breakfast by myself in the restaurant of the Four Seasons when Upton Barlow approached my table.
"Mind if I sit down?" he said.
"Not at all."
He noticed the bandage on my face. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"I underestimated you, my friend," he said.
I didn't know how to respond, so I didn't.
"I still find it hard to comprehend that Geoff Latimer embezzled from the company. And on such a scale at that. Just goes to show, you never really know people."
I looked up from my coffee, saw the anxiety in his face. "I think it was more complicated than that."
"Well, no doubt," he said, feigning an offhanded tone. "What-what did he tell you at the end?"
Of course, that was what he really wanted to know: Had Latimer revealed everything? As far as Barlow knew, Latimer had spilled his guts to me. "A lot," I said.
Barlow's cheeks flushed. "Oh, yeah? Do tell."
I leaned close to him. "See, Upton, here's the thing. There's going to be a lot of changes at the top, as I'm sure you know."
He nodded, cleared his throat. "What do you know about these-changes?" He must have hated having to ask me that.
"I know this much: Cheryl's going to look a lot more favorably on those who cooperate."
"Cooperate?"
"You have something Cheryl wants."
He nodded, cleared his throat again.
"Some people will get thrown to the wolves," I said. "You have to decide if you're going to be one of them."
In exchange for Cheryl's guarantee not to hand him over to the Justice Department, Upton Barlow said he'd be only too happy to tell her everything.
About how her predecessor, James Rawlings, had asked his trusted General Counsel, Geoff Latimer, to set up an offshore partnership in the British Virgin Islands.
It was Hank Bodine's idea, actually, but then Rawlings-a shrewd but aggressive investor-decided he wanted to triple the pot within a year and replace the funds in the company's coffers before they were discovered missing. Turn fifty million into a hundred fifty. The ever-cautious Geoff Latimer had warned his boss that trading on margin like that was terribly risky.
But Jim Rawlings was willing to take the risk in order to amass enough untraceable cash for what he liked to call "offsets"-facilitation payments, success fees, whatever. Barlow preferred to call it by its true name: a slush fund for bribes.
To give Jim Rawlings his due, there was a reason why Hammond's foreign business was so strong during his tenure.
It wasn't just the lousy four hundred thousand bucks that Hank Bodine had told Geoff Latimer to wire to an offshore account he'd set up for the Pentagon's Chief Acquisitions Officer. No, it was the millions and millions that Bodine had dispensed to foreign ministers and third-world dictators the world over. Those guys didn't sell out as cheap as U.S. government bureaucrats.
Jim Rawlings never expected the fund to go belly-up, of course. He never expected to put Latimer in the desperate position of having to come up with a hundred million dollars to pay off a margin call when the investment collapsed. Had he lived, Rawlings would have taken care of things.
Then again, he never anticipated an outside investigation whose unblinking, ceaseless scrutiny made it impossible for Latimer to dig up the money somewhere in the Hammond treasury.
"If Rawlings hadn't dropped dead playing golf at Pebble Beach, none of this would have happened," Upton Barlow told Cheryl later. "I never liked golf."
79
I almost didn't make the flight home.
I had the dubious honor of being interviewed personally by the head of the RCMP Major Crime Unit, a dour and weary-looking homicide investigator named Roland Broussard with a black mustache and a unibrow. Sergeant-Major Broussard was said to be their most skilled interrogator.
Midway through his interrogation, he got a copy of my juvenile arrest record-yeah, sure, they promise you that your records are "sealed," but they never really are-and from the way he started crunching his breath mints I could tell he was excited. He seemed to have decided that I was like an arithmetic problem that never added up the same way twice.
But finally he excused me, after everyone e
lse had boarded the Hammond jet. They held the flight for me, though.
I limped up the metal steps and entered the main salon. As I walked in, my eyes getting used to the dim light, I looked around for a seat.
There were a number of empty ones.
I'd forgotten how ludicrously opulent the company plane was, all the wood paneling and the Oriental rugs and the marble tables and the leather recliners.
Someone clapped, and then a couple of people, and before long there was a smattering of applause, which sounded strange in the sound-deadened cabin. I smiled, shook my head modestly, plopped down in the nearest seat, which happened to be next to Hank Bodine.
He was talking on his cell phone, and as soon as he saw me, he rose and found another seat, off by himself. For the first half hour of the flight, he made call after call, and I could see him getting more and more frustrated.
Then Cheryl summoned me to her private cabin.
Ali let me in but immediately excused herself. She went to a fancy mahogany desk in the corner and tapped away at a laptop. Cheryl was sitting in one of the overstuffed off-white chairs, her feet up on an ottoman, and she, too, was talking on a cell phone.
I took a seat on a couch facing her, picked up a copy of the Wall Street Journal, skimmed the movie review, and pretended not to listen in on Cheryl's conversation.
"Jerry," she was saying, almost coquettishly, "you know I've been chasing you for years." She gave a lilting laugh. "Oh, you'll love Los Angeles. I'm sure of it. Don't you get tired of all the rain? I did. All right, then. Good to reconnect, and I'm glad we could come to terms. I'm thrilled."
She snapped her cell phone shut and looked up at me. She seemed to be in a giddy mood. "You-" she began, but then the door to the cabin flew open, and Hank Bodine stormed in.
"What the hell is going on?" he yelled.
"Pardon me, Hank?" said Cheryl.
"Every time I call my office, I get some damned recording saying I've reached a 'nonworking extension at Hammond Aerospace.' I can't even reach my own admin."
"Gloria Morales has been reassigned, Hank."
"What? You have no right to do that without my sign-off!"
Ali approached Cheryl, handed her a burgundy leather pad with a single sheet of paper on top of it. "Thank you, Alison," Cheryl said. She picked up a large black fountain pen from the marble end table, took her time uncapping the pen, then dashed off a bold signature at the bottom of the page. She held the paper up and blew on it to dry the ink. Then she gave it back to Ali, who wordlessly took it over to Bodine.
"What's this?" he said warily. He snatched the paper from Ali's hand and stared at it, his eyes steadily widening. "'Violation of fiduciary duty of loyalty'…What the hell do you think you're doing?" He shook his head. "Nice try, Cheryl, but you don't have the power to fire anyone."
"Really?" Cheryl inspected her fingernails. "You might want to ask Kevin Bross about that. I'm sure you've noticed he's not on board. Try him on his cell-he's still in Vancouver. I didn't think he merited a ride on the company plane."
Bodine emitted a single sharp bark of laughter. "You'll never get this past the board of directors. They specifically took away your power to hire and fire. You can write all the letters you want, but they don't mean a damned thing."
She sighed. "The executive committee of the board of directors met this morning in special session, Hank," she said patiently. "Once they had a chance to read the e-mails that Upton kindly provided, they realized they had no choice."
"Upton!" Bodine said.
"They quickly realized how far-reaching the legal consequences will be. And, of course, none of them wants to be hit with a lawsuit personally. They simply wanted me to clean up the mess you made. Which I was happy to do. As soon as they restored my power to do so. Quid…pro…quo."
Bodine's face had gone beet red.
"From their standpoint, of course, it was…" Cheryl paused, pursed her lips as if savoring a delectable chocolate, then smiled. "…a no-brainer."
80
As the metal steps rolled up to the plane, I looked out the window and saw a crowd of photographers and television cameramen and reporters.
When the plane door opened, a roar came up from the crowd, and the reporters closed in, shouting questions. Cheryl was the first to exit, then Ali, then me, and finally the rest of us.
It was a bright, sunny, perfect California day. Suddenly something streaked out of the crowd, fast as a rocket, tracing frenzied circles on the tarmac.
"Gerty," I yelled. "Come!"
She ran toward me, her leash flying behind her, and vaulted into the air. Her tongue swiped my face. Then she bounded away and knocked a photographer's very-expensive-looking camera out of his hands. The poor dog was crazed with joy and relief.
Zoл shouted an apology to the photographer, tried to nab the dog, then gave up.
Ali beckoned me over to Cheryl's limousine.
"Jake," Cheryl said. "Ride with us."
"Thanks, but I can't," I said. "My car's parked here."
"Well, we have a lot of work to do when we get back to the office. Quite a few senior positions to fill. There'll be a number of vacant offices on the thirty-third floor, and I'd like you to take one of them. As one of my special assistants."
"Thanks," I said. "I appreciate it. But I'm not really cut out for the thirty-third floor. I'll mix up the salad fork and the fish fork. I'll drink out of the finger bowl. You never know what I might blurt out. You know me by now, I think-it's just not my scene."
She looked at me for a few seconds, her eyes gray ice. Then her expression softened. "Actually, I could use some more straight talk on the thirty-third floor."
"Thing is, I can't let Mike Zorn down." I smiled sheepishly. "Gotta deal with the whole chicken-rivet thing."
After a few seconds, she said, "I understand, I guess. But I'm sorry."
"Anyway," I said, "I called a couple of engineers from the plane. They've got a possible solution they want to explore. I'll keep you posted."
As I headed toward the parking lot, Gerty straining at the leash, Ali called out to me.
I stopped, looked around.
"Did I just hear you turn Cheryl down?"
"It's nothing personal," I said.
Gerty was whining and scrambling and jumping all over Ali, and I tried to pull the dog back.
"Guess I shouldn't be surprised," she said. "It's that whole change thing, huh?"
I shrugged. "I just like being good at what I do."
She shook her head and smiled. "Maybe someday I'll figure you out." She caressed Gert's head.
"When you do," I said, "fill me in."
She leaned over, began massaging the dog's neck, running her fingers through the silky ruff, saying, "Pretty," and "What a good doggie." Gert's tail wagged like crazy. She shimmied and wriggled and tried to swipe her big tongue all over Ali's face.
"So this is the dog-wife, huh?"
I nodded.
"She's beautiful. I think she likes me."
"She likes everybody."
Ali glanced back at the limousine. "You still live in the same apartment, right?"
"Of course."
"Mind giving me a ride to my place?"
"Sure," I said. "But I gotta warn you-there's dog hair all over the car."
"That's all right," she said. "I can deal."
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Could it happen?
Even though this story is fiction, the premise-the kidnap-for-ransom of a major corporation's entire top leadership-is one of those scary possibilities that give corporate security directors insomnia. Or should. There have been a few, isolated cases of executives taken hostage: The best known is probably Thomas Hargrove, whose long captivity by guerrillas in Colombia inspired the Russell Crowe/Meg Ryan movie Proof of Life. But nothing like this, thank God, has ever been attempted.
Not yet, anyway…
As usual, I tried to get the details as accurate as possible, and as usual I couldn't have d
one it without my expert sources. Let me start with one man who did more than anyone to keep things real: Richard M. Rogers, the near-legendary former commander of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team. Dick's willingness to run through scenario after scenario with me was an immense help; I can't thank him enough. Thanks to my friend Harry "Skip" Brandon, formerly of the FBI and now an international security consultant based in D.C., for introducing us.
On the secretive business of kidnapping and hostage negotiation and recovery, I was advised by Gary Noesner of Control Risks Group, Tom Clayton of Clayton Consulting, Frederick J. Lanceley of Crisis Negotiation Associates, Sean McWeeney of Corporate Risk International, and Dominick Misino, former hostage negotiator with the New York City Police Department. Gary Bangs, who runs the kidnap/ransom and extortion unit at the Chubb Group, explained K &R insurance to me. My invaluable team of security consultants included Roland Cloutier of the EMC Corporation, Jeff Dingle of LSI Security Services, and Mark Spencer of EvidentData.
On money-laundering, my experts included Matthew Fleming of Detica Inc; Thomas Erdin of EW Asset Management in Mдnnedorf, Switzerland; David Caruso of the Dominion Advisory Group; Barry Koch, global head of anti-money-laundering for American Express; and, most of all, one alarmingly knowledgeable friend in London who wishes to go unnamed. Gary Sefcik of Mellon Global Cash Management, the financial journalist Danny Bradbury, and Tom Cimeno of the Boston Private Bank all briefed me on the intricacies of bank security and electronic funds transfers. Ernie Ten Eyck, a forensic accountant, helped structure Geoff Latimer's scam (and explained how it might be uncovered). My old friend and unindicted co-conspirator, Giles McNamee, of McNamee Lawrence in Boston, once again devised some really clever schemes.
A truly top-notch legal team guided me on internal corporate investigations and various corporate shenanigans: Paul Dacier, general counsel of the EMC Corporation; Jamie Gorelick of WilmerHale; Nell Minow of the Corporate Library; Craig Stewart of Arnold & Porter; and Judge Stanley Sporkin. But, most of all, Eric Klein of Katten Muchin Rosenman in L.A., who shared his wide-ranging expertise with great generosity. Peter Reinharz, former chief of New York City's Juvenile Prosecution Unit, told me how the New York State juvenile justice system works (and doesn't). I was particularly moved, and inspired, by Dwight Edgar Abbott's powerful account of his years in the California Youth Authority, I Cried, You Didn't Listen.
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