Secret of the Seventh Sons

by Cooper, Glenn

  The Mercedes snaked up narrow winding roads and houses hidden by gates and hedges. It came to a stop behind one of the ubiquitous landscaping trucks they had been passing, and when Mark opened his door he was blasted by furnace heat and the roar of a leaf blower. Kerry sprinted to the gate clutching a listing sheet, looking like a skipping child.

  The Realtor told Mark, “She is so cute! You guys better pace yourself. I’ve got a lot of appointments lined up!”

  Frazier was motoring on black coffee and adrenaline, and if he could persuade someone in medical to give him amphetamines, he’d throw those on board too. The facility was in normal day-mode, filled to the gills with employees doing their regular geek jobs. He, on the other hand, was doing something irregular and unprecedented, juggling an internal investigation and three field ops simultaneously while briefing his masters in Washington every few minutes.

  One field team was in New York, pursuing the Will Piper angle; the second was in Los Angeles, in if-and-when mode, in case Mark Shackleton materialized in California; the third in Las Vegas, working the Nelson Elder situation. All his men were ex-military. Some had served in CIA field ops in the Middle East. All of them were effective sons of bitches, performing coolly despite the impotent panic in the Pentagon.

  He was feeling better about Rebecca Rosenberg, although her eating habits disgusted him and spoke to a lack of personal discipline. He watched her gorge on nougat and caramel all night, and she seemed to be getting lumpier in front of his eyes. Her trash bin was filled with wrappers and she was ugly as hell, but he was concluding with grudging admiration that she wasn’t just a geek supervisor but a damned good geek in her own right. She was breaking through Shackleton’s defenses stone by stone and laying it all out in the open.

  “Look at this,” she said when he swung by. “More Peter Benedict stuff. He used to have a credit line under that name at the Constellation Casino, and there’s a Peter Benedict Visa card.”

  “Any interesting charges on it?”

  “He hardly used it but there were a few transactions with the Writers Guild of America. For screenplay registration or something.”

  “Jesus, a fucking writer. Can you get ahold of them?”

  “You mean hack them off their server? Yeah, probably. There’s something else.”

  “Hit me.”

  “A month ago he set up an account in the Caymans. It got kicked off with a $5 million wire transfer from Nelson G. Elder.”

  “Fuck me.” He needed to call DeCorso, the Las Vegas team leader.

  “He’s probably the best programmer the lab’s ever had,” she marveled. “A wolf watching the chickens.”

  “How’d he get the data out?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Every employee’s going to have to be rescreened,” he said. “Forensically.”

  “I know.”

  “Including you.”

  She gave him a sour-ball look and handed him a dollar. “Be a dear and get me another candy bar.”

  “After I call the goddamn Secretary.”

  Harris Lester, Secretary of the Navy, had an office suite at the Pentagon deep in C Ring, about as far removed from fresh air as any of the complex’s interior spaces. His path to the highly political position was fairly typical—navy service during Vietnam, years in the Maryland Legislature, three-term congressman, Senior VP Northrop Grumman Mission Systems Division, and finally, a year and a half ago, appointment by the newly elected President as Secretary of the Navy.

  He was a precise, risk-averse type of bureaucrat who disdained surprises in his personal and professional life, so he reacted with a mix of shock and irritation when his boss, the Secretary of Defense, personally briefed him on Area 51.

  “Is this some kind of fraternity initiation, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Do I look like a goddamn frat boy?” the SecDef had barked. “This is the real deal, and by tradition it belongs to the navy, so it belongs to you, and God help you if there’s a leak under your tenure.”

  Lester’s shirt was so starched it crackled when he sat down at his desk. He smoothed his black and silver striped tie, then ran his hand over what was left of his hair to get the strands all going in the right direction, before reaching for his rimless reading glasses. His assistant came over the intercom before he could crack his first folder. “I’ve got Malcolm Frazier calling from Groom Lake, Mr. Secretary. Do you want to take him?”

  He could almost feel the acid squirting into his stomach. These calls were killing him but they couldn’t be delegated. This was his issue and these were his decisions. He glanced at the clock: it was the middle of the night out there. The usual time for nightmares.

  The Mercedes arrived at their last appointment in the late afternoon, pulling into a semicircular drive at a Mediterranean-style property.

  “I think this is going to be the one!” the Realtor exclaimed with boundless energy. “I’ve saved the best for last.”

  Kerry was dazed but happy. She checked her hair with her compact and said dreamily, “I loved all of them.”

  Mark dragged himself behind them. A prissy looking listing agent was waiting, tapping his watch in admonition.

  Mark was reminded to check his own.

  Nelson Elder was making the loop with a marketing VP from the Wynn organization, the city fire commissioner, and the CEO of a local medical device company. He was a fair golfer, a fourteen-handicapper, but he was having an outstanding round, which was tipping him toward elation. He made the turn at forty-one, the best nine he’d shot in years.

  The freshly sprinkled Bermuda fairways were the color of moist emeralds in the brown desert. The bent-grass greens were rolling true, and blessedly, he could do no wrong. Even though there was water galore on the course, he was keeping the ball straight and dry. The sun was dancing off the glassy surface of the Wynn Hotel, which towered over the country club, and as he lounged in his cart sipping a bottle of iced tea, listening to an artificial brook flowing and gurgling, he felt more satisfied and tranquil than he had in a very long while.

  The Mediterranean villa on Hollyridge Drive was making Kerry crazy. She ran from room to glorious room—designer kitchen, step-down living room, formal dining room, library, media room, wine cellar, huge master suite with three other bedrooms—saying, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” and the Realtor at her heels cooing, “Didn’t I tell you! It’s all redone. Look at the details!”

  Mark didn’t have the stomach for it. Under the suspicious gaze of the listing agent, he headed for the patio and sat down beside the sparkling water of the vanishing pool. The patio was flanked by manzanita bushes, and hummingbirds flitted on delicate baby-blue flowers. The vast canyon stretched below, the grid of streets indistinct in the afternoon light.

  Over his shoulder, above the roofline, high on a distant ridge, the tops of the letters of the Hollywood sign were visible. This is what he’d wanted, he thought ruefully, what he dreamed he’d be doing when he made it as a writer, sitting by his pool, in the hills, under the sign. He just thought it would last longer than five minutes.

  Kerry rushed out the French doors and almost wept at the view. “Mark, I love this one so much. I love it, I love it, I love it!”

  “She loves it,” the Realtor added, coming up behind.

  “How much?” Mark asked woodenly.

  “They’re asking three-four, and I think that’s a good price. There’s a million-five in renovations…”

  “We’ll take it.” He was expressionless.

  “Mark!” Kerry screamed. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him a dozen times.

  “Well, you’ve made two women extremely happy,” the Realtor said greedily. “Kerry tells me you’re a writer. I think you’re going to write a lot of great scripts sitting right beside this gorgeous pool! I’m going to submit your offer and call you tonight at your hotel!”

  Kerry was snapping photos with her cell-phone camera. It didn’t sink in right away, but when Mark realized what was happ
ening he sprang up and snatched it out of her hand. “Did you take any pictures before?”

  “No! Why?”

  “You turned the phone on just now?”

  “Yes! What’s the big deal?”

  He hit the off button. “You’re low on power. Mine’s dead. I’m trying to conserve in case we need to make a call.” He handed it back to her.

  “Okay, silly.” She looked at him reproachfully, as if to say: Don’t be acting weird again. “Come and look inside with me! I’m so happy!”

  Frazier was dozing at his desk when one of his men tapped him on his shoulder. He awoke with a thick snort.

  “We got a ping from Hightower’s phone. It was on and off, real quick.”

  “Where are they?”

  “East Hollywood Hills.”

  Frazier clawed his unshaven cheek. “Okay, we caught a break. Maybe we’ll get a second one. What’s DeCorso’s status?”

  “He’s in position, waiting for authorization.”

  Frazier closed his eyes again. “Wake me up when the Pentagon calls back.”

  Elder was lining up his drive on the eighteenth hole. Back-dropping the green was a thirty-seven-foot-high waterfall, a magnificent way to finish a round. “What do you think,” he asked the Wynn exec. “Driver?”

  “Oh yeah, let the big dog play, Nelson. You’ve been crushing it all day.”

  “You know, if I par this, it’ll be the best round I ever shot.”

  Hearing this, the fire captain and the CEO edged a little closer to check out the ball path.

  “For Christ’s sake! Don’t jinx yourself!” the Wynn guy yelped.

  Elder’s backswing was slow and flawless, and at the top of the arc—a moment before a bullet ripped through his skull, splattering the foursome with blood and brains—it occurred to him that life was extremely good.

  DeCorso confirmed the kill through his sniper scope, then efficiently broke the weapon down, tossed it in a suit bag, and exited the eleventh floor hotel room with its desirable view of the pristine golf course.

  When they got back to their suite, Kerry wanted to make love, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He begged off, blaming the sun, and retreated to take a shower. She kept nattering through the door, too excited to stop talking, while he let the powerful shower drown out the sound of his crying.

  The Realtor had told Kerry that Cut, the restaurant in their hotel, was to die for, a comment that made him wince. She pleaded to go there for dinner, and anything she wanted, he was going to give her, though his fervent desire was to hide in their room.

  She looked stunning in her red dress, and when they made their entry, heads turned to see if she was a celebrity. Mark carried his briefcase, so the betting-man scenario was an actress meeting her agent or lawyer. This skinny fellow was surely too homely to be her date, unless, of course, he was filthy rich.

  They were seated at a window table under a massive skylight, which by dessert time would bring the moonlight flooding into the room.

  She wanted to talk of nothing but the house. It was a dream come true—no, more than that, because, she exclaimed, she never dreamed such a place even existed. It was so high up it felt like being in a spaceship, like the UFO she’d seen as a girl. She was like a kid with her questions: when was he going to quit his job, when were they going to move, what kind of furniture would they buy, when should she start acting lessons, when was he going to start writing again? He would shrug or answer monosyllabically and stare out the window, and she’d race to the next thought.

  Suddenly she stopped talking, which made him look up. “Why are you so sad?” she asked.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  She didn’t look convinced but let it pass and said, “Well, I’m happy. This is the best day of my whole life. If I hadn’t met you, I’d be—well, I wouldn’t be here! Thank you, Mark Shackleton.”

  She blew him a kittenish kiss that broke through and made him smile. “That’s better!” she purred.

  Her phone rang from inside her bag.

  “Your phone!” he said. “Why is it on?” He scared her with his panicky expression.

  “Gina needed a number if they accepted our offer.” She was fumbling for it. “That’s probably her!”

  “How long has it been on!” he moaned.

  “I don’t know. A few hours. Don’t worry, the battery’s fine.” She clicked ANSWER. “Hello?” She looked disappointed and confused. “It’s for you!” she said, handing it to him.

  He caught his breath and held it to his ear. The voice was male, authoritative, cruel. “Listen to me, Shackleton. This is Malcolm Frazier. I want you to walk out of the restaurant and go back to your room and wait for the watchers to pick you up. I’m sure you checked the database. Today is not your day. It was Nelson Elder’s day and he’s gone. It’s Kerry Hightower’s day. It’s not your day. But that doesn’t mean we can’t hurt you badly and make you wish that it were. We need to find out how you did it. This doesn’t have to be hard.”

  “She doesn’t know anything,” Mark said in a pleading whisper, turning his body away.

  “It doesn’t matter what you say. It’s her day. So, stand up and leave, right now. Do you understand me?”

  He didn’t respond for several heartbeats.

  “Shackleton?”

  He shut the phone and pushed his chair back.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing.” He was breathing hard. His face was twisted.

  “Is it about your auntie?”

  “Yes. I’ve got to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” He fought to keep himself together, unable to look at her.

  “My poor baby,” she said soothingly. “I’m worried about you. I want you to be as happy as me. You hurry back to your Kerry-bear, okay?”

  He picked up his briefcase and walked away, a man to the gallows, small shuffling steps, head bowed. As he reached the lobby he heard the sound of breaking glass followed by two full agonizing seconds of silence, then piercing female screams and thunderous male shouts.

  The restaurant and lobby were a whir of bodies, running, scrambling, pushing. Mark kept walking like a zombie straight out the Wilshire entrance, where a car was idling at the curb, waiting for the valet. The parking attendant wanted to see what was going on in the lobby and made for the revolving doors.

  Without giving it any thought, Mark automatically got in the driver’s seat of the idling car and drove off into the warm Beverly Hills evening, trying to see through his tears.

  JULY 31, 2009

  LOS ANGELES

  Marilyn Monroe had stayed there, and Liz Taylor, Fred Astaire, Jack Nicholson, Nicole Kidman, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, and others whom he forgot because he wasn’t paying attention to the bellman who could see he wanted to be alone and watched him leave quickly without the customary grand tour.

  To the bellman, the guest looked confused and disheveled. His only bag was a briefcase. But they got all types of rich druggies and eccentrics, and for a tip, the mumbling fellow had stripped a hundred off a wad so it was all good.

  Mark woke up, disoriented after a deep sleep, but despite the cannon fire in his head, he quickly snapped to reality and closed his eyes again in despair. He was aware of a few sounds: the low hum of an air conditioner, a bird chirping outside the window, his hair rubbing between the cotton sheets and his ear. He felt the downward draft from a ceiling fan. His mouth was so desiccated, there didn’t seem to be a molecule of moisture to lubricate his tongue.

  It was the kind of suite that provided guests with quart-sized bottles of premium liquor. On the desk was a half-empty vodka bottle, strong effective medicine for his memory problem—he’d drunk one glass after another until he stopped remembering. Apparently, he undressed and turned off the lights, some basic reflex intact.

  The filtered light coming through the living room door was infusing color into the pastel decor. A palette of
peach, mauve, and sage came into focus. Kerry would have loved this place, he thought, rolling his face into the down pillow.

  He had driven the purloined car only a few blocks when he decided he was too tired to run. He pulled over, parked on a quiet residential stretch of North Crescent, got out and drifted aimlessly without a plan. He was too numb to realize he was more conspicuous in Beverly Hills as a pedestrian than as a driver of a stolen BMW. Some period of time passed. He found himself staring at a chartreuse sign with three-dimensional white script letters popping out.

  The Beverly Hills Hotel.

  He looked up at a pink confection of a building set back in a verdant garden. He found himself walking up the drive, wandering into Reception, asking what rooms they had, and taking the most expensive, a grand bungalow with a storied history that he paid for with a fistful of cash.

  He stumbled out of bed, too dehydrated to urinate, chugged an entire bottle of water then sat back down on the bed to think. His computerlike mind was gooey and overheated. He wasn’t used to struggling to answer a mental problem. This was a decision tree analysis: each action had possible outcomes, each outcome triggered new potential actions.

  How hard was it? Concentrate!

  He ran the gamut of possibilities from running and hiding, living off his remaining cash for as long as he could, to giving himself up to Frazier immediately. Today wasn’t his day, or tomorrow: he was BTH, so he knew he wasn’t going to be murdered or go off the deep end as a suicide. But that didn’t mean Frazier wouldn’t make good on his threat to hurt him, and best case, he’d spend the rest of his life in a dark solitary hole.

  He started to cry again. Was it for Kerry or for fucking up so miserably? Why couldn’t he have been content with things as they were? He held his throbbing temples in his hands and rocked himself. His life hadn’t been that bad, had it? Why did he think he needed money and fame? Here he was in a temple of money and fame, the best bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and big fucking deal: it was only a couple of rooms with furniture and some appliances. He had all that stuff already. Mark Shackleton: he wasn’t a bad guy. He had a sense of proportion. It was that fucker, Peter Benedict, that grasping striver, who’d gotten him into trouble. He’s the one who should be punished, not me, Mark thought, taking a small step toward insanity.