Prime Target u-10

by Hugh Miller

  ‘It is through the foresight and generosity of people such as yourself that we are able to carry on our work.’

  Fliegel was proud of the way he could match Leder’s stuffy manner of speech. He also sat forward when Leder sat forward, and folded his hands when Leder did. Mirroring, he had learned, was a way to lower the other fellow’s guard.

  ‘Your record of accomplishment is most impressive,’ Leder said. ‘I was interested to note you contribute a sizeable proportion of your time as well as a percentage of your income to the work.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Fliegel nodded, lowering his eyes with rehearsed modesty. ‘There is a large measure of vocation in what we do. I would feel my week had been wasted if I didn’t contribute at least ten hours to the work of the foundation.’

  The waiter had been hovering. Now he came forward as Fliegel sat back and reached for his wine glass. It was not the same waiter as before. This one was taller. He had a face with the serene gravity of a graveyard angel’s, Fliegel thought, and he was attractively lean and wiry. This was the kind of young man who could break Fliegel’s heart, given half a chance. Fliegel smiled at him.

  ‘Did you enjoy the meal, sir?’

  Fliegel nodded. The waiter watched as he drank a little wine and put down the glass.

  ‘Will there be anything else?’

  ‘Well…’

  Fliegel would have liked a cognac. But for the moment he was confused, diverted. For one thing, Leder was obviously offended that the waiter was ignoring him; for another, the head waiter was standing in the middle of the restaurant staring at them, frowning as if something was wrong. Fliegel was aware, too, that this waiter didn’t quite have the aura for the job. In fact, he was distinctly unwaiterly in his lack of deference, and in the bold way he stared.

  ‘Nothing more then, sir?’ The blue eyes were fixed on Fliegel’s, disturbing him. ‘Perhaps it’s time to make final settlement,’ the waiter said.

  That jarred Fliegel. ‘I’m sorry?’

  The head waiter was approaching, weaving carefully between the tables. The waiter looked over his shoulder, saw the man and nodded, smiling.

  ‘Oberkellner,’ he muttered, nodding again.

  The head waiter glared at him. He kept coming, bumping a woman’s shoulder and stopping to apologize.

  ‘Yes, the settlement, I think,’ the waiter said, looking at Fliegel again.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  The waiter reached inside his jacket and brought out a pistol. To Fliegel the world suddenly became unreal. This was not happening. It was a recollection, or he imagined it, or…

  He heard his pulse thump in his ears and felt himself rise out of the chair as the waiter pointed the gun at his face. Fliegel had an intuition of magnetism, of somehow compelling the barrel of the gun to follow his movements. He felt his foot catch on the chair leg and grasped the table to keep his balance.

  ‘Settlement for Nathan Barash,’ the waiter said.

  Fliegel heard the gun make a tiny metallic sound, then there was a rushing redness and noise like hollow boxes falling, then there was nothing.

  A man two tables away had been combing his fingers through his hair when the gun went off. Now, bewildered by the noise and the screaming of women, the man looked at his hand where something had landed, warm and wet. He stared, uncomprehending, at the lumpy emulsion of blood and brain sticking to his fingertips.

  ‘Stop that man!’ the head waiter yelled.

  Peter Leder stared at the body of Stefan Fliegel, sprawled back in the chair, one eye and half his forehead gone. The noise of the shot still rang in Leder’s ears, but he heard glass breaking and looked up. The waiter, still brandishing the pistol, had jumped clean through the restaurant window. He was running across the lanes of traffic, away from the restaurant, into the dark.

  9

  Mike spent the morning in the UNACO technical library scanning the records of keys and locks. After two hours of blind alleys he turned to Security Overviews, a classified listing of 10,000 key-and-lock combinations in use by American banks and security institutions. The entry he wanted was on the third from last page:

  Lock series BL 921773 to BL 921872:

  Sanders Lowe Inc. for Luckham Depositories

  One hundred keys and locks of the same series, probably all in the same place. Emily Selby’s key was number BL 921786. It was a one-off no-copy device, high tungsten, with advanced precision in the cutting and grooving. It was a key which must have cost as much as a good strong-box. Mike decided it would be best to look for the matching lock at one of Luckham’s top three security operations.

  To track down the lock he had to go to the communications suite, fire up a computer and enter a code word. His word was licet, Latin for ‘it is allowed’. After a second a menu appeared on screen. He clicked the box next to the entry CSC.

  A number of facilities at UNACO took no account of the law. The CSC–Company Scrutiny Corpus — was one of them. It was a substantial collection of data that violated several important laws and business regulations covering privacy and the rights of groups and individuals. In addition, the greater part of the information had been obtained by illegal means.

  But CSC was a priceless tool. The search for the lock to accommodate Emily Selby’s key could have taken days, and would have cost hundreds of dollars in bribes; using CSC, Mike completed the search in eight minutes.

  He began by calling up a full list of depositories owned by Luckham, then began the search with the most secure depository. He found a listing of all lock numbers on the boxes, even a recently updated list of depositors. The lock numbers were not of the BL series so he moved to the next depository down the list, 400 dollars a month cheaper than the one above, and there he found the entry he wanted:

  Sanders Lowe Lock numbers BL 921773 to BL 921872, fitted in Coverley Titanic-grade fire-resistant deed boxes, fossil-cell filled cavity, 5 millimetre sheet steel, cold bent. Boxes in rows of ten, ten rows high, protected out of hours by 8 laseroptic alarms.

  The depository was on the eighth floor of the Okasaki Bank building at Mount Vernon in Washington, DC. Mike noted the address, spent five minutes on the internal phone explaining to C.W. Whitlock what he planned to do, then shut down the computer and went straight to Kitting and Outfitting.

  ‘I need to be smoothed and enriched,’ he told Theresa, the stony-faced woman in charge of wardrobe.

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Dark silk floral Dior tie?’ he suggested. ‘Mid-blue Turnbull and Asser cotton shirt — and how about the petrol-blue Armani suit?’

  ‘The one you got gazpacho on.’ Theresa’s voice was tight.

  He blinked at her innocently. ‘I did? Are you sure about that?’

  ‘There were witnesses.’

  ‘Well, there you go, how soon we forget things. Is there a problem?’

  ‘For a dry-cleaner, gazpacho is always a problem. Remove the stain completely, you leave a cleaning mark behind. Take out the stain so you don’t leave a mark, the smell of garlic stays. What’s a person to do?’

  ‘Theresa, I’m in a hurry here. Is the suit available or what?’

  ‘In Armani you’ve a choice of navy or light grey. Petrol blue is still on the critical list.’

  He chose the navy. While it was being freshened with the steamer he took off his jeans and sweatshirt and put on a robe. Coming out of the changing cubicle he collided with a haggard-looking repair man in overalls and a wool cap. He smiled at Mike and nodded.

  ‘Hi,’ Mike said, turning away.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ the man said flatly. ‘These people are good, aren’t they?’

  Mike turned and looked at him again. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Less than a month ago, when I overdid the jollity at Nancy Blair’s farewell party, you helped me home and put me to bed. You were a real pal. Today I’m someone you walk past with a hi. What’s the truth here, Mike? Do you really not recognize me, or did I do something that makes you want to
be a stranger?’

  Mike looked really closely. ‘You’re Jackie Lloyd?’

  ‘None other.’

  ‘They did a great job on you. The false nose works, but I don’t think it’s too realistic.’

  ‘Oh, funny, funny.’ Lloyd put his fingers under the artificial sagging on his cheeks. ‘I thought I’d keep the jowls and the red-rimmed eyes for a while, use them to play the pity card with my ex-wife. I could show her the alimony is killing me.’

  ‘I truly didn’t know you,’ Mike said. ‘We do strange things for a living, Jackie.’

  ‘Aw, come on, it’s no worse than living off immoral earnings.’ Lloyd pointed towards the sound of the steamer. ‘I’ve got to explain the oil on the boots and overalls. Theresa is going to do terrible things to me. I’ll see you around, Mike.’

  ‘Take care, Jackie.’

  Mike went through an adjoining door to the domain of Imogen Kelly.

  ‘Why, Mr Graham.’ Imogen was the hairdresser and make-up person. She grinned at him. ‘You got here just in time, by the look of things. At first glance I thought a sheepdog had come to see me.’

  Imogen had entered the UN as a mail clerk, but had been enticed away by UNACO when word of her natural talent for hair and cosmetics got around. As far as her friends and her former colleagues downstairs were concerned, Imogen worked in a tiny department handling specialized semi-classified mail. In fact she had the run of a superbly equipped salon where she passed her days repairing, improving or altering the appearance of UNACO agents.

  ‘I need to look like a front-edge businessman,’ Mike told her. ‘East Coast rather than West. I need it to happen in as short a time as you can manage.’

  Theresa told him to sit down in the barber’s chair, which looked more like an airline pilot’s seat. She switched on a number of overhead lamps, creating shadowless illumination around his head and face.

  ‘Here.’ She threw a copy of GQ into his lap. ‘Pick an Adonis. I’ll tell you if it can be done, or if you’re just being silly.’

  He leafed through the glossy pages and settled on a young man with longish hair waved smoothly on either side of a soft centre parting.

  ‘Is it possible to get that look without it blowing all over my face at the first puff of wind?’

  ‘Sure.’ Imogen threw a white sheet over him and tucked it into the collar of his robe. ‘I’ll adjust the shape and the length a little, then I’ll wash it. Then, before I blow it dry, I’ll douse you with this new stuff.’ She held up a black plastic bottle. ‘It gives your hair thermal protection, so I can work fast and really blast it with the dryer to give you the kind of burned-on shape a bomb won’t shift.’

  The makeover took fifteen minutes, and at the end of it Mike’s hair looked very much like the man’s in the picture.

  ‘Marvellous.’ He turned his head from side to side in front of the mirror. ‘I didn’t know you could get results like this so fast.’

  ‘There’s a downside I didn’t mention,’ Imogen said. She took away the sheet and brushed the back of his neck, ‘After three days it all falls out. But you can’t have everything, right? Make the most of it.’

  At five minutes past three, looking every inch a Wall Street high-roller, with a black Gucci briefcase jammed between his ankles, Mike belted himself in beside the pilot of a UN heli-courier. It was raining as they took off, but the pilot promised Mike they would be flying into better weather.

  ‘That’s a blessing,’ Mike shouted above the noise of the rotor. ‘If I get a mark on this jacket, I don’t think I can go back to the UN ever again.’

  * * *

  It was breezy and dry as Mike stood in front of the Okasaki Bank in Mount Vernon, Washington, one hour before closing time. He patted his wallet, feeling the potent bulk of his new identity, then marched in through the smoked-glass door. The elevator took him to the eighth floor.

  The first barrier he encountered was a wall of armoured glass panels mounted into a shiny steel framework. He stood before it, looking for a door. A voice spoke somewhere above eye-level. ‘Good afternoon, sir. How can we help you?’ ‘I want to talk to somebody about renting a safe-deposit box.’

  ‘Certainly. Please come in and take a seat.’ A panel slid aside and he stepped into a room with walls covered in a dark green, heavily textured cloth. There was a narrow vertical strip of window at one end with two low leather chairs nearby, fronted by a small table. As he sat down the panel slid back into place and another one opened. A middle-aged man with a suit nearly as good as Mike’s came in. He had the clipped, grey-templed grooming of a federal judge. He smiled carefully as he approached.

  ‘I’m Dan Conway.’ He held out his hand as Mike stood. ‘I hope we can be of service, Mr ah…’

  ‘Lewis. Brett Lewis.’

  Conway put a leather folder on the table and sat down. He opened it and Mike saw an application blank. The kind of thing he wanted to bypass. Written applications meant delay.

  ‘Could you give me some idea of the kind of facility you require, Mr Lewis? It saves time at the start if we discover you should be at one of our other branches.’

  That was another tiny hazard. Mike had to be the right customer for the facilities on offer at this branch.

  ‘Document storage,’ he said. ‘That and some small valuables.’

  ‘Nothing bigger than fourteen by eleven inches, by seven deep?’

  ‘Oh no. In fact that sounds an ideal size. I have to tell you, there’s some urgency about this. I have documents relating to a sensitive and eventually high-profile buyout that has to stay absolutely secret for the time being. The papers have been prepared by hand, there are no copies and they need to be held in a place I know is perfectly safe.’

  ‘Well, first of all,’ Conway said, ‘let me give you the details of what we offer, and what we expect in exchange from our clients.’

  Total anonymity was guaranteed, he said, and Mike would have liked to laugh. Back at UNACO they had the names of every depositor at every one of Luckham’s branches. Security was also guaranteed, first by the unequalled rigidity and fire-resistance of the storage medium, secondly by the intricate locking system, and third, by a series of laseroptic alarms linked to automatic door locks and to alarms in three police stations. There was also extensive insurance cover.

  ‘What we need from you, Mr Lewis, is a bank’s guarantee that you are good for the seven-hundred dollars monthly rental. We also need three good business references, and your permission to check that you have no criminal record or criminal affiliations — you appreciate this last is a formality which is insisted upon by our insurers.’

  ‘Well, fine, but there’s a snag in there,’ Mike said, and he saw Conway’s eyes harden a fraction. ‘I need your protection now, I mean right now, this very day. Early this evening I have to fly to Asia on business, and I must know these — ’ he patted the briefcase, ‘are completely safe in my absence.’

  Conway cleared his throat delicately. ‘It would take exceptional measures to secure a box for you today, sir.’

  ‘But is it possible?’

  ‘I can’t say I would hold out much hope.’

  ‘Can I short-circuit this?’ Mike said. ‘I believe you have a regularly adjusted and updated record of safe bets, isn’t that so? A confidential list, two hundred men and women in commerce who can be trusted no matter what. Am I right?’

  This was shaky. Depending on how Conway stood on confidentiality, he might deny the existence of the list.

  ‘Well, now.’ Conway cleared his throat again. ‘The list you refer to is intended to be a record of guarantors and referees whose opinion of others we would accept without question. Are you saying that you wish to cite someone on the list as a character referee?’

  ‘Yes, I do. But I also want to point out that I’m on the list myself. Or so I believe.’

  ‘Frankly, Mr Lewis, I don’t see how you could know such a thing.’

  ‘Please accept that no one deliberately told me,’ Mike
said. ‘In business, at the level of sensitivity where I operate, important secrets occasionally become transparent by sheer accident.’

  Conway got to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me for a few minutes, Mr Lewis…’ He turned to go, then turned back. ‘Could you give me the name of the other person, the one you wish to cite as referee?’

  ‘Kenneth Ross.’

  Conway noted the name and went away. Mike waited, imagining what was happening. Conway would go to a secure computer. He would open the special database of 200 names, initiate a search, and lo, under the name of Brett Lewis, there would be a picture of Mike. Attached to it would be a glittering business pedigree; appropriate electronic signatures would appear on a short status profile declaring him to be a man of solid-gold probity.

  The search of Kenneth Ross’s name would bring up a picture of Alan Flint, a character actor whose talent for faces was in regular demand at UNACO. The fictitious Ross, like Lewis, would have a shining business lineage, hybridized from several genuine histories. The work had still been underway as Mike left the UN Secretariat building.

  When Mr Conway called the number on the secret file to check Brett Lewis’s credentials — a formality, but Mike would bet he’d do it anyway — the Kenneth Ross who would come on the line would be C.W. Whitlock himself, ready and able to spin a line that would charm the keys off a jailer.

  Conway was back in five minutes. His respectful manner now had a much clearer streak of deference.

  ‘Mr Lewis,’ he breathed, ‘I’m sorry to have kept you. I am happy to tell you that Luckham would be glad to offer you whatever facilities they can, whenever you need them.’

  Ten minutes later Mike was alone in a small humidified vault with the ten-by-ten battery of deed boxes. He had been rented number 8, after scribbling his signature on a commitment to rent it for a minimum period of one month. His privacy in the chamber, Conway had assured him, was total. Mike believed that.