First Thrill

by Steve Richer

  “FBI!”

  “FBI, freeze!”

  They searched and cuffed him, but left the arresting procedures to Agent Devlin.

  It was getting late and Devlin’s transport arrangements for Chapman were for the next morning. The SWAT officers were leaving on their own, but Chapman would have to spend the night with the local police department. Agent Devlin also had to stay overnight.

  Not much of a party animal, he decided to get a head start in the questioning process. Since it was after normal business hours, Raleigh PD saw no harm in lending one of their interrogation rooms.

  “We’re gonna be stuck in Raleigh until tomorrow morning, so I think it would be a good idea for us to spend time together.”

  Devlin was a transplant from Minnesota and the Scandinavian zest in his accent truly contrasted with the local drawl.

  “I ain’t stuck in Raleigh, I live here. I ain’t gonna say nothing to you.”

  The FBI man ignored him. “I’ve been investigating you for a long time, you know that? Six months I’ve spent on your case. You’re quite a hard man to arrest. Did you ever think we would arrest you? It’s not a rhetorical question, I really want to know.”

  Chapman shifted on his seat before replying, smacking his lips as if he was enjoying this.

  “Did you happen to drive by the Dr. King park while you were in town? It took a lot of coins to honor him. He was a fine man, made sure all you white folks understood what y’all meant when they wrote all men created equal. When that Constitution and Bill of Rights or whatever finally applied to everyone, it gave me an opportunity. I understand it’s my constitutional right to tell you to take your questions and shove ‘em deep up your ass. I want a lawyer.”

  “I’m not trying to beat a confession out of you here. I’m just making conversation.”

  “Fine, let’s get my lawyer in this conversation. I’ll tell him to bring some doughnuts or something.”

  Devlin, who had been pacing, sat on the edge of the table. “Aren’t you interested in how we found out about you?”

  “It’s gonna be a bunch of lies anyway.”

  “Last February, we get a call from Customs. A guy was crossing over from Canada up in Vermont. It was a slow day, and the guy was alone, it didn’t seem as if he was going on a family trip. So they began searching him, searching his car. You know about the canine units, right? The dogs that sniff drugs and bombs? Well, did you know they have dogs that sniff money?”

  “Is that right?” Chapman said, humoring him.

  “Yes, that’s right. Anyway, it’s such a slow day that they decide to give the guy the works. They bring out the money dog. The guy’s wearing a money belt, carrying something like fifteen thousand. I’m sure a man like you knows the limit is ten thousand without declaring it, right? So now they really have a beef with the guy. They question him, go through his luggage, really work him over. You know what they find? Blueprints for some high-rise tower in Saudi Arabia or some other place. Turns out the guy works at an architect firm up in Montreal.”

  “That’s a mighty fine story, you should consider a career change.”

  “I have my moments. It took seven hours of questioning before he admitted he was bringing the blueprints to you. He said you paid well, that you had buyers from all over the place. Copycat architects, organized crime, high-tech burglars, anarchists, apparently they all shop at Chapman’s.”

  “Must be another Chapman. There’s a lot of us, you know. We multiply like rabbits.”

  “Must be. That other Chapman doesn’t really find the smartest associates. You know why the guy was smuggling money? He was illegally drawing welfare checks from his government so he couldn’t have much money in his bank account. And he figured he wouldn’t pay any taxes if he put his money in an American account. That’s what happens when you hunt two deer at the same time. So the guy had enough problems to worry about and agreed to have a hand in bringing you down. We’ve monitored your every move since then. Whether you talk to a lawyer or not, you’re going to pound-me-deeper-baby prison.”

  There wasn’t anything more Devlin wanted to say to him. He could call his lawyer all he wanted, he didn’t care anymore. He was going to make a few anonymous calls to newspapers so that even if Chapman was ever released on a technicality his undercover criminal life would be over.

  Chapter 55

  The Golden Seagull was an Ottawa low-income apartment building. Most tenants were retired and, for the most part, ill. The building wasn’t well maintained. It had been weeks since the janitor had used his broom. Pipes were leaking and nothing had been done about that either. Maybe the janitor had died in his apartment and no one had thought to check up on him. With that kind of budget and carelessness, there had never been any interest in installing a security system.

  That was the main reason Hingle and Farris had decided to come here.

  After the experience with Riley, they knew they couldn’t go home again and accepted it in silence. They couldn’t leave the country right away and had to lay low for a while. Hotels would be checked out, their credit cards flagged, and borders sealed.

  It didn’t matter that they had fake IDs as pictures of them would be distributed everywhere. No, they would wait until the sale went through and then they would leave on a chartered plane. There were only a couple of days to go.

  They had parked Hingle’s car a few blocks away, at a shopping mall. No one would think to look for them at the Golden Seagull. Poor, sick people rarely had family, at least family that cared about them. They were often left to themselves, left alone to die. It was exactly what Hingle and Farris counted on.

  Farris was holding Hingle’s pistol since there was no way a silencer could be mounted on a revolver, no matter what movies from the ‘60s said. It was hanging at the end of his arm, alongside his thigh. They were approaching apartment 614 at a rapid pace. Hingle was carrying Jeff’s toolbox and computer. Farris knocked.

  “Who is it?” a tired female voice asked.

  “Bell, ma’am. We have to check your phone lines.”

  They heard the security chain slide off and the deadbolt turn. A blue-haired woman smiled at them.

  “I don’t have any problems with my phone. I ordered Chinese food just last night.”

  Farris hadn’t even prepared an answer. He raised his weapon and fired one muffled shot into her head.

  Her body fell mutely backwards and the two men walked in. Hingle shut the door while his henchman secured the perimeter. There was one bedroom and inside he found a frail old man lying down. He was about to put a bullet in his head when Hingle appeared.

  “Don’t do him in the bed,” he whispered. “I’m gonna sleep there tonight, I don’t wanna roll into a blood puddle, y’know?”

  Farris grabbed him by the front of his pajamas and dragged him off the bed. The man woke up, but was too weak to fight his assailant.

  “Ugh, who are you?”

  When he reached the floor, Farris shot him in the back of the head. The ancient carpet absorbed the blood pouring out of his skull.

  “We should be fine here,” Hingle said, assessing his new home. “I don’t expect anyone to check up on them. Hook up the computer to the phone line, I want to read that Riley kid’s file. I’m gonna take a dump.”

  Using Jeff’s username and password, which the young agent had absentmindedly instructed his browser to remember, Hingle was able to consult his personnel file. Farris prepared them a meal from canned goods he found in the kitchen.

  Nightshifts were always working at half speed. They were usually made up of people who liked living outside the established structure. It was the same at the Communications Security Establishment. It was why Jeff Riley’s computer access wasn’t cancelled for another hour and a half.

  To avoid being followed, Jeff and Chasey drove to the Sir Leonard Tilley Building in Confederation Heights after the ordeal at Hingle’s. If anyone were following, they would quickly have turned away.

  The practical
ly windowless building intrigued Chasey. She felt like she had walked into a vault. They ate some dinner – a few soggy burgers – in Bellamy’s office. It was time to get down to business.

  “So, if we can’t have the prototype,” Bellamy began, “we have to get the next best thing. We have to find out who they intend to sell it to.”

  Jeff wiped ketchup off his fingers with a paper tissue. The girl at the Wendy’s drive-through window had not been generous with napkins.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll just post a note on a message board. Could the person who’s intending to buy a secret weapons project e-mail me back please? Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Might be easier than that. Let’s be analytical. Who would be interested in buying this prototype?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Jeff snapped, slouching on the couch as he put his feet on the coffee table.

  “Think about it. Who would gain by having it?”

  “Foreign governments.”

  Chasey had resolved to remain a wallflower, but decided to speak up and insert her two cents. “Somebody greedy. I bet there’s a lot of money to be made with it.”

  “Exactly. Foreign governments and greedy entrepreneurs.”

  Jeff took a sip of his drink, Coke again. There was no Pepsi machine within the CSE walls, to his dismay.

  “We can narrow down the foreign government factor. If Canada goes ahead and manufactures this new weapon system, then NATO will get the same technology. Same thing for Commonwealth countries and whatever other allies we might have. That leaves us with our enemies. Do we have any enemies left?”

  “Middle East, Cuba, North Korea, China I guess. Just about every terrorist group in the world.”

  “How much would they be willing to pay? Scratch that, how much would Hingle and his minions be willing to sell it for? My guess is they’re not doing it for a kiss on the cheek and a Pokémon card. We’re talking a hundred million plus here. Who can afford it?”

  “Of those countries, only China could. Good thinking, Jeff. It’s worth checking out. I’ll have our people in China look out for it.”

  “It still leaves us with the greedy bastard scenario.” Jeff was looking at Chasey as he said that. It had been her idea and he was acknowledging it. “This one’s a bit tricky. It takes a guy who has already a lot of money.”

  Chasey sat on the edge of the couch ready to defend her suggestion.

  “But this guy would make billions with this technology, right? It ain’t exactly herding cats.”

  “Yeah, but where would the guy get the money to begin with?”

  Bellamy nodded. “Makes sense. It would have to be a person with a rather small electronics company trying to get on the map, or a medium-size one with financial problems looking for a way out of the red.”

  “Great, you’ve just outlined ninety percent of the North American business climate.”

  Chasey rummaged through her purse. “I remember an article I read in Forbes magazine. There was a list of the top one hundred companies to look out for in the high technology business.” She flipped through her notepad and finally found the page she was looking for. “Forbes magazine of last January, pages thirteen through twenty-five.”

  She had made the effort to jot it down as she had planned on writing an article on how Emmetts Run could benefit from the hi-tech boom.

  Bellamy reached for his own pad and wrote it down. “It’s a great place to start. We collect every newspaper and magazine we can get our hands on here at CSE, I’m sure we can find that issue. I’ll fax a copy to Rufus Spellman in Calgary and see if any of these companies ring a bell.”

  Jeff liked it better when they had no lead. All he wanted was a day off and it again seemed like it wasn’t going to happen at the moment.

  Chapter 56

  The setting was eerie. They were meeting in a body shop on the outskirts of Caracas.

  Even though the garage was owned by a sympathizer of the cause, this proprietor wasn’t taking part in the meeting. The less people were involved the better their chances of succeeding were.

  They were only four in attendance. Benti, Alvarado, and Cuchi were all young and dedicated. Maybe they were too young, Morales reflected. What kind of experience could they have? Pipe bombs? Back alley stabbings? It didn’t matter, the brass of the FARC had assured him they were some of their best elements.

  Alvarado was packing bags while Benti loaded them in their Range Rover. Cuchi was eager to get the operation under way. He was loading magazines with 9mm cartridges, but the smile on his face betrayed the fact that what he really wanted to do was unload them on people.

  “I say we start a rampage. It will get their attention, there’s no doubt about it.”

  “Daylight could be an interesting option,” Benti chimed in. “They would see how fearless and devoted we are to this cause.”

  “That would simply be suicidal. I want to live to serve our cause again.” Alvarado’s words were calm and carried with them a certain sense of wisdom. “Perhaps our comrade has something to offer.”

  Morales looked up when he felt three pairs of eyes glued to him. His duties had never been on an operational level and he had joined this meeting solely as an observer. It flattered him to be included in the discussion.

  “Well, I think as far as location goes, we don’t have a choice. What really matters is the time. I understand how a daytime operation could have a huge impact for us. It would show them we are not cowards, that we are bold enough to do as we please. But I fear it would be a mistake.”

  “A mistake?”

  “Your lives are too valuable to waste like that,” Morales said. “Our organization needs you alive, not dead. A daytime strike would mean exposing ourselves to their response units, whatever they may be. Even if we do it fast, we risk them altering the results. And until the sun goes down, we can’t guarantee the presence of our target. It will have to be done in the evening.”

  Alvarado nodded. “Then it will be so. Have you studied the blueprints you have found for us?”

  Morales pressed a key and turned the laptop around. The schematics he had gotten from Aaron Chapman were displayed on the screen. They were high-quality digitally scanned photographs.

  “I don’t know much about this type of architecture, but I suggest we set up our primary strike here,” he said as he circled an area of the screen. “It appears to be an ill-guarded spot where we will be able to achieve maximum impact.”

  “I agree, it is the soundest plan we have.”

  Morales stood up from his seat at the workbench and handed the computer over to them. It had been an eternity since he had felt as vigorous and alive. He was now sure that it was his duty to run this operation.

  “I will go with you. I want to witness this event. I want to be there when the revolution starts. I want to be there Thursday night in Curaçao.”

  He shook hands with all of them. They would soon be hailed as heroes and he wanted to be a part of it.

  Jeff, Bellamy, and Chasey had spent the evening studying photocopies of the article the latter had mentioned. Employees working in N Group, Political and Economical Production, had been tasked with running background checks on the companies the article referred to.

  Rufus Spellman was doing the same in his office in Calgary, but it felt as if he was in the same room as them. They were linked through webcams and discussed possible subjects. Chasey had downed three coffees in the last hour and Jeff was considering doing the same, to hell with the stomach cramps. If something didn’t happen really soon, he would definitely fall asleep.

  “Hold on there a second,” Spellman began. “I see something here. Have you guys gone over Zaillian Electronics yet?”

  They all flipped their pages to see what Forbes had to say about this company, even if they had read it three times already.

  “What about Zaillian Electronics, Rufus?” Bellamy asked.

  There was a two-second delay. “The article mentions the founder is Timoth
y Zaillian. I’ve met him at some convention in Chicago a few years ago. I remember because he approached me and gave this speech on how he wanted to form some network, under his tutelage, with other hi-tech companies. I recognized it as nothing more than a pyramid scheme and walked away.”

  Bellamy was already on the phone with N Group to see if they had gotten to Zaillian yet.

  Jeff spoke to wake himself up. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know, but I heard he gave that same pitch to just about everyone at the convention. Seemed like a genuine bullshit artist.”

  “You think his company might be a sham, a cover of some sort?”

  “That’s your business, not mine. What’s really freaky is that the article mentions Zaillian Electronics as doing research in the crystalline silicon microchip industry. That’s what Polar Tiger Industries does.”

  “Could he have stolen your technology?”

  “I don’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had read our research projections and such. That bastard is piggybacking my business.”

  The printer on Bellamy’s desk chirped. The machine was fast but noisy. The G Group Deputy Director had just received an e-mail from the section downstairs which had finished researching Zaillian Electronics. He took the pages and read as he walked back to the couch.

  “We might have a winner here.”

  Jeff leaned over to read over his boss’ shoulder. Zaillian Electronics had been founded only two years ago and yet it was valued at over $150 million. The stock was priced at a steady ten dollars. They had twenty employees, only five of them being assigned to research duties. How could this be? Shouldn’t a research company have more personnel assigned to their laboratories?

  The Securities and Exchange Commission had them under their watchful eye. It wasn’t the phony annual reports that rang the alarms, but rather the bridge financing they were using to give worth to the company.