The Directive

by Matthew Quirk

  Given the squash-court dimensions of the offices and the allure of the assistants, I figured we were on an executive corridor.

  She walked straight to the end of the floor, to an office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view along the Potomac from Georgetown University to the Capitol. It probably had three-quarters the square footage of our house in Del Ray.

  She pretended to be embarrassed by the size. “I didn’t realize it’d be this over the top when we were drawing up the plans. Don’t think I’ve got a personality cult going. We use it for meetings, too.”

  “So this is yours?”

  “Make yourself at home.”

  She threw her trash bag on the twenty-foot-long hardwood conference table and started rifling through it.

  “Thanks for helping me out back there,” I said. “I hate to seem ungrateful, but maybe you can tell me what you were doing behind that building?”

  She looked up. “We’ve been watching that office for a week. There was a chance we’d finally get a break on this investigation, and then you came along and nearly got yourself killed, so I had to come out. Meanwhile, everyone at that address is probably spooked, and we’re back to square one.”

  No wonder she’d seemed annoyed with me on the ride in. I looked at some of the papers on the desk.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Emily.”

  “Emily?”

  “Bloom.”

  “As in Bloom Security?” I asked.

  “That’s me,” she said. “You can toss that bag up here, too.”

  I put it on the table. I knew about Bloom Security. It was hard not to. It was the largest corporate intelligence firm in the world. They worked the high-end market in DC and had offices in every major capital. Think of a modern Pinkertons, or a private CIA. The firm was more than a century old and had started as private guards for the railroad, steel, and mining barons of the Gilded Age.

  They’d tracked down the hidden assets of the world’s worst dictators and war criminals, and for a price they could do anything: snatch a kidnapped chief executive back from the FARC or muster up a full sea-air-land military force and quash a coup.

  I couldn’t believe that this woman dusting coffee grounds from shredded paper was Emily Bloom, Georgetown’s most unattainable young woman.

  “I’m Mike Ford, Tuck Straus’s friend.”

  She thought about it for a second. “Oh, sure. I think he’s mentioned you.”

  Tuck was very fond of her. He was one of my best friends in DC, and talked a lot about Bloom. She was the heir to this corporate security fortune, and Tuck had been pining for her since undergrad. I began to see why.

  “You mind telling me how you’re associated with those gentlemen?” she said. Bloom Security had a good reason to be on the tail of a guy like Lynch. I didn’t.

  She rolled over to her desk and typed something into her computer. Reflected in the window, I could see my face on the screen. She was checking my record.

  “My brother may be in trouble with those guys,” I said. “I was trying to find out their story, to see if I could help him.”

  She chewed her lower lip while she looked over the text on the screen.

  “What kind of trouble?” she asked. She seemed only half interested. It may have been genuine, but I suspected it was an information-gathering tactic.

  “I don’t really know anything about it,” I said, “only that they’re threatening him.”

  Bloom Security was very tight with law enforcement, and I was starting to get an interrogation vibe, so I left out most of the details.

  “Do you know who they are?” I asked. “Anything about what goes on in that office building?”

  I guess whatever file she’d called up told her most of what she needed to know about me. She relaxed a little, returned to the table, and started going through the shredded papers idly, like someone might sit back at their desk with a crossword puzzle. Apparently I checked out.

  “If I knew the full story, I wouldn’t be digging through trash,” she said. “It was a contract job for law enforcement, surveillance, all compartmented. I’m not fully read-in. Something about financial crimes. Frankly, I don’t think anyone knows anything that matters about that crew.”

  She slid another piece of paper into place. “What aren’t you telling me, Mike?”

  “That’s all I know,” I said.

  She appraised me coldly.

  “What’s with the trash?” I asked. Anything to get out from under that stare.

  “I figured the whole place was blown, so I grabbed whatever I could.”

  “But why are you doing street stuff?”

  “Oh. Just acting out. That job was the most interesting thing going on in town today. It’s a lot more fun than PowerPoint decks and earnings projections, and it’s good to remember that despite the Gulfstreams and ex-senators and the Saarinen coffee tables, at the end of the day people are paying us to go through garbage, literally.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Legal enough. As long as it’s on a public right-of-way.”

  One of Bloom’s colleagues, a good-looking guy in his midtwenties, popped his head in and handed her a note.

  “You need anything?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Something to clean up my friend here.”

  From his manner I figured him for an assistant. I checked out my reflection in Bloom’s office window. I was a mess, with a gray smear down my face from Lynch’s hood and a swollen bruise from last night. He came back with a warm towel—so nice and thick I checked the label to put it on our registry.

  “The deputy director is here,” the assistant said. Bloom checked her watch, then cursed under her breath. “Send him up in five,” she said. “Thanks, Sebastian.”

  “I gather there are some other things you could be doing right now,” I said.

  “Rainmaking. Business breakfast, business lunch, and business dinner seven days a week. False smiles, shitty jokes, and pleas to stuffed suits to give us more work. Half of them refuse to believe I’m actually in charge around here. For the other half, I’m just a last name and a handshake so the big contracts can feel like they went straight to the top. But I shouldn’t complain. The nice thing about having your name on the building and a hundred percent of the A shares is that I can get away with pretty much anything.” She lifted a piece of paper. “You sure you don’t know anything else about those guys?”

  “Positive.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said. “I thought maybe we could help each other out.”

  Information was currency, and I would have to trade to get anywhere.

  She looked down among the papers and discarded trash. “There you go,” she said.

  “Is that a clue?” I asked, and pulled closer.

  “This?” she said. “No. This is worthless. I think it’s a P&L for a law firm. From what I know, this outfit never makes a single mistake. We didn’t have the men or go-ahead to take them. They burn everything, and have probably already cleared out of that office.

  “This, however—” she pulled an extra-large black binder clip from the bag, stepped over to her desk, and clamped it on a stack of papers—“is exactly what I needed. We’re all out.”

  The phone rang. Bloom glanced at the display on her desk. “I’ve got to press the flesh. But if you think of anything else you maybe forgot to mention and want to compare notes, just give me a call. Then maybe I’ll have some more for you.” She wrote her cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to me. There it was, nicely played and subtly stated: the quid pro quo.

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  “And be careful, Mike. I don’t know much about these guys, but I do know they’re no joke. Tread lightly.”

  I could have used someone to talk to about this Jack mess, but as I weighed her offer, I looked through the glass door of the office and saw the deputy director of the FBI, one of the most senior lawmen in the country, st
riding down the hall. Jack had warned me about talking to the police. And there was another element I didn’t want to think too hard about. I wasn’t going to throw in with the law until I understood just how dirty I would have to play to get out of this.

  I walked out just as the deputy director was walking in. He gave me a long, distasteful inspection as I passed, which, considering that I’d just been dragged down an alley and signed on to rob a bank, I probably deserved.

  Chapter 10

  ANNIE WAS ALREADY home when I pulled up the street. Her car filled our short driveway. I found a spot around the corner. As I neared our house, I saw the light was on in the bay window, and then saw Annie walk across the room in a runner’s tank top. There was no sign of Lynch’s car, just the usual Del Ray crowd: stroller gridlock, a few people eating ice cream. Maybe his threats were all bluster. I let myself relax from outright panic to simple dread.

  I was halfway up the block when I recognized the ice cream eaters.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I shouted down the street.

  The stroller dads looked at me, shocked. I didn’t care. My main focus was on Lynch. He was leaning against a tree across the street from my home. The squat Irish guy from Jack’s house stood beside him. Lynch divided his attention between hunting for peanut butter cups in his sundae and staring into my house.

  As I came closer, I could see he’d caught just the right angle to peep into the living room, where Annie was folded in half at the waist, stretching.

  “To answer your question,” Lynch said, “the custard place was closed this morning, so I swung back.” He looked at the window, then licked his spoon. “Very tasty.”

  I started toward him. The dads had retreated around the corner and were watching me with growing alarm.

  “Easy, Mike, easy,” Lynch said.

  “I swear to God—”

  “You can’t kill me, and you certainly can’t kill me here.”

  “Get away from my house.”

  “Just enjoying the evening, Mike. I’m glad I happened to run into you, though. We didn’t get to finish our talk.”

  “I’m calling the police,” I said, and took out my phone.

  “Please,” Lynch said.

  I lifted it, let my thumb hover over the dial pad.

  “It’s nine-one-one, if you forgot,” Lynch said.

  I dialed.

  Lynch dropped his spoon into his empty paper cup. “Though it may not be the best idea to have the police come here asking questions after you ran down the street screaming obscenities. And what exactly are you going to say? There are a couple of nicely dressed guys blowing their diets across the street from your house? There’s some vague plot going on you barely understand? And you have the whole story from your ex-con brother, who can’t open his mouth without telling a lie?”

  “Alexandria Police Department,” the voice came out of my phone. “What is your emergency?”

  Lynch went on: “I’m sure local PD will have this all cracked wide open by bedtime. You’re making things harder for yourself and your brother, Mike. You’re prolonging this unpleasantness. But if you want the extra challenge, go ahead.”

  “Are you there?” the dispatcher said. “What is your emergency?”

  I waited, ground my teeth together. Lynch looked on.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I misdialed. No emergency.”

  “Okay. Have a good night, sir. And please be more careful in the future.”

  “I think we got started on the wrong foot,” Lynch said. He reached into his pants pocket and handed me back my license. “I’m a reasonable guy. I protect my interests like anyone else. If I pay someone to do something, I expect it to be done. And if they don’t do it, I expect them to make it right. That’s only fair.”

  I took back my ID. “Or else you send them to the hospital? Kill them?”

  He tossed his cup into a neighbor’s garbage can. “I’m more about carrots than sticks. You’re a very competent operator. You have no record. You’re clean. You’ve got this whole respectable lawyer thing nailed. I think you can figure out how to get this done with a minimum of fuss or danger to yourself. After that, you never see me again. And you return to your lovely girl and picking out doilies for your wedding.”

  How did he know so much already?

  “Your brother has nothing to lose, Mike. But you have everything. It’s unfortunate I have to put the screws to you, but that’s the way it is.”

  “So you want me to rob a bank?”

  “That would be more fun, but no. This operation was all very neat and clean before your brother decided, against all evidence, that he was one of the good guys. It’s not a break-in, Mike. It’s inside information, tipping.”

  I was worried they wanted me for some ugly crime. But insider trading, like Martha Stewart? What could be more country club than that?

  “We had an economist lined up to give us some market-moving information. Your brother flubbed the payment. The economist bolted. Now we need to find another way to get our data.”

  “What sort of tips? What’s the target?”

  “I’d hate to ruin the surprise.”

  “Why aren’t you leaning on your inside man instead of on me?”

  “Who says I’m not?”

  “You seem to be spending most of your time up my ass.”

  He nodded as if I had a point. “He’s a tricky case. Can’t find him presently. And it’s probably best not to poke that hive at the moment, unless he does something rash. We’ll get to him eventually.”

  He looked down the street. Annie had stepped onto our porch. She was walking toward us. I needed Lynch gone.

  How scary could an economist be? I would just talk to him. It was a small price to pay to keep this away from my home. “What if I brought him back on board?” I asked.

  Lynch smiled and looked down the street at Annie. “So you’re in,” he said.

  “No. I’m out. I’ll just talk to this guy in order to remain out.”

  “Great. You’re in. Bear in mind, if you fuck this up or spook him or bring more heat down, it’s only going to make your job harder.”

  Annie was about thirty feet away. I could see Lynch savoring my distress as she moved closer and closer.

  He waited another second, until she was almost within earshot.

  “His name is Jonathan Sacks. You have twenty-four hours.” With that, he walked away.

  “Hey, hon,” Annie said. “Who was that?”

  My new boss.

  “Nobody,” I said.

  Chapter 11

  MY FIRST DAY on the job as a criminal co-conspirator was turning out to be pretty boring. I parked across the street from Sacks’s town house, one of a dozen in the complex. It had its own entrance, which made surveillance easier. It was 7:30 a.m., a good time to catch people going to work. After a half hour with no sign of activity inside, my impatience turned to boldness, and I headed toward his stoop.

  I noticed flyers for pizza places sticking out under his door. He had a drop-in mailbox hanging on the siding. I tapped on it. The metal returned a muted clank. It was half full.

  Sacks hadn’t been around for a few days in the middle of the week. I guessed he had run. I peered down through the blinds. No sign of a hasty packing job, probably planning on coming back. I didn’t have days to wait him out, though. I was supposed to be prepping a deposition for the dark-money case, but between this stakeout nonsense and a bar association lunch that Annie had reminded me about this morning, I didn’t know when I’d be able to take care of it.

  Sacks was an economist at the Federal Reserve. The Fed regulates a lot of banks, so I guessed he had access to some sort of inside data. I pulled up my laptop, which had a broadband card, and checked for a directory on the Fed website. Nothing jumped out at me. The “Contact Us” page had a few numbers, most of which I assumed were just dumped to voicemail. Several shared the same area code and first four digits of the number.

  That u
sually meant that by dialing those first four numbers followed by 000 you could reach the switchboard.

  So now I had a number to call, but who was I?

  I had done an Accurint search on Sacks last night. That’s one of the big data-mining sources. If there’s a piece of information about you floating in a commercial or government database anywhere in the world, they buy it, pull it into one place, and make it all searchable. Once you learn how to read those reports, those few pages will tell you someone’s life story and a good portion of their secrets. I had Sacks’s addresses from his childhood home on, and lists of his relatives, associates, co-workers, neighbors, anyone he lived with, as well as their phone numbers, employment histories, criminal records, and most of their Social Security numbers.

  From the last names and birthdays, I could see that Sacks had two daughters and a wife, and a single-family home in Falls Church. Then last summer he started living alone in a new luxury town house in Southwest DC. That sounded like divorce, which would explain financial motives.

  Work is a good first place to look for a workaholic. I went to LinkedIn, and they spun off a list of a dozen of Sacks’s colleagues and associates. I picked a guy who worked at the Treasury in the same policy area and could have had a good reason to be getting in touch with my man.

  I was now Andrew Schaefer. I hesitated for a moment before I made the call. It felt like crossing a line, my first action for Lynch. I Googled a few more terms and found an actual org chart of the Fed staff, with phone numbers.

  That cinched it. I had no good excuse and plenty of ways to work this. I dialed the main switchboard. “Monetary Policy,” said the man who answered the phone.

  “Laurie Stevens, please.” She was the admin in Sacks’s office.

  “One minute.”

  “This is Laurie.”

  “Hi, Laurie,” I said. Being transferred from the main switchboard meant my number would show up as an internal extension on her phone, which made it more trustworthy. “This is Andrew Schaefer at OEP. I was wondering if I could get some time on Jonathan Sacks’s schedule today.”

  “Did you try e-mailing him?”