Two hours later.
Blue Six: That was awesome!
Blue Nine: You made a great shot from behind those rocks.
Blue Six: Thanks for nailing that guy sneaking up behind the cars.
Blue Nine: What’s a partner for?
Blue Six: Hey, I see from your website that you live close to me.
Blue Nine: Yeah? Cool. Where do you live?
Blue Six: In Vinton. Listen, I’m having some other guys over—Sunday night—Memorial Day. They do StreetWar, too. We’re going to talk about strategy, do some stuff, maybe a little pot. It’ll be cool. Want to come?
Blue Nine: Sure. But I don’t have a car.
Blue Six: No sweat. I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?
Blue Nine: Broughton. Let me figure out a place to meet. I’m still living at home. I have a friend, Justin, who plays. Can he come, too?
Blue Six: Sure. How old are you?
Blue Nine: Fifteen.
Blue Six: No problem. You’ll really like these guys. I’ll give you my phone number, and we’ll figure it out. OK?
Blue Nine: Sure. That’ll be great. Sounds like fun.
As the sun set Master Sergeant Salim Moradi drove his new SUV out the main gate of Fort Bliss and headed for downtown El Paso. He had two important calls to make, and he wanted them to be lost in the clutter of the urban cell phone towers.
MSG Moradi had been stationed at Fort Bliss for almost ten years, teaching soldiers, Marines and sailors how to use the FIM-92 Stinger missile to bring down aircraft. He was the senior enlisted member of his team and enjoyed wide respect among his peers as a hard working professional who was dedicated to the Army and to their base’s training mission.
Salim had never married and was known to his closest acquaintances as a quiet professional. But they never ventured with him to Las Vegas, where he went alone three or four times a year. On those trips he indulged every passion he could imagine, confident that Allah would overlook his transgressions because the rest of the year he was on the front line of Jihad. In the US Army, the very belly of the Great Satan.
Born in Jordan, Salim had become a true believer in his early teenage years at their local mosque, where an Egyptian imam taught the Muslim faith interlaced with hate for America and all things Western. When his parents immigrated to Detroit, Salim of course followed. There, after an email exchange between his old imam and the youth leader at their Detroit mosque, Salim continued his radical studies. One evening when he was about to graduate from high school, three older men met him at the mosque and talked to him about joining the US Army. That had been fifteen years ago.
During his years at Fort Bliss, Salim had trained thousands of young soldiers how to use the Stinger missile. And during that time he had kept his eyes open for a particular kind of student, one who might share his fundamental beliefs. Over those years he had grown relationships with fourteen young men, but only two had actually committed. For now, they were enough. It was to them that he would place his calls.
Ten minutes later Yusef Sawyer was driving alone along the interstate in Los Angeles, coming back from a showing. Before he had finished the Army’s Air Defense Artillery School at Fort Bliss, his instructor and mentor had given him ten prepaid cell phones, each with a number marked on its case. There had been two previous calls, and Yusef had been faithfully charging and carrying phone #3 for almost six months. Just as he turned onto the exit ramp, that phone rang in his coat pocket.
His heart raced. Because he was not with anyone, or at a location that could be connected with him by GPS, he knew that he could answer. Steering with one hand, he pulled the phone from his pocket and hit the green button. The familiar voice said, “There is no god but Allah. Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.” Yusef nodded and repeated the two sentences back into the phone.
“Good news, my brother. The day for celebration may now be the Fourth of July. Prepare yourself in every way, and I will confirm all details soon.”
“Understood.”
“May Allah go with you.” The phone went dead.
Yusef pulled into the parking lot of a large retail center. He sat for a moment, taking it in. Six weeks! His body shuddered. Then he got out and put the phone just ahead of his left front tire. As he drove off, crushing the phone, he made a note to remember to charge number #4.
Meanwhile, at a similar retail center parking lot in El Paso, Salim had just completed the same call to Perviz, a Pakistani-American Army graduate of the same school who lived in Manhattan.
22
TUESDAY, MAY 31ST
Normally it would have been tough for Todd to be up so early on the first workday after the Memorial Day weekend, but on this Tuesday, six am was just fine. He would spend his first three hours alone in the RTI training cubicle. During the past week he had logged three additional training sessions with a senior person. He told Mary that he and David Sawyer had an early meeting with an executive search firm to evaluate the resumes of possible additions to the real estate group, before his flight that afternoon to Kansas City. So finally he was alone in a cubicle—and about to go online for his first traffic.
Feeling a rush of excitement, he clicked the mouse and immediately was fed a cell phone call from inside a publishing house in New York. It appeared to be an attorney discussing the final pricing for an Initial Public Offering of stock that morning, explaining why she thought the price was too low. Todd quickly noted the industry involved and routed the message to the appropriate desk. OK, I did one.
He continued for more than an hour, gaining confidence with each message he routed or deleted. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Victor Mustafin. “How are you doing?” he asked.
Todd logged off and removed his headset. Smiling, he answered, “Great. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Good. A few more of these sessions and we’ll move you up to the next level. There’s more to learn, of course. Then to the control room, probably in about two weeks. If we stay on schedule, in about two months you should be ready to stand watch as the duty officer.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Todd said.
“You’ll get there. And, by the way, here’s a little incentive to help.” Mustafin handed him an envelope.
Todd opened it to find a check for $25,000 made out to him from International Specialists in Geneva. He looked up at Mustafin, a question on his face.
“The first of many installments, Todd. We like what you’re doing, and we want to give you a glimpse of what this work can mean for you. It’s drawn on a legitimate company, and the income will be reported to the IRS. It’s a real estate consulting firm. When the money really starts flowing, we’ll create some more of these situations, so the income will be on the up and up.”
“Thanks.” Todd smiled, slipping the check into his coat on the back of the chair.
Mustafin put his hand on Todd’s shoulder. “Just keep doing a good job, and you can expect one of those every few weeks. Have a good one.”
Todd returned to his monitor, smiling. This is good.
Before logging online again, he decided to try something that he’d been curious about but had not wanted to try with a mentor. He clicked on the People icon at the bottom of his screen. The computer asked for his password, and he typed in the new one that Victor had given him when he graduated to solo duty. Up came a form for a name and address. He typed in his own name. When he clicked it, his USNet file appeared, complete with picture, address and many choices for further information, including Family, Income, Expenditures, Hobbies, Medical, Phone Messages, Emails, even Location. He couldn’t help frowning. Who else in here has access to all of this USNet data on me and my family? He clicked through the information in several of the areas, and it appeared to be accurate. Finally he clicked on Location, and a map came up pinpointing him within the unlabeled RTI HQ. He wondered whether his cell phone or the USNet ID card in his wallet identified his whereabouts to the computer.
Todd sat back in his chair, reali
zing that the RTI system had captured virtually every fact about his life. And tens of thousands of other lives. I need to be more cautious about what I say on the phone. But the government probably has the same stuff. And who else does? Are we really the only ones doing it? I’ve just got to focus on getting all the money I can from this, so my family will have what we need. And then retire as soon as possible.
To check the system, he backed out and typed in David Sawyer’s name. Todd was impressed that David had so much information on file, and he took a minute to scan it. When he clicked on Location, a map came up with the crosshair on their office. Impressive. Very impressive. I’m glad I’m on the inside.
Later that morning David and Todd finished meeting with representatives from an executive search firm and were reasonably positive about two of the candidates they proposed. David asked them to set up interviews, but also to keep looking. He believed he needed at least three experienced real estate professionals, and he needed them quickly.
After seeing his guests to the elevator lobby, he was back in his office, looking at the view toward downtown and Capital Tower. Todd had told him that the building’s owners were meeting in early June to decide how to proceed after Porter’s disappearance. David instructed Todd to ask for a meeting, and they were waiting word. But as David looked out at the building from his office, he couldn’t help thinking about Kristen and wondering where she might be. He had not heard from her since she walked out of his office ten days earlier.
His phone rang and it was Paul Burke.
“How goes it?” his colleague asked.
“Fine. Just looking at Capital Tower.”
“How’s the family?”
“We had a quiet Memorial Day. Sorry we couldn’t join you at the lake. Rob spent most of the weekend at the movies. And Elizabeth and I just did our usual thing. How about you?”
“We’re fine. Amanda is going out to do the waitress thing in Aspen with some friends. I thought she might try to visit Callie, or vice-versa.”
“Good.”
“Yes. Listen, David, I’m calling on a sensitive matter that isn’t set in stone yet, but I want to give you a heads up so you can be thinking about it.”
“OK.”
“Trevor wants to invite President Harper to the grand opening of our new Moscow office when she’s over there for the Fourth of July—we think she’s going then. We already have feelers out to key members in the administration to issue the invitation. Do you still think our space will be ready?”
“Yes. We’re scheduled to sign the lease on Thursday, and the space, at least the office portion, is virtually finished. But President Harper? Why would Trevor invite her, and why would she accept?”
“I know it’s hard to believe. Trevor told me last week that he wants to ‘bury the hatchet.’ Not actually get out of all the stuff we’re doing—casinos online and adult movies. But try to conform more with what the President is trying to do with her reform laws.”
“You’re kidding. Why?”
“I’m not sure. He said that he’s just tired of fighting the issue and wants to move on.”
“Now that we’re about to own almost all the production assets in the country, I guess it won’t hurt to be on better terms with the government.”
“I guess that might be part of it. But I think he’s also ready for a change. He’s directed us to stop funding the legal challenges to the President’s reform law, as a measure of good faith. Anyway, we want you to be an early part of the planning, since you know the new office and a little about Moscow. The President hasn’t accepted yet, but we’d like to begin some contingency plans with our media and PR people right away, from how to conduct the ribbon cutting to the guest lists. So we’ll need your input.”
“I’m glad to help. Will this mean I’ll be going over there again?”
“I would think so. Maybe a few days before.”
“I’m game. When will we know?”
“The ball is in the President’s court. But we’re having a first meeting in my office tomorrow at two. Can you make it?”
“Uh—sure. I’ll put down some thoughts beforehand.”
“Good. See you then.”
“Great.” David hung up and looked at the pictures of his kids on the desk. If the reforms go through, Callie will be out of these terrible movies. God—or Allah—I hope so!
Then he picked up the receiver again and dialed an internal number. “Abigail, hi. It’s David. Can you get me fifty more SIM cards, as soon as possible? And five or ten of those pre-paid ‘throw away’ cell phones?”
That afternoon at Callie’s apartment in Long Beach, Kristen was sitting on one of two sofas arranged in an L around a coffee table in the living room, reading a book. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a light blue short-sleeved blouse. An hour earlier she had been sunning on Callie’s back terrace, but now the air conditioning felt good. She glanced up as Callie opened the front door.
“Hi,” Callie said, as she came through the door wearing short shorts and a purple tank top, and carrying a bag of groceries.
Kristen stood and smiled. “Let me help you.”
“I’ve got it,” Callie said, walking through and putting the bag on the table. Free of the bag, she turned and accepted a hug from Kristen.
“It’s so nice of you to have me back again so soon, and to let me stay here.” “No problem. Did you find the key OK?”
“Right where you said. I put my stuff in the bedroom on the left upstairs, and then I sunned for a while.”
“Not bad for being unemployed, huh?”
“Nope. What about you?”
“Oh, the usual. Classes and then rehearsal for the play. Kinda wears you out.”
“I bet. We can get dressed and go out to dinner whenever you say.”
Picking up the grocery bag and walking a few steps to the kitchen counter, Callie said, “We don’t have to go out. I got some salad stuff, a frozen pasta thing, and some bread. Alex will be here in a little while. Let’s just stay in and chill.” Reaching in the bag, she pulled out a bottle. “I even got some wine. The fake ID works every time at the grocery store.”
“Fine. I look forward to meeting Alex. All we need now is my own Mr. Right.”
Callie smiled. “He’s out there. I think I found mine.” She handed the bottle of wine to Kristen. “Before he comes, I want to hear about your plans, and we’ll talk about going to Fashion Island in Orange County. I haven’t been in a while, and I think you’ll like it.”
“That works for me. Where’s the corkscrew?”
“It’ll be a heck of a development,” Mike Campbell remarked, as he cut into a steak. “Your people will love being in a mixed-use facility, with restaurants and retail.”
Todd Phelps looked around the rustic restaurant, made to resemble a Kansas City saloon in its cowboy heyday, and sipped his drink. “You’re right, Mike. The converted brewery can be a great mixed use development for us and for you.”
“Man, this is a great steak. Listen, I’ve penciled out the numbers, and we’ll need to net at least nine dollars and fifty cents a square foot for your space in the old warehouse.”
Todd put down his drink and frowned. “But we just need fiber-connected warehouse space for our computer servers. Cheryl says that we can lease that kind of space all day long in Kansas City for about five bucks.”
Mike paused, holding his knife and fork next to his plate. He looked directly at Todd. “That may be. I don’t know. But to make the brewery work for us, given the renovation cost, we’ll need to get nine-fifty. And, by the way, that also makes it work for you.”
Todd looked down at his plate, then picked up his knife and fork. “OK. Well, we’ll need to package it so that overall it comes out in the ballpark of the others.”
“I understand. We’ll sharpen our pencils. Your lease is the key,” Mike said, emphasizing the point with his knife, “and we’ll certainly consider that as we build in our ‘financing fees.’”
T
odd paused, then looked at his friend. “Just be sure that we talk like we’re doing now—no more emails or cell phone calls—and make those deposits quietly.”
Mike smiled. “I got it.”
Todd nodded. “Give me some specifics as soon as you can, and I’ll do my best to get it approved.”
Mike smiled. “Early next week. I’ll put the lease proposal in writing, and I’ll call you. Now, please, enjoy your steak.”
Kristen and Callie were each half-reclining on opposite ends of the sofa, the bottle of wine and a plate with cheese and crackers on the coffee table. Five CDs were loaded, and Paul McCartney was into “And I Love Her.” Callie took a sip from her glass. “So, I don’t have classes tomorrow until the afternoon, if you want to try Fashion Island. What are you looking for?”
“Another business outfit like the last one. At home I just don’t see any like we bought here two weeks ago. Hopefully I’ll have some job interviews soon, and I want to look good. Another one or two of those, and then some casual stuff. Maybe pants. Let’s just look.”
“Sure. No sweat. So, tell me what Dad did to you.”
Kristen leaned forward, poured herself a little more wine, and picked up a piece of cheese. Then she sat back. “Well, in the simplest terms, he fired me.” She noticed a small smile and a nod from Callie.
“Why?”
“Not because of anything I did directly relating to real estate. But really for other reasons. I made the mistake of letting my personal views become a little too public, and that wasn’t appreciated by USNet’s top management. Although your dad didn’t say so, I’m sure that Trevor Knox and maybe Paul Burke put pressure on him to get rid of me.”
Callie brought her knees up and took a sip from her glass. “Wow. So you, like, got fired for what you thought? That sounds pretty much like what he did to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know that he disowned me because Alex lives here with me?”
Enemy In the Room Page 24
