by Jeff Buick
"What?" She was awake now and her voice all business.
"I sent you a link to a call I received about two hours ago. It's on your mobile. You should listen to it and call me back."
There was a brief pause while she checked her Blackberry, then she said, "It came through. Give me a few minutes."
Julie touched the power button on the coffee machine and it instantly began brewing a fresh pot. She was not a morning person and had learned a long time ago to prep the machine the night before. Especially in hotel rooms where the machines were always different. She had a quick shower and doctored her coffee as she liked it, then sat down and listened to the audio file Evan had sent. She replayed it a few times, made some notes, and called Evan's cell number.
"He knows something," Julie said.
"Definitely. And whatever it is, it involves the Moscow concert."
"Agreed." Her computer beeped as an e-mail arrived. It was from Evan. She clicked on it and Carson Grant's profile popped up on her screen. The picture was from the DMV and hardly complimentary. A link to his Facebook site was on the lower left portion of the screen and she clicked the cursor on it. A much better picture appeared. She studied his face, his eyes, the innuendo on his home page, then returned to the data file. "Why would a Wall Street MBA be interested in the security at a rock concert in Moscow?" she asked.
It was a rhetorical question and Evan countered back with more data, not an answer. "He has a very sick fiancee. Maybe he needs money and he's looking at extortion."
"Maybe..." Julie was scanning Grant's file. "This isn't adding up."
"No, it's not. He doesn't fit any sort of criminal profile I've ever seen."
"There's a tone in his voice," Julie said. "He's onto some little morsel, but he doesn't know what to do with it. He could be an innocent who stumbled onto something that's completely outside his comfort zone. It has to do with the concert, so he called us because he didn't know who else to call."
"Makes sense."
"Did he call from New York?"
"Yes. From his home number. It was blocked but it didn't take much to get around that."
"I think I'll change my flight, take a detour to New York and pay Carson Grant a visit."
"Do you need anyone for backup?" Evan asked.
"He's a Wall Street geek. I should be okay," Julie said. Her tone was easy-going, but she had learned better than to assume people were exactly who they appeared to be, no matter how harmless they looked. "I'll send you my new itinerary. Would you mind reserving a room at the Dylan?"
"Done. You want the suite?"
"Always."
"When should they expect you?" Evan asked.
She mentally calculated the times, allowing for the flight, checking into the hotel, then waiting for Carson to get home from work, which could be late. Wall Street execs often worked long after quitting hours. "I'll call by nine o'clock New York time. If I don't, send the posse."
"You got it."
"Thanks, Evan. Good work."
"Sure. Let's hope it's nothing," he said.
Julie hung up and dropped the phone on the bed. She stared at Carson Grant's Facebook photo. Clean cut, with well-groomed sandy-brown hair and a disarming smile. His eyes were different. Blue, but with a touch of grey. He looked to be younger than the thirty-six years on his computer profile. Probably from living the good life - cashing his bonus checks and heading for the local Ferrari dealership. She wasn't a Wall Street fan. Like many, she had been hit hard by the 2008 crash.
"So what are you up to, trader boy?" Julie asked, tapping the screen on her laptop.
She went online and booked a flight to New York departing Miami in three hours and was out the door exactly sixty-three minutes after Evan had called. Her schedule for Friday, August 20th had changed substantially. It was now an evening meeting with Carson Grant.
It occurred to her as she took the elevator to the main floor of the hotel that she lived a very strange life.
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Chapter
48
Day 25 - 8.20.10 - Morning News
Newark, New Jersey
William Fleming's Gulfstream flew direct from Moscow, with one stop to refuel in Prestwick, and touched down in Newark at 5:32 Friday morning. Alexi Androv was reluctant to deplane. He had spent time on private jets before, but never a Gulfstream G500. The sleek exterior with its powerful Rolls-Royce engines couldn't begin to do justice to the interior space. The leather seats were a dream and the scotch was 30-year-old Brora Cask Strength, with a deep oaky taste. The flight attendant had appeared exactly when he needed a refill and the meal she served was better than most five-star restaurants in Moscow.
Customs and Immigration for Newark International Airport came onboard and cleared him for entry with only a perfunctory check of the plane and his documents. He thanked the pilot and walked the short distance to the private terminal where a gunmetal grey Audi A-8 with a driver was waiting. The early morning air was invigorating and he cracked the window slightly as the car drove across the river into Manhattan. Once on the island they headed south toward Soho. It was busy, but most of the traffic was heading into midtown and the northbound streets were far more congested than the south ones.
They arrived at the address on Spring Street and the driver found a spot across the road with a good vantage point. Alexi checked the time - 7:12. They'd made excellent time from the airport and there was a chance of catching Carson Grant before he left for work. He really didn't care whether he saw the man leave or not. His focus now was to understand the nuances of where Grant and his fiancee lived. The entrances and exits to the building and to their suite. The amount of foot and vehicular traffic on the roads in front of the building and on both side streets. And most important, the layout of the apartment where Carson and his fiancee would die.
He opened the file Trey Miller had given him and glanced at Grant's picture. He didn't need to look at the photo, he was merely filling time. He knew every line on the man's face, the intensity in his eyes, the bone structure underlying his cheeks and forehead and chin. Nothing Grant could do to alter his appearance would keep him from being recognized. Not that the Russian was expecting the banker to act differently than any other day. He would have no reason to suspect one of the faceless people on his street was there to kill him.
The front door opened and a man wearing an expensive suit stepped out, turned left and walked quickly toward West Broadway. When he reached the corner he held out his hand and a cab pulled up to the curb. He slipped into the back seat and headed north for midtown.
Alexi noted the time that Grant had left his apartment.
He waited twenty minutes, then crossed the street to the front door of the building. He picked the lock in under six seconds and let himself into the small foyer. The door closed silently behind him. To either side were doors, one marked 1A the other 1B. Ahead was a staircase leading to the upper floors. He took the stairs one at a time, his feet quiet on the treads. He reached three and stood in the foyer for a minute, then rapped lightly on Grant's door. The intel he had received from Miller assured him that Grant's fiancee was in the suite. If she came to the door, he would simply beg forgiveness for knocking on the wrong suite. If not, she was likely sleeping. He could enter, get the layout of the apartment and be back out without waking her. If she did wake and see him, then she died now rather than tonight. He could care less.
The woman didn't answer and he inserted his lock-picking gear in the slot and fished for a few seconds until he felt the tumblers drop into place. He opened the door and waited. Nothing. He let himself in and closed the door. Locked it. Slipped the security chain in place. If she woke, it was game over.
The interior of the apartment was
quiet. A smattering of noise came in from the busy street through an open window. He moved through the tiny foyer into the living room. It was a decent size, maybe four meters by five. A beaten-up couch sat against one wall, facing a forty-two inch flat-screen television. A Blu-Ray player and expensive home theatre system looked out of place amidst the modest furniture. A Vanity Fair magazine and yesterday's Times sat on the coffee table. He moved silently through the living room to the galley kitchen. A couple of freshly rinsed dishes were drying in the rack. He opened one of the drawers and selected a carving knife from the offered selection. He closed the drawer and left the kitchen, the knife firmly planted in his hand. A short hallway led to two doors. The first was the bathroom. He peered in as he passed, but it was dark and deserted. One room left. He knew the layout. He could leave now - back up and retrace his steps to the door and let himself out into the hallway.
That didn't happen.
Androv continued on into the bedroom. The woman was sleeping. She was curled in the fetal position and her breathing was steady. Her hair was pushed back from her face and he could see her features. She was attractive. Sexy in an average sort of way. Not the blonde bombshell type, but more like the girl next door. He put one foot in front of the next until he was standing next to the bed, almost touching the sheets. He wanted her to wake up. He willed her to wake up.
How can you sleep with death so close? he whispered so low he couldn't hear the words himself.
Nothing. Her eyelids rippled slightly as her eyeballs moved rapidly back and forth. REM. She was in deep sleep. Perhaps she was dreaming. Maybe she would wake up with some recall of a man in her bedroom. A man with a carving knife. He slowly backed up, still wanting her to wake. She refused. Apparently, it was not her time to die. Later tonight, but not at this moment.
Androv contemplated replacing the knife in the drawer, but decided that it might come in handy later. He could make the crime scene look like Carson and the woman had surprised a burglar and the perp had grabbed a weapon of convenience. He wrapped the blade in a small towel and tucked the knife in his shirt, then let himself out of the apartment. He felt exhilarated - alive - like he should spend some money. And he certainly had money. He had the original eighty thousand for the U2 gig coming, plus another two-fifty for killing Carson Grant. He'd include the woman in the price - a freebie of sorts.
He walked down the street to the Audi, a smile on his face. Just another person happy to be alive and in New York City.
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Chapter
49
Moscow, Russia
Maelle had falsified the headers and IP addresses on the e-mails she forwarded to the staff at Luzhniki Stadium late Friday afternoon. The messages were simple and to the point. They were to expect power outages on various lines at specific times over the weekend. She and Petr activated the software rerouting all outgoing calls between the stadium and the city. Maelle would receive them in the empty retail space. Then they waited.
The call came through in less than five minutes. It was the building superintendant for the stadium, checking what the outages were about. Maelle connected the man to Petr, who reassured him that it was simply upgrading on the systems leading into the stadium and that the off-hours timing had been picked so they would not conflict with any events. They agreed that next week, after the upcoming U2 concert, Petr would stop by with a case of vodka for the inconvenience.
He hung up and glanced over at Maelle. "I'll arrange to send the vodka. If I don't, he'll be calling back to find out where it is."
"Don't leave a paper trail," she said.
"Of course not." He stood up and stretched, then checked the time. Nine in the evening. Time to get back into the tunnels and tie in the final contactor that Alexi had designed to cut the power. He tucked the hardware into a small backpack that contained the tools he needed and flashed a smile at Maelle. "I'm off to work, honey. See you later."
"I can hardly wait," she replied.
Petr pushed back the furniture covering the access to the subterranean tunnels and lowered himself into the hole. The section of underground he was working in today was dry, so having Trey or Maelle with him wasn't necessary. Trey had bought Princeton Tec headlamps, a favorite with cavers, and rigged them up on their helmets so they could work alone. Today he was splicing the final piece of equipment into the conduit, and once that was in place his job was essentially done. There would be details to take care of over the last five days leading up to the concert, but the tough stuff was out of the way.
He oriented himself directionally and switched on the GPS. It tracked his movement as he made his way through the maze of intersecting tunnels. He had already located the final junction box, but it had been too late to wire in the contactor. The water was only ankle deep and he made good time, arriving at his desTination about an hour after leaving the retail space. He found the box and attached the contactor so it wasn't visible. It was difficult - the worst yet - as he had expected. The space behind the junction box was tiny. It was large enough to fit the electronics, but left him no space to wedge in a stone cover. He scraped at the cement and rock in the back of the hole but it was impenetrable without a special drill, small enough for the gap. He swore under his breath and started reassembling the city equipment.
"What are you doing?"
The voice came from behind him. He jerked around at the noise and saw a light bobbing along the tunnel toward him. A solitary light. One man. Petr had no idea if the man was armed security or simply a worker who had happened to end up in the same tunnel at the same time. He turned to face the oncoming person so that his light was shining in the other man's eyes, blinding him.
"I'm completely lost," Petr said. "I'm looking for the Usaceva Street telephone junction."
"Why are you in here? This is not a place for telephone lines."
The man's tone was confident, like he knew what electronics the conduits contained. That ruled out the police or security personnel. Petr relaxed a bit as the approaching figure came into the beam from his light and began to take on a shape. He was a large man, and he looked overweight, which would be a definite disadvantage in a small space.
"I told you," Petr said. "I have no idea where I am. I'm probably in the wrong tunnels."
"If you're looking for phone lines, you definitely are."
Now Petr could see the man's face and make out his features. He was about fifty years old and carrying an extra forty pounds on his belly. His cheeks and chin were fleshy and round, with little definition, and his hairline had pushed back considerably from his forehead. He wore a brown uniform that needed pressing.
"And who are you?" Petr asked, changing his tone and going on the aggressive. "And why are you here?"
"I'm with the city. We check these tunnels regularly."
Petr waved his hand about. "But there are so many. How do you keep track of where you are and where you've been?" He was fishing to see if anyone knew exactly where he was, or if they would send a search party directly to this section of the tunnel.
"I do as I want," the man said, a tinge of arrogance in his voice. "And I check in when I want."
"Like being your own boss," Petr said.
"Yes."
"Most unfortunate for you."
Petr was within a meter. Inside the killing range. His arm shot out and his extended fingers hit the man's windpipe with a staggering amount of force. A sick cracking sound reverberated through the tunnel for a second, and then a gurgling noise as the man dropped to his knees, unable to breathe. He grasped at his throat with a bewildered and frightened look in his eyes. He remained upright for thirty seconds, his skin turning a delicate shade of blue, before he dropped face first into the shallow water.
"Dumb, fat fuc
k," Petr said. Anger was etched into each word. "Now what the hell am I supposed to do with you?"
He grabbed the man by his collar and dragged him for forty meters until he reached a narrow offshoot of the main pipe. He managed to squeeze the man's body into the crack behind him and pulled it about thirty meters before letting go and stepping over the corpse. He retraced his route to the shop on Usaceva and knocked on the access panel under the back room. There was the sound of furniture being moved and Trey's face looked down at him.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
Petr hoisted himself out of the hole and set his backpack on the floor. "I couldn't get the contactor in and cover it properly. The hole is too small for the drill I had with me. I'll have to take a smaller one and gouge out the rock a bit so I can make it fit. I'll have it done by tomorrow night."
"Good. Maelle told me you sent the message to the stadium about the power outages."
"We did and we had one call back."
Trey nodded. "You promised him some vodka. Good move. Just don't forget to send it."
"I won't."
"Anything else?" Trey asked.
Petr shrugged. "Nothing on my end."
He pushed by the team leader and opened the little bar fridge and cracked a beer. He had decided not to tell anyone about the city employee he had met in the sewer. That way, if someone came looking for the missing man, Trey and Maelle could honestly say they had no idea. Lying was so much easier when you didn't know you were doing it.
Tomorrow was Saturday. He would get the last one in place, then, while they were still offline, remotely test all six units. If they all responded to the wireless test he would be ready to attach them to the grid. When Maelle's power outages started on Monday, he would begin the job of physically splicing them into the network. They were cutting it close, but if nothing went wrong they would make it. In fact, he was sure they would get it done.
