The Big Wheel

by Scott Archer Jones

  Robko pursed his lips. He reached for the Gray Man’s wallet lying on the table. He took the hundreds out, stuck one back in, replaced the wallet. The Gray Man strobed his chopsticks in a shimmy at the images on the wall. “I’ve marked the cameras inside this section—and the dead spots. Keep your head ducked, and don’t look up at the cams. So tell me, what comes next?”

  “O’Brien’s office lies behind the secretaries. I use the same projector for the eye scanner on his door, enter, and let the system lock me in. The nice thing about the Governor’s office is its low security. No motion detectors, no cameras.”

  “Except the vault’s security.”

  “Yes, the vault.”

  ***

  The Gray Man has brought me all this way for what is in that vault.

  In front of me are spread the usual trappings big bosses require: the couches, the bar, the immense desk, and the panoramic sweep of glass. But what’s important lies through the double doors to the right. I open them and lights flicker on. I can see the vault waiting there in all its transparent simplicity. The glass box crouches six feet away from the walls on its own pedestal. Huddling inside are a data server, a translucent desk with a holographic monitor, and several lustrous boxes.

  First I have to get into the vault. The dog that guards this glass cube is a dual tumbler bank lock mounted in the door. A case-hardened steel box holds the lock suspended on the glass. It’s a simple, elegant, mechanical lock with no electronics and no timer. We don’t know the combination.

  I drill two holes, each to the right of a tumbler knob. If I drill in the wrong place, I rupture a manifold that holds an acid. It will ruin everything in the lock, just like ATM machines. Once I’ve drilled through the safe spots and into the mechanics of the lock, I use a standard needle listening device and unlock each tumbler set. I hear the last click; now I can throw the handle.

  Disarming the lasers and the pressure switches inside the vault is the final trick. Before I jerk the door open, I start my timer. I’ve only got a minute to rush the keypad and enter the right password. The code this year is the names of O’Brien’s ex-wives, entered backwards. A bitch, or two in fact.

  It is indeed close, since I mistype once. My iMob counts down, tolling out seconds, and it reaches “three” before I get the code in. Silently I scream for joy, and my adrenalin pumps around in a waterfall of delight. I have an aching erection. I’ve cracked through level four, and all I have to do is steal the data off the server and unlock the boxes.

  I jack my memory device into the server and start a huge download. Next, the translucent glowing boxes. The boxes each have a keypad; I have the codes because the keypads face the window. Days of surveillance from an adjacent building have revealed all. O’Brien’s boxes hold portable memory devices, and as instructed, I drop each into the bag. But in the last cube, I find something I’ve never seen before. The Gray Man hadn’t prepared me for this.

  It’s an acrylic box, one by two by three inches. The box holds a gray mass of powder or crystals. Notches on the outside allow it to connect or couple into something. I see sets of contacts on each end, maybe two hundred in an array.

  What? Are the crystals some exotic compound to provide O’Brien with a unique experience? Could it be an electrically activated drug, like a Singapore Slam? Could it be gene replacement to prolong his life? Maybe the crystals could cure his cirrhosis, or relieve his diabetes, or give him the circulation system of a twenty year old.

  Whatever this little gem is, it’s something only the very rich could afford—important enough for him to keep close at hand. Maybe the contacts are either an alarm or lock, or the crystals are inert until activated by way of the contacts. A mystery—how charming!

  The Gray Man doesn’t have to know about this drug. It’s not part of the negotiated deal, but it could get me killed. Killed dead. Either by the Gray Man, or O’Brien. Of course I’ll keep the box—I’m doomed by my blood to keep it.

  ***

  The day before, they looped over and over the plan. It wasn’t enough to get in. Robko had to get out.

  The Gray Man’s voice wheezed on. “You exit by riding on the elevator roof down to the ground. It’s a cinch from O’Brien’s floor. The doors protect against someone breaking in, not breaking out.”

  “The reverse of a lobster trap.”

  “A simple switch disables the alarm on the stairwell door. You unlock the elevator maintenance door with this key.” The Gray Man held it up. “Their security is laughable on this end.”

  “It will improve after I’m gone.”

  “There is that. You’ll have to wait, but you can stroll onto the roof of either of the executive elevators when they come to the top. Don’t move after you’re on the elevator—interferometer scans in the shaft. Once the elevator is on the ground floor, drop down the side into the basement and proceed to the loading docks. You can exit onto those docks with no challenge. Use this key card.” The Gray Man gave Robko the card.

  “And then I walk away.”

  “You know the place where we’ll meet. Message ahead, and I’ll be there for the exchange. We’ll transfer your fee from my bank to yours right away.”

  “Anyone else coming to the drop?”

  “No. And it’s a public place. I probably won’t shoot you.”

  “And I’ll probably bring the stuff.”

  “See that you do.”

  Chapter Two: Slave to Fortune’s Service

  Robert Zlata, known to his family and friends as Robko, often met the Gray Man at this particular coffee house in the Bowery. Big, mirrored, plate glass windows faced the street, and he could see out without being seen. He liked the hours—always open—and the escape routes. The shop occupied a corner; two exits reassured him and he knew about the window onto the alley. Robko sat in his favorite chair. Through the window, he watched the Gray Man stride up the street under the streetlights. He also watched himself reflected in the glass, saw a small man dressed in black, with a massive mono-brow above two deep set eyes—a somber expression. He pushed his fingers through his pelt of raven wing hair and watched the image in the glass preening. He grinned at himself. Mink-like, his small, sharp incisors flashed out and then hid themselves.

  The Gray Man relaxed—for once he wasn’t all about business. He laid his pad on the table. “Best coffee in the Bowery.”

  “You like this place, don’t you?”

  “I’ve got to get out sometime. This place is better than okay.” He nodded towards the baristas. “I’ll be a minute.”

  The Gray Man took his time. Placing his cappuccino on the table, he sat with one hand across the chair beside him and crossed his leg. He dangled the foot. The Gray Man asked, “You’re from Chicago, aren’t you? Nice town.”

  Robko narrowed his eyes. A little late for a personal relationship. “Some parts. My neighborhood left a lot to be desired.”

  “Mean streets. The usual story.”

  “Pulaski Park and points northwest. Very ethnic, working poor—but not dirty. We had everything from Bohunks to Puerto Ricans.”

  “And your ethnicity?”

  “Zlata doesn’t give it away? A good Slavic name, Polish in this case.”

  “What does Zlata mean?”

  “Gold.”

  The Gray Man pushed the tiny spoon around the lip of his saucer, leaned forward. “Well, you’ve had a pretty golden day, haven’t you?”

  “In by ten in the morning, and out by midnight. Long day, but successful.”

  “I was eager to meet up with you, after.”

  “It’s only been an hour.”

  “True,” said the Gray Man. He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Yes, I have them with me.” Robko shoved the satchel under the table to the Gray Man’s feet.

  “Forgive me for a moment.” The Gray Man brought the satchel up from the floor to the seat beside him and unzipped it. Dipping his hands in, he rummaged for a bit. He turned the contents over in his hidden hands, everything still
in the bag. “Yes, here’s the disk for the full server. The download went okay?”

  Robko nodded.

  “And O’Brien’s memory devices. I see there are eleven here, and not the ten we expected.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. One lockbox had two flash drives, one smaller than the other. Maybe older. Who knows what it could hold.”

  “I appreciate the honesty, Robert. Not all people in our trade would have delivered the extra.”

  Robko’s shoulders twinged. The twelfth item hung as a weight in his pocket. He diverted the conversation. “What do you think is stored on these devices?”

  “One is what I expected—it’s even marked with a tape label. It holds financial information, instantly useful. I hope to recover your fee thousands of times over within the hour.”

  “And the others?”

  “Ah. My future buyers expect they will hold trade secrets of various kinds.”

  “O’Brien has labs, factories, and offices all over the States to hold his trade secrets.”

  The Gray Man just hummed.

  “So we had to crack his office rather than just jacking the info from his flunkies?”

  “Two reasons—O’Brien gathers it all together for us, in one place. Very tempting. Second, Dennis Malley O’Brien is first and foremost a politician. He wouldn’t keep the data I want in a lab or a factory or an employee’s office.” The Gray Man zipped the bag shut.

  Robko tapped his spoon on the tabletop. “Now on to why I’m here. You’ve got yours. I’d like mine.”

  The Gray Man stirred his milk foam under and pushed his pad towards Robko. “I’m ready when you are. Just fill in the account.”

  Robko got out a piece of paper.

  “Paper and pencil. How quaint.”

  Robko grinned. “Some things shouldn’t be digital.” He typed in the number.

  The Gray Man, assessing him through drooping, secret eyes, slurped on his coffee. “Tap ‘Send.’ You should see a confirmation in a moment.”

  They both stared down at the pad. “Yes, there it is.” Robko said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll check directly.” He got out his vidi and slid out the expanded screen. He typed in the enquiry. “Okay, just arrived.”

  “All as agreed,” said the Gray Man.

  Robko got up to go. “It’s been great fun. Don’t call me for a while. I’ll call you.”

  “You’ll soon be looking for work. You enjoy it too much. If anything comes up, I’ll keep you in mind.”

  Robko slid out the side door. He needed to move the money now. The Gray Man was too good.

  Robko lived quite close to the coffee house, not that anyone knew. The Bowery held most of the restaurant supply businesses of the city, and he lived in one of the cookery warehouses. He tramped down Delancey past the storefronts and into his narrow stair. As he turned in, a man pushed out past him. Curious, Robko pivoted to watch him stroll away—a tall, emaciated black in a dilapidated topcoat. The black glanced over his shoulder, and Robko noted expensive Honecker sunglasses. Maybe knock-offs, or stolen.

  The stairs led Robko two flights up to a single enameled door. No doorbell; the door was scratched and dirty. A jink pipe lying by his doorsill—he shook his head. He couldn’t understand people who sucked drain cleaner into their lungs.

  He fished out his keys, noticed the nonsense “I Will Rule” had been cut into the door’s enamel, neat. Could be the third omen in a day. Robko unlocked the two deadbolts.

  Behind the door lurked two offices, glassed in from the wainscoting up, and facing each other. They had been long abandoned, and he left them locked and full of dust. The loft lay beyond them down the hallway they framed. At the street end, he kept his working space, the tables with goose-neck lamps and small devices for disarming alarms, the recorders and the transmitters, the desk tablets and computers. Scattered further back in this rough, unfinished place, a series of expensive purchases squatted, made after racks and scores—from flush times. A recreational space circled in the middle, with couches and media, and beyond gleamed a minimalist kitchen. Robko strode across the creaking floor to the first workbench and picked up a pad. He rubbed his index finger across the tablet and spoke to it, “Password RobkoZlataFour. Home page financial. Tap third down. Insert password Iberia bank. Tap transfers and payments. Tap transfer to. Tap all. Choose name on account. Type Dragomir. Tap continue.” He stared intently— the screen pasted up several pop-ups, flashed blue text, and then scrolled down to a status line. He blew out a breath—the money had gone where the Gray Man couldn’t find it, jumped three times through three aliases, four accounts, and ten time zones.

  Robko ambled back to his bed behind the kitchen. The buzz from the job had floated out of his system, leaving him just tired. Dead tired. He needed four or five hours sleep before he started the party. He dropped the acrylic box—the manifestation of his betrayal—into the bedside drawer.

  ***

  Thomas Cabot Steward got the call from O’Brien’s assistant at about ten in the morning. He sat across town in a commandeered conference room. It was his because it was the best in the building. The usual wall of reports he needed marched across the big table. Two assistants chased data for him through the piles and through desk tablets. An intimidating guard was parked in a chair outside the doorway.

  The call interrupted his interview with the company’s CFO. He was about to decide if the woman would stay or go. He already knew she wouldn’t continue as CFO. He remained calm, polite, urbane. She sweated; her forehead shone through her makeup.

  One of the assistants took the call on Thomas’s iMob, turning her back on the people in the room. She hung up, wrote something down, and brought it to him. She held it over his shoulder in front of his eyes so the CFO wouldn’t see.

  He looked at the note and blanked his desktab. He glanced at the CFO. “I’m sorry, we’ll have to continue this another time. Something has come up.” Thomas stood, took a suit coat from the back of his chair, and leaned his head close to the assistant’s ear. “Have the car come around immediately.”

  Ugly traffic snarled up Manhattan, but it wasn’t his problem—the privacy of the town car insulated him from the city, and it drove itself, optimizing the route using satellite. He focused on two things. First, he mentally sketched out a preliminary report on the new company and his progress. Second, he counted through O’Brien’s companies like rosary beads. Somewhere in that list lived CEOs in disfavor, moving up, or about to retire. Those few companies were his best opportunity. By the time he reached O’Brien’s headquarters, he had a list of three. He also knew what to say about the new acquisition.

  One of the O’Brien secretaries waited for him in the lobby. He wrinkled his forehead—an escort meant something big was up. She wasn’t his type—very tall and very thin, like a crane in heels. They both badged through and took an executive elevator. The door shut, and the secretary turned to him. “Mr. O’Brien said to tell you right away that we had a significant robbery here last night. We lost some intelligence of great value. He didn’t want you to be surprised, so he told me to give you a preliminary heads-up.”

  He kept a bland face, but disappointment hung like a stone in his stomach. This wasn’t The Call. O’Brien had summoned him to Olympus to receive new instructions. There wasn’t a CEO job with his name on it, just another round of problem solving for the Governor.

  People hurried back and forth in a frenetic mess at the secretaries’ desks. The phones rang, and new arrivals waited to be escorted back. The secretary led Thomas smoothly down the wide hall to the CEO’s domain. There at the inner sanctum, the Personal Assistant greeted him and ushered him in. The PA was a guy who wore a bespoke suit as nice as Thomas’s.

  Men surrounded the small conference table and filled the couch and chairs. The ones actually around O’Brien conferred in excited tones. Thomas shook his head. He saw a packed space, heard the adrenalin in the conversations, and smelled irrationality.

  O’Brien stood up and
lumbered forward to take Thomas’s hand. “Tommy, I’m glad you could come right away.”

  “Always glad to get involved, Dennis.” Thomas smiled. Still first names. No banishment to the couch then with the also-rans. Maybe his luck was in; maybe this was an opportunity he could play.

  O’Brien stood just under Thomas’s height but outweighed him two to one. The CEO kept Thomas’s hand and swung around to place his arm over Thomas’s shoulder. He drew Thomas in close and pushed him forward toward the table. “Sit down here with us. You know Don Garland, head of Corporate Security?”

  “Yes, we’ve worked together some in Acquisitions.” Together they had evicted the unwanted from the building.

  “And this is Egan LeFarge. He’s handled several tricky things for us in the past, and he’s on retainer with us.”

  LeFarge looked like a British officer from a Mideast station. Clipped close, sun-burned brick red, black-pencil mustache. He had canine teeth like a dog of war.

  O’Brien directed his players. “Don, could you show Tommy the list of stolen items and what we know about the crime? Tommy, lad, you catch up.”

  Garland, with a look like he faced the guillotine, handed his desk tablet over to Thomas. “It’s the top two files, Steward.”

  Thomas slashed through the two documents. An absolute disaster! He handed the pad back.

  O’Brien cut off his conversation with LeFarge. “Well, Tommy. What do you think? What’s your first impression?” O’Brien’s head swung bear-like, first to Garland and then to LeFarge. He expected Thomas to be brilliant.

  Thomas half-bowed. “Follow the money. Whoever got your personal accounts will move money out of them rapidly. If Corporate Security doesn’t have resources, there’s a firm we use during hostile takeovers. They can follow disappearing money through the banks and can determine who owns those accounts. They move fast, and they have some not-so-legal contacts.”