The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1)

by Wesley Cross

  CHAPTER 20

  “Corporations are taking over the world,” said Chuck skeptically. “I’m sorry but I’m having a hard time taking this seriously. It sounds too Orwellian.”

  Mike just shrugged, immediately grimacing from pain and regretting the gesture.

  “I don’t think it’s just a battle over the slice of the market. There’s a bigger plan being set in motion.”

  “I see,” said Chuck, watching Mike’s face, “and it all sounds fascinating. But I’m still struggling with the basics.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How does a simple bodyguard kill six commando types who come knocking on his door with some serious military hardware?”

  “I never said I was a bodyguard,” said Mike, his face unreadable.

  “So who are you then, Michael S. Connelly, if it’s even your real name?”

  A fleeting smile, almost sad, touched Mike’s lips.

  “It is my real name, but I’m not ready to meet your parents yet, so there’s no need for you to know my entire life story. Let’s just say I worked for Engel for a long time, but two years ago I was recruited by the ISCD.”

  “That sounds like a terrorist group of some sort.”

  “ISCD stands for International Serious Crimes Directorate. It’s headquartered in Paris, and it’s a secret cousin of Interpol, responsible for political crimes.”

  “Political crimes?”

  “Coups, assassinations of political leaders, kidnappings of governmental officials, stuff like that. Something that can affect the global geopolitical landscape. They asked me to maintain my role in Engel’s organization, but gather information on their behalf.”

  “But you still don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Not the details. But I’ve been watching long enough to have a plausible theory. I think the time of political maneuvering is over. The lobbying, the deals under the table; one hand washes the other and all this behind the scenes theater that we’re used to is going away.”

  “So what do you think is going to happen?”

  “Coup-d’état.”

  “A revolution?” said Chuck skeptically.

  “No, not a revolution in a sense that you’re thinking. No tanks nor National Guard, no barricades with flying banners and exhilarated youths with dirty faces. No blood spilled. Well, not publicly anyway. Simply a transition of power from those who like to think they were in control, to those who have been in control all along. The large corporations, the military-industrial complex, the financial elite.”

  “But why?” Chuck got up from his chair and started pacing back and forth in a small trailer. “Why now? If they have always been running the show from the shadows, why change it? Why expose themselves to the spotlight?”

  “Efficiency.” said Mike. “The ability to do things their way without tempting and cajoling. No need to make any promises or threats to a senator or a congressman, if you actually own them.”

  “But the exposure?”

  “There will be no exposure. I don’t think Alexander Engel, or people like him, have any interest in running this country. Or any country. It still will be done through puppets, just with much shorter strings.”

  Chuck stopped pacing and sat down, looking at Mike’s tired pale face.

  “And you think we need to join forces to stop them.”

  “I don’t know if anybody can stop them,” Mike said and smiled a tired smile, “but I think we ought to try.”

  • • •

  When Jason woke up, the sky outside of his floor-to-ceiling window was rapidly getting dark. He stayed in bed for a few minutes watching the darkness creep in. When the short winter day finally was extinguished he sat up stretching. His body felt a bit bruised and stiff, and he had a minor headache, but considering the amount of alcohol he had and the following beating, it could have been much worse.

  The place was mostly dark save for the light in the kitchen and in Max’s study, and he brewed himself an espresso first before he joined his friend.

  “Sorry again,” he said, entering Max’s office, watching his life-long friend working on his computer.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Max, turning off his station and swiveling in his chair to face Jason.

  “I’m an ass,” said Jason, sitting on a small couch.

  “Yes, you are,” said Max. His lips stretched into a smile.

  “So. The plan.”

  “Yeah, the plan,” said Max. “Have you ever heard of a company called Blackwater Research?”

  “Er, the name sounds familiar.” Jason searched his memory. “But no, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, there was this guy called Owen Perkins, who was a pretty successful trader at a big bank. One day he bought a giant stake in this Chinese farming company, based on his in-house research. He thought the stock was going up and he was about to make a mint for his company.”

  “I’m guessing he didn’t,” said Jason.

  “No, he did not. Two days later one of the farming company’s executives was caught in a London hotel high as a kite with a bunch of call girls. It all went downhill from there. As the prosecutors pressed the guy, more and more dirt came out. The whole company was a fraud, one giant Ponzi scheme.”

  “Was it Blue Star Farms? I think I vaguely remember seeing something like that on TV a few years back.”

  “Yes. Needless to say, when the news hit the wire the company went bankrupt and Perkins lost his entire investment. Lost his job, too.”

  “That’s screwed up.”

  “Yeah. But it might have been a blessing in disguise,” Max said, “as I’m pretty sure that’s when his business idea occurred to him. He thought that if he knew in advance that the company was a fraud and he sold the stock short, he could make a ton of money when the company went bust.”

  “Isn’t it illegal,” said Jason, “inside information and all?”

  “Not if you do it like he does. He has some of the best forensic accountants in the world working for him. You see, no one is telling him the company is a fraud. He finds them on his own; and that’s perfectly legal.”

  “Interesting,” said Jason, “but as much as I hate Engel, I think his companies are legit.”

  “They are, but it doesn’t matter. What if Blackwater issued a research report saying that Asclepius was a fraud, and—”

  “This crazy plan of yours will never work,” interrupted Jason, “because I can clearly see where you’re going. You want to hack them, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Sort of. And when the shares fall you’ll buy them for a song.”

  “And I’m telling you why it won’t work. I might not be a trader, but I know that it won’t work for a million reasons.”

  “Please enlighten me,” said Max smiling.

  “Well, first of all, the moment the news comes out, the stock will be halted. So no one will be able to buy or sell.”

  “That’s true, but at some point they’ll let it trade again, and everyone will start selling it like crazy.”

  “That might be true,” said Jason, “but that makes any massive buying even more suspicious. And the moment the truth comes out that the news was fake, the SEC, the FBI, and every other alphabet agency even remotely concerned with market manipulation will be looking into each and every trade. You and I will be in jail in no time at all.”

  “Everything that you said is true,” said Max, still smiling, “but what if the news wasn’t fake? Well, let me rephrase it. What if there was no way to find out that the news was fake?”

  Jason thought about it for a moment.

  “I guess it could work. But even then, there’s no guarantee that we’d be able to buy enough shares to take control of the company.”

  “There are no guarantees in life, my friend,” said Max “No guarantees at all.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Andrew Davis was sitting in his cubicle as he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. He took it out to check the message and hurriedly turn the scr
een down. Andrew looked around nervously to see if anybody was watching him. Once he was sure nobody was paying attention, he stuffed the phone into his pocket and went straight to the men’s room.

  He locked himself in an empty stall and sat on the closed seat. Only then he carefully took out the phone and looked at the screen again, hoping it would have just a home screen picture. Instead, lying on his white leather couch, shamelessly spreading her perfect long legs, was Mia Perkins in glorious high definition.

  Absolutely nude.

  Shit. He wiped a trickle of sweat off his forehead and unlocked the phone. There was more. He cringed, looking at a few shots of himself, also stark nude, between Mia’s thighs. Andrew started deleting pictures one by one until there was nothing left. He put the phone back into his pocket and sat there for a few seconds considering his options. If these ever came out, his career would definitely be over.

  And Owen Perkins will probably strangle me with his own hands.

  He frowned as his phone vibrated again. He took it out of his pants and looked at the screen again. There was a close up of his strained sweaty face and a line of text right next to it.

  Do you know how to keep secrets?

  He stared dumbly at the blinking cursor next to the question mark and finally managed to type the answer.

  Yes.

  Good, immediately appeared on the screen, because I also have these. You didn’t share them with the IRS, Andrew?

  Andrew quietly moaned, looking at a picture of his Cayman Island bank statement.

  What do you want?

  Something simple. All you will have to do is, when the time comes, confirm that you’ve written a report on a certain company.

  Andrew pressed a button on his phone, trying to take a screenshot of the conversation.

  That’s a bad start, Andrew, appeared on the screen. We have to be able to trust each other. This is not a three strikes and you’re out kind of deal. You try this again and there will be consequences.

  Sorry, typed Andrew, what do you want me to do?

  You will ‘accidentally’ publish a report accusing a certain company to be a fraud. Just what Blackwater always does.

  But it doesn’t work like that, typed Andrew. There’s an approval process. And then the company always shorts the stock first. If I publish a report before any of this, I’ll get in trouble.

  Yes Andrew. You will get in trouble; you might even lose your job. But that’s not what would happen if you have those pictures all over the net and those bank statements in the IRS’ inbox. Four million dollars hidden away from tax authorities is jail time, my friend. Do we have a deal?

  Andrew stared at the screen for a few seconds and finally moved his fingers to type the answer.

  Yes.

  • • •

  Steven Poznyak finally freed himself and sat up on the edge of his bed. The rush of fear-induced adrenaline now gone, he felt as if had run a marathon. His hands were shaking. Even breathing felt like an effort. For a moment he thought about a cold huge razor-sharp blade touching his skin, and it immediately made him gag. Steven took a few deep breaths trying to fight nausea, but it overwhelmed him. He barely had time to grab a paper basket before the pressure overpowered his efforts.

  Surprisingly, vomiting made him feel better. Steven got up and made himself move around the house, getting dressed, washing up, and cleaning the mess in the kitchen. Touching familiar things and doing routine tasks helped him find some inner equilibrium.

  They thought I went on an interview. Despite the ordeal, the thought amused him. I wonder what would have happened if they really knew.

  Steven put on a winter jacket and a hat, grabbed the car keys, and went to the front door. He froze, looking at the piece of broken brass chain hanging from the door frame. Nausea came back again, and Poznyak opened the door wide, letting the winter air flood the kitchen, breathing it in deep. After a few moments he felt better and, carefully locking the door behind him, Steven left the house.

  Home Depot was his first stop. He parked his Grand Cherokee in the parking lot, locked the doors, and went in. Steven always liked home improvements stores. The smells of freshly cut wood and new paint, the vastness of tidy aisles with every imaginable product one could think of for the house made him feel like a kid in a toy store.

  First, he picked up a massive door chain. The heavy golden links were almost the size of his thumb. One would need a full-size battering ram to break this baby, he thought. After that, he aimlessly wandered around the store for some time, looking at power tools and appliances.

  Finally, Steven paid for the chain and went back to the car. He looked around the parking lot to check for anything suspicious, but nothing seemed to be out of order.

  He got on the service road and, staying away from big roads drove aimlessly for almost an hour to make sure no one was following. At last, he got on the Belt Parkway toward the JFK airport and fifteen minutes later took an exit to a small service road. Steven parked his Jeep across the street from a small flat industrial building and left his car. He looked around to make sure no one was seeing him and briskly walked to the building.

  The front door in a rusty metal frame covered in graffiti was locked with a simple padlock, but once Steven took it off, it opened to reveal a chrome-colored reinforced steel door with a biometric sensor. Poznyak brought his face to the scanner, allowing it to read his retina, and the door unlocked with a quiet click.

  He quickly stepped in, closing both doors behind him, and turned on the light. The bare walls glowed a soft white, and in the middle of the small room, the outline of the rectangular panel started to pulsate in warm yellow.

  Steven kneeled next to the panel and pushed it with his palm. Something clicked, and the panel slowly went down and away, opening a steel staircase. A low hum of powerful motors filled the room. Steven shivered, feeling the draft of brutally cold air prickling his skin. He pulled the sweater higher, covering the neck and lower part of his face from the cold and carefully climbed the stairs.

  Working as quickly as his numb fingers would allow him, he flicked a few switches powering up monitors on a small computer station. Steven checked the readings, adjusted a few dials, and finally powered down the monitors. He walked to the stairway but then turned around and walked to the back of the room, stopping in front of the eight-foot tall chrome-colored tank.

  Steven unlocked a sliding panel on its side opening a frost-covered window. He scraped the frost off with the sleeve of his jacket and peered inside the tank for a few seconds. Finally, he stepped back, sliding the panel back into its place, and walked back to the stairs. He closed the entrance to the basement, turned off the light in the main room and carefully opened the front door for an inch.

  After scanning the nearby street for a couple of minutes and not seeing anything suspicious, Steven went outside, locked both doors, and walked across the street to his car. He turned the engine on, put the heater on full blast, and sat there for a few minutes welcoming the sensation coming back to his numb fingers. Finally, he took out a phone and dialed a number. After a few rings, somebody picked up on the other side, but the line stayed silent.

  “It’s me,” said Steven. “The levels are getting pretty low. We’ll need more money soon.”

  CHAPTER 22

  It was pitch black in the office, but he could clearly see the greenish outlines of the walls, a small desk with a wooden chair in the middle of the room, and an aluminum drawer next to it. The internal clock superimposed on his vision glowed dark red; 5:15am.

  He stepped out of the corner of the room and listened to the soft whirr of motors. He went to the door, carefully placed his hand on the doorknob, and opened it in a slow, smooth motion. He’d gotten much better at it. The first time he tried to open a door, he ripped the knob right out of the wood.

  He walked through the bigger room, quickly glancing to his left at the lonely chair facing the small windows. He remembered every detail, but felt nothing as his eyes lin
gered on dark stains on the floor.

  He opened the front door and turned left. The building was empty at this time. His heavy steps echoed through the long, hollow hallway, bouncing off bare walls and dying somewhere in the distance. At the end of the corridor he pressed a button for a private elevator. The elevator was small. He didn’t like the shallow box of gunmetal gray and a low ceiling. He didn’t quite understand why, but the thing made him feel heavy. It always confused him. His vitals were well within the norm. The neat row of tiny health icons glowed a nice steady green, yet the room felt smaller than it really was.

  The elevator finally stopped, and he quickly stepped out of the small box into a large room. A massive cross-shaped bed was installed in the middle of it. It had a sterile look of a hospital bed apart from the strange machinery suspended from the low ceiling on flexible multi-jointed robotic arms. Thick power cables snaked their way from under the bed to the large generator in the corner.

  He climbed onto the bed, the structure creaking and moaning under his weight, and spread his arms. He could feel the bed coming alive, heavy titanium locks immobilizing his arms and legs. This was the part that he didn’t like. His arms involuntarily flexed trying the strength of his bonds. He thought he could break them if he wanted to but that would be foolish.

  He heard a quiet whirring as something was touching and connecting to his spine and head with soft clicks. He did like this part. He felt the energy coursing through his body. He could almost see the golden rivulets of pure power running through his very being, enveloping him from head to toe.

  He closed his eyes. The same memory always surfaced during the procedure. He could see himself as a teenager, hiking through the woods. The mountain peaks were covered in snow, but the air was warm and dry and filled with the smell of pine trees. He heard a voice, and as he looked to his right he saw a girl, also a teenager, walking next to him, her big curious eyes smiling at him and the forest around them. She was holding his hand, and somehow it felt pleasant.