The Directive: A Novel

by Matthew Quirk

  “I’m in,” I said.

  “Excellent.”

  “I’ll need help.”

  “Jack will go in with you. He’ll be ready. It’s only fair he has some skin in the game.”

  “There are some supplies. ID cards, a few other things. I need to get them from my guys before we head up to New York.”

  “Tell me their names,” she said.

  “A guy named Cartwright, and my father. I don’t think they’ll be ready until tonight.”

  “Your father?”

  “Nobody’s better with paper.”

  “We’ll get them.”

  “They can be a little jumpy. I can go—”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Then at least call first. I’ll give you the numbers.”

  “Sure. You need anything else. Breakfast?”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said. “But there is one thing. You know the crypto cards the feds use? I think they’re called Fortezzas.”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you get me one of those? It doesn’t have to work. It just has to look okay.”

  “That’s no problem,” she said, and started for the door.

  Bloom had set me up in the alley, back when she popped up to save me from Lynch. It was all so I would trust her, the Good Samaritan con, so she would be able to intercept me when I tried to go to the law. She had set me up at the Four Seasons. She must have known Annie would see us. And this morning, she had gone out of her way to break up my relationship with Annie beyond fixing. I’d like to think I’m just catnip for the ladies, but there was something more going on. Why salt the earth? So I would have no legit life to go back to?

  “Tell me one thing,” I said. “Why me? You must have half a dozen crews who could pull off something like this. Why bring in an amateur? Why am I so goddamned special?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Mike,” she said. “You’re the right man for the job. I told you. This is just business.”

  She and her men left, then shut and locked the door.

  Chapter 39

  I LEANED OUT over the twelve-story drop, my hands gripping the rail behind me. It had seemed like a much better plan this afternoon. I stood on the edge of the terrace, outside the railing, like a kid too scared to plunge into the water after his friends. I turned, grabbed the vertical bars, and started to lower myself. Dangling from the bottom of the railing, my feet were still six inches from the railing below.

  At least it was better than sitting trapped inside that apartment, feeling numb, unable to think about anything but the fact that Annie was gone for good.

  The man in glasses was guarding my room, posted just outside the door. I had tried to stall by saying I needed gear and maps from my house for the heist. But they must have broken into my place the night before. Everything from my office was at the apartment complex, in file boxes in a room down the hall.

  They seemed to control the whole floor. I had heard a tenant below me, watching basketball all afternoon. After dinner, once his apartment went quiet and I could see there were no lights on, I slipped out onto the terrace. It was recessed into the side of the building.

  I didn’t want to escape, but I needed a few items before we headed up to New York, and now seemed to be my only chance.

  I let go with my right hand and gripped the edge of the cement floor of my terrace. I brought my left hand down. I had my toes on the railing of the downstairs apartment terrace, but I was angled back, leaning out over the drop. A cold gust pulled me back.

  The stretching tore at my stitches. My hands were slick with sweat, and the cement edge was slipping past my second knuckles. I let go with my left hand and began to teeter back toward the cement sidewalk a hundred and fifty feet below. I dragged my left hand on the underside of my terrace, uselessly, as I began to fall, and then against the brick wall on the side of the terrace below.

  That gave me a small amount of the momentum I needed. I grasped again, found some purchase in the mortar, and pulled myself forward as I jumped onto the floor of the terrace under my own.

  Sliding glass doors are easy. You install them by lifting them up and in, so you can get past them by lifting them up and out. If that doesn’t work, you gently apply a brick. But here on the eleventh floor, this guy hadn’t even bothered to lock his.

  I went in. It was a classic DC workaholic setup. The furniture was rented. I could see the tall movers’ boxes full of hanging suits, and one bowl and one glass drying near the sink.

  There was a desk in the corner, piled with papers. I scanned the apartment. The occupant was gone, for now. I picked up the phone and called my dad.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said. “It’s Mike.”

  “You okay? What the hell happened over at the house?”

  “A little banged-up, but okay overall,” I said. “Can’t talk much now. Can I ask you for something?”

  “Please. I’d hate to be the only Ford who hasn’t been sent to the hospital this week. You should have asked for help, Mike.”

  “I’m not getting you sent back. I’ve got it under control.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I have to be quick. Some people may call you. They’ll ask for some gear for the break-in. It’s okay. Can you get the ID badges from Cartwright and give it to them? Bring it to me yourself if they let you?”

  “Sure.”

  “And could you sneak a couple other things in there, just in case? I’m worried they’re going to try to pull something on me after the job.”

  “Tell me where you are, and we’ll get you out.”

  “They have an army, Dad. And they’ll come after everyone. I have a plan. There’s no time. You just have to trust me. I want to go through with the job. It’s the only way out.”

  We bickered for a while until he finally gave in. “Fine,” he said. “What do you need?”

  “Picks. I broke mine. When you’re getting the package together, you don’t have to hide them. I’ll say they’re for the Fed. And I need a razor blade and a handcuff key, hidden in the same package with the picks. Nonmetal, if you can manage. You think you can keep them from finding it? They’ll probably search it.”

  “I spent sixteen years inside, Mike. They won’t find a thing. You’re really going to do this?”

  “I have no choice. They’ll kill Annie. They’ll get you. They can put a murder on me.”

  “But you know too much now. They’re not just going to let you walk. It doesn’t make sense. Why would they send in someone who hates them, who is dying to get back at them, to get something they need?”

  “They must have me covered. I’m going to take the fall, or they’ll kill me after.”

  “What are you thinking?” he said.

  “I’m going to pull the switch, beat them at their own game. They might be expecting it. I just have to hope my tricks are better than theirs.”

  “Does Jack know?”

  “I haven’t told him.”

  “Will you?”

  “He was conning me this whole time.”

  “He’s not an evil guy,” my father said, pained. “But sometimes he might as well be.”

  “Maybe he’s their insurance. He’ll watch me on the inside and sell me out if I try anything.”

  “You think he’d go that far?”

  “They nearly killed him,” I said. “That definitely wasn’t part of his con. So now he’s either scared to death and will do anything they want. Or he’s scared and angry, and will do anything to get back at them.”

  “I can’t tell you what to do, Mike. You’re a good guy, and that’ll get you killed in this world.”

  “I just wanted to believe I could get us all back together, bring Jack along, help him get himself sorted out. I wanted to believe he could change.”

  “You can’t save him, Mike. He has to save himself. And you are your own man. If he stumbles, that doesn’t mean you will.”

  “Thanks. I sneaked out to a phone. I’ve got to run, but I love you. Hopefully I�
��ll see you tonight.”

  “You too.”

  Chapter 40

  IN THE EMPTY apartment I sat down at the computer, a ThinkPad. The log-in screen asked for my fingerprint. I held the power button down and rebooted it into the recovery mode. From there, using the Command prompt, you can modify files on the main operating system.

  If you press Shift five times on a Windows machine, a utility called Sticky Keys will run. It’s a feature for people with disabilities that helps them hold down keys like Control. It’s also a security hole.

  From recovery, I replaced the Sticky Keys program on the main system with cmd.exe. When I restarted the guy’s computer and faced that log-in screen, I just pressed Shift five times. Instead of Sticky Keys, it gave me a command line on his main operating system. From there, it was a single command to reset the password.

  Once I was in, I went online, logged into my Dropbox folder, and pulled up two forgeries I’d been working on since I’d first discussed the switch with my dad. I had modeled them on past Fed directives. They matched the format and language of the official documents, right down to the letterhead and the “Class I FOMC—Restricted Controlled (FR)” printed across the top.

  I needed those fakes to make the switch. One directive told the desk to hit the brakes and shut down the special programs that were pumping up the economy. The other said to keep the throttle wide open.

  I downloaded an open-source photo-editing program and started playing with the filters until I found one that made the pages look like bad photocopies. Once I had the grainy-fax look down, I went to Google Image search, found some scans of faxes, and started clipping numbers from the time stamps. I pasted them onto the top of my forgeries so they appeared to have come in at 12:05 p.m. on Tuesday, when the directive would be sent to New York.

  I printed out both versions of the directive. Now, no matter what the committee did, I could slip Lynch and Bloom a forgery that said the opposite. They would bet exactly wrong, and I would blow up their position.

  Of course, that meant I would have to pull this heist and steal the real directive first.

  I printed out another copy of each version, just in case. As the last page spooled out of the printer, I heard the elevator doors down the hallway.

  I trashed everything I’d put on the computer and shut it down. I could hear the apartment’s rightful occupant working the lock as I pulled my printouts. I ran out onto the terrace just as the front door opened. I only managed to shut the sliding door partway.

  I hid to the side, but I was visible from about half of the apartment. I heard the TV come on, SportsCenter, and ventured a look inside. With the lights on, all he could probably see was his own reflection, but still I felt exposed. I eased the door shut centimeter by centimeter, waiting for a squeak to give me away, for the man to find me out here.

  I probably shouldn’t have worried. I glanced inside. The guy was on the couch, eating a burrito out of his hand while reading from a thick sheaf of legal documents. I saw him bite the foil, grimace, tear it away, and continue. Half my friends from law school were like this: holed up in some extended-stay or corporate apartment across the street from the court or the doc review warehouse, clocking twenty-two hundred, twenty-five hundred hours a year, working every waking minute, sleeping four hours a night. The guy probably wouldn’t have noticed if I’d sat down next to him and helped myself to his chips and guac.

  I may have been in mortal danger, but at least I wasn’t an associate anymore.

  I folded the papers over once and put them in my back pocket. Steadying myself against the wall, I planted a foot on the railing and stepped on top of it. I hooked the fingers of my left hand into the brickwork and pivoted on top of the railing. I leaned back into the void, left hand on the brick, then pressed my right against the terrace ceiling.

  My foot started to shake like the needle of a sewing machine.

  I started to lose my balance. I pulled forward with my right hand and brought my left hand up to grab the terrace floor above me. My full weight dragged my right fingers back toward the fall as I pressed up with my toes and clamped my left hand onto the cement above.

  I eased my right hand upward to a better grip, then walked my feet up the bricks of the wall and hooked my foot between the railing and the floor of my own terrace. I was in agony from the wound on my back. I hoisted my hips up to the edge. From there I walked my hands up the railing, planted my feet on the terrace’s edge, and pushed myself over.

  As I sat down and caught my breath, I could hear knocking on the front door of my apartment.

  The guard stepped in and looked around nervously. I rapped on the glass. He walked over, slid open the door, and stuck out his head.

  “The chief talked to your guys. The stuff’s not going to be ready until tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s freezing out here,” he said.

  “Cabin fever. Can you bring me a copy of a book called Locks, Safes, and Security from down the hall?”

  “Yeah. You coming in?”

  “In a minute.”

  He looked at me like I was nuts, and slid the door shut.

  I sat back against the brick, touched my bandage, and hissed. I must have opened up a few stitches. I had what I needed to blow up Lynch and Bloom, but I’d missed my chance to call Annie.

  My father dropped off the package the next morning. The man in glasses brought them to the door. The ID badges looked fine. They would definitely pass a quick visual inspection.

  “There were these, too.” He held up a black leather case: the picks.

  I put my hand out.

  “You only touch them under adult supervision.”

  “Fine. Grab me a couple of locks for practice, then: the Schlage Everest and the ASSA V-10.”

  He came back with the lock cylinders ten minutes later and handed them over with the picks.

  “I counted those, so don’t try to pull anything.”

  I sat at the table and opened the pouch. There were fifteen picks and tension wrenches inside. I double-checked the pouch. No sign of any blade or handcuff key.

  Had they found them?

  As I looked more closely at the picks, I noticed a tiny symbol stamped in the steel that I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. It was a cannon crossed with a hammer, the maker’s mark for Ford Steel. The metalworks had been in my family for generations, until it was cheated away from my father. Fighting back against the man who ruined him was what started him doing cons. The date was 1976. These must have been some of the last pieces ever made at Ford Steel. I could always tell my father’s work. They were beautiful, hand ground and polished.

  I felt the hard plastic handles. They seemed odd, cheap and out of place.

  As spectator sports go, lockpicking is slightly less exciting than ice fishing. After I’d worked the cylinders for about twenty minutes, the guy in glasses started playing a video game on his phone.

  That gave me time to look more closely at the handles on some of those picks. I put my fingernail into a seam on the plastic at the end of a double-ball pick and pressed in. The plastic slid back. It was a cap. I eased it off and tilted the pick down. A thin blade slid out of a perfectly formed hollow in the plastic. I felt the razor. It wasn’t metal, probably ceramic. I let it fall to the floor, then slipped it under the edge of the rug with my foot.

  I started examining the other picks and found a barely visible seam on the handle of a wafer-lock pick. I slid the plastic cylinder all the way off the metal part of the pick. It was a short barrel, about an inch long, and once I had it off I noticed a square plastic tab, about three by four millimeters at the end that I could push out from the cylinder. It was a handcuff key. The other end of the cylinder had two notches, enough to get something in there to twist it, a fingernail or a pin or a blade. Handcuff keys are more or less standard in the United States. If my dad had the tolerances right, this would open any of the majors: Smith & Wesson, Peerless, ASP, Winchester, Chicago.
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  The old man had learned a lot during his time away.

  I pulled the handcuff key part off, slid the remainder of the handle down, and capped it. It looked like the rest of the picks. I dropped the key on the rug and slid it underneath, alongside the blade.

  With my contraband hidden, I turned back to my locks, mostly to keep myself distracted from the fact that I was going to rob the Federal Reserve Bank of New York and then, most likely, be executed.

  I managed to pick the sidebar on the ASSA. The Everest was still giving me trouble. That was fine. My get-out-of-jail-free tools under the rug were the only thing that mattered.

  After two hours, the guard called lunchtime and collected my picks and locks. He brought in some deli sandwiches. Once I was alone, I tied my shoelaces near the rug edge, putting my body between my hands and the places where Bloom was most likely to have stashed a camera. I palmed the blade and key, and went into the bathroom. Bloom’s people had brought me a few changes of clothes. I picked out some of the threads on the shirt I was wearing, then slipped the blade into the front button placket and the key cylinder inside the cuff.

  I looked over my forged copies of the directive again: two versions, two copies each. I was ready for New York.

  Chapter 41

  BLOOM PUT US up—though I guess “imprisoned” is the right word—in another corporate suite in Manhattan. It was American Psycho deluxe, with glass, chrome, and black leather furniture and a monolith of a TV commanding the whole room.

  The phones didn’t work. The doors were locked from the outside, and even if I managed to get through them, there were guys with guns at both ends of the hall in case I needed a tuck-in.

  Not that I wanted out. I had nothing left except revenge. I was going to claw into the heart of Bloom’s operation and detonate. I couldn’t wait for the heist to begin.

  Bloomberg News was on. The main story tonight, as it had been for the past week, was the Federal Open Market Committee meeting in Washington and whether the dissenting Fed presidents would manage to shut down the easy-money efforts.