“I heard his plane crashed,” Canaan replied. “How do I know this isn’t payback for his bad luck?”
“Because my client was the one who paid for his bad luck.”
Canaan was silent for a minute. “So what services are you interested in?”
“The skills you developed in college. Not your more deadly ones.”
“When do you want to meet?”
“Tomorrow.”
“That soon. Okay, have your jet pick me up at Brown Field tomorrow morning, nine o’clock.”
Brown Field was a general aviation airport located a mile and a half north of the U.S./Mexico border in the Otay Mesa community of San Diego. Otay Mesa was infamous for the number of tunnels dug under the border by the drug cartels. Walker knew Hezbollah had provided the engineering skills to build the tunnels in exchange for access to the cartels’ smuggling routes in the U.S. Given the work Hezbollah was doing in the area, therefore, Canaan’s use of Brown Field didn’t surprise him.
Chapter 8
At ten o’clock the next morning, Sal Canaan was ushered into Walker’s second floor study.
“Do you come to San Francisco often, Mr. Canaan?”
“San Francisco’s not really my type of city.”
“Do you think you could work here?”
“Doing what?”
“Using your computer skills working for a company that I’ll arrange,” Walker told him.
Canaan was interested. “For how long? I have responsibilities in San Diego.”
“It’s your leadership that recommended you, so I’m sure arrangements can be made. Plan on being here for a month or so.”
“So who was your client in Oregon?”
“I think you know the answer to that. I was asked to coordinate the efforts of Hezbollah and the Tijuana cartel and assist the man you took orders from.”
Canaan stood and walked around Walker’s desk to the side bar and helped himself to a cup of coffee from a stainless coffee carafe. As he filled his cup, he said over his shoulder, “If the Brotherhood was your client, why did you have their man killed?”
Walker swiveled his chair and looked over steepled fingers at his young guest. “Do you think I had something to do with his jet exploding? He failed to detonate the nuclear device you helped him smuggle across the border. Perhaps you had his plane brought down.”
Canaan gave a brief nod. “Perhaps,” he said. “But someone called a certain cartel boss and told him the man who assassinated their former leader could be found in Oregon. The call that tipped the cartel off came from Asuncion, Paraguay.”
Walker waited a minute before asking his next question. “Does his unfortunate death create a problem for you?”
“Not at all. I would have killed him myself, if I had been told to do so. I just wonder if that’s the way men who help you are rewarded.”
“Failure in our line of work is often rewarded that way. The man you speak of had failed too many times. Your concern should be not to follow his example.” Walker paused again. “If the possibility of failing frightens you, Mr. Canaan, I can ask your leadership to send someone else.”
Canaan’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened as he returned to his seat with his cup of coffee and looked across the desk. “I think I can handle it. Why don’t you tell me what you need?”
“Providence, or Allah as you would say, has presented us with an opportunity to create chaos in this country. I have been asked to help two young fools who want to crash America’s electrical power grid. What I want you to do is be the person who helps make that happen for them.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?’
“A company here in San Francisco is developing security software for the utility companies that form the electrical power grid. One of the company’s managers will have an accident. You will take his place. Once you’re inside this company, you will infect their new software with a worm that will bring down the entire American electrical power grid.”
Canaan considered this for a minute. “Do you have such a worm?”
“I will by the time you need it.”
“How will you get me hired by this company?”
“One of the men I mentioned is a neighbor of the CEO of this company. You will be referred as an IT security consultant. I’ll put together a resume for you with a new name and legend. He won’t be able to pass up the opportunity to replace their recently deceased manager so quickly. I have a condo in Mission Bay that my bank just repossessed. You can use it. And you can drive a new BMW the bank owns. You’ll receive ten thousand dollars a month to cover your expenses.”
Canaan nodded. “One last question: Who will handle the accident this manager is going to have?”
“You will. There are things you can learn from this man before he dies that will assist you when you take his place.”
Chapter 9
Nick Kawasaki walked out the front door of the Hunter’s Point office building of Energy Integrated Solutions, Inc., to his new black Subaru WRX STI in the parking lot. He stood beside the car for a moment, thinking about the modifications he wanted to add to it that would make it the fastest street racer in the city. At twenty-nine years of age, he wasn’t the youngest of the program managers at EIS, just the best, and he deserved to be driving the car he’d been dreaming of owning for years.
As he took the key fob out of the pocket of his jeans to open the door, he felt his muscles lock. Pain invaded every inch of his body, and he felt himself falling. While he was aware of what was happening, he had no control over his body. Then he felt himself being lowered to the ground. As he felt his body pulsating, he tried to scream, but no words would come out.
Then he felt a needle stick in his neck. And then nothing at all.
When he regained consciousness, he was on his back, tied down on a single bed in a cheap motel room. He knew it was a cheap motel because it smelled of urine and mold. There was duct tape over his mouth and he was naked.
He sensed, then managed to turn his head to see a man sitting on a chair next to the bed and looking at him. Of mixed race, he thought, perhaps Middle Eastern or Italian. The man’s dark brown eyes were studying him dispassionately, just like a doctor had once looked at him before operating on his pelvis that had been fractured in a motorcycle accident.
“Mr. Kawasaki,” the man finally said, “I have several questions I want you to answer. How quickly you answer them will determine whether you live to drive that nice new car. You were tasered in the parking lot. You’ll be fine…if you cooperate. The drug you were given incapacitated you, but it will have no lasting effects.” The man paused, then held up another syringe. “This syringe, however, contains potassium chloride, the drug used in state-sanctioned executions.”
Kawasaki’s eyes widened and he began thrashing his head from side to side and trying to yell through the duct tape for help.
“Relax,” Sal Canaan said. “No one could hear you even if your mouth wasn’t taped.” He smiled. “I rented the rooms on either side, and, besides, it’s early. The people who stay in this motel are still out trying to score drugs for the night.” There was a narrow smile. “If you cooperate, you can join them shortly.”
He stood up and leaned over his victim. “But allow me to continue. When a man is executed, he’s given three drugs. First, he’s injected with sodium thiopental. It’s an anesthetic that causes unconsciousness. Then he’s given pancuronium bromide, which causes paralysis of all his muscles, including his diaphragm. That causes him to begin to suffocate. But he’s unconscious by now, so he doesn’t experience the agony of suffocation. The last drug he’s administered is potassium chloride, which, of course, causes cardiac arrest and death. Are you with me so far, Mr. Kawasaki?”
Kawasaki was frozen in fear, unable to process what he was hearing.
Canaan nodded and sat down again. “I believe I have your atten
tion, Nick—may I call you Nick?—so I’ll continue. I confess that I neglected to obtain the first two drugs that are normally used for an execution. I only have the potassium chloride here in this syringe. So listen closely, Nick. There is no medical dispute, I’m told, that if the person is not unconscious, an injection of potassium chloride causes excruciating pain. It feels like your veins have been set on fire. What I intend to do is give you less than a lethal dose each time you refuse to answer my question. That way, I can make you wish you were dead for as long as I choose. Nod your head if I have made my intentions clear.”
What choice did he have? Kawasaki nodded his head.
Two hours later, he had described the work he was doing at EIS, the security procedures that were in place, and everything he knew about Bill Bradford, the CEO of the company.
Canaan leaned closer. “You’ve been very cooperative, Nick. However, for this information to be useful to me, you must die. Sorry.” He plunged the hypodermic needle into the throbbing jugular vein in Nick Kawasaki’s neck.
During the four minutes he sat watching the death throes of the former EIS manager with a satisfied smile on his face, he thought about the interview for his new job. He needed to prepare for it.
Chapter 10
Drake took the 10:15 a.m. Alaska Airlines flight out of Portland International Airport to San Francisco and arrived at 12:18 p.m. An hour later, he had checked into the San Francisco Marriott Marquis, his favorite hotel, and was sitting at a table in the 4th Street Bar and Grill. The grilled buffalo chicken sandwich and pint of Anchor Steam beer he had ordered were good, but the beat down he was watching on the nearest flat screen TV that the 49ers were putting on the Buffalo Bills was even better.
He’d played football at Oregon and still followed his old team, but he didn’t have a favorite NFL team. The spoiled antics of some professional players, guys who were paid a fortune to play a game he would have played for free, disgusted him. Drake had to admit, however, that watching a game in a sports bar in a town that loved its NFL team was fun.
When he’d polished off the last of his sandwich and most of the fries, he paid his bill and took the elevator to his corner room on the twenty-fifth floor. The CEO of EIS had asked him to call when he arrived.
Margo, his ever-efficient secretary, had put together a file on the company and its founder that he’d reviewed on the flight. William Bradford, age 61, had graduated from the University of California at Berkeley with post-graduate degrees in electrical engineering and computer sciences. He’d worked for Lockheed Martin in the engineering and business services division that had developed state-of-the-art technical innovations for the nation’s utility companies. After becoming the head of the division, and developing a reputation as the leading engineer in his field, he had left Lockheed Martin and started Energy Integrated Solutions, Inc. The company was located in the South Bay area, where many of the hot new tech firms were settling. Bradford lived across the Golden Gate Bridge on Belvedere’s Corinthian Island.
Drake picked up the phone and dialed. “Mr. Bradford, this is Adam Drake. You asked me to call you when I arrived.”
“Are you at the airport?” Bradford asked.
“No. I’m staying at the Marriott Marquis. Would you like to set a time for us to meet tomorrow?”
“I think we’d better meet sooner than that. I’ve just been grilled by the police about one of my managers. His body was found in his car this morning. They think he might have been murdered.”
“Why do they think that?” Drake asked.
“Because he had marks on his neck they think could have been caused by a taser. Look, I’m at my office now, but I’ll be finished here in another hour or two. Are you available for dinner tonight?”
“Sure. I don’t have plans for tonight. Where would you like to meet, Mr. Bradford?”
“Let’s eat at my place. That’ll give us the privacy we need. I’ll call you when I get to the Marquis, say, four o’clock? And call me Bill.”
“All right, Bill, if you’ll call me Adam. See you at four.”
Drake walked to the window and looked down at a ferry leaving the terminal. Bradford seemed like a competent guy, he thought, and from what he’d learned, he ran a tight ship. But with the work EIS was doing for the government, and the security clearances his managers were required to have, a messy murder investigation was the last thing Bradford needed right now.
With two hours to kill before Bradford picked him up, Drake changed into his sexy gym attire, a T-shirt and a pair of black shorts, and headed for the fitness center and spa. He put in thirty minutes on the treadmill, warming up at eight and a half miles an hour, then increasing his speed to ten miles an hour and finishing the last ten minutes at eleven miles an hour. Having worked up a good sweat, he moved on to his free weight workout to continue building up the strength in his left arm. He figured he was at ninety percent strength in his injured arm and maybe a month away from a full hundred percent.
After a shower back in his room, he put on a pair of black lightweight wool trousers and a black merino wool crew neck sweater and slipped his feet into soft black calfskin loafers. With half an hour yet before Bradford arrived, he turned on the TV and searched the channels for news about the dead EIS manager. There were reports of several murders and a jumper off the Golden Gate Bridge, but only one short mention in a police log of a tech manager. San Francisco wasn’t like Chicago, where there were too many murders to report each day, but Drake thought the manager’s death would have received some attention if the police thought it was suspicious.
If there was any news about the manager, he thought, it was more likely that someone would be blogging about it, so he opened his Dell Ultrabook computer, sat down in the armchair near the window and waited for the Wi-Fi connection. A quick search of the local blogs didn’t turn up anything, although one blog featured photos taken that day that showed police investigating a black Subaru WRX, which appeared to be cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape.
The Subaru WRX was the type of car Drake could see a young tech manager in San Francisco driving. It was a favorite of the street racing crowd, and a great little car for squiring beautiful young women around the city, too. Drake wondered if that was the type of manager Bradford had hired.
Before he had a chance to check more of his favorite news sites and see what was going on in the rest of the world, Bradford called to say he was parked near the valet stand in a white Audi A8. Drake grabbed his gray cashmere blazer and left the room.
Chapter 11
Bill Bradford was sitting in his car and looking at his cell phone when Drake tapped on the passenger side window.
“Sorry,” Bradford said after he’d unlocked the door and Drake got in, “I was reading a text message from the detective on my manager’s case. It looks like he had a heart attack and the taser marks might not be related.” He shook his head. “They’re not sure what happened.”
The two men shook hands as Drake asked, “How old was he?”
“Nick was one of my younger managers. Too young to have a heart attack,” Bradford said, shaking his head as he drove away from the hotel.
“I haven’t ridden in an A8 before,” Drake said. “Nice car.”
“It’s comfortable and fast,” Bradford said. “Four liter twin-turbo engine, eight-speed Tiptronic transmission and all-wheel drive. It’s an engineer’s dream and a mechanic’s nightmare. You like cars?” He glanced at Drake.
“I have a Porsche 993 that I drive daily. It’s not as sophisticated a machine as this, but it’s fast and fun to drive.”
“Have you rented a car to drive while you’re here?”
“No, not yet,” Drake said.
“Then drive my Audi TTS coupe while you’re here,” Bradford offered. “You can drive it back tonight, save me a trip back into the City.”
Drake liked his new client more each minute.
Bradford was successful and had the toys his success had earned him, but he also enjoyed them like a little boy. And he was generous with them, not like some wealthy men Drake knew who bought expensive things and hid them away to be enjoyed privately.
The drive across the Golden Gate Bridge provided a spectacular view of the bay, with a hundred or more sailboats skimming across its silver surface. Then it was on to the Redwood Highway and the Tiburon Boulevard until they reached the Belvedere Cove and Corinthian Island.
Bradford’s waterfront home, he said, had been built for a well-known yacht racer. He parked the car next to a black Audi TTS coupe in the garage, then led Drake to the kitchen door.
“My passion,” he said as he walked Drake through the kitchen and dining area to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the bay, “is club racing in my sailboat. I spend as much time on the water as my work allows.”
Drake looked down at the water. A sleek, white, forty-foot Beneteau sailboat was moored next to the floating deck that extended from the lower level of the three-story house.
“We’ll go sailing if we have time,” Bradford said. “Hey, would you like a drink? Help yourself while I get out a couple steaks for dinner.”
Drake poured two fingers of Knob Creek bourbon from a bottle sitting on a drinks tray and watched Bradford pulling things out of his refrigerator. It was obvious that the man was comfortable in the kitchen. “Is your wife joining us for dinner?” he asked. The file his secretary had put together didn’t mention a wife.
Bradford chuckled. “Are you wondering if I’m married or if I have a partner?”
“Neither,” Drake said with a smile. “This is a big house for one man.”
“Yeah. My wife’s visiting her mother in Denver. If she were here, I would have taken you to dinner in the City. I don’t discuss business over dinner when she’s home.”
Bradford used a dry rub on two New York strip steaks and poured some Grey Goose vodka over ice in a shot glass. Drink in hand, he led Drake to two leather barrel chairs facing each other across a square, glass-topped, coffee table.
Dark Trojan (The Adam Drake series Book 3) Page 3
