by David Lender
Richard felt his face flush, his jaw tense. So that’s why he hadn’t heard from Milner.
He turned to the window again. He checked his pocket for the Dictaphone, felt the vibration of it still running. Then out the window he noticed LeClaire walk along 76th Street, cross and then head up Madison. Richard’s throat ached and his eyes got moist. He felt like something irretrievable of his own was vanishing with LeClaire as he continued up Madison.
Richard caught himself, remembering the tape. Shit. He turned from the window to Jack, who was looking at Richard as if he expected him to respond to their last exchange. Get on with it, he thought, and moved closer to Jack.
Jack smirked. “Don’t wait for Milner; he’s staying lost in Europe. No tape, no deal with the Feds. You’re safe as long as you hang onto your data. But don’t forget where you hid it, or you might wind up like Chuck White or Ken Stern.”
Rage surged in Richard’s veins; he got ready to lunge at Jack. Jack sensed it, stepped back.
“You killed them, didn’t you?”
Jack smirked more broadly and leaned in toward Richard. “Yeah, we did what we had to do. Just don’t lose your cool. Keep the balance of power. A standoff. And get used to it. That’s how it works on Wall Street. Allies on one deal, enemies the next. I got something on you, you got something on me. Like the Cold War Russians and the U.S. military: mutually assured destruction.”
Richard was resisting the urge to come at Jack and punch him. He knew he was almost out of tape, anticipated the squeal of the Dictaphone, but he wanted to get more, so he leaned in closer to Jack, sneering.
Jack said, “Oh, yeah, Mr. Tough Guy. You fuck with me and I’ll fuck you up, big time. Wonder why Milner folded? No doubt you saw that Mary Claire disappeared. Yeah, she’s with Milner now, but not initially. We disappeared her. She was our ultimate leverage over the big guy to keep him quiet. He agreed in a heartbeat once we told him we had her. And now he knows we can get to her anytime we want. He gets cute and turns us in, we take out Mary Claire. See? Mutually assured destruction.”
Richard didn’t want to answer. Keep him talking. He felt perspiration on his upper lip.
“Keep Kathy close, Tiger. And keep quiet. Then nobody gets…”
The Dictaphone screamed as the tape ran out. Richard felt a blast of adrenaline. He saw Jack’s head rear back in surprise, then his eyes narrow and a scowl form on his lips.
“You little punk,” he said and lunged at Richard.
Richard dodged him, but Jack spun and landed a punch on Richard’s temple. Richard saw black things like insects swimming in his vision and went down, felt Jack clawing at his pocket for the Dictaphone. He scrambled to his feet and leaned backward to avoid a wild right and left from Jack, then stepped into him and landed a right uppercut square on Jack’s chin. His hand exploded in pain like he’d punched a block of granite, but he saw Jack collapse over an ottoman. Now he saw him moving, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. Richard turned and ran for the door. He dashed down the stairs, panting, feeling his chest heaving. At the last flight he started to feel a swell of victory. Almost there.
As he burst through the door into the lobby he ran into four men in suits. He tried to rush past when one of them said, “That’s Blum,” and two others grabbed Richard’s arms. Anger, then desperation washed through him. The men pulled his hands behind his back and Richard felt cold steel on his wrists, knew they were handcuffing him. They spun him around.
“U.S. Attorney’s office, and just shut it, Blum,” the first guy said as Richard opened his mouth to speak. “I don’t want to hear it.” He pulled out his cell phone, punched some keys and pointed toward the lobby door. The two men who cuffed him moved Richard toward the door. “We got Blum,” Richard heard the guy say. “We’re going up for Grass now.” Richard could feel the weight of the Dictaphone in his pocket. His thoughts raced. He had enough on tape to nail Jack and the others. Then he felt a flash of panic. But what did these guys have on him?
In the interrogation room downtown at 75 Centre Street, Croonquist waited for his cell phone to ring a second time.
“Okay, we got Grass,” Johnson said to him.
“Alright,” Croonquist said. “See you shortly.” He hung up and turned to the big man seated on the other side of the table. “They’re bringing them both in,” Croonquist said to him.
Milner nodded back.
The agents brought Richard downtown in an unmarked Lincoln Town Car. They walked him into 75 Centre Street and up to the fifth floor. He felt his stomach tighten as he saw Charles Holden standing in the hallway smiling at him. They walked Richard into a room. A surge of surprise hit him: Milner sat there with Roman Croonquist.
Croonquist stood and nodded to someone behind Richard, who uncuffed him. “Sorry about that, but the field agents have their procedures,” Croonquist said.
Richard was too stunned to answer. He saw Milner wink at him. “I don’t understand,” Richard said.
Milner said, “Sorry I didn’t call, but they said this was a better way. I agreed.”
Croonquist said, “Harold came in to talk, with no promises.” He looked over at Milner, then back at Richard. “But it all checked out. So we set it up and waited until we got what we needed. We figured we could count on you.”
Richard’s mind was catching up. He felt for the Dictaphone in his pocket, pulled it out. Croonquist shook his head and stood up. “Follow me,” he said. He led Richard and Milner down the hall to another room where Jack sat across the table from Holden. Holden shook his head at Croonquist. Richard studied Jack’s face: sneering like Jimmy Cagney.
Croonquist said, “Mr. Grass, here’s what you’re up against. We were across the street from your apartment with a laser mike. We got your entire conversation with Richard on tape.”
Richard continued to observe Jack. Now no hint of a sneer.
Croonquist said, “Harold Milner is prepared to testify against you, as I assume is…”
Richard said, “I am, too, and I got my own tape, in case their wiretap doesn’t hold up,” and he held up his Dictaphone, “and I did some research. It’s my personal conversation, which I can record anytime, anywhere I want. Perfectly legally, with no wiretap authorization required.” He was still watching Jack’s face, now frozen like a death mask.
Croonquist said, “We don’t need your cooperation in our prosecution of Reginald Schoenfeld, Philippe Delecroix and Mickey Steinberg, so don’t bother to offer it.” He sat down next to Holden and looked Jack in the eye across the table. “Now about the threats you made against Mary Claire Milner and Karina Cella. Mutually assured destruction. Not a bad term for the situation,” Croonquist said. “You and your cronies will all go away for securities violations, and eventually, I presume, you’ll get out. But there’s no statute of limitations on murder, or kidnapping, and we’ve got enough to convict you all. We’ll hold those charges over you indefinitely. You try anything, we’ll charge you in federal court, which has the death penalty. Even if you don’t get the chair, you’ll never get out of jail. I assume you aren’t stupid enough to risk that.”
Richard couldn’t help smiling as he watched Jack, whose upper lip and forehead now showed beads of perspiration. His eyes were wide. A cornered animal. No, caged like he belonged. “I need to call Kathy,” Richard said and stepped out.
London, England. Milner rode the elevator at Schoenfeld & Co.’s offices in St. James’ Square with the two guys who escorted him there. A single U.S. Attorney’s Office agent sat in the car outside. Holden insisted on the chaperone from his office, even though he saw little flight risk, given the $225 million Milner had put into escrow for the $25 million fine he’d agreed to, plus disgorgement of the $200 million the Walker ring paid him.
Once upstairs, Milner entered the dining room, where Schoenfeld and Delecroix, looking annoyed, were seated at a table set for three. Milner said, “I hope you don’t mind I brought a couple of friends.” The two guys walked past Milner toward Schoen
feld and Delecroix.
“Scotland Yard,” one of them said. They cuffed them both. Milner watched Schoenfeld’s and Delecroix’s faces. He smiled at the surprise, then the anger in their eyes, thinking of Chuck White. His next thought was about getting home to New York in time for dinner with Mary Claire. This thing was over with; he didn’t care about the money, the two years of community service, or the slashing he was taking in the press. Because even if the Feds or the public didn’t accept the concept, Mary Claire believed in redemption.
New York City. Richard unpacked his boxes in his new office on his first day of work for Milner. His office was on the east side of the main floor, directly across from where Milner’s stereo was set up: Chuck’s White’s old office. Stephanie had placed a vase of lilies with a note from Milner on his credenza; the fragrance was one he knew he would always associate with this day. He also didn’t think it was an accident that Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A was playing on the stereo when Richard arrived. It was supposed to be like this.
The phone rang: Kathy. He knew that morning she planned to walk into George Cole’s office to resign. She was considering her next move; she’d already interviewed for a job at Morgan Stanley, but was also talking to some HBS classmates about starting a satire magazine.
“How are you settling in, babe?”
“Great.”
“I’m free for dinner at a normal hour if you’re not working late. Either way I’m looking forward to kicking your ass at squash tonight.” She laughed. “I love you.”
Milner knocked and walked in just as they hung up. “Welcome aboard.” He crossed the room and shook with Richard, enveloping his hand in that meaty paw.
“Thanks, Harold.” Richard remembered meeting Milner for the first time in Walker’s reception area, how awed he’d been by him. Richard couldn’t get over thinking how much more impressive Milner was after getting to know him, especially in the last weeks. He was going to learn a lot from this man.
“I’ve got a deal I’d like you to look at,” Milner said, and handed him a one-page spreadsheet. “When I get off my conference call, you can tell me what you think of it. You’ll love it. It’s a high-end stereo equipment company. Tiny, but it’s got great growth potential.”
Richard watched Milner turn and leave, then took in the expanse of midtown Manhattan through the clear glass that formed the entire north wall of Milner’s offices. He looked uptown at the skyscrapers extending into the distance up Park Avenue and smiled.
The End
Excerpt from Trojan Horse
Trojan
Horse
A THRILLER BY
David Lender
Copyright © 2011 by David T. Lender
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact [email protected].
PROLOGUE
July, Twenty Years Ago. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Omar pressed the button that activated the lighted face of his watch, cupping his hands so he wouldn’t be detected. Today is a good day to die, he recited the mercenary’s creed in his head. 0158 hours. The others would start to arrive momentarily. He pulled out the American-manufactured night-vision goggles and stood in the shadows across the street from the outside perimeter wall of the grounds of the Royal Palace. He felt the chill of the Saudi night. He was grateful for the warmth provided by his German kevlar vest and British army fatigues beneath his robe, the traditional Saudi dress he wore as a disguise. Still, his Russian army boots were ridiculously obvious; the disguise wasn’t about to fool anyone.
He scanned the street from where he knew the others would be joining him. Still no one. His mouth was dry. He fingered the Uzi clipped to his belt on his left hip, the .45 automatic Colt holstered on his right hip. Then behind the Colt the .22 caliber Beretta with its silencer extending through the hole in its holster. Omar was the only one of the team of twelve who carried a Beretta. He was to be the shooter.
Two men walked toward him, shielded by the shadows against the wall. He motioned to them and they gestured back. It was time. The other nine appeared like a mirage in the desert. Each was armed with Uzis and .45 caliber automatic Colt pistols; two carried American M-203 grenade launchers. All were eclectically uniformed and hardwared to defy nationalistic identification if killed or captured. They waited silently against the wall, listening for the passage of the patrol jeep. It lumbered by, bearing two heavily armed guards.
Omar raised his hand: the “Go” signal. He felt his pulse quicken and the familiar butterflies and shortness of breath that preceded any mission, no matter how well planned. The twelve-member squad crossed the street to the white stucco perimeter wall of the palace. Four faced the wall and leaned against it, shoulder to shoulder. The others performed a series of acrobatic maneuvers and materialized into a human pyramid. The top man silently secured three rubber-coated grappling hooks with attached scaling lines to the top of the wall. Omar was over the top and down the other side in less than fifteen seconds.
While the others followed, Omar pulled off his robe. His heart pounded. He pulled five bricks of C-4 plastic explosive from his pouch and stuck them to the wall in an “X” configuration, aware that his palms were clammy. He wiped them on his robe and again focused on his work. He inserted an electrical detonator in each brick of C-4, and wired them to a central radio receiver that he inserted into the center block of the “X.” By the time he finished, the rest of the team had cleared the wall and removed their robes. They stashed their robes in zippered pouches buckled to the backs of their waists.
Omar squinted at the wall of the palace, illuminated by floodlights, 50 meters away. This area had no first-floor windows. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he looked for guards he hoped wouldn’t be there. He focused on a second-floor window at the junction of the east and north walls. Be there, he thought. Just be there.
Sasha didn’t awaken at 2:00 a.m. as she had intended: she hadn’t slept at all. She glanced to her right at Prince Ibrahim, illuminated in the light from the display of the digital clock. His body moved up and down with the rhythm of his breathing. Sasha had earlier treated him to some extended pleasures in an effort to assure he wouldn’t awaken at an inopportune moment. She smelled the pungent scent of the evening’s energies, felt the smooth silk of the sheets against her naked breasts: sensations that under other circumstances would cause her to revel in her sexuality. Now she felt only the flutter of apprehension in her stomach. She thought of the business to be dispensed with.
The Royal Palace was stone quiet at this hour. Sasha listened in the hall for the footsteps of the guard on his rounds. A moment later he passed. A renewed sense of commitment smoothed a steadying calm down her limbs. It’s time, she told herself, and she slid, inches at a time, from the sheets to the cool marble floor.
Yassar will never forgive me. She breathed deeply, then felt exhilaration at the cool detachment her purpose gave her. She stood, naked, shoulders erect and head back, observing Prince Ibrahim, the man she had served as concubine for three years. But you don’t deserve to see it coming.
Backing from the bed, Sasha inched toward the closet. The prince stirred in his sleep, inhaled and held it. Sasha froze in place. She felt her stomach pull taut and she held her own breath. The cool marble under her feet became a chilling cold, the silence an oppressive void. This mustn’t fail. The prince resumed his rhythmic breathing and she exhaled in relief.
One more cautious stride carried her to the closet. She reached into it for her black abaya, the Muslim robe she wore in the palace. She cringed at the rustle of the coarse fabric as she put it on. The prince didn’t stir. She picked up her parcel from the closet floor, crossed the room and slipped out the door.
>
At the corridor window, she removed the clear plastic backing from one side of a 2x5-centimeter adhesive strip. The acrid odor of the cyanoacrylate stung her nostrils. She slid the strip between the steel window frame and the steel molding around it, precisely where the pressure-sensitive microswitch for the alarm sat.
She took an electromagnet from her parcel and plugged it into an outlet, unraveling the cord as she walked back toward the window frame. She placed the magnet against the corner of the window frame behind the alarm microswitch and clicked on the electromagnet.
The force of the magnet jolted the molding against the window frame. She endured a count to thirty until the adhesive fused the microswitch closed, then switched off the magnet. She turned the window latch, took a deep breath, shut her eyes, pushed. The window opened. No alarm.
The face of the man she knew only as the squad leader popped into her view from his perch atop his team, who had formed a pyramid on the wall below. She stepped back from the window. In an instant he was inside, raising his finger for her to be silent, and then turning and attaching one of the grappling hooks to the window frame. Never mind shushing me, she thought, just make sure you know what you’re doing. Within 60 seconds the other 11 members of the squad stole inside. The rope was up and deposited on the floor and the window closed and latched.
The black-haired girl backed herself against the wall, her palms against the marble. Omar stared into her jet-black eyes, saw her fierce spirit. That was close, he thought. She nearly blew it. Late. He sensed her excitement in the heaving of her chest, but she appeared otherwise to be in complete control of herself. She raised her chin defiantly. He looked into those penetrating black eyes again. Black steel, he thought, and felt a fleeting communion with her. She motioned with her eyes in the direction of Prince Ibrahim’s chamber. He nodded.
