Trigger City

by Sean Chercover

  “Where’s the grand slam?” said Holborn.

  “The grand slam is Sudan.”

  “Darfur?” I said.

  “Exactly. See, the Western world has largely pulled out of Sudan because of the political pressure. Genocide is hard to explain at a public shareholders’ meeting, so even the big Western oil companies pulled out.”

  “Oh, crap,” I said. “China.”

  “Right. China is by far the biggest consumer of Sudanese oil. China also supplies the Sudanese government with the weapons they use to slaughter their citizens. The other investors in the oil industry in Sudan include Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, India, and Pakistan, but even they do it through partnership with China’s petroleum giants. Really, it’s China’s game. And Hawk River has been playing in Darfur, working for a shell corporation that is supposed to be Kuwaiti but is really China.” Sanders leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Like I said, grand slam.”

  Holborn and I stared at each other for a long time. Finally Holborn said, “Oh my God. Hawk River is working for the Chinese government.”

  “Explains a lot.”

  “It’s fucking treason.”

  “Maybe. Or it’s something that Typhon the Multiheaded Beast knows all about and wants to keep under wraps. Alphabet Soup.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The implications were massive. Holborn had to admit that my concern about his investigation being scuttled by higher-Ups now didn’t seem like such a paranoid fantasy.

  With something this big, it would take time to get the machinery of the FBI into gear. Time to go through all the files and be sure that they really proved what Agent Sanders surmised. Time to prepare reports and action plans and time to send them up the chain of command and time to have them reviewed and approved. Time to assemble teams.

  And during all that time, Holborn would be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the phone call from National Headquarters that told him to stop and forget everything he had learned.

  We both hoped that call would never come, but hope is a fragile thing and Typhon the Multiheaded Beast would have a say in the final decision. On that we agreed.

  It would all play out in time. But time was not on our side.

  It was Emmett Sanders, bless him, who came up with a short-term plan. Sanders took all the files and compressed them using a zip program so they could fit on one disc. He burned two copies of this disc. He assured me that there would be no way to know that these were not the originals. The files showed the same created on, modified on, and last opened dates as the originals. All the metadata was identical.

  Agent Dan in the ERT even transferred Steven Zhang’s fingerprints onto the copies.

  My part in the plan was simple. Deliver the copies to Isaac Richmond and Joseph Grant. Simple but not easy, because I had to make them believe that these were the originals and that I didn’t know what was on them.

  And my head was swimming with what was on them.

  Agent Sanders told me that he’d encrypted the files far better than Steven Zhang had. It would probably take Grant’s people a few days to break the passwords. In the meantime, if all went well, Holborn would get the go-ahead from National.

  And if he didn’t…

  If he didn’t, we’d have to leap off that bridge when we got to it.

  Now it was four-thirty. I called Blake Sten and told him that I’d found the files on a CD-ROM hidden in Joan Richmond’s music collection. He gave me an address in Winnetka—Joseph Grant’s house. Told me to bring the disc and be there at nine, sharp. Told me to park my car beside the house and go to the servants’ entrance at the back.

  I told him I’d be there and closed the phone.

  Isaac Richmond led me down the stairs to his basement den. From the gun range on the other side of the wall came the pap-pap-pap-pap-pap of pistol fire. I’d have preferred the sound of bowling pins crashing around.

  “Have a seat,” said Richmond and went through the door to the funhouse. The sound of gunfire stopped. He returned with the two Alphabet Soup guys and they sat, the taller man on the arm of the couch, the shorter one in a chair.

  Richmond remained standing. He said, “What have you learned?”

  “You wanted to know the truth of your daughter’s death.”

  “Yes.”

  “I found it.”

  “And what about the evidence?”

  “They’re one and the same, aren’t they?”

  Richmond’s mouth twitched. “Yes, I suppose they are.”

  I pulled the CD-ROM from my briefcase, dropped it on the table. “There you go.”

  “What’s on it?”

  “Don’t know. Password protected. I couldn’t get into it. I’m sure you guys can.”

  “Okay,” said Richmond. “Good work.” He moved to see me out.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “You know what happened to Delwood Crawley.”

  “Yes, we heard about that.”

  The taller man said, “You shouldn’t have confided in him.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “I shouldn’t have. But that’s beside the point. Point is, Blake Sten has run amok.”

  “You sure it was Sten?” he said.

  “Unless it was you guys.”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Dudgeon. We don’t operate like that.”

  “Then it was Sten. I’ve heard his sermon on the use of fire.”

  “All right,” said Richmond, “we’ll look into it.”

  “Not good enough,” I said. “I’ve done what you asked, and now you’re gonna leave me hanging out to dry.” Then I told him about the visit by Sten and Grant, the list they had of everyone in my life, the threat to kill them one by one until I turned over the disc. The only thing I changed was the deadline. Told them it was five o’clock tomorrow. “But since I brought the disc to you, I can’t give it to Grant tomorrow. Now I need you guys to put a stop to this.”

  The taller man said, “You’re telling us that Joseph Grant was in the room when Sten made these threats?”

  “No, I’m telling you that Grant himself made the threats. Sten just read the list of names.”

  He made eye contact with Richmond, and something was communicated between them. Richmond nodded at him and said, “Go ahead.”

  He said, “Sir, it looks like these guys are way out of control.”

  We were all quiet while Richmond thought things over.

  Finally I said, “Joseph Grant is going to kill everyone who matters to me. My grandfather, my closest friends…the woman I’m in love with. These people are civilians—they didn’t choose to get involved in this. Don’t let them be collateral damage, Colonel.”

  Richmond still didn’t speak.

  “If you really are that grieving father,” I said, “you won’t let it go down like this.”

  I saw myself out and left him with a decision to make. A decision upon which my life probably depended.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  One down and one to go…

  I pulled to a stop in Joseph Grant’s side driveway, looked up at the Georgian mansion at the top of the circular main drive to my right. It must’ve been eight thousand square feet, with clean white columns on either side of the front door and fifteen tall windows on the front wall and a slate roof with six chimneys. Flames flickered in gas lamps on either side of the front door and on poles lining the main driveway.

  The driveway was full of cars and there was a uniformed valet standing by the front door. I took note of a couple of tricked-out Hummers, an Aston Martin, a Maybach, and more than a few Mercedeses.

  That I was out of the rental and back in my own car made me feel a little better. A ’68 Shelby has nothing to apologize for, even in company such as this. True, I hadn’t actually bought the car and couldn’t afford it but it was mine, at least for now.

  At the back of the side driveway was a four-car garage. I could see two black Lincoln Navigators at the ready; the other two doors were closed. The servants’ entrance led in
to a mudroom, beyond which I couldn’t see.

  My finger stopped on the way to the doorbell and I was gripped with the desire to get back in my car and drive away. Fast. But I knew that I wouldn’t and I went ahead and rang the bell. What I didn’t know was if I’d ever get out of this house alive.

  Blake Sten opened the door, grunted at me, and led me through the mudroom and into a hallway. He wore a tuxedo, which looked about as natural on him as a tutu on a bear.

  We passed the kitchen, which was bigger than my whole apartment. Three women in black-and-white uniforms buzzed around with dishes and trays. A little farther down the hall, Sten pointed at a door on the right.

  “Go through there, down the hall. There’s a door at the end. Knock on it.”

  It was a tight hallway with a low ceiling, more of a hidden passage, which led past the dining room to the front of the house. A way for servants to get around without spoiling the guests’ view. I got to the end of the passage, knocked on the door.

  Blake Sten opened the door. I guess he wanted to make the point that he had the run of the place. We were in a large study, decorated with heavy wood and leather furniture, antique Oriental rugs, Tiffany stained-glass lamps. Oil paintings of Revolutionary War battle scenes and English hunting dogs hung on the walls. In an antique mahogany cabinet, behind glass, a display of handguns throughout the ages. A giant buffalo head mounted on a plaque hung between the windows. A full suit of armor stood in the corner.

  For a second I wondered if Grant might be inside it.

  Crazy thought.

  “Nice digs,” I said.

  “Sure,” said Blake Sten.

  And that was the extent of our conversation. We stood, we waited. I silently admired the nice digs some more, thinking Sten seems different today. It was possible that, having seen what he did to Delwood Crawley, I was just looking at him through different eyes.

  No, it’s more than that. He’s changed. No swagger. Sullen. Then it hit me all at once: Sten is depressed. He loved doing what he did to Crawley. He got to play with the demon again…he’s upset that you came through with the evidence, because now he has to put the demon back in its cage. He was hoping you’d fail, so he could play with the demon some more…with Terry, with Angela…with Jill.

  After a few minutes, the double doors to the main hallway opened and Joseph Grant stepped into the room, looking like he was born in a tux.

  “Mr. Dudgeon,” he said, closing the doors behind him. “I’d offer you a drink, but I don’t like you and I’d prefer to get our business concluded as quickly as possible so you can go away.” He said it with a pleasant smile.

  “You mean I’ll be allowed to leave.”

  “Not only allowed, but encouraged. In fact, I’ll insist on it.” He stood in front of me with his hand out. “Give.” I handed him the CD jewel case and he walked over to his massive carved oak desk, slid the disc into the slot on his computer. “I’m off to Washington in the morning and I’d hate to have this weighing on my mind. I’m glad you found it.” Conversational.

  “I’m glad I found it, too,” I said.

  “Bet you are.” After a few seconds, he clicked the mouse. Then looked at me. “Did you look at it?”

  “Couldn’t get by the password.”

  “Good thing for you. Why’d you even try?”

  “Curious, I guess.”

  “Dumb is the word you’re looking for,” he said. But as usual there was no discernible stress or edge in his voice. He tapped on the keyboard and hit Enter. Did it again. And again. Nodded to himself. “Okay, Mr. Dudgeon. You may go.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “And you’re just going to forget about me, about the people on Blake’s list.”

  “No. I’m not going to forget about you.” He clicked the mouse again and the computer ejected the CD-ROM and he put it back in the case. “I’ll have my people crack this and see what’s in it. If everything checks out, I’ll start to forget about you. As the years pass and you don’t resurface in any of my affairs, I may even forget about you entirely. As for the people on Blake’s list, it will be your actions that determine their fate. Only you can get them killed, and only you can keep them safe. Your silence will keep them alive.” He put the disc in a desk drawer, locked the drawer with a key, and put the key in the watch pocket of his vest.

  As Joseph Grant left the room, I caught a glimpse through the open door of the party across the hallway. Women in floor-length silk gowns, diamonds draped around necks and dangling from earlobes. Men in tailored tuxedos, smoking fat cigars, gold watches on their wrists and power in their pockets.

  And the other men, those in their dress blues with stars on the shoulders, ribbons and medals pinned to their chests, perfect posture, and a gravy train to catch.

  I cruised down Sheridan Road, then Lake Shore Drive, wondering why Grant had allowed me to leave. He had the disc, so killing me was now a minimal risk. Even if it drew some attention, with the evidence now secured he was safe enough. And with me dead, Sten would be free to finish things with Amy, tie off the final loose end in their cover-up.

  As I drove back into the city, I allowed myself to think the thoughts I’d suppressed on the way into Grant’s home. I’d been prepared to trade my life for the lives of the people on Blake Sten’s list. I really hadn’t expected to make it out alive. It didn’t make me happy, but I’d been willing.

  I came up from my thoughts, realized I hadn’t actually seen the traffic for miles. I was on autopilot, driving fast, jumping from lane to lane, passing slower cars. And I was already south of Lakeview. My forehead was damp and clammy, my hands shaking again. I cracked the window and lit a cigarette, changed lanes and checked my mirrors, slowed to a reasonable speed, checked my mirrors again.

  At least nobody’s following me…

  But I was wrong.

  When they tag-team you, when they’ve put a GPS tracker on your car, you don’t know until it’s too late.

  For me, it was too late just south of Fullerton.

  By that time I was back in the passing lane, with the concrete barrier to my left and the northbound lanes on the other side.

  The first to show itself was a GMC passenger van directly in front of me. The van slowed down as a big Chevy Suburban slid over from the right lane and a black Lincoln Navigator came up fast from behind, completing the box.

  In an instant, I was trapped.

  There wasn’t a damn thing I could do. They dictated our speed and they were so perfectly synchronized that no opening offered itself.

  I slowed and the Navigator didn’t. Our bumpers touched and I sped up again, got back in my box. They weren’t going to let me bull my way out.

  The Suburban to my right beeped its horn and I glanced over. I didn’t recognize the tuxedoed driver but beyond him, leaning forward and grinning at me, was Blake Sten.

  He held a small remote control unit in his right hand. He held it up to show me. Then he pressed the button.

  Whump! Something blew in my left front wheel well and the steering wheel jerked violently to the left and the Suburban gave my right front quarter panel a gentle nudge.

  And that’s all it took. I bounced off the barrier to my left and the Suburban nudged harder and I felt the world start to turn over on its side.

  It’s funny how the mind works. Everything was in slow motion now, and just as the world turned past its tipping point and I knew I was going over, I thought:

  This is going to lower the resale value…

  Strong hands, dragging me…car horns blaring, lights passing…am I dreaming?…a man with a bow tie…not Crawley…bow tie…tuxedo…a syringe…paramedic in a tuxedo…not a paramedic…syringe…bow tie…tuxedo…Grant’s party…tuxedo…the Suburban driver…NOT A PARAMEDIC!

  I grabbed for my gun, stuck the barrel against the hand holding the syringe, pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I woke up in a hospital room. Warm after
noon light streamed through the windows. A handsome nurse with long silver hair stood at my bedside.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello.” My voice came out sounding scratchy.

  She passed me a large Styrofoam cup and I sucked water through the bendy straw. There was an IV line in the back of my right hand. My left arm below the elbow was in a cast.

  “Tell me your name and date of birth,” she said.

  I did.

  “Good. Do you know what day this is?”

  “Thursday, unless I’ve been unconscious longer than I think.”

  She nodded. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “Car accident.”

  “Very good.”

  I squinted her nametag: Dr. Martin. Not a nurse. Sexist assumption.

  The nametag also said: Rush Medical Center.

  Damn.

  I swallowed. “Is Jill Browning on duty?”

  Dr. Martin pressed a button and the top of the bed began to rise, putting me in a slightly reclined sitting position.

  “She was. But she became distressed, we had to send her home.” She glanced at the bedside monitor, wrote something on a clipboard. “Apparently she’s very fond of you. We’ve given her a few days off.”

  “So what’s the damage?” I said.

  “To your body? Not too bad, all things considered. Moderate concussion, you may experience headaches, perhaps mood swings for a few days. Simple fracture of the left wrist—it’ll heal. Some bruising from the seat belt, some kidney bruising, and you may pass blood in your urine for a day or two. You’ll have aches and pains for a while, but you’ll be all right.”