Game of Greed

by Charlotte Larsen

  Francis leans toward her. “Well, first of all, I am not even sure there is anything to connect Schwartz, the monk, and Wharton. I will actually rely on you and Dhammakarati to figure that one out.” His smile holds just a hint of irony. “But I can somehow piece together a scenario where Smith, Turner, and Stevenson’s biggest competitor has requested the services of Schwartz.”

  “Why?” she asks simply.

  “That I do not know. Not exactly, anyway. But you may be certain that there is money involved. And power. Market dominance, perhaps. All I am aware of is that Georg Schwartz met with Campbell junior, one of the four current senior partners of Remington Partners, the runner-up to Smith, Turner, and Stevenson, in a very hush-hush meeting a couple of days ago. Mind you, these days, Schwartz does only the very important meetings. And given that only one-third of Schwartz’s business is aboveboard, we can assume the two old boys are up to no good. That’s why I want you to tap into Schwartz. See what you can find out. And we need to find Wharton. Sooner rather than later.”

  Francis turns his head to the fire. Slowly, without looking at her and almost as if he’s not aware of what he’s doing, he reaches out and strokes her feet. She lets it happen. She knows, at any rate, how the night will end. It is inevitable when they are together. Which is the most bizarre thing about their relationship. He’s her boss, they have been friends for years, and they are lovers. It is a twisted kind of love. At least she’s certain that even though he sends her out on one dangerous mission after another, he will kill anybody who harms her. He’s strangely protective like that, as if it’s okay for him to put her in harm’s way, but not for anybody else to touch a hair on her head.

  He has bailed her out on a number of occasions, has come to her rescue when she most needed it. But isn’t that what he was supposed to do? She’s one of his finest assets. A master in her field. However, his concern for her seems to go far beyond that. And yet he’s never gentle or loving with her. He has never done anything that remotely resembles a romantic gesture. On the contrary, he seems to treat her like a sister. Except in obvious situations like this one.

  For her, he’s no more, no less than…Francis. A presence in her life that she hardly questions. She sometimes wonders whether her lack of questioning is due to the inevitability of their bond, or whether it is yet another result of her yearlong meditation training, which has drastically reduced her need to categorize things and people and to label relationships. She’s used to recognizing the ego at play when a desire manifests itself to conceptualize things. And it doesn’t really matter what and who she and Francis are, as long as the moments they spend together make sense. Which they do.

  In line with her thoughts, Francis breaks the silence. “I need you to go to London and check out Schwartz’s offices and his house. And maybe also his country house. I need to know everything. You’ll have to go through his personal computers and those of his nearest associates. The problem is that, according to rumor, he never writes down anything important. In fact, he only discusses the critical stuff face-to-face. But see what you can come up with. Oh, and be careful. He’s surrounded by goons.”

  She nods. “I’ll need a few things from my flat, so I’ll go to London via Copenhagen. What about the research team? Do you want me to brief them while I am there?”

  “No, I’ve already done that. They are hunkered down in their secret, digital-nerd universe. Once you’ve finished in London, go back to Copenhagen, and we’ll meet up with them and try to connect the dots.”

  It’s a Wednesday night, just after three, Jo is crouching behind a desk, listening very intently to a sound as yet indistinct, but which may be footsteps approaching. She had been so careful, so meticulous, keeping the building where Schwartz Corp. occupies the top four floors under surveillance for three days before making any move. She broke into the office of the corporation’s cleaning company and copied an electronic swipe card, gaining access to the floor where Schwartz’s office is. She located and made copies of the routes and schedules for the night cleaning crew. She bribed an unsuspecting and clueless receptionist to provide the times, routes, and frequency of security guards, giving her a fib about an unfaithful boyfriend the one thing that unites women in offering help, even if it’s on the wrong side of the law.

  Nobody is supposed to be here now. Nobody at all. And based on her own and everybody else’s experience, the hours between three and four are the most deserted in any big city. Not that a metropolis like London is ever deserted, but most people are deep in sleep at that time. Or else pacing a room or doing something else that does not involve going to their office.

  While Jo has allowed the tails to follow her around the city as she pretends to be a tourist, when it comes to direct action, she has so far managed to shake them, at least for a couple of hours. London is big, with a highly efficient underground system, and it is crawling with taxis. So, if you are a hard target and know what you’re doing, it is almost impossible for a surveillance team to keep up with you. And Jo, who still undergoes annual training weeks with former military intelligence agents, does know what she’s doing.

  She’s supposed to be alone in Schwartz’s corner office now. But somebody is definitely coming, and it is not someone with an innocent mind, either. She can tell from the deliberate lightness of the steps that the person approaching either knows she’s here or has his own clandestine business to conceal.

  She has already placed tiny bugs in various places around the room. Not that she expects them to yield anything interesting, but as in all research work, you should actually sweat the small stuff. Often, it is the combination of a series of apparently innocuous bits and pieces that actually forms the final picture. So, she positioned the bugs in Schwartz’s office just like she did at his country estate, which was a breeze to get into. And she deployed a number of mikes in his city apartment, which proved quite difficult to enter and where she really appreciated the climbing lessons of her youth. While she was there, she also installed backdoors in Schwartz’s home computers, linking them to an anonymous server in Zurich, which will then relay all data that passes through his computers to the research team’s mainframe. Nice and tidy, leaving no digital residue and virtually impossible to track.

  She has searched the office without finding anything of interest, except maybe for a framed picture of Schwartz being given an order by the queen. The picture hangs among others of him with various celebrities and business magnates, but the one with the queen caught her attention. It was the only item she bothered to photograph.

  But she still has to install a backdoor in Schwartz’s office computer. She’s more irritated than nervous, hating to be prevented from completing a job. So, by now, Jo is crouching behind the desk, breathing deep, down in her abdomen, which calms her nerves and sends oxygen to her brain, keeping her adrenaline in check so that it reaches the optimal level for clear-headed alertness. Waiting is a game of nerves. And she can wait for a very long time if she must.

  More than an hour later, the other late-night visitor is still close by. And she’s still crouching. Whoever this person is, he or she seems to be going meticulously through every office on the floor. There aren’t that many offices, this being the top executive floor where most of the space is taken up with impressive boardrooms, an executive dining room, and a lounge area. So, it is only a matter of time before that person arrives at Schwartz’s corner office. She has no choice but to find another hideout and wait for the other person to finish before she goes back to Schwartz’s office. She’s determined to do her utmost to ensure that she doesn’t leave the building without finishing what she came to do.

  Jo slides along the wall toward the door, grateful for her dark, soft clothing. She moves in a way that allows her to freeze at any point if she detects that something is off, slowly enough to keep every tiny muscle in her body under control. Her mind is on full alert. Speed is of no consequence if she’s detected. She gets a thrill from these kinds of situations where she ne
eds to keep in check both her impatience and her natural instincts for getting out of harm’s way. It is this battle with her ego and mind that she loves most about her job. The sense of being in full control, even in the midst of extremely dangerous situations like these.

  She’s carrying nothing that would identify her but still doesn’t want to be caught. Inch by inch, she moves without a sound through the door and down the hall, away from her fellow intruder. Her plan is to reach the boardroom across the hall, and from there move onto the fire escape, where she may wait her competitor out. Suddenly, she freezes. The sound has stopped, which is actually more alarming because no professional stops long enough to be completely still when he or she is on a night visit. Which can only mean that he or she is onto Jo.

  Suddenly, everything moves incredibly fast. Although she had a moment to collect herself and wasn’t taken completely by surprise, she still loses her footing when another black-clad person suddenly appears behind her, grasping her around the neck, pressing something against her back. Something unyielding, which can only be a gun.

  Fuck!

  She senses that the intruder is a man by his build and smell, and remains motionless, waiting for him to indicate what game they are playing. He hisses in a broad, working-class accent, “Down on your knees, lady. And don’t do anything stupid.” She feels a slight relief, praying that this is mainly muscle and probably only limited brains. Nevertheless, she does as she’s told, knowing full well that being on her knees is a very vulnerable position. But if you know your bando and are relatively well trained, it is a springboard for damaging noses and foreheads. And for getting away.

  She arches her back slightly, rounding her shoulders and tensing every muscle in her body, ready to fold out like a jackknife. And then, just as the man is starting to say something, she spends all her muscle power in one powerful jump, up and back against him, before she lands on her feet. Immediately, in one fluid movement, she kicks her left heel back and up until it hits something soft.

  The man behind her cries out in pain, and she guesses she has at least broken his nose, but he probably is more concerned with the state of his balls. She flings a handful of plastic strips out of her inner pocket, deftly tying his wrists behind his back, then his ankles, and finally using a couple of strips to connect the one around his ankles with the one around his wrists. She literally makes him curl up with his front exposed, very much the opposite of what his body wants to do.

  It will be hard for him even to get up from the ground, let alone pursue her. Nevertheless, she sprints back to Schwartz’s office and, in very little time, installs a backdoor in his computer, keeping an eye out for her combatant. But he seems to stay put.

  She snaps the computer shut and makes a run for it. Reaching the fire escape, she sprints down the stairs, oblivious of the cameras catching her every move. But then again, she’s just another anonymous guest in black that night. She hopes to reach the exit before the police and internal security show up. Who knows, they may just be in time to meet her competitor, she thinks with a sense of superiority. And who can tell two dark-clad professionals apart anyway? Although they will know, of course, that someone has been there and left. Not even a highly trained agent would be able to tie himself into a knot like that.

  Chapter 10

  On the other side of town, several miles and an hour away, Jo is taking a very early breakfast at an all-night McDonald’s. She has pushed back the hood of her anorak, removed her gloves, and wrapped an orange scarf that she carries for just that purpose around her neck and the back of her head. At times like this, she’s grateful for her plain and anonymous looks, which allow her to blend in easily, chameleon-like. She has, of course, also practiced the art of moving in a manner that either elicits attention or makes her almost invisible. Her tools, all handcrafted to their absolute minimum size by highly skilled steelworkers, are well hidden in the inside pockets of her jacket. She looks just like any night worker just coming off a shift and enjoying a spot of breakfast.

  Finishing her meal, she swaps the SIM card in her phone with another prepaid card and dials Francis’s direct number. She doesn’t introduce herself. She just says, “There is competition.”

  “You know who?”

  “No.”

  “All right, finish up and get out of the city.”

  She hangs up. It’s hard to tell from their tones of voice that they are lovers.

  Jo still has a few loose ends to tie up in London, which means she probably can’t get on a plane until early the next morning. She spends the rest of the morning meeting with their trusted technician. He is taking care that the feed from the bugs in Schwartz’s offices is transmitted via his own hub to the research team in Copenhagen. Furthermore, he mobilizes the transfer of data from Schwartz’s home computers to the Copenhagen server via the anonymous server in Zurich. Almost as an afterthought, Jo asks him to file the few photos she took in Schwartz’s office on the Copenhagen server.

  She decides to take the rest of the day off rather than rush to the airport and arrive late tonight in Copenhagen. This also gives her an opportunity to check out her tails once more. Returning to the hotel, she watches the front entrance from a distance and, just as she expected, two men are loitering around the front. Not very subtle. But then again, they may want her to know she’s being followed. Maybe they think it will prevent her from doing what she’s supposed to do. She doesn’t know how much they know about her, and hence whether their conspicuous presence is incompetence or prevention. Walking in a wide arc around the hotel, she enters through the service door, and given her anonymous, plain looks, nobody gives her a second glance.

  An hour later, she emerges from the main entrance, in full makeup and an eye-catching outfit. Very easy to spot. Quite hard to miss. She hails a cab and asks the driver to take her to Tate Modern, her favorite museum in London and a great place for checking out her shadows without their knowledge. Might as well give them a bit of a run for their money.

  Jo leaves the hotel in a limousine, wearing huge sunglasses, a colorful scarf, and a small-brimmed hat. She looks like a glamorous woman who has tried in vain to disguise herself, only to make herself highly conspicuous. In Heathrow, she works the shops, making certain that she knows exactly who trails her, before finally boarding the plane to Copenhagen. First class is no longer available on short British Airways flights, so she flies business and makes a fuss about everything, making sure that not only the flight attendants but also the passengers notice this demanding woman who seems to think her needs and desires trump those of everybody else on board. Jo knows one of her tails is in economy, right behind the curtain, and the other is seated further back in the plane. It is probably not for financial reasons her companions travel on a budget if they are indeed working for Schwartz but rather because the business-class seating is too small of a space for them to remain inconspicuous.

  Arriving in Copenhagen, Jo is the first passenger to disembark, and she ducks into a restroom in the long corridor before economy passengers even get off the plane. She reckons that her faithful shadows will be a few minutes behind her, but they probably bank on catching up with her before customs. She coughs when entering the second cubicle from the left and hears somebody say softly, “In here, Jo. There is nobody else here.”

  She undresses and pushes her clothing under the partition for her colleague put on. Jo opens the backpack that had been sitting in the cubicle and pulls out the gear she needs. She changes into worn jeans, dirty sneakers, a sweatshirt with a hood, and an old, battered, leather jacket. She pulls out a small mirror, draws heavy kohl around her eyes, changes her lipstick to a shade that is almost black and puts fake piercings in her nose and in one eyebrow. She’s hardly recognizable.

  A short while later, a glamorous woman exits the toilets, her face partly hidden behind huge sunglasses and a hat. Two tails immediately attach themselves to her.

  This is too easy, thinks Jo, as she slides out of the restroom and forms a fo
urth in the little procession. Just so they buy it until she gets to Nørrebro. Alone.

  She waits until a driver picks up her colleague and the two men shadowing her have thrown themselves into a waiting car before she walks back across the terminal, and down the escalator to the metro. She knows the men will be sightseeing in Copenhagen while she gets to experience the fear and loathing that nice citizens have for a punk girl.

  Her appearance causes amusement and a few barbed jokes. Clearly, a couple of people on the team feel she’s getting a little too close to their home turf. She ignores them and heads straight for the operation room. Sitting down in front of a vacant computer, she quickly enters her password and commands. Four different angles, evidently feeds from cameras in the car that now carries her look-alike, pop up on the four screens in front of her. One camera is trained on the interior of the car, where she can see her colleague, still covered by her sunglasses and hat, sitting serenely, cheek in hand, gazing out the window. Two cameras are on the cars behind her, and Jo can tell that the car directly behind seems to be the same one that took off after her double. One man is in the passenger seat, his face sufficiently distinct for her to be able to detect his impatience. The other man is in the back seat, his face turned away from the camera.