by Vince Milam
“Look, Ms. Rossi. My focus is Alaton. And…”
She interrupted. “Please call me Jess. If you don’t mind, I’ll address you as Case. Are you alright with that?”
“I’m fine with that.”
“So please understand this, Case. Right now, from my perspective, it’s even money you work for the execrable Elliot. It would be helpful if you dissuaded me of such a notion.”
Fair enough. I was talking with Joanna Krupp’s protector. The gatekeeper.
“Look. I understand Ms. Krupp is going through a divorce and sorry about that and I’m sure there’s a fair amount of ugliness involved. But I’d like a chat with Ms. Krupp about Alaton. The rest of whatever you and her engage with is white noise. I mean, white noise for me. No offense.”
“And yet a little dab of offense taken. Shall we entertain dueling pistols at ten paces?”
Such a weird mixture coming from this woman. Half fun, half serious; an underlying platform of professionalism and a sprinkle of me getting played. I pulled the bottle and took a snort. Why not? It was fine rum, and this woman on the other end of the call had personal interaction skills well beyond mine. She’d driven the entire conversation and now waited for a response.
“I’m unclear on your dueling pistol preference. How about we forgo the blasting away at each other?”
She feigned a sigh. “If you insist. Although slashing sabers are still an option. I understand the clean-up can be a challenge, so there is that.”
She chuckled. I was stuck. Stuck and defensive and wandering the wilderness. All I wanted was a freakin’ meeting with Joanna Krupp.
“How about coffee instead?” I asked. “With Ms. Krupp. The three of us. That way, we can skip the dueling and I can do my job.”
I eyeballed the rum bottle again.
“Might I suggest dueling umbrellas? The little ones they put in exotic cocktails. Just you and me. Then I can decide if you pass Joanna Krupp muster.”
We agreed to meet late afternoon at my hotel’s bar. She wouldn’t reveal where she stayed. And hadn’t revealed diddly-squat about herself. A pro.
I had sufficient time before the Elliot Krupp meeting for a Kona run. The data center physical layout offered what I required for entry. A digital entry. Twenty miles later, along the island’s west coast, I entered Kailua-Kona, or Kona as most folks called it. Plenty of old stone buildings, a seawall and seaside walkway, a funky tourist/local amalgam with a sprinkle of both upscale and tawdry. I enjoyed the look and feel, surrounded by shorts, T-shirts, sandals, and smiles.
A hobby shop sold the required equipment. A small drone. A cheaper model would work fine, as long as it had carry and drop capability. I chose a small unit with a simple ground controller. Good to go. At dawn the next day, I’d deploy Hoolie’s thumb drives with the hope of leveraging the Achilles’ heel of all secure systems—human tendencies.
Time to meet the MOTU. Not a bad morning—scoped out the data center, developed a plan, established a sit-down with Joanna Krupp’s intermediary. Off for the big show: Elliot Krupp.
Chapter 5
The short driveway terminated at a sliding steel-plate gate. High stone walls extended along either side. They both culminated at cliffs overlooking the Pacific. No entry, baby, without an invite. Krupp had purchased a several-acre small peninsula that jutted into the ocean. The stone wall and steel gate blocked any view from the island side except for the tops of waving palm trees.
I used a steel pole-mounted speaker and announced my presence. The steel gate, chain-driven, cranked open. Inside, a main one-story house and several smaller buildings. Guest houses, I supposed. Concrete paths connected the buildings. The landscape was sparse but stunning, the emphasis on foliage texture rather than color. It had a tropical Japanese garden look and feel. Several vehicles—one of them a Rolls-Royce SUV—were scattered across a large circular area in front of the main house. Nice digs any way you sliced it.
Exiting the vehicle, I scoped two armed guards stationed at opposite sides of the parking area, both with HK MP5 submachine guns slung over a shoulder and held with one casual but prepared hand. Each also sported a holstered semiautomatic pistol. Ex-military, and possibly ex-special forces. I raised one eyebrow, accompanied by a half-smile and chin lift toward both. A “Really, dude?” signal, well understood.
Each returned a lifted corner-of-the-mouth greeting. One gave the lightest of shoulder shrugs. The responses clear—it’s a paying gig, bud, so don’t knock it. Fair enough.
As I approached the main house, its door was flung open and Elliot Krupp bounded outside. Late forties. His unbuttoned shirt flapped in the breeze. Bright turquoise underwear peeked above the waistline of his off-white linen pants. He wore topsiders with no socks and sported a samurai topknot. His version of a man bun. The open shirt had a simple interpretation—ego. He had done sufficient background research on me and learned about the military background. He possessed a flat belly and wished to signal that he, too, was fit and ready for action. Whatever, bucko.
I approached, hand extended. He stopped and raised both palms toward me. Stop. I did. We shared stares until he began performing side stretches, hands on hips, and looked past me. The ocean breeze fluttered his topknot.
“Thanks again for seeing me, Elliot. Should we go inside?”
“No. What’s this all about, Lee?”
I was more than cool with a person’s direct approach toward the issue at hand. I wasn’t cool with this clown treating me like a peasant. But crumpling his sorry ass like junk mail and flinging him into the ocean wasn’t an option given the armed guards nearby. Although I could have him flopping like a fish before they could react. How they would react was another story. But I tamped it down, kept a pleasant smile plastered, and told myself this was Hawaii—no one had tried to whack me, and I’d already discovered a beach bar at the hotel. A sweet gig, so chill.
“This is all about my client’s keen interest in understanding Alaton and the services it offers. As for me, simple due diligence. It’s what I do.”
He stopped the side stretches, did a back stretch, and stared down his nose with hooded eyes.
“Due diligence, eh? I performed some due diligence as well. On you. And the results bother me.”
Translation: he didn’t have a helluva lot to go on.
“I’m a pretty plain vanilla guy. No reason to be bothered. That’s a nice car,” I said, admiring the dark blue Rolls parked nearby. “I didn’t know they made an SUV.”
Small talk, bonding and rapport—standard stuff when initiating a conversation designed to elicit information. And a detour away from Case Lee’s personal information. Krupp wasn’t having any of it.
“You were special forces. Perhaps Delta Force, although I haven’t dug that up yet. Born in Savannah,” he said.
Mild alarm bells rang. It wasn’t a complete surprise—Hoolie had forewarned me—but the Delta background statement meant one thing. This guy had deep access to US government black ops data. Hidden military records, CIA, NSA—hard to say. Okay, fine. Bothersome, but legit intel about the extent of this guy’s reach and duly noted.
“I’m here, Elliot, for an assessment. A potential business relationship for my client.”
Krupp turned his back and surveyed his kingdom. His home, his compound, sat fortress-like with steep lava-rock cliffs braced against the ocean’s rumble.
“Yes. So you said earlier. A Swiss client.”
“Correct.”
Back still toward me, he said, “I deal with higher-ups.”
Wonder, not anger, flowed through me. I wondered how such an asshat went through life without simple realization. Realization that he and I and everyone on this good earth had their ticket punched sooner or later. And once gone, the things that mattered were the trail of positive relationships you left behind. How many folks did you lift, ease their way, make feel a little better? I stood aware I wasn’t a shining example, having terminated a fair number of birth certificates, but at least
I tried. This clown, this MOTU, didn’t.
“Yeah, well, I am what I am,” I said. “Next steps, if there are next steps, would be a one-on-one with someone in power. It’s how the Swiss work.”
Pure BS, but it kept the ball rolling for a conversation that so far had gone about as well as a goat-roping. He turned toward me and we stood silent. He blinked, pursed his lips, and tossed an Alaton elevator pitch.
“Alaton removes worry,” he said. “We create population life paths best suited for harmony and cooperation. Tell your client we are about liberation, not constraint.”
On previous jobs I’d run into situations where I didn’t have the foggiest notion what my conversational counterpart was talking about. Not now. Not this time. Thanks to Hoolie, I understood Krupp’s angle, and it was creepy as hell.
“Sounds like something my client would be quite interested in.”
Time for a liar’s leap. Chum the waters with BS.
“Interested in, but with reservations,” I continued. “We aren’t China. Or a branch of the US government. We’re a small country.”
What a crock, but straws grasped.
“Inform your client we scale to size. Let them know it’s not about fundamental insights into individual behavior as much as collective behavior and collective proclivities. Behaviors and proclivities I help direct. Help guide. I have the ability to calm roiling waters on a national scale.”
“Okay.”
China as a client, confirmed. As well as at least one US government department.
“We live in a new world, Lee. One that requires new tools, new perspectives.”
“Understood.”
Not exactly, but at least this cat was talking.
“Then understand this. One of the reasons I agreed to see you was the lack of personal data connected to Case Lee. I rarely run into blank spots.”
Yeah, Elliot. I’m a man of mystery. Too freakin’ bad. Back to business as this meeting had all the earmarks of an early termination. His right eyelid twitched or spasmed. A neurological issue? Drugs?
“Let’s keep this on a business footing,” I said and crossed my arms across my chest. “I get the gist of your business model. So how tight are you integrated with a client’s policies?”
At this point, “client” had become synonymous with national governments.
“Policies are public-facing. Mere window dressing. You really are over your head, aren’t you?”
“It’s possible. But you’ve started painting me a picture, and I’d appreciate the full view.”
He performed more side stretches. The undulating background surf roar, muted by the cliffs, must have made for easy sleeping.
“No. That’s enough.”
He paused his stretches. Man, his underwear was bright. “Tell your client I expect the next connection to be with someone in power. Not a messenger boy.”
Enough. I wasn’t getting any further with this guy.
“Alright, Elliot. I guess this about wraps it up.”
Before I could start back toward my rental car, he said, “No it doesn’t. You’re an enigma. Living off the grid and laying low. You’ve piqued my curiosity. So understand this, Lee. I’ll find out everything about you. Count on it. What I do with the information should worry you.”
Said with a wolfish grin. Followed by a MOTU chuckle.
What the dumbass failed to understand was a threat toward me constituted a bridge too far. Way too damn far. I strolled toward the Rolls SUV, a pleasant grin still on my face. I cupped my hands and peered through the passenger-side window. Pulled the door open and slid in. The smell of rich leather and hand-polished wood dominated. Handcraftsmanship galore. Gotta hand it to the Brits.
He took the bait, opened the driver’s side door, and slid in. Whether to demand I get out of his vehicle or take another opportunity to berate me—it didn’t matter. I had his sorry ass where I wanted it.
I closed my door while his remained open. The heavy window tint prevented the armed guard nearest me from viewing any subsequent activity. The other guard was stationed more toward the rear, his view blocked by the vehicle. Krupp placed his right hand on the center console and started to speak when his mouth froze open. I’d placed my hand on his and with a rapid low-profile move gripped and applied intense pressure against a particular spot near his thumb. A spot loaded with nerve endings. Krupp, teeth bared, groaned in pain.
“Keep your voice down, or I’ll snap your wrist. Then you won’t keep your voice down, guaranteed. You’ll scream for your mother. Understood, Krupp?”
He exhaled harshly through his nostrils, and wild eyes took me in.
“I just asked you a question, scooter. Did you hear me?”
He responded with a clenched-jaw. “Yes.”
“So here’s the deal, Elliot, old buddy. You’ve demeaned me, insulted me, and treated me like something on the bottom of your shoe. Fine. I can walk away from that.”
I applied more pressure. His left foot pressed against the floorboard, pushing him farther up the seat. The rate of sharp exhales increased as the veins stood out along his neck.
“But what I can’t walk away from is a threat. Nossir. So listen up and look at me.”
He did.
“I can get to you anytime, anywhere. Those men you hired won’t stop me. I can reach out and touch you from five hundred yards, or slip into your bedroom at two a.m. and take care of business up close and personal. You threaten me, asshole, and there isn’t enough money on this planet to save your butt. Nod if you understand.”
He did.
“Have I left any gray areas for you?”
He shook his head no.
“Good. Remain inside this vehicle until I leave. Or forget about sleeping well anytime soon.”
I ambled over to my rental car. Waved and smiled toward both the hired guns. Thirty seconds later, the steel gate slid shut behind me. I turned toward the resort and lunch and an afternoon meeting with Jess Rossi. And left behind a pissed and very dangerous man.
Yeah, well, that would make two of us.
Chapter 6
I waited for the next decent wave, bothered and frustrated and unable to relish the clear water, soft sand, and six-foot waves breaking at Hāpuna Beach. With several hours before a get-together with Jess Rossi, playing the waves—boogie boarding—was in order.
Krupp had gotten to me, plain and simple. The SOB had punched the right buttons, pulled the appropriate strings. Whether through design or by displaying his standard character didn’t matter. What mattered was I’d failed to handle it with professional aplomb. The implied threat he’d delivered had touched a sore spot. My deep background. Yeah, I’d left more than a few expired hitters, spies, and bounty hunters in my wake. And was uber-protective toward Mom and my mentally challenged younger sister, CC. Kept them insulated from my past and current activities. I was protective toward my blood brothers as well. Among the four of us, I remained the lone tribal member who still mucked about with global intrigue. Global messes. Always aware spooks operated at the fringes of my life, more than a few with ill intent. The Russians wanted me dead—although the weird world of spookville had placed them in alignment with me during my last job in the Amazon. Still, they would have my butt on a platter given the opportunity. The Chinese had made past attempts at whacking me through proxies, the CIA used and abused me, the Iranians had me high on their shit list, and heaven knows if or how Mossad viewed Case Lee. Man, what a hairball I’d created. A world of watch-your-back, lies, and shadow players.
And now this freakin’ MOTU. His threat implied opening the entire can of worms to play hand-of-god with the wriggling mess. Maybe. I didn’t know enough about the SOB to discern his true intent. It could have been BS, a standard “Look at me and my power” play. Hard to say. At least hard for me to say. That SOB.
A dozen of us boogie boarders bobbed off the gorgeous beach as the sun glistened off waves and ripples. A decent swell appeared, and several of us took off paddling.
A powerful and primal lift from the breaking wave and the roar of water and a kid-like thrill while I was propelled toward the beach. I grinned widely, swept up in the moment. It helped. Helped leave the last hour behind and look forward.
Joanna Krupp could provide clarity. She could give insights into her husband’s character and tendencies and follow-through. Which made the Jess Rossi meeting all the more important. Get past Rossi, pass muster, and meet with Joanna. Plus deliver Hoolie’s thumb drives tomorrow at dawn. So a plan remained, movement forward. Between Joanna and, with a bit of luck, the thumb drives, I’d assemble a more than halfway decent report. Toss in a few personal items about Krupp and his divorce, leverage what I’d learned from Jules and Hoolie—yeah, it might work out alright.
I caught another dozen waves, playing like a kid. Large sea turtles meandered past parallel to the shore and close along the line of boogie boarders. A turtle cry would emanate from one end or the other of us bobbing in line, and the sea creature would make its way past us as we watched in wonder. They slipped past with languid strokes and a turtle’s insouciance, highlighting how alien this salty environment was for us human critters. Farther offshore, whales breached with blowhole sprays as identifying markers. Yeah, I could do a lot worse.
Back at the hotel a phone message waited. Jess Rossi had changed the meeting location to something called the Lava Lava Beach Club. Who knows why and it didn’t matter. Neutral turf maybe. I started toward a cool shower and glanced at the bathroom mirror’s gnarly reflection. Scars aplenty—bullets, knife wounds, shrapnel slices. Even an arrowhead wound, well healed. I stood stock-still and considered the mileage. Beaucoup miles through rough bloody terrain. No spring chicken stared back at me. My blood brother Marcus Johnson, tucked in Montana’s big sky country, was always on me about settling down. Maybe it was time. But the bounty, the damn bounty on my head, kept the threat meter on high. And settling down, a static position, meant an even more acute sentinel perspective toward my backside. Still. Maybe it was time. I took a final glance at a beat-up ex-Delta operator, stepped away from my reverie, and reminded myself to bring the Glock into the bathroom with me. Yeah, an old habit and another lifestyle marker.
