by JP Ratto
The CEO’s office and conference rooms dominated the top floor of the building. A woman in her sixties sat at a desk outside the opened double doors leading to a plush private office, tastefully decorated with expensive furniture and artwork.
“Sit down, Mr. Holt,” Boxer ordered, pointing to another set of uncomfortable chairs. She settled behind her desk. “Now, what’s this all about? Why is a private investigator interested in ADL?”
Time was a factor, so I was blunt. “Ms. Boxer, I have reason to believe there is a possible plot to steal one of your products.”
If this was old news to Boxer, she didn’t show it. Instead, she appeared alarmed. “Please tell me what evidence you have to support that belief. This is serious. We work on any number of dangerous chemicals and the idea of any of them falling into the wrong hands would be catastrophic.”
I had no verification but voiced what I thought was obvious. “Charles Gates’s grandson is being held against his will as leverage for some sort of convenient security lapse so a product can be removed from your lab.”
Celeste Boxer stiffened in her chair, her face staid except for one raised eyebrow. “You have proof of this?”
“We have a photo of Brandon, displaying his captivity. No demands have been made, but in light of what Mark Halpern told Gates before he died—”
“One moment, Mr. Holt. If your presumptions are based on Charles Gates’s conversations with a man who is dead and cannot corroborate them, then I’m afraid I can’t take any action. We continue to employ Gates Global Protection. There is a twenty-four hour watch on the lab. We have cameras and other security measures in place. You experienced our thoroughness yourself. No one is going to take anything from ADL.”
“Ms. Boxer, my job is not to prevent a theft at ADL, but to find Brandon Gates.”
“I don’t understand.”
Boxer’s words feigned confusion because her piercing gaze told me she did. “Don’t you? Of course, I would need your full cooperation.”
“Cooperation to do what?” Boxer asked.
“To allow the theft to happen.” When she didn’t respond, my natural instinct was to be convincing. “You see, the only way to know who has Brandon Gates is to know who wants the product.” I needn’t have elaborated as Boxer was nodding her head in agreement and looking eager to speak.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Holt, you want to use us as bait. I presume you have no other leads as to who might have kidnapped Brandon Gates, and that’s why you need our assistance.”
“Odd,” I said, “I thought my plan would be mutually beneficial.”
“Of course,” Celeste Boxer gave me a wry smile and leaned back in her chair. “I’ll do what I can to aid you in recovering Mr. Gates, even allowing an attempt at stealing one of our products.” She tapped the cell phone that lay on her desk. “I have no more appointments today. I’ll give you a quick tour of the labs, and later we can discuss a plan of action—or should I say inaction?”
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. “I’m sorry, I need to take this.”
Celeste Boxer nodded.
The call was from Gates. He had received a message from Brandon’s captors. I listened without commenting, told him I understood what I had to do, and disconnected the call. Boxer’s gaze was questioning.
“What is Windstorm?” I asked.
Her face turned grave again. “I suspected as much. How much time do we have?”
“Two days.”
“Then we need to make our plans. I have a dinner reservation for tonight. Can you join me?”
The message was clear. She was in charge. ADL had made a shrewd decision to place this woman as the company’s interim CEO. She had a responsibility to avert a national security disaster. I had an obligation to find Brandon. With her cooperation, I hoped we could accomplish both.
“Dinner sounds great.”
Chapter 19
After another search and scan before entering a special elevator, which led to the basement labs, Celeste Boxer gave me the promised tour. Peering through the tempered-glass floor-to-ceiling window, I half expected the sleek, hi-tech atmosphere of television and movies, but ADL’s working laboratories were more like medical diagnostic test centers. White cabinetry lined the walls, and steel-topped counters held state-of-the-art equipment. The one impressive item in lab number six was the pressurized container that housed Windstorm. A space-age looking cylinder containing test tubes of what Boxer described as “the most lethal of weapons” took center stage in the middle of the room.
A GGP employee, buff and ex-military, stood outside the door. I nodded at the stalwart guard. He didn’t acknowledge me, but I could tell he was aware of our every word and move. ADL was in good hands. The commander had chosen well and provided one of his best. The only thing that would move this soldier from his post was a direct order from Gates.
We didn’t enter the lab. All that was necessary to see was visible through the glass. In light of the security in the building lobby and again at the elevator to the labs, I wondered how anyone from the outside would make it down to the secure basement.
Ending the tour, Celeste Boxer led me to the lobby. She spoke as she tapped her phone and scrolled the screen. “Meet me at the Lafayette at seven. It’s in the Hay-Adams Hotel in D.C. Mention my name.” She glanced over my attire of khaki slacks, cotton oxford shirt, and leather jacket, and gave me a quick nod.
I grinned. “I’ll do?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Holt, you’ll do very well. See you at seven,” she said and strode to the elevators.
***
I returned to Gates’s home to freshen up and change my shirt and shoes. The commander was in his office. He moved sluggishly, almost zombie-like from the window back to his desk. His droopy red eyes ringed in black circles suggested he hadn’t slept much, if at all.
“Have you told your son and daughter-in-law about the photo?”
“Yes, however, I was vague as to the kidnappers’ demands. National security concerns limit what I can tell them, but they understand it has something to do with my business. I could feel my daughter-in-law’s contempt for what I do and how it has brought this terrible situation to our doorstep. Even my son blames me. They are as upset as you can imagine. I reassured them you would bring Brandon home. I have complete confidence in you, Lucas, and so do they.”
Thanks. No pressure.
“I can assure you I’ll do my best.” I briefed Gates on my meeting at ADL and my plan to dine with Celeste Boxer to discuss our next move.
“Good. Celeste Boxer is a capable woman. I checked her out as soon as I heard she was the new CEO. It’s important to know who your clients are.”
***
I had time before meeting Boxer. Since I was going to D.C. anyway, I decided to drive past Brandon’s apartment on M Street. I hadn’t heard from either Green or Somers, and no news is good news, but they might have been avoiding me. I wanted to shake up Somers about his FBI connection. It still bothered me that they were interested in Brandon’s activities.
Taking Wisconsin Avenue toward D.C., the trip was a thirty-five-minute crawl to Brandon’s apartment. I slowed in front of the building and noted the time. It was almost six. I didn’t know Somers’s schedule and thought my time was better spent checking out the non-profit Brandon worked for.
The address Cynthia Gates gave me was on K Street, a few minutes away. She was unsure of the organization’s name. I didn’t have time to do the research and parked nearby. Walking on the opposite side of the street, I noticed groups of employees leave the building. When I saw more than one woman in a hijab, I knew it was the right place, but it occurred to me I had a problem. I couldn’t accost everyone who exited the building. About to leave, I caught a glimpse of Somers’s hunched, hooded figure walking toward the building.
He paused at the entrance and then moved on again. Curious, I kept pace a good distance behind him. I stopped when he did and was surprised when a young woman wearing a hijab appeared around a corn
er and spoke with him. I watched them, noticing Somers’s agitated manner, shifting his stance, waving his hand, and pointing his finger at the woman. She, on the other hand, almost cowered into her wool coat, her head down and shaking back and forth in response to Somers’s words. She looked up and seemed to find her resolve. The woman leaned toward Somers, said what she had to say, and stormed off. When Somers skulked away, hands in his pockets, I followed the woman.
I caught up with her within two blocks as she waited for a green light to cross the street.
“Excuse me. Can I talk to you about Brandon Gates?”
She started when I spoke, and I thought she’d run away. Looking in all directions for an escape, she was clearly afraid. The light changed and she scurried to the next street. I kept pace at her side.
“Please. Just a few minutes of your time. I’ve been hired by Brandon’s grandfather to find him.”
She stopped and stared at me, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I can’t help you. I don’t know where he is.”
“Okay, but…” I glanced around and saw a Starbucks on the corner across from where we stood. “Would you like a coffee or something to drink? It’s chilly, and it would be more comfortable inside.” I pointed toward the coffee shop; she turned to look and nodded.
Once inside and seated, she relaxed. I bought myself a coffee and an herb tea for her. She sipped and sighed at the warmth of the beverage. I showed her my ID. “I’m Lucas Holt. What’s your name?”
“Ghada Shaheen. I wish I could help you, Mr. Holt, but I don’t know how. I haven’t heard from Brandon in days and I’m worried. It’s not like him to ignore my calls and disappear.”
“How are you and Brandon acquainted?”
“We work together for AMAR.”
“Amar? Who is he?”
My question made her smile and her face lost its solemn, hunted look. She was quite a pretty young woman with deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, and smooth olive skin. If her dark eyebrows were any indication, she had thick black hair hidden under the hijab.
“AMAR is an organization. Association for Muslim American Relations. It’s similar to CAIR, which is much more well known. We are a lot smaller and a lot less controversial. You don’t think his disappearance has anything to do with AMAR.”
“No, I don’t believe so.” As I said the words, I thought about Somers and the FBI. Were Dick and Brains following Brandon’s activities because of a terrorist connection to AMAR? It wasn’t out of the realm. Many organizations, not only Islamic, were fronts for criminal and terrorist activity.
“You know Matthew Somers?” I asked. It was more a statement than a question. Ghada fiddled with the teabag, dipping it up and down in the hot water. “I saw you talking to him before I approached you.”
She sighed. “Yes, he is Brandon’s roommate.”
“You’ve been to Brandon’s apartment?”
Ghada’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “Of course not. I met Matthew when he came to the shop my brother manages. Dhakar and he have become friends, though I don’t see why. They are so different. Even Brandon is puzzled.”
“You don’t like Matt Somers, do you?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me what he said to you? Was your conversation about Brandon?”
Ghada scanned the coffee shop as if to make sure no one listened to our conversation. “He thinks my brother knows where Brandon is. I told him to ask Dhakar himself.”
“Do you think your brother knows what happened to Brandon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Matt Somers tell you why he’s interested in what happened to Brandon? I spoke to him and Brian Green, and they didn’t appear concerned. At least, Matt didn’t.” I left out the part about Somers’s meeting with the FBI, as that would have terrified Ghada. But I was curious if Brandon had realized his roommate was keeping tabs on him, and if he had told Ghada.
“Does he have to have a reason other than to know why his friend is missing?” she asked.
“So, Matt and Brandon were friends as well as roommates?”
Ghada shook her head and shifted in her seat. “No, they are not really friends. Mr. Holt, I’m not comfortable with any of these questions. I don’t like people following me or waiting for me whenever I leave work or home. I have nothing more to say.”
She looked ready to leave and slung the strap of her oversized handbag over her head to rest on one shoulder. Before she could go, I said, “I don’t want to alarm you, Ms. Shaheen, but we have evidence that Brandon is in danger. I can’t be any more explicit than that. The truth is we don’t know enough at this point. Since you and he seem to have a close relationship…” Shaheen began to shake her head.
“No? You and Brandon are not close?”
“Our relationship is complicated.”
“It’s important that you help me. I’m questioning anyone who sees Brandon on a regular basis. Is there anything you can tell me about the last time you saw or spoke to him?”
She didn’t respond right away, taking time, I presumed, to collect her thoughts. I could tell she struggled with not wanting to become involved in my investigation and wanting to help locate Brandon.
“Ghada, his life may be in danger.”
“You are correct,” she said, her head down, her voice soft, “we are close. In fact, Brandon is studying Islam so we may have a future together. I cannot marry outside my religion, so he is willing to convert to mine. So you see, it’s inconceivable that he would go somewhere without telling me. I’m worried that our relationship may be the cause of his disappearance. I will do whatever I can.”
I now had an explanation for the Koran and perhaps the reason for the visa application.
“When’s the last time you saw Brandon?”
“It was six days ago. We met that morning before work and had made plans to see each other the next day.”
“And that’s the last time you heard from him? Nothing after that?”
“We usually say goodnight before we go to bed, but he didn’t call or text.”
“How was his behavior when you last saw him? Did he seem preoccupied?”
Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. “Are you suggesting he planned his own disappearance?”
“No. I’m trying to find out if he thought he was in any danger.”
“Ah.” Shaheen defensive demeanor calmed. “He was himself, funny—always teasing me—in a nice way. He was in a good mood. Brandon is a warm and kind man, always there to help if you need it. In fact, he received a phone call shortly after we met and said someone needed a favor. He―”
She broke off in mid-sentence and tears slid down her cheeks. She swiped them and searched her handbag, pulling out a tissue. I wanted to ask her about the last thing she said and waited until she composed herself.
“Do you know who the phone call was from?”
Her eyes widened as if she’d made a rare discovery, then she lowered them and shook her head.
“Sorry, I don’t know who he spoke with. I don’t pry. His personal calls are none of my business.” She brightened. “But I could tell it was someone he knew well.”
Chapter 20
I left my card with Ghada Shaheen and drove to the Hay-Adams. At seven sharp I was greeted at the entrance to The Lafayette by the maître d’ and, after giving Boxer’s name, he escorted me to the back of the room. Serenely decorated in creams and yellows, the high-priced restaurant boasted a fantastic view of the White House and Washington Monument awash in outdoor lights.
Celeste Boxer stood at one of the windows sipping a glass of wine. She had also changed her clothes and looked stunning in a hot pink cashmere sweater and gray slacks. When she saw me, she nodded and we sat at a table for two. A waiter immediately appeared to take my drink order.
“This is quite a place,” I said, taking in the ambiance of the space.
“Glad you’re impressed. I come here quite often.” She clasped her hands and rested them on the t
able. “Let’s talk about this supposed theft.”
“It’s not a theory. I spoke with Gates before I came here. The day after tomorrow, he will be given specific instructions as to when his man should leave the lab unattended. You can imagine how difficult it is for Gates, who has dedicated himself to protecting our country, to take part in a plot of this sort. If Windstorm made its way into terrorists’ hands, he would be devastated. It’s my responsibility to insure that doesn’t happen and at the same time recover Brandon.”
“That’s a tall order even for someone with your expertise.”
“Myself and someone else the commander trusts will be there to go wherever the thief leads us—hopefully to where Brandon Gates is being held.”
“I can’t allow the product to leave the lab. I can only allow the lab to be accessed in an attempt to steal Windstorm. Once you have the culprit, you can persuade him to tell you where Brandon Gates is.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid that’s not good enough. If the product is not delivered, they’ll kill him.”
“Let me tell you how dangerous this toxin is. Depending on the amount ingested, symptoms begin between two and twelve hours after exposure. At first, you experience dry mouth and difficulty swallowing or speaking. This is followed by weakness on both sides of the face. From your eyelids to the corners of your mouth, uncontrollable loosening of the muscles turns your face into a grotesque mask. Your vision and speech are hindered as the bacteria racks your stomach with pain. Constant vomiting only ceases when paralysis sets in. Your whole body is affected and the end comes slowly as you suffocate to death.”
“Wow, sounds like botulism on steroids. And the anti-toxin is the only remedy?”
“Yes, administered in time. Blood work from the patient can determine the amount of toxin ingested and the proper dose of the antidote. The anti-toxin can’t reverse the damage that’s been done, but nerves do regenerate and many people recover fully, but it may take months.”
