And that sibling hierarchy had not changed in the many years since those difficult days of Stanley’s youth. Still he followed, still he obeyed, still Toby was the one to show the way. Of course that way had already been laid out by their father, but, during his incarceration, Toby had taken over the leadership role of the family. Stanley simply faded further into the shadows, rarely expressing himself in any way that was not acquiescence to his brother’s wishes. Never did he lead the way. Never did he make the big play. Never did he shine.
Until now.
“Don’t be nervous,” Toby told his brother as he pulled the rented car through the traffic gate and into the Metrolink parking lot at Union Station in downtown Los Angeles, choosing the first spot that presented itself.
“I’m not.”
“Just take it slow,” Toby instructed him.
Stanley looked at his brother, making contact with his good eye. “I can do this.”
Toby nodded nervously, knowing his little brother was about to be put to the test. A test he had actually arranged for himself. A test that, if passed, would yield the final information needed to ensure success. “I know you can.”
The words, sounding sincere, surprised Stanley. Approval? From Toby? Or was it just resignation, a hope that little Stan could do it and, if not, oh well. But then again, did it really matter which it was? “I gotta go.”
Stanley stepped from the car, closing the door behind, and headed for the stairs to the Metro Red Line station, the feel of his brother’s judging eyes on his back fading only after he began the seventy-foot descent. At the platform level he quickly oriented himself and went straight for the ticket kiosk. The environment was foreign to him, as it was to most Angelenos. The City of Los Angeles had only recently jumped upon the mass transit bandwagon, building its first true subway, the Red Line, which cut through downtown Los Angeles on its underground swath westward. Stanley, though, had familiarized himself enough with the layout and route to know which stop would be his, and he had reminded himself that, despite the absence of the turnstiles familiar in the subways of other major cities, he did have to buy a ticket from the computerized vendor. The honor system prevailed here, though only until one of the many uniformed transit cops might ask to see your stub. In a way it was farcical, Stanley thought, smiling at the kiosk-mounted screen—he was playing by the rules on his way to do something quite the opposite.
The trains at this time of the morning ran every twelve minutes, leaving just a short wait for the next one. Stanley boarded one of the surprisingly clean cars with only a small group of passengers, most dressed as he was, and took a seat facing the aisle. After the doors closed with a muffled hiss the train pulled away from the station and into a sweeping left turn that was barely noticeable in the tunnel. Less than two minutes later, just shy of a mile from Union Station, the train made its first stop, at Hill and First, disgorging those who had business at the Civic Center. That done the chain of steely silver cars continued less than a half-mile further, slowing and stopping at the Pershing Square station...Stanley’s destination.
The ride had been less than five minutes, but it served a purpose, putting virtually untraceable distance between Stanley’s final destination and the rental his brother had picked up that morning at the airport. From the platform Stanley walked up the stairs, emerging into the noise and light of downtown Los Angeles just north of Fifth Street at Hill, across from Pershing Square proper. The oasis of green amid a forest of glass and old stone was not his final stop. He stayed across from the square, walking west on Fifth with the rest of the late-morning commuters. At South Olive, waiting for traffic to clear, he looked up, seeing the towering masterpiece of engineering that dwarfed anything on the west coast of the United States. His destination. Their target.
The First Interstate World Center, located at the corner of Grand and Fifth in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, rose like a polished cylinder of gold-tinted glass to a height of 1,017 feet. Its seventy-three stories were populated by a mix of banking, legal, and other offices that came very close to filling the 750,000 square feet of available space. At any one time during a workday, between five and twenty thousand people were estimated to be either working, doing business, or visiting there. This day, Stanley Barrish was among those.
“Excuse me,” Stanley said to a pretty young lady at the information desk. “I’m supposed to meet Ray Harback. He’s the...” Stanley fished out the piece of paper he’d written the man’s title on.
“He’s our environmental plant manager,” the girl said with a smile.
“Right,” Stanley said, putting the paper back in his pocket.
“His office is on this floor, over there.” She pointed west across the lobby. “Down that hallway you’ll see a sign that says World Center Management. Mr. Harback’s office is in Building Services.”
“All right. Thank you.” Stanley moved across the crowded lobby, the dingy morning light flowing through windows to his left, and down the hallway to the location he had been directed to. Inside the door to Building Services he found Harback’s secretary, who showed him into her supervisor’s windowless office.
“Mr. Stearns,” Ray Harback said, coming around his desk to greet the visitor.
“Call me Stan,” Mr. “Stearns” responded.
“Okay,” Harback, jacketless and in rolled-up sleeves, agreed willingly. “And I’m Ray. ‘Mister’ goes with the blazer.”
“I’m a loose-tie man myself,” Stanley informed his host.
“Have a seat.” Harback returned to his chair and closed several folders on his desk. “So, Mick at Sun-Snow pointed you my way.”
“Sure did. He was a big help.”
“I didn’t get the whole story from him, just that you’re doing a project overseas and there’s trouble with the environmental systems. Is that right?”
Stanley nodded. “Trouble is an understatement. The guy who did the job I’m now jumping into was arrested for taking kickbacks from one of our installation contractors.”
“Where is this?”
“Thailand,” Stanley lied believably. “We have a two-and-a-half-million-square-foot warehouse facility just about finished in Bangkok, maybe six months’ work to go, and the environmental system this idiot contracted for will not do the job.”
Harback grimaced. “Ouch.”
“The main problem isn’t the actual equipment,” Stanley went on, “it was my predecessor’s screwed up installation instructions. He had the support plant for the...” He pulled a notebook from his briefcase. “...let’s see, for the Cansco Control Systems equipment built too far from the feed systems to be of any use.”
“Yeah, I know that CCS gear,” Harback said with a shake of his head. “Their pumps and their flow managers are weak. You could boost the pumps, but that wouldn’t put any more product into your space. Just plain air.”
Product. Stanley knew that meant the output of the environmental system, what would have been called the air conditioner and heater only ten years before. No more heat. No more cool air. Product. The research he’d done was paying off.
“So our problem is that we have an almost completed facility, a completed support unit for our environmentals, and a shipload of equipment that won’t do the job.”
“Ouch again.”
Stanley drew in a deep breath and eased back in the soft chair. “So, my job now is to find a system we can put in place in six months, using the existing support plant, that will do the job. Mick said the system you have here...” Again he looked to his notes.
“The SunSnow Duo Temp Assembly 5-M,” Harback said proudly, as if reciting the name of his newborn.
“Right. That’s the baby Mick said might fit our needs.”
“So you want to know if it does us right.”
“Actually I’m sure it does,” Stanley said, easing into the pitch. “Like I said, our problem is setup. Space and arrangement. Mick said you have your equipment rigged in a way that might work for us.”
Yes, the pumps. That was what Stanley had read about in a trade journal. The plans SunSnow had sent him told him all he needed to know about the pumps as pieces of machinery, but Harback would have to give him what he needed more.
“Mick said you’d be willing to show me your layout,” Stanley said. “Kinda to give me an idea if what you’ve done will suit us.”
“Sure,” Harback said, standing. “I’d be happy to show off our baby. Come on.”
Stanley stood, smiling. It was really going to be that easy.
* * *
Royce Pharmaceuticals was a sprawling complex of offices, laboratories, and other buildings dotting a neatly tended green pasture forty miles north of Los Angeles just off the Golden State Freeway. The left turn from the off-ramp pointed the Bureau Chevy directly at the facility’s main gate, and at several news vehicles staked out on the facility’s perimeter.
“Word travels fast,” Frankie commented upon seeing the high-tech trucks, two with their telescoping microwave dishes already up as they shot for a hookup with the relays on the nearby peaks.
“When you put on a major CYA show to the press it’s bound to,” Art said, wondering briefly if Vorhees would survive the feeding frenzy. Then he wondered if he really should care at all.
“We’re here to see Monte Royce,” Frankie said as she stopped at the guard shack, showing her FBI shield. The armed guard examined her credentials, then peered through the open window, hesitating. “One of our people called,” she informed the guard. “Mr. Royce is supposed to be waiting.” The look she gave him next was even less than businesslike. “As in waiting for us.”
The guard stepped back and pressed a button in the shack, which raised the single-arm barrier. “Right at the first lot. Park facing the main building, please.”
Frankie hit the up button for the window as she muttered a less than sincere “Thank you.”
“A little paranoid, don’t you think?”
“Paranoia is a virtue in some circles,” Art said, recalling the elaborate security measures he had been witness to during his years investigating organized crime.
Frankie pulled the car into one of several open spots, each clearly marked VISITOR on a post-mounted placard. Art scanned the area as he stepped from the car, noting more security measures inside the company perimeter. “Smile, partner.”
Frankie looked up, seeing the two security cameras mounted atop perches swivel their way. She met the unseen stare of the unseen operator, maintaining it until entering the oversized glass doors that led into the lobby of the main building.
“Agents Jefferson and Aguirre to see Mr. Royce,” Art said to the receptionist, again sensing more security. This time it was two men in immaculate suits standing near the only door leading from the lobby to the innards of the building. Both had their jackets unbuttoned, hands crossed hanging in the fig leaf position. It would only take a split second for either to get to the weapons they obviously carried under their coats.
“Yes,” the receptionist acknowledged. She turned to one of the security guards. “Would you please escort these visitors to Mr. Royce’s office?”
“Certainly.” The man nodded and flashed a professional, antiseptic smile to the agents. His counterpart held the door open as the security guard led the agents through, stopping halfway down a wide hallway that was decorated in subtle earth tones. He pressed the lighted up arrow next to the elevator and followed the visitors in, hitting the 6 button.
“You’d think you guys made cruise missiles or something here,” Frankie said once the door closed.
“We have competitors,” the security guard said.
Competitors. Art translated that to what the man’s tone said it should be: enemies. The business world really was where the next wars would be fought.
“To the right,” the guard said, taking the lead again once they were off the elevator.
Wow. Frankie remembered enough of art history from college to recognize the pieces that hung along the hallway they were moving down. Los Caprichos, a work by Goya, and across from it The Duchess of Alba by the same artist. Both were from the late 1700s, she recalled, amazed that some of the knowledge had stuck with her. More works adorned the walls. Beautiful paintings by Guardi, though Frankie could not place titles with them. Another Goya. And something told her that these were not just reproductions. The artwork alone warranted the security seen so far.
The guard opened a door, letting the agents into the outer office of the chief executive officer of Royce Pharmaceuticals, then closed it and withdrew into the hallway.
“Mr. Royce is waiting,” a very polite secretary said, standing from her desk and walking to the door on the back wall. “Right through here.”
The agents followed the directions and were met by the reason for their visit.
“Hello,” Monte Royce said as the agents entered. He stood in the center of his spacious office, halfway between the door and his desk, which was backdropped by a panoramic view of the green hillsides that would turn brown once the region’s brief rainy season had ended. “I’m Monte Royce.”
Art took the man’s outstretched hand first, then Frankie did.
“Can I offer you anything?” Royce asked. “Some tea? Water?”
“No,” Art said. “Thank you. We’re fine.”
Royce looked to his secretary waiting in the doorway. “Thank you, Mary.”
“Mr. Royce,” Frankie began as the heavy oak door closed, “I have to tell you, you have some beautiful artwork here.”
Royce bowed his gray and balding head graciously. “Thank you. My mother’s father began the collection over a hundred years ago. I have a few pieces here to brighten the place up.”
“It does,” Frankie said.
Royce motioned to two couches facing each other across a stunning Persian rug. He took a seat on one, the agents on the other. “I suspect you are not here to discuss eighteenth-century art.”
“No, we’re not,” Art said. “We’re here about Nikolai Kostin.”
“Yes, Mr. King,” Royce said, nodding, his almost black suit combining with his aged features to give him the appearance of a mortician expressing sympathy over a lost loved one. “I grew used to using his new name while he worked for us.”
The tone of the tense Royce used in referring to Kostin tweaked an alarm in both agents, Frankie jumping on it first. “While he worked for you? He hasn’t worked for you recently?”
Royce’s eyes wandered the room for a moment, his expression and manner becoming somewhat sad as he looked back to the agents. “Unfortunately, no. His time with us was short. Just less than a year, I believe. He had, you see, a problem adjusting to our working methods. To the way we operate here. It was a matter of culture, partly, and of personality.”
“He was fired, then?” Frankie sought to confirm, her notebook and pen coming out.
“Yes. Not an amicable parting,” Royce revealed. “He was not happy with us for doing so.”
Art had watched the man as Frankie began the questioning, measuring his reactions to each query posed. Once he jumped in, the roles would reverse, his partner becoming the observer. One to receive and record the response. The other to make a mental record of the person’s manner. It was nothing discussed, being instead a process ingrained from the earliest days of their academy training. The words and the ways, it was called. Somewhere in those, sometimes far from the spoken answers, was the truth.
“And you met him in Russia?”
“Yes. In St. Petersburg. In the spring of 1993. It was a rather high-profile trip I undertook. The Russian government provided guides and a good deal of assistance in the way of transportation.”
Frankie nodded, checking her notes quickly. “And you went there to...”
“To tour facilities with similar functions to mine,” Royc
e explained, taking the long pause after his short response as a signal that the agent was not yet satisfied. “It was a...a chance to see the level of sophistication they had attained under the stifling system of state control the plant operators were subject to. In a way, I suppose, I wanted to see if there might be ways for my company to assist the industry in Russia with technical help in the form of joint ventures. Partnerships. And the like.”
“So it was business?”
“Yes. Most definitely. Though not devoid of altruism,” Royce added with a smile. “Good can come from a profitable relationship. That is possible.”
“I guess it is,” Frankie benignly agreed. “And Nikolai Kostin approached you as Congressman Vorhees stated?”
“I did not see Richard’s statement. I was told of it.”
Richard? Art decided to take it from there. “You know the congressman well?”
“I know many people in our government well. Senator Crippen from this state is a friend, as well as Richard Vorhees. I have a facility in Massachusetts, and my mother lived in his district until a few years ago. I moved her out here then. She is quite old, you can imagine.”
In her nineties at least, Art guessed, given the visual clues to Royce’s advanced age. “And—”
“But,” Royce interjected, “to the young lady’s question, yes, he approached me in St. Petersburg.”
Young lady? Art saw the smile, then the seemingly friendly head tilt his partner had mastered. It’s Agent Aguirre! he could almost hear her screaming inside. “Back to the congressman,” Art said. “You proposed the idea of Mr. Kostin coming to work for you to him, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And the name change. Who proposed that?”
Royce looked away again, thinking back. “I believe it was myself. You see, I understand the vociferous nature of some societal elements. People that oppose our using animals in testing, and so on. I thought that having a man on staff who had worked in the Russian defense establishment could bring on similar actions. That, in my opinion, would not have been good for my company, or for Mr. King.”
Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) Page 11
