Beverly? Good. That’s a start. I just need the tiniest bit more info to execute Operation: Rumor Mill.
“Beverly? Hi, this is Janice Wexler from the Chicago Sun. I was calling to see if Mister Thompson was in today so I could maybe get a comment on this sudden sabbatical he’s taking.”
“I’m sorry,” says Beverly in that unflinching perkiness secretaries seem to freebase each morning. “He’s out of the office for a while, but I can direct you to his personal website where he’s made the announcement.”
“No,” I say. “That’s fine. I’ve read that. My editor just wanted me to try to get something more substantial.” I paused. “Listen, just so I can get my ass covered, can I get your name and direct number so I can at least tell my boss who I touched base with, just to prove that I made the effort?”
“It’s Beverly McFaden,” she says and then rattles off a phone number that quickly jot down on the back of my hand, having not thought to have paper ready ahead of time but also not wanting to ask for a moment to get something to write on. I’m pretending to be a journalist here. If I ask for a moment to get something to take notes on, she might see right through my little ruse.
“Thanks,” I say after confirming the number. “My boss may or may not call you. If he does, remember, Janice Wexler called and tried really hard to get a statement out of you.”
“Will do, Janice.” I can hear the smile in her voice. It sounds more genuine than it did earlier. Perfect. Poor girl.
I never had many friends growing up, at least not in real life. Houston doesn’t think young person hormones and in-depth knowledge of how to kill a person mix terribly well. He’s probably right. As a result, just about all of my relationships are with fictional characters from books and TV, or they exist entirely on BBSes or Internet forums. Some days, it depresses me, but today, I’m glad. I may not have the best social skills, but if there is one thing I can do, it’s manipulate the course of an internet discussion.
I bring the bloggers back up, rank them by traffic, and track down the office numbers for their head writers. Then, after spoofing poor Beverly’s phone number on my cell, I suggest to each that I may or may not be Mister Thompson’s secretary, Beverly McFaden, so I know who he’s been meeting with, but if they want any information, they need to keep me anonymous. Naturally, they agree, reinforcing my belief that you should never trust anything with unnamed sources. The blogosphere is a pack of rabid piranha desperate to be the first to take a bite of anything while there is still meat on a story’s bones. I tell them there may have been talks regarding a buyout or a merger or a takeover. I make each story just different enough to have all the papers playing telephone with each other for the next week before they find out their confidential source was a fraud. Doesn’t matter. By that time, Thompson’s business headquarters will be so inundated by calls from reporters and massive conglomerates trying to put in counteroffers that Thompson will be forced to return from his sabbatical until he can quell the shitstorm I just sent his way. If it just so happens these bloggers want to dump a few thousand bucks into a throwaway bank account for my exclusive tip, that’s just icing on the cake.
When I feel confident I’ve called enough bloggers and Wall Street pundits, I open the back of my car and look for a change of clothes. This tennis skirt and tight white polo get up might work fine on a golf course, but won’t do me much good in a bustling office building. I would stick out like a sore thumb, and that’s the last thing an assassin wants. I will infiltrate their headquarters. Maybe do the determined college intern routine. I will find out where Thompson’s personal office is, and I will case it. Who comes when and why. Identify all exits, adjacent windows, when lunch arrives and who brings it. If I am really good or really lucky, I will have my new plan in motion by tomorrow. Tonight would be easier, obviously—getting him while he’s asleep is a breeze—but the contract calls for a midday execution.
As I drive toward Omaha and his downtown office building, I evaluate my list of favorite kill methods, weighing each against the ever-shifting situation. Natural causes via poison. Suicide by assassin, bloody, or by overdose, neat and less dramatic. Car trouble via frayed breaks. The old slip-n-fall. So many ways for a man to die.
Chapter 4
JAMIE
CANCEL MY ESCAPE
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” I shouted as I clicked off the TV.
“What?” asked Bill, who had been in the other room, shaving. He insisted that just because no one would see him for a while, there was no reason to let himself go.
“I have good news and bad news,” I called out. “The good news is, you aren’t crazy, and you aren’t paranoid. The bad news is that means someone actually is out to kill you.”
I rose to get him and my whole body ached. It had been so long since I had been old. I had forgotten how cold and unpleasant it is, how everything swells and creaks and keeps you up at night like an old house in winter. I’d been geriatric for two days and already I wanted to run away to Florida.
Bill shuffled in from the bathroom and watched the TV. The reports seemed to distress him, but not frighten him.
“The media are a bunch of damnable vultures, looking to pick a man apart if it sells an extra five seconds of ad time.”
“Bill,” I said, trying to help him see the severity of the situation. “They’re citing inside sources.”
“Well, whoever said it is a damned dirty liar. I haven’t agreed to meet with anyone about any buyouts or mergers or stock markets or anything of the sort. Closest I ever came to selling was when I considered going public back in ’99. Ambrose said it would give me the capital I needed to expand into foreign markets. Almost went through with it too, but came to my senses before it was too late. Had the paperwork drawn up and everything. But that was years back. This? This is all hooey.”
“I know our inside source is a liar. Why else would the story be different on every network? One says merger, another buyout. One says Wal-Mart is making the move, others say some massive conglomeration of subsidiaries and their subsidiaries. And the more each network reports what they were told and culls the other networks for anything they may have missed, the bigger this mess becomes until it’s one huge Gordian knot that they’ll have to call you in to untangle. You dropped off the radar, so the killer is pulling you back in.”
“So we stay away,” he said. “Easy peezy, lemon squeezy.”
“Meanwhile, everyone in that building is sitting around, hearing these rumors, and thinking, ‘Damn that bastard Bill’s bones. Why didn’t he tell me about this? After all we’ve been through.’ They’re either looking to flee like rats from a sinking ship or they’re looking to replace you when you make no efforts to settle things. Either way, everyone there is working on their resumes today. And when that doesn’t bring you back, that’s when the embezzling starts. If you don’t act soon, there won’t be much company left for you to manage.”
I hadn’t intended to set so much as a toe in that office this whole week. I had intended to relax at the Thompson summer home and maybe work through this legendary lust the old man had. If someone came for him, or me, they would find me comfortable, relaxing in a hot tub drinking the old man’s booze and watching something on the biggest screen I could find. Why can’t hitmen show just a modicum of consideration when planning to kill you? I was just glad I had spent the past couple days getting the rundown on Bill Thompson and Thompson’s Department Store just in case someone had a question or wanted me to provide an update on the state of affairs.
“I have to go in,” I said and went to grab his suit.
“I was wearing that,” he said, staring at me sadly in his old-style boxers and sleeveless undershirt. He even had elastic straps holding up his socks. A century ago, I thought that sort of thing was classy, a man being able to keep his socks off his loafers. Then elastic socks came along and simplified that whole deal. I had become a big fan of simplicity this past century or so. Self-standing socks. Meatloaf read
y in minutes. It’s just a shame computers had to come and mess everything up by over-complicating things again.
“I need to be you,” I said, “and it seems our mutual friend failed to tell you to bring over a change of clothes. Honestly, I thought I would have a chance to go by your home at some point before having to face those who know you best. Alas.”
I put the suit on perhaps a bit more violently than was necessary, but nothing tore so I didn’t worry too much about it. Damn the Marquis for getting me involved in this, and damn me for seeing dollar signs and going blind. I don’t know anything about modern business. Eighteenth century agrarian business, maybe, but not this. I hadn’t run a particularly successful venture since the Age of Enlightenment and now I had to pretend to be the president of a company other corporations chomped at the bit to buy up? I was doomed, good and proper.
“On the bright side,” I said as I buttoned up Bill’s shirt, “at least this way we have a chance to pull them into the light with us. Maybe find out who’s behind all of this.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” he asked.
I tossed him the TV remote. “I hear there’s a Law & Order marathon on channel nine.”
“Isn’t there something I can do to help?” he asked. It was sort of sad to see him standing there in his underwear, looking so helpless. “Maybe I can get you a Bluetooth earpiece, feed you information so you don’t… you know.”
“What?”
“Make a mess of my company.” I’ve never seen a grown man apologize for not letting someone destroy his life’s work. It was more than a little pathetic, and I mean that in its original sense. Causing sorrow, invoking emotion, not the derisive connotation the word had taken on in modern times.
“No good,” I said. “I read somewhere that according to anonymous sources close to the president, he signed some executive order that lets him monitor all of your phone calls so that the government can know where you are and what you’re doing 24/7. They’ll hear you talking to yourself and then they send in a team to investigate to see what’s going on. Then boom, the game is up.”
“That isn’t true,” he said. “Never trust anything that cites anonymous sources.”
“It is true,” I shot back defensively. “I read it on the internet.”
“You do know that not everything you read on the internet is accurate, right?” he asked.
“Obviously, but this was a news site. They can’t lie on a news site. There’s a law.”
He just shook his head and sat down on the couch. Some people get like that when they’re wrong. If he didn’t want to believe TheRealTruth.org, so be it. It was his own tail in danger. Besides, I didn’t have the slightest idea how that whole blue teeth thing worked anyway, and I didn’t want to feel like an idiot by shouting “Can you hear me? Are you still there?” all day. I can feel like an idiot all on my own without the assistance from some stupid computer pretending to be a phone. Smart, my ass.
I handed Bill the cell the Marquis gave me and a business card.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, looking over my parting gifts.
“If I need you, I’ll call you on that phone. The Mar… The Quickie Mart guy says it’s a disposable. Practically untraceable since by the time they figure out what number to track, you’ve already gotten rid of it.”
“Like in that show The Wire? Burners?” he asked.
“Exactly.” Finally, something about technology we saw eye to eye on.
He examined the card, then dropped it in horror. “Do I call this number if I need to have someone killed?”
“No,” I said. “That’s my card.”
“With the crosshairs, it makes you look like a hitman.”
“No, I’m the target,” I said. “See it’s… and then… the crosshairs are pointing at the number, and the number is me, so...”
He gave me a dubious look so intense it made Judge Judy look gullible.
I grunted and relented. “It’s a first draft.”
“So, what do I do with the number?”
“You call me if you need anything.”
“On this phone?” he asked and raised the disposable. “This phone right here?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And that phone number won’t just make this phone ring?”
It probably would, now that I thought of it. I really wished the Marquis hadn’t sprung this whole business on me seconds before taking my first client. It’s awkward having clients ask questions about your company that you haven’t considered yourself.
“What I meant was, call me in the future,” I said, hoping he bought it. “After this is all over and you need my services again. Or you know someone else who might. Obviously, you know to call your own cellphone number from that one if you need to reach me.”
He shook his head and muttered, “What have I let Ambrose get me into?” as he collapsed on the couch, took up the remote, and turned the TV to Law & Order.
I pulled his keys out of the suit pocket and left the apartment for Omaha. I just hoped his car had one of those GPS things in it. It did, and after ringing up the Marquis—I didn’t want to further undermine Bill’s little remaining faith in me—I was able to get the address punched in and be on my way.
“While I have you on the line,” I asked the Marquis before he could hang up, “I assume you’ve been watching the news?”
“Are you talking about the speculation surrounding Thompson’s sabbatical?”
“Yes,” I said. “Any advice on how to handle that?”
“Why not just ask Thompson? It’s his company. He could tell you best how he would respond. Maybe you can get a Bluetooth headset or something and have him feed you lines.”
“And let the government track me using my phone signal to send one of their killer drones against me? No chance.”
“What?” asked the Marquis with an incredulous laugh. “Where did you get that nonsense?”
“The internet,” I said. “It was on a news website, so you know it’s legitimate.”
The Marquis sighed and muttered to himself. “The only thing more dangerous than someone with no knowledge is someone with a little who thinks he has it all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“It means stop reading those conspiracy websites. They aren’t true.”
“But there was this guy in Montana-”
“No there wasn’t.”
“But the experts say-”
“Not real experts.”
There was a long bitter pause. “Can you write a press statement or what?”
“Yes,” the Marquis sighed. “I can write a press statement, but if you value our man Bill’s success, be sure to specify that you will not be taking questions, and once you get to the office, lock yourself in. Do everything via conference calls. No in person meetings. That way you can at least bring up the real Bill Thompson on the phone to do the talking.”
“What about the drones?” I asked.
“For you, my oldest friend and one-time lover, I will hack the Pentagon and temporarily disable their drone program. Then I will play their surveillance footage on a loop. You’ll know it’s working because you won’t see any drones following you.”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “You can really do that?”
“No, of course not,” he said blankly. “And the government isn’t listening in on this phone call either, you old fool.”
He hung up. Clever of him. Don’t admit to being able to hack the most secure computer network in the world, not when its gatekeepers are listening.
I might just be able to pull this off after all.
Chapter 5
OLIVIA
I’M NOT WHO I SEEM TO BE
Infiltrating Thompson’s HQ is painfully simple. I’m only twenty-three and look a little young for my age. I’m not threatening. I can be charming or forgettable, and when dressed appropriately, no one would assume I’m anyone’s mistress who needs to be shu
ffled away discreetly. In fact, with the right pencil skirt, sweater vest, hair band, and frazzled expression, I look conveniently enough like an intern.
Accessing the company Wi-Fi takes no effort. It isn’t hard to guess the password. Th0mps0ns. Barely any complexity. Simple substitutions. Barely any length. As bad as that security is, I could probably have just asked. Someone should be fired. From there I’m easily able to pull up the names, pictures, and office locations of seven important employees and department heads on seven different floors, so no matter where someone stops me, I have an excuse to be hurrying someplace else. A stack of files and a four-cup coffee carrier help. Word of advice with the coffee carrier. Only keep three on it. Four looks like you haven’t started. Two is fine, makes you look busy, but it doesn’t balance well, and spills easily. One looks like you’re almost done, and then people start piling work on you, which draws attention if things don’t get completed in a timely fashion. Three, however, balances quite nicely. Three says you’re working, but you still have a lot left to do. Also, those folders? Make them thick. Stuff them with extra copies of that memo about not wasting paper if you have to. A thick folder looks important, which makes what you’re doing look important via the transitive property. Nobody wants to slow you down and risk the wrath of the powers that be. Three coffees, at least three thick folders, and a look like the devil is nipping at my heels, and I have free access to case just about the entire building.
There are six entrances to the parking garage—two stairwells, two elevators, one door to the lobby, and the gate to the street that cars use. Bill Thompson sometimes grabs meals in the employee cafeteria on the third floor, which has four entrances: two for diners, one for kitchen staff, and one freight elevator for bringing in food stuffs. The executive floor where Thomson’s keeps his personal office can only be accessed via executive elevator and an emergency stairwell, both of which require keycard access from any floor other than the top. Shutting down the building’s power would disable the locks, but that seems like it might raise a few flags. No worries. There are other ways to gain access to Thompson once he comes in.
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