by HN Wake
Her heart skipped. She didn’t know what to do with the fact that Stuart Fairbanks was involved.
Hong Kong’s lights glittered in the rain over his shoulder. The drops streamed down the windows of the apartment that floated in the clouds.
How was Stuart Fairbanks involved? How much was he involved?
Stuart continued in a silky voice. “What I need to know, Mac, is if you’re on board with the bank going ahead. This is a big deal for us. And we don’t want the Chinese angling in. It’s worth over fifty million dollars. We often give finders fees for operators that enable a big deal to go through.”
Wait. What?
His voice maintained its velour tenor. “We’d be willing to get this deal done and in so doing offer such a fee.”
Was he offering her money?
He spoke through her silence. “We offer these fees quite regularly. Normal course of business.”
Yes, he was offering her money to let the deal go through. He was offering her a bribe.
“One percent wouldn’t be too big a fee. In return for assistance to close the deal without disruption.”
He was talking about half a million dollars. A whistle sounded in her head. A half a million dollars. Very slowly, she asked, “To whom?”
“You. Of course,” he said as he eyed her over his glass.
An unexpected piece of the mystery became clear in an instant. Legion Bank wanted the Alghaba deal to go through, so Stuart Fairbanks had made a similar offer to Josh Halloway. Alghaba hadn’t paid off Josh, Stuart Fairbanks had.
In the back of her mind, a fan started whirring loudly. Her ears filled with a dull pressure that numbed the ambient noise in the room. She heard Josh’s voice from their last meeting. “Have you got a nest egg?…The Agency doesn’t hand out golden parachutes. You have to build them yourself.”
As if from some distance, she heard Stuart say, “You need to go along, Mac. Nice and easy. Don’t make a fuss.”
Her hands felt numb and clumsy. Josh had been trying to prepare her. Josh had been trying to encourage her to ignore Alghaba’s misdeeds, ignore the murders, ignore the rainforest destruction. Josh had been telling her to take a bribe if Stuart offered her one.
Stuart’s voice was coming at her in snippets. “As bank staff, we’d deliver it as part of your year-end bonus…simple…If I tell them to give you a big bonus, they will…”
Her mother’s whisper was like the flick of an asp’s forked tongue in her ear. Sit still and look pretty, Mac. The rainforest isn’t your concern. Take the money.
“So, I’ll recommend that your performance was stellar…” he was saying.
Through the haze, she could hear him outlining a plan he would present to the human resources department. Outside, the city lights seemed to shift.
She looked up at him, hoping he couldn’t see the daze in her eyes, and lifted the drink with thick fingers toward her lips. The ice clinked against the crystal. She let two drops spill out over the rim, onto her shirt. “Oh, shit”— she jumped up, slightly unbalanced but outwardly normal. “Excuse me. Let me just get this. I’m so sorry.”
He pointed to a door inside the foyer.
She planted one heavy foot in front of the other in what she hoped was a straight line across the polished wood. In the safety of the bathroom, she leaned her forearms on the sink, breathing deeply from her chest. Underneath the fingers on her neck, her heartbeat was slowing.
Looking in the mirror, she waited for her reflection to come into focus.
1. Stuart Fairbanks had paid Josh Halloway to clean up Dominick French’s murderer, to clean up for Alghaba.
2. Josh Halloway had taken the money, killed the thug, and done a runner.
3. Stuart Fairbanks was offering her a similar bribe to ignore what she knew.
As a decision took form, she squinted at herself in the mirror. “No, Josh. No, Mother. I will not just sit still and look pretty. Not this time.”
Stuart was waiting expectantly. As she sat down, he said, “So, as I was saying, the bank would simply be rewarding you for a job well done.”
She drained the rest of the drink, looked up, and tipped her head. “Okay. I’m in.”
He smiled broadly. “Good. That’s good, Mac. I think you’re going to do well here.” He stood. “Let me get you a taxi. Don’t forget the gala tomorrow is black tie.”
42
Foggy Bottom, DC
Isaac felt horrible—he had a headache, dry cotton mouth, and strained muscles in his lower back—but he was on cloud nine. He rolled over, squeezed Joyce to him. Her small snores pushed against his chest. He smiled and kissed her forehead.
He rolled gently out of bed and picked up his clothes. In her bathroom, he dressed, splashed his face with cold water and rinsed with mouthwash.
He let himself out silently, so as not to wake her.
His head banged as he walked out into the summer sun, blinking and squinting. His stomach felt like sloshing acid. He hooked a left and walked toward 18th Street where he seemed to remember a corner store--he was desperately in need of Advil and some bottled water before heading to work. He wondered if anyone in the IT department would notice he had on yesterday’s clothes and then realized he didn’t care.
A bell rang as he pushed into the small shop. He pulled a large water from the sliding fridge in the back of the store and held it against his forehead. Walking back toward the front, he grabbed a spray deodorant and a box of Advil from the pharmacy shelf. Back out in the sun, he popped two Advil, dropped the box back in the paper bag, and hailed a cab.
He barely made it through the front foyer of the CIA building. He ran to the lobby’s mens room, leaned over the toilet, and vomited. He sank down on his haunches and swallowed back the remainder of the water. He stood gently, wobbly, and sprayed himself liberally with the deodorant and chucked it in a waste bin.
He popped two more Advil at the sink, slicked back his hair, and gingerly made his way to his desk. The other IT workers were deep into their screens. He shocked himself that he was so hung over, he hadn’t even realized it was already 10 a.m.
He turned on the screen and did his morning check. A sour hint of wine lined the back of this throat, dry and vinegary. His eyes felt like sandpaper. He rummaged around in his top drawer for chewing gum to mask hangover breath.
The hangover had been worth it. The memories from last night flooded in. He held his collar up to his nose and breathed deeply of her apartment, a heady scent of perfume combined with books—it was a sensual smell to him now. He remembered their naked bodies flailing in the awkward first sex and her moaning in orgasm. Heat built up his neck and across his face.
He tapped his heel against the floor to bring him back into the moment, and typed in a new search robot for the parameters: Maluk Holdings.
Next he pulled out the folded paper with the bank account statement for Malay Petro Reliance and read the memo associated with the two million dollar deposit.
WT MA 203099938749382749723 HONG KONG, A /ORG=1/HKONLINE SRF# LB 203099938749382749723 TRN#34747390020 RFB# MA2942398572389723
His brain was moving slowly, but the solution came eventually and it made him smile. He needed to know the origin of the money. He needed to identify which bank in Hong Kong—based on the string of routing numbers—had sent the two million dollar deposit.
His fingers flew over his keyboard as his eyes jumped around the dark room, checking to see no one was watching him. It didn’t take him long to hack back into the Bank of Dallas. Obviously, the bank still used the dumb security advising firm of the owner’s cousin.
He typed in the long string of numbers and letters into the Bank of Dallas internal database. In an instant, he had what he wanted.
The two million dollar deposit into Malay Petro Reliance had come from Legion Bank in Hong Kong.
That could mean anything.
He felt another wave of the hangover sweep over him. The bile rose in his throat. He stood quickly—which made it wors
e—and rushed down the hall and back into the men’s room.
When he got back to his desk his search robot had returned a finding. He opened it up and read:
Maluk Holdings
Registered Indonesian company
Formed 2001
No list of Company Directors
Single Owner was a US citizen named Josh Halloway
Isaac leaned back into his chair. His eyes were wide.
Fucking far out.
Josh Halloway.
Fucking far out.
He blew out his lungs. He logged into a private chat room, slowly typed out a message and wondered how long it would take 42 to see this. It was exactly 11 p.m. in Hong Kong. Maybe 42 was checking at this time of night. He had a second thought and sent an additional note, “You are only one with this info now. All traces of this intel are being deleted.” He hit send.
He logged out of the chat room then logged into the mainframe as an administrator and systematically deleted the ghost files—the vapor trails--of the search. It was the best he could do. If someone went looking for it with a word search, say on Maluk, they may be able to find traces of it. But he hoped no one would.
He picked up the cellphone and rang Joyce’s cellphone, looking around the room to ensure no one was eavesdropping.
She picked up with a groggy voice. “Hi.”
He sure did like this Joyce. “How you feeling?”
“Like dog meat.”
He grinned. “Yeah me too. But it was worth it.”
“Totally.”
“Okay, I’ll check in with you later. Just wanted to say good morning.”
“Good morning,” she said in a soft voice. “I was wondering something. Why is this Frank Odom so intent on covering up any research into Malay Petro Reliance?”
Isaac’s brain was still moving slowly from the hang over, but the gears started shifting. His fingers tingled on his keyboard.
She asked, “I mean, why is he all freaking out to the point of firing someone?”
His fingers wiggled over his keyboard. “That’s a good question, Joyce.”
43
Hong Kong
She had a plan.
Up at the Peak, headlights emerged at the top of the drive and a taxi pulled under the overhang. Mac settled into the fake leather backseat as the car pulled out into the strengthening rain. Drops pelted the windscreen and the roof. The night was darker up here. The driver headed back down the mountain.
She also had more questions than she had answers. Stuart Fairbanks had somehow known Josh Halloway. And he had paid him to clean up after Alghaba. Images of Josh in Hong Kong swept through her mind: Josh at the US Consulate party in his impeccable suit; Josh at the bar in Lan Kwai Fong, being introduced to her by bankers; Josh walking past the Vietnamese restaurant on Wellington surrounded by bankers. Josh had been involved with bankers.
Headlights barreled past; in the beating rain they looked like futuristic hover cars. They had reached Conduit Road. She leaned up to the taxi driver. “You can stop here.”
She stepped out into the pelting rain, and was instantly soaked. Bamboo scaffolding on the buildings creaked in the wind whistling through alleys. Cold rainwater sluiced off her face.
Five minutes later, Johnson opened his apartment door. She stood water-logged, dripping into a huge puddle.
He let her in. He was wearing grey baggy sweatpants and white sweatshirt and his hair was up-ended. He had been sleeping.
She imagined stale, sleep breath.
He closed the door. “How did you find out where I live?”
She raised her eyebrows, the rain streaming off her face. “Really?”
“Right, never mind.”
He flicked on a small lamp, sending a dim glow over a living room. It was a tight apartment—no more than six hundred square feet. The front room was big enough for an IKEA sofa and armchair, a white laminated coffee table, and a flat screen hanging on the wall. Off to the side was a railway kitchen with older appliances.
She imagined the short hallway led to a single small bedroom in back and a connected bathroom.
His skeptical eyes looked her over. “Do we need coffee?”
She nodded.
“Do you need dry clothes?”
She nodded again. “Can I use your bedroom to make a call?”
He pointed her down the hall. The room was as she had expected--small, utilitarian but it held a vast number of books on bookshelves.
She breathed in deeply to calm her nerves, then dialed Meredith’s number.
Meredith recognized the caller. “Hi. How’d it go up at Stuart’s?”
“Wow, his place is ridiculous.”
“Yeah, that’s what comes with being CEO of Asia for Legion Bank.”
“Unreal.”
“Yeah. Master of the Universe,” Meredith said with a hint of melancholy. “What did he want?”
“He wanted my debrief. ”
“What did you tell him?”
“The same thing you and I and now Nazir all know.”
“Did he say he was going ahead with the deal?”
“He said he wasn’t sure,” Mac lied. She didn’t know if her plan was going to work. No sense dragging Meredith into it. “So, can I ask you a question? I was just curious, when did Stuart get involved on Alghaba?”
“What?”
“Was it Stuart’s idea to send me to Alghaba?”
Meredith hesitated. “Yeah, funny enough, it was. He stopped by my office and suggested that it would be a good trial for you—the due diligence trip. So yeah, he put the idea of sending you into my mind.”
“Okay. I was just curious.” Mac quickly changed the subject. “So how are you feeling?”
“Whiplashed but okay. My husband and I are planning a long safari trip to Africa that we’ve never been able to take. It’s definitely lightening the sting. And I have to admit, when you get to a certain…height…in banking, you know it could all topple at any minute. Politics reign up here.”
“I can imagine.”
“We’re prepared. We’ve been building our own parachute for a while now.”
Was Mac the only one without an escape hatch, a golden parachute?
Meredith said, “Mac, I’m probably going to have to sign those non disclosure agreements tomorrow, so this may be the last time we speak.”
“Right. Of course. Have a good trip, Meredith.”
“You take care of yourself, Mac.”
That answered one of the questions. Stuart was the only one in the bank that knew Mac was Agency. When Josh had gone missing, Stuart used her—and her Agency skills—to go after him.
She heard Johnson click on CNN International in the living room and opened the bedroom door.
“Dry clothes are in the bathroom,” he said down the hall.
As she stepped into the living room in dry clothes, he handed her a coffee. They stood next to each other and watched the images on the t.v. for a few silent moments. People were running through the flooded streets of Manila while electric wires whipped through the air. Along the outer islands, huts had been smashed and huge waves were buffeting the beach.
“It’s bad,” he said, referring to the typhoon.
She nodded. It felt like the first time they had ever been in agreement.
He watched the images as he spoke, “I talked to Azly’s father. Azly is home and recuperating.”
“That’s good.”
“He wanted us to know that the police took down the blockade yesterday.”
Mac remained silent.
“Alghaba sent in ten more of the logging trucks with an additional army of workers. Maybe as many as fifty new workers.”
“They are ramping up?” The mug stilled in her hands.
“Yup. That means our estimates on their expansion were too conservative. They will reach the Penan village much sooner. And the orangutan park.”
On the screen, the ticker tape read, Typhoon Anna Devastating Philippines—Will Hit
Hong Kong in 10 Hours.
He said, “They must be confident they are getting the funding.”
“I know why they think that,” she said softly. “There is news from work. That’s why I’m here.”
He turned to her.
“My boss quit.”
“What? She quit?” He sat down in the armchair
She chose the sofa. “She quit a few hours ago.”
“Why?”
The storm on the TV screen was incessant. The rain and wind slammed over and over.
“It’s a long story. But it impacts the Alghaba deal.” She explained, “My boss was the Chief Risk Officer for Asia. This morning, I briefed her and showed her our evidence. She agreed that Alghaba is too risky. We had a call, we told the team in KL that the deal was not approved. A few hours later, she resigned. Now that she’s gone, there are no brakes on the deal.”
Now he was awake. “So the bank is going through with the deal? Stuart Fairbanks wants the deal to go through?”
“Yes. He does.”
“When a righteous king has crooked ministers, he falls under the rule of his ministers.”
She smiled ruefully; his proverbs had become prophetic.
His body sagged in defeat. “So they’re going to finance Alghaba.”
“Not, so fast.”
His face lifted with hope. “Please tell me you’re here because you have a plan.”
“I’m here because I have a plan. Let’s start with that glossy report you handed to me on the plane.”
44
Hong Kong
For ten hours, the rain had pelted Johnson’s apartment windows like bullets. The wind whipped branches against walls and howled through alleys. In the small kitchen, take out bags littered the counter and a third pot of coffee was brewing.
Through the night, the two had huddled over laptops, sending emails, and drafting documents. They were tired and grouchy, but excited.
Mac threw her leg over the armchair and picked up a hot bowl of soup. “Oh my god. I can’t believe now all we have to do is wait.”
