Project Northwest

by C. B. Carter

  Her body went through a series of slight convulsions. Her thighs tightened over his, then relaxed, and her eyelids grew heavy. She fell into him and tenderly bit his earlobe and whispered, “This is quickly becoming my favorite spot in Seattle.” She savored the afterglow, gently kissing his neck and shoulders.

  “Mine, too,” said James as the stress of the day drained from him.

  * * * *

  The Tahoe slowed in unison with the GPS tracked Honda. When the Honda stopped, the Tahoe pulled to the side of the service road that wrapped Green Lake. Mr. Wright and his team were about a hundred yards back and could barely see the Honda from their vantage point, but were satisfied they could hear everything being discussed inside the vehicle.

  “What the hell is he wearing?” asked Wright when he saw James exit the vehicle.

  “It looks like a poncho or something. Do you want me to get closer?” the driver asked.

  “No, don’t do anything.”

  Mr. Wright thought for a moment, then ordered, “Remove the interior bulb.” The bulb was removed and he slowly opened the passenger door, carefully closed it, and ran to the darkest part of the road. He inched along the brush line, trying to get a better view of the parked vehicle. He stopped every ten feet or so and reevaluated the scene.

  It was too dark for normal vision and when he switched to night vision, he couldn’t make out much of anything other than a fuzzy-green silhouette from the moonlight and the plume of exhaust fumes. He was using a pair of high quality night vision binoculars, but the distance and the full moon distorted the image and he tossed them to the ground in frustration, picked them back up, and dusted off the lens.

  “Do you guys hear anything?”

  “Not really, just her singing,” was the response.

  “You don’t hear him changing the tire?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.”

  After making it about 100 feet, Mr. Wright thought he might be getting too close and started making his way back to the Tahoe.

  “Still don’t hear anything?”

  “Ah, sir, we do hear something.”

  “Okay, pipe it into my earpiece.” Wright immediately recognized the sounds, the heavy breathing, the rhythmic creaking of the leather on the seat, the silky friction of flesh on flesh, the sounds of deep kisses and moans. He looked back with his binoculars and couldn’t see a damn thing, just bright green reflections in the form of some odd visible aura of moonlight.

  As he climbed back into the Tahoe, he noticed his entire team was completely enthralled by what they were hearing. Envy cloaked the atmosphere in the Tahoe.

  Mr. Wright quietly shut the door and said, “I hate this guy.”

  The others couldn’t agree more.

  The associate in the back offered his input, “I love that girl.”

  Again, the others couldn’t agree more.

  The drive back to University was quiet, both in the Honda and the Tahoe. The traffic was light now and the driver of the Tahoe stayed well back on I–5. They heard Bridget say she forgot something at work and lost her trail among the crowd exiting the closing Lounge. They didn’t see her slip the cell phone back to Cindy. The exchange took less than a couple of seconds, as she leaned in and kissed Cindy on the cheek and the encounter was completely missed by Wright’s team.

  At 12:45, the Honda pulled into the parking lot of the condominium and parked in the reserved spot for 602. The crew watched as James, now fully clothed, and without the poncho, was escorted into the lobby by Bridget, who carried a laundry basket. The entire crew exited the Tahoe. They were dejected—having to listen to them having sex made them miss their respective girlfriends or wives. They entered the condo, rented from a Japanese businessman, and plopped themselves into the chairs that surrounded the makeshift surveillance equipment table. The condo was a perfect selection in that it was one floor below James’s.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the surveillance tech who had stayed behind, noting the listlessness of the team.

  “Nothing, just that we picked the luckiest guy in the OTS to mark. Listen to channel four, at about the eleven pm mark,” replied one associate, as he mindlessly flipped through the Japanese Monthly magazine he’d picked up from the nearby breakfast bar.

  “Listen to it later,” ordered Mr. Wright. “Did you get the mics replaced or fixed?”

  “Yes, sir, I added five additional mics and two additional cameras. This maxes out our recording channels, so it’s the best I can do.”

  “Fine, get driver two on the phone. I want to find out who was working tonight at The Lounge. In the meantime, can someone please explain why I’m blind to what’s happening in her car?”

  “Sir, we’re out of channels, I’ve maxed out the system,” repeated the surveillance tech.

  “How much did we spend on this crap?” asked Mr. Wright, as he took the cell phone offered by another associate, “Driver two, sir,” the associate announced.

  “It’s not crap, sir,” said the tech defending his equipment.

  “How much?”

  “A little over one million.”

  “I don’t care what you have to do. I want a camera in that car or you can find a new job.”

  “I can remove a channel in her apartment. She’s never there anyway.”

  “If that’s what you have to do, then do it, but do it before sun up,” Mr. Wright shot back.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll install it in the CD player and add a new relay to the GMC and Tahoe setup.”

  “Go,” barked Mr. Wright now talking into the cell phone. Driver two relayed the good news; he had chatted up a rather talkative bartender and was able to get the full names of the four ladies working. He spilled off the names as Wright wrote them down. He passed the note to the associate thumbing through the magazine, “Make yourself useful and start digging.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We have a long night, so down the Red Bulls or coffee.”

  They worked through the night never knowing they had missed the conversation between James and Mark, only thinking of the sizzling action between James and Bridget.

  Chapter Five

  ~ Shelly Spenser ~

  Monday came too early for James, but the surveillance team saw it coming, second by second, minute by minute, as they listened to James and Bridget sleep. They couldn’t wait for Monday to come and pass. If all went well today, they were scheduled to start shift rotation Monday night and that meant they could sleep and call family and girlfriends.

  James filled his coffee cup, noted Bridget was still dead to the world, and quietly entered the bathroom. He looked into the mirror. The cuts were healing nicely and his appearance wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated. The only area of concern was the deepening shade of blue that bordered his right eye. The entire right side of his face was still tender to the touch, but all in all, it would be fine. He mentally prepared his story for his co-workers and supervisors. He was in an accident, but was fine. It wasn’t as bad as they thought. He told himself he would keep the answers to any questions short and vague.

  He showered, shaved, dressed, kissed Bridget, who stretched out her arms, yawned, begged him to stay home, and pouted when she didn’t get her way.

  “I can’t, I have to go.” He gave her another kiss and was back in the kitchen collecting the keys, cell phone, and leaving a note on the fridge.

  “I’m taking your car, please check on mine when you wake up. I left you a note to remind you,” he shouted toward the bedroom.

  “Okay, baby, where is it?” The question came from deep under the covers.

  “The police car lot, I suspect, or they may have had it towed.”

  James arrived at the Washington Common Bank building to what many would consider a hero’s welcome.

  He received well wishes and blessings when he entered the lobby from people he didn’t even know. The personal closeness of the elevators offered even greater opportunity of “... thank god you’re okay ...” conversations, f
ollowed by “... it could’ve been much worse ...” anecdotes. None of the conversations actually included him. They were more about him and always ended with the storyteller’s own personal experiences with near death.

  One of the co-workers compared James’s crash to that of Karl Brownstone and noted the similarities. Karl had a terrible crash on New Year’s Day, witnesses say his car was ‘out of control’ as it rammed into the concrete barrier of the Bainbridge Island ferry terminal and burst into flames. Now, almost four months later, James was in an accident in the same area of the city. She patted James on the shoulder, “Thank god the result was different this time.”

  James had all but forgotten Karl Brownstone. The accident happened over a holiday weekend and on the cusp of a New Year, he like many of the others, just moved on, accepted it, never thought more of it—Karl was drunk, lost control of the vehicle, and died in a fiery crash. He couldn’t help but think there were similarities and wondered if Karl’s untimely death had been the handiwork of Mr. Wright and his team.

  By the time James arrived at the bank’s security screening station, he’d never felt so loved. Everyone was extremely pleased to learn that he was okay.

  He placed his cell phone and wallet in his employee locker outside the Tier IV, Class 125 bank data room. Security was quick, but thorough, absolutely no media, storage devices, or cell phones were allowed into the data room, and signs with the universal circle-backslash symbol for no over images of sample media devices reminded everyone of the contraband, along with the big ‘No Exceptions’ and ‘It’s Your Responsibility’ signs above the security station.

  Security used a two-prong attack against the bank employees and OTS agents. Each was checked on entry and exit and if by chance, anyone was found to have contraband inside the data room—it was well known the perpetrator would be fired on the spot. ‘Security is both the responsibility of the employee and security officers’ was the motto of the day.

  James made his way through security, took a deep breath, and entered the meeting room. The supervisor types were dressed in suits and ties. All of the data specialists, including James, were dressed in khakis and their favorite throwback golf tees. They waited as the last few stragglers came in.

  The day was a casual dress day and the tone of the meeting was usually very relaxed on such days, but today’s meeting was serious and heavy in nature. The financial markets were still reeling in turmoil and 100 percent accurate data was the call of the day. The data was needed on time so reports could be completed by others, there was to be no acceptable excuse for inaccurate or late data. Everyone listened intently and sipped from their Starbucks coffee cups. The only thing missing was the imaginary cheerleaders with pom-poms, shouting, “We can do it, yes we can!”

  James’s accident was last on the agenda, but only as a passing mention. The guys were more interested in the state of his beautiful mustang.

  “Was it the mustang?” a co-worker asked.

  James could only nod his head as the group of guys collectively exhaled in mourning.

  When the meeting broke, everyone was energized, everyone except James. He struggled to start work. Anticipation ran rampant in his veins and clouded every thought. When was he going to be contacted? What were they going to ask him to do? Could he really do this? Was today the day he became a criminal?

  The only criminal activity that came to mind was the day he lied and told his father he had traded something for the BB gun he was shooting in the back yard. When his father asked what was traded, James was lost for words and swiftly busted.

  He continued to lie until his father knocked on Billy Owens’ door. Realizing the gig was up, he confessed, took a spanking, and was forced to mow lawns for two weeks until he had enough money to buy a BB gun.

  His father took the money, along with James, to the hobby store, purchased a BB gun, let James hold it in his hands while they drove to a prearranged meeting with the quartermaster of Troop 380. His father told James to give the unopened gun to the quartermaster. The young boy accepted and said he would add it to the equipment inventory and thanked James for the donation. The lesson, as stated by James’s father: It wasn’t enough to be punished. James needed to know how it felt to lose something for which he’d worked. He was ten years old then and he still remembered it like it was yesterday.

  What would my father say about this? James questioned as he made his way to his cubicle.

  He turned on the monitor in his workspace. He loved his job and couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that at some point, maybe today, maybe the next, he was going to be required to do something illegal.

  Why me? He wondered, and realized the answer was obvious: they picked him because he was the model agent, always on time, was so dependable that he was often given tasks with little to no supervision, steady girlfriend, nice condo, money in the bank, and word was he was being primed for a promotion. He was the perfect mark, had the trust of his superiors, nobody watched him and he had a hell of a lot to lose. He was willing to lose everything except Bridget—he couldn’t lose her or put her in danger and that’s all the leverage they needed. He knew it and he knew they definitely knew it.

  He said thank you to a number of co-workers that stopped by and asked how he was doing and when everyone was settled and working, he purposely poured coffee onto the data brick connected to his monitor. The machine complained and shorted out and the monitor went blank, the little green power light flashing showed the only life remaining in the system, and even it seemed to understand the bleakness of the situation. James slowly mopped up the spill, intentionally letting the coffee run over the desk.

  James’s immediate supervisor, Mr. Stone, stopped by and inquired as to the health of his favorite agent.

  “I see an accident can’t keep you away. How are you feeling James?”

  “I feel fine, sir, but I just made a big mistake.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I spilled coffee all over the desk, and I think I fried the brick.”

  “Damn it, James,” said Mr. Stone, as he pushed past James and noticed coffee running all over the desk, under the keyboard and mouse and pooling around the monitor stand. Mr. Stone turned in disgust and left the cubicle.

  Loudly, so that everyone could hear, he announced, “How many times have I told everyone here, there are to be no drinks at your desks!” The response from everyone in earshot was the tell-tale sounds of half-full coffee cups being tossed into the empty waste baskets, followed by sighs. A noticeable quiet blanketed the data room, leaving only the hum of the machines and distant phones ringing. Everyone was busy working or pretending they were working.

  “Okay, I’ll get a tech down here in a heartbeat. You know if you hadn’t been in an accident, I’d be reaming you a new one right now, right?”

  “Yes, sir, I know,” said James acting sheepishly.

  “In the meantime, grab an empty cubicle and get to work. Everyone get to work!” Mr. Stone stormed off toward his office.

  James found the new cubicle, searched and found a security envelope, grabbed a felt tip pen, and tucked the envelope under his shirt and placed the pen in his pocket. He left the data room, cleared security, retrieved his wallet, and took the elevators down to the Art Museum. He entered the public bathroom off the main hallway. The museum wasn’t open and the bathroom was empty, so he quickly penned the address:

  From: SAM

  102 Seattle WA 98316

  To: Mark DeSantis

  General Delivery

  2000 Royal Oaks Post Office

  Sacramento CA 95813

  He carefully pulled the folded note from his wallet, examined the contents, and was pleased to see the hair still tucked neatly at the bottom of the makeshift shroud. He refolded the paper, wrote ‘Hair Inside, Thanks, Mark!’, and placed it into the envelope.

  He dug into his wallet and found the packet of self-adhesive stamps he had purchased during his only trip to the post office in years. He’d mailed four Ch
ristmas cards and stored the remaining stamps in his wallet, convinced he could use them someday, and amused himself with the fact that his hunch paid off in a big way. It was the best $8.80 he ever spent.

  He affixed two stamps and tucked the letter in the back of his pants, under his shirt, and exited the bathroom. No one was waiting. The hallway was empty.

  The elevator doors opened and a group of businessmen made room for him to enter. The elevator button panel showed they were heading to the data room floor and his heart began to pound. He tucked his chin into his chest and tried to calm down, purposely avoiding eye contact. The morning conversation was centered on Shea Stadium and its impending closure and James assumed the group was from New York.

  The doors opened, the group exited, and James continued up to the employee patio. He found the floor standing mailbox, looked around and when the coast was clear, he dropped the envelope into the mailbox. His heart was pounding and he was beginning to sweat from all the apprehension. He tried to calm himself as he took the elevator back to the data room floor.

  Through security, he entered the data room and immediately noted the bunch of suits outside a meeting room. It was the same group with whom he shared the elevator. Mr. Stone saw him enter and said, “There he is, James, come here for a moment, would you?”

  James hesitated then walked over toward the group of strangers.

  Mr. Stone was singing his praises. “James is one of our best and brightest, you’ll have to excuse his appearance—he was in a car accident on Friday and in true fashion of team spirit, he arrived to work early this morning. We could use more like James.”

  “Who couldn’t?” agreed the suits leader, as he extended his hand and vaguely explained they were from an insurance company, on property to look over the bank’s numbers. James took his hand in a hearty shake and forgot each name exchanged during the introductions. He repeated, “Car accident on Friday,” when he saw the individuals’ reactions to the minor cuts and bruises on his face.