by Wesley Cross
This was going to be another kind of awkward, he thought, looking up at the swanky building. A gray-haired doorman, in a smart suit, that looked more expensive than everything Connelly owned, held the door for him.
He entered the building and walked over to the visitor’s desk and was ushered to the elevator that took him to the top floor.
“Mr. Hunt,” he said as the apartment door opened.
“Michael.” The man stepped aside to let him enter the apartment and stuck out his hand for a handshake. “Come on in. Can I get you anything to drink? Some Scotch to get the chill out of the bones?”
“Water would be fine, sir, thank you.”
Connelly walked after the man into the kitchen and following the host’s gesture, took a seat at the bar.
“Here you go.” Andrew Hunt put a glass of water in front of Connelly, and took a seat on the opposite side of the bar “I know we spoke briefly in Afghanistan, but I wanted to tell you again that you did some outstanding work there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That money you’ve seized will go a long way to fund our operations.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have to relax, Michael.” The man smiled. “We’re just two men talking about a job well done.”
“Understood, sir. I’m just not used to—” He cut himself short, looking for a word.
“What?”
“Fraternizing with superiors,” he said, regretting it at once.
Andrew Hunt laughed out loud. It was an easy laugh of a man who was used to leading the room and was comfortable being in the spotlight.
“You’re a good man,” he finally said, “but this isn’t the army. What we’re doing here is too important not to discuss with those who are on the front lines. You’re not just involved but are risking your life for it, so I’d say screw the ranks.”
Connelly stayed silent as he watched the man. The line would’ve sounded like a bullshit pep talk had it come out of some of the officers’ mouths he’d worked with in the past. But coming from Andrew Hunt, it rang true. The man actually meant what he said, and suddenly Connelly was proud for being chosen for this task. That from the pool of thousands of talented men and women, the scrawny kid from Brooklyn got the honors.
“The reason you’re here,” the man continued, “is because I have a job in mind. How much do you know about our main goal?”
“What I’ve read in the briefings, sir.” Connelly shrugged. “That there’s an alliance that poses a threat to the United States and we’re here to fight it.”
“Correct.” Andrew Hunt got up, threw some ice in the glass, poured himself water, and sat back down across the bar. “We call them the cabal. And we think the alliance doesn’t pose a threat to the US alone. It’s a menace to the entire modern world order.”
He paused for a few seconds, swirling the ice in his glass. “What I’m about to tell you has to stay in this room.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Until recently, we’d only had a vague idea about who was behind the cabal, but we’ve recently learned that a pharmaceutical giant—Guardian Manufacturing—is playing a major part in the scheme. But we still don’t know enough. What we need is an inside man.”
“You want me to be the mole?”
“That’s right.” Hunt reached out into a pocket, produced a small rectangular piece of paper, and handed it to Connelly. “This is a contact at the International Serious Crime Directorate, or ISCD for short. They’d given us intel on the Afghani cash. They can help you to infiltrate Guardian.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ideally, we want access to Simon Engel, the CEO of the company, but I don’t think you’ll be able to waltz in there and get a job working for the man. The guys at the Directorate think that our best shot of getting you close to Simon would be to start working for his son, Alexander, and then work your way up to get to the CEO’s team.”
“I understand.”
“There’s a low-level mole that they already have in Guardian’s organization, and she was able to find out that Alexander needs a new person on his security detail. Part driver, part security, part errands runner. This is a great opportunity. I spoke to Rick Porter at the camp, and he thought you’d be the best-suited for a job like that.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir.”
“However,” Hunt put up a hand, as if stopping him, “I wanted to hear from you personally, that you’d be comfortable taking on the assignment. You’re a proficient soldier, but this assignment is a different animal, and I’d like to make sure you think it’s a good fit. I won’t think of you any less if you tell me that it isn’t something you’re comfortable with.”
“Not at all, sir.” Connelly stood up. “I can pull it off. You have nothing to worry about.”
“All right, then. Reach out to ISCD tomorrow. I’ll let them know to expect your call.” Hunt stood as well and stuck out a hand. “Thank you. Why don’t you stay over for dinner? Audrey should be here soon. I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t,” Connelly said. “Have to head down to Brooklyn to see a small army of aunts, uncles, and cousins.”
“Oh well,” Hunt smiled and patted him on the back, “some other time then.”
Connelly took the elevator down, nodded to the silver-haired man behind the visitor’s desk and stepped outside.
The rain was coming down harder now, and he pulled up his collar and stuck his hands into his pockets. He started west with the intention of getting to Broadway and then turning south to get to the Canal Street subway station but kept looking over his shoulder in the hopes of catching a cab.
A sound of screeching tires came from behind, and Connelly turned around to see if it was a taxi, but it was a delivery van. As Connelly turned back, he bumped into a petite woman, almost knocking her to the ground.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, catching her by the elbow before she fell. “I was not looking. My apologies.”
The woman cringed and fumbled with her umbrella, but then quickly regained her composure. She was beautiful, Connelly thought. Her face was a delicate oval with a set of bright, dark-brown eyes, a short, straight nose, and full, luscious lips. Her skin was smooth and olive in complexion, suggesting some Latin-American heritage.
“My bad,” Connelly said again. “I normally don’t walk into people. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. That’s okay,” the woman said, freeing her arm from his grasp. “Not a big deal.”
She hurried past him, hunched in the rain, and disappeared from view.
Connelly stood there for a few seconds looking after the woman, wondering if he should follow her and ask her out for a coffee.
His phone rang, and he reluctantly turned and pulled it out from his jacket. “Hello?”
“How’s it I’m the last one to find out that my favorite nephew is in town? Are you so important these days that on the rare occasion when you finally get to come to New York, you don’t want to come to visit?”
“Not at all, Aunt Rosy.” He smiled and started walking again. “It’s good to hear from you. I’ll be over soon.”
49
November 2007
New York
Alexander Engel looked up from his computer screen and studied Latham Watkins’s face. The small man’s balding head was covered with beads of perspiration, and he shuffled on his feet, as if trying and failing to find a more comfortable position.
“Are you questioning my motives, Latham?”
“It’s not my job to question you, Mr. Engel,” the man said pensively, “but this is your father we’re talking about. These things are not without their side effects. He seems like a healthy man, but I’ve never seen his physicals, and I can’t guarantee—”
“I’m not asking you to give me any guarantees, Latham.” He cut him off. “And you better believe me when I say that I would never let anyone hurt my father. Without him, this company, everything
we’ve worked for, wouldn’t even exist. But he needs a nudge. This is for the greater good, my friend.”
The man nodded and stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. His posture was of a man who’d accepted his fate but was unhappy about it.
“Look,” Engel got up and walked around the desk to stand face-to-face with the man, “I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase that one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter, right?”
“Sure.”
“History is rife with examples, Latham,” he continued. “What do you think the Brits would call the Revolutionaries if they had won the war? They’d call it a dark period in British history when greedy colonies tried to seize power from the legitimate government. George Washington wouldn’t be featured on our currency. He’d be portrayed like Osama bin Laden—a terrorist.”
“I’m not sure what to say, sir,” Latham said. “If I may be so bold, it almost sounds as if you’re trying to convince yourself, not just me.”
“See,” Engel wagged his finger at Watkins, “this is why I like you, Latham. You’re not afraid to speak the truth to power. This is important. Of course, I’m trying to convince myself too and not just you. Not every revolution is a righteous one, I’ll give you that. The Soviets came to power promising equality and comradeship to all, only to give the world gulags and Joseph Stalin, and the corrupt system that made everybody equally poor until it collapsed under its own weight.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“We are the revolutionaries, Latham. I don’t want to do it, but what choice do we have? The world is fracturing. The same forces that pushed for globalization before are now tearing it apart. The government is weak, and yet it’s getting more and more intrusive every year. This,” Engel spread his arms, as if looking for a word, “this revolution is going to happen whether we like it or not.”
“Then why does it have to be us?”
“Because, Latham, then we get to control it. Believe me when I tell you—I have a good life. If I could continue to run this company and enjoy myself, I’d very much do that. But we’re in a race against time. There’ll be a different world in a few years, and we’re either going to be the rulers of that world, or we’ll be gone.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“There’ll be a series of board meetings in the near future. Important ones. I have a suspicion that my father and I will not be on the same page on the proposals I intend to put on the table. I need you to slow him down for me.”
“Slow him down?”
“Yes,” Engel continued. “Nothing too obvious, of course. Like I said—a little nudge to show the board that he’s not the same Simon he used to be and the time has come to shift responsibilities to his second-in-command. Can you do that for me?”
“I think so.” Watkins sighed. “It makes me nervous, but I’ll do it for you, Mr. Engel. What’s the time frame?”
“This is where it gets tricky, Latham. I don’t want to be too quick—any perceived weakness would negatively affect our stock prices, and God knows, we’re not in the position to risk something like that right now. Not after the hack. So, say a couple of years.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Long-term—”
“But,” Engel interrupted him, “I want to call a board meeting sometime next week, and I need my father to be off his game. So that might be an exception to our general timeline. But there’s no margin for error here. I can’t have him be slurring his words and stumbling about like a drunken fool during that meeting. He needs to be dull, unconvincing, that’s all. Someone who’s unable to see the bigger picture.”
“Not the Simon everybody knows.” Latham repeated Engel’s words.
“Precisely.”
“That would be much more difficult to pull off, sir. I would need some precise measurements.”
“I understand, and I might be able to help you with that.” Engel walked back to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a thick binder.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Watkins. “Simon Engel’s entire medical history, including his latest physical he took three months ago. Will that work?”
“I believe so.” Watkins took the binder and tucked it under his arm.
“I’m counting on you, Latham, and I don’t need to tell you that once you’re done with this, you’ll have to destroy the documents.”
“Understood, sir.”
Engel watched as the man hurried out of his office, clutching the binder with both hands as if it were full of bearer bonds of extraordinary value. In some sense, it wasn’t far from the truth. The only difference being that he was the only person who could bring those bonds to the bank and have them cashed.
He sat down behind his desk and opened a secure computer terminal. He pulled up a document with a diagram that looked like a complicated family tree, with a rectangle bearing the name of Guardian Manufacturing at the top. From there it branched out into different companies and satellite organizations. Some of them could be found on their investor communique that came out each quarter—R&D companies, suppliers, shipping and handling.
The other ones, appropriately shaded in gray, were the shadow counterparts to his vast empire. Distribution channels for illegal drugs, offshore banking connections, lobbyist groups. But despite the might and vast reach of Guardian’s empire, there was still an element largely missing on that chart. The war between corporations was coming; Engel was sure of it. And without the last piece, his realm was going to be a three-legged stool—an unstable colossus that could be tipped over with a strong push.
He picked up the office phone and dialed a zero.
“Yes, Mr. Engel?” The voice on the other line was eager and cheerful. It sounded like a person who didn’t bother herself with the world’s problems.
“Amanda,” he said, “please send a memo for the next board of directors meeting. I want it to be scheduled for next Friday.”
“Yes, sir,” came an immediate reply. “A few directors are traveling next week. Would it be okay for them to join you telephonically?”
“No. I need everyone in person on this one.”
“Of course, Mr. Engel. What should I put on the agenda?”
“Weapons manufacturing. It’s time for us to enter the arms race.”
50
November 2007
New York
It’d been raining since early morning. The rain and the temperature that hovered just above the freezing point made for a miserable combination. It wasn’t pouring hard, something that Cooper would have preferred as that kind of rain usually didn’t last long. Instead, it was coming down in a slow, steady flow, the type of weather that could persist for hours or even days.
Engel had been right when he alluded to the difficulty of this assignment. The target was protected by two four-person teams that rotated throughout the day and stayed outside the building. Two more guards went into the building at random intervals. It looked like one was taking an elevator to the top floor, and the other would walk up the steps.
That wasn’t going to make it the most heavily guarded target she’d ever had. That title still belonged to the drug lord she had been once hired to assassinate. But the location of the residence and the need to make the hit look like an accident more than made up for the lack of the opposing team’s firepower.
She had walked around the block a few times in the last two days at different times of the day, taking mental notes of fire escape ladders, CCTV cameras’ blind spots, and foot traffic. She settled on early evening as the best time to make her move, as the pedestrian traffic was light, especially with the rain, but there were still enough people going about their business to dilute the attention of the ground teams. On one of her passes, she also managed to slap a small plastic explosive on a rear tire of a disabled pickup truck that was parked a few yards away from the guards’ SUVs.
Now Cooper stood at the beginning of the block for a few seconds, pretending to struggle with her umbrella. There
was a group of six people, who looked like tourists, walking on the opposite sidewalk toward her and an elderly couple on her side of the street, walking in the same direction she’d be going. The group was going to pass the two SUVs with blacked-out windows parked outside of the building. That was going to be her cue.
Cooper started to move, matching her speed to that of the group. She tilted the umbrella down and slid her hand into the jacket. The pneumatic gun that she carried in her shoulder holster was loaded with a set of five radio-controlled EMP devices mounted on steel darts.
The point of entry was going to be a short wall between the two buildings neighboring the target. The wall was just over eight feet tall, but there was a fire escape ladder right above it and if she could make it over the wall and into the narrow yard without being seen, she’d be in the clear. The problem was—there were three CCTV cameras that needed to be taken care of first.
One was to the right of the fire escape, mounted above the window of an Italian bistro. The other two were placed across the street—one inside of a double glass of a women’s boutique shop, and another affixed at the corner of a Chinese deli.
The tourists reached the parked SUVs and Cooper pulled the gun out just long enough to squeeze three quick shots. The quiet pneumatic pops drowned in the white noise of the rain and she shoved the gun back into the holster.
The bulky barrel caught the fabric of her sweater and the pistol stuck, the handle of it sticking outside of the jacket. Cooper cursed under her breath. There was a flower delivery van approaching her and in another moment the driver was going to be close enough to see the weapon. She pulled on the jacket with her left hand, almost dropping the umbrella, and pushed the pistol in. There was a satisfying clicking sound and Cooper looked up just in time to collide with a tall, lanky man. The impact was hard enough to make her stumble. As Cooper lost balance, the man reached out and caught her by the elbow, sending sparks of electricity into her injured shoulder.
