Fringe 03 - Sins of the Father

by Christa Faust

  His payoff to Jaruk had insured that both suites would be unoccupied that night. The eastern facing door was pivotal, because he would need to make his escape from the roof via the eastern staircase.

  He used the key card to let himself into the suite, but didn’t turn on the light. Relative darkness was essential—both inside this suite and its western facing twin. If the lights were on, the glow would shine upward through the skylights, illuminating the area of the roof where his most crucial sleight of hand needed to occur.

  He stood for a moment in the semi-darkness, letting his eyes adjust. Although the lights were all off, the room was far from pitch black. It was indirectly illuminated by the candy-colored Blade Runner skyline which filled the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a hell of a view. Guests who paid the exorbitant fee to stay here expected nothing less.

  In the dim glow, the room seemed even more seductive and appealing than it would have been with the lights on. Its lines were stark, modern, and minimalist. Understated in a way unique to things that are outrageously expensive.

  Crossing to the window, he stood there, drinking in the view. He saw the Grand Palace in the distance, its needle-like pointed rooftops glowing gold in the nighttime. Peter couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he was going to have to keep hustling before this kind of lifestyle came within his reach. Luxury hotels, fast cars—the entire world at his fingertips. No matter how hard he worked, he just couldn’t seem to get ahead.

  It didn’t seem fair that the whole take from this potentially fatal caper would go to pay off his debt to Big Eddie. It seemed like he really ought to get something extra for his troubles. Danger pay, so to speak.

  Yet that kind of thinking was what got him into this mess in the first place. His “take” from this job was his life. Period. And, given the way he’d been jerking Big Eddie around for the past few months, he ought to be damn glad to have it.

  Enough with the daydreaming, he decided. Time to go.

  He checked to make sure the empty suitcase was there, and found it sitting on a folding rack beside the bed. Thank you, Jaruk. It was a generic black roller bag, exactly like a million others that passed through any given airport on any given day, and it was exactly the right size to fit both briefcases.

  Check.

  Then he looked up at the large, multi-paned skylight. There was an automated shutter that could be controlled using a bedside button, for travelers who hadn’t yet adjusted to local time, or just wanted to sleep in without the interference of daylight. The shutter was fully retracted, revealing the thick, milky frosted glass of the skylight. There were five long, rectangular panes in a row, and the one closest to the door had been removed, allowing a brisk, exhaust-scented breeze to waft into the room.

  Check. Everything was as it should be. Time to head for the “rooftop garden” to put the final pieces into place.

  He stuck the key card into his hip pocket, grabbed the two briefcases, and left the suite as he found it. Out in the center hallway he headed for the fire stairs at the far end.

  Inside the stairwell, there was only one way to go, and that was down. Unless you had the key to the door on the right, which was marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  Peter did.

  He swiped his key card through the lock and it beeped its acquiescence, accepting him as suitably authorized. He pushed through the heavy door and onto the narrow stairs that led up to the roof.

  At the top of the flight stood a second door that also required a swipe of the card. He had to push hard to open the door against the wind.

  Once he was able to squeeze out, he found himself at the far eastern end of the infinity-shaped roof. This high above the city, the wind kept the stifling heat and humidity at a reasonable level. The 360-degree view was breathtaking—the owners of the hotel had missed out, he decided, by not installing some kind of garden, sun deck, or lounge.

  Then again, he thought, if they had, I wouldn’t be able to pull this off.

  Turning so that he faced west, across the roof, he saw a lot of empty space with very minimal cover. Each tower boasted a tall, thin antenna with a blinking red light at the top to warn away aircraft. There was a slight zigzag in the middle of the rooftop, created by the two knee-high, raised skylights that stood above those twin suites. That was the critical spot—the one where he would make the switch.

  Peter had never been particularly afraid of heights, but he kept to the center of the oval-shaped eastern tower as he walked toward the wasp-waisted spot where the twin buildings joined. The spindly metal railings around the edge didn’t do much to instill a feeling of safety—upright posts with steel wires strung between them, more like an afterthought, really. Barely crotch-high when measured against his six-foot-two frame, and thin enough that he was pretty sure they would buckle under a person half his weight.

  Still buffeted by the wind, he arrived at the middle of the little zigzag. He turned and looked back at the door leading to the eastern stairway. It was visible, but dimly lit in the ambient glow from the city.

  Checking its twin to the west, making certain there was no one there, he stashed the two briefcases next to the raised steel framework of the skylight that looked down into his suite, on the side away from the missing pane of glass. The height of the framework was perfect—almost exactly the same as that of a briefcase, standing with its handle up, ready to grab.

  With the cases positioned right where they needed to be, Peter peered toward the western stairwell to the west. He envisioned all of the players, in place and ready. Koreans to the west, and the more temperamental and unpredictable Chechens to the east.

  He’d gone back and forth on the placement, trying to determine who should be where, and who could be counted on to react appropriately when the time came. The Chechens were the clear winners, he decided—the most likely to shoot first and ask questions later. The downside, however, was that in order for Peter’s plan to work, the more potentially dangerous group had to be placed on the same side as his escape route.

  All he could do was hope that they didn’t decide to shoot the messenger.

  He checked his watch.

  Showtime.

  Peter took the other cell phone from his pocket, pressed the “talk” button and dialed the second number he’d been given—this one by the Koreans. His call was answered on the first ring. He told the man on the other end to meet him by the entrance to the western staircase, on the thirtieth floor.

  Then he hit the “off” button.

  Taking a moment to breathe deeply, and arrange his face into the affable, trustworthy I’m just here to help expression that had served him so well for so long, Peter headed over to the western stairs. As he walked, he twisted his shoulders, rolled his neck, and shook out his arms. In deals where no one was speaking their first language, body language was crucial. He had to appear comfortable and relaxed.

  Confident, but not cocky.

  He had to look like a man who had everything under control. He just hoped that if he could make the Koreans believe he did have everything under control, maybe he would be able to convince himself.

  He opened the door to the western stairwell and headed down to the thirtieth floor. When he arrived at the AUTHORIZED PERSONEL ONLY door, he heard Korean voices on the other side.

  You got this, he told himself.

  Then he pushed the door open.

  There were four men waiting in the stairwell. Two were obvious muscle—bulky knuckleheads in tracksuits, with big hands and cold, stony expressions. The other two were a Mutt and Jeff pair. The taller one was handsome and lanky with a bleached, pop-star haircut, a mournful expression, and a briefcase just like the one Peter had hidden up on the roof. The shorter one looked like an accountant, with wire-framed glasses and a little bit of a belly under his unremarkable navy-blue dress suit. But the way the others silently deferred to him, it was clear that this was the boss.

  “Mr. Park,” Peter said, extending a friendly hand to the accountant.
It was the name the man had given him on the phone, but “Park” was the Korean equivalent of “Smith.” Not that it really mattered.

  He’d told Mr. Park his name was Baker. It seemed more appropriate than “Butcher” or “Candlestick Maker.”

  Mr. Park eyed Peter’s hand as if he suspected Peter might have failed to wash up after his last visit to the men’s room. Reluctantly, he accepted it with a limp, moist handshake that felt like gripping a dead squid.

  They had a brief exchange in Japanese, in which Peter explained that the seller was shy, and didn’t want to meet directly with the buyer. To protect the anonymity of both groups, they would wait on opposite sides of the roof, with Peter acting as a go-between, ferrying the money to the seller and the product back to Mr. Park.

  The Korean nodded with a wordless grunt of acceptance.

  It was very hard for Peter not to pump a victorious fist in the air. Instead he did a little happy dance in his head, while maintaining a stoic expression. Turning, he motioned for Mr. Park and his men to follow him through the locked door and up to the roof.

  When they stepped out into the wind, the tall, handsome guy immediately set the briefcase between his designer sneakers, trying and failing to fix his trendy hair. The muscle twins flanked the boss as he stepped forward and surveyed the roof. Park was frowning.

  “Where are they?” he asked in Japanese.

  “I will call them now,” Peter assured him. “I wanted to give you the strategic advantage of being first to arrive.”

  Again, the nod-and-grunt combo. Peter smiled, took out the phone, and dialed the Chechens. The guy with the creepy voice picked up, sounding more eager than ever. Peter switched to Russian, telling him to wait at the eastern stairway on the thirtieth floor. The man on the other end went into elaborate detail about what would happen to Peter if he tried anything funny.

  Peter made himself smile and nod for the benefit of the Koreans, and then ended the call.

  “They will be here,” he assured them. Then he showed the Koreans five fingers to indicate how long it would take to fetch the Chechens and get them set up on their end of the roof. With that, he headed over to the eastern tower.

  * * *

  The Chechens were waiting there in the eastern stairwell. There were five of them, and they seemed shockingly young—not one a day over twenty. They were all roughly bearded and underfed, clad in ill-fitting, brand new suits and cheap ties that made them look like hillbillies dressed up for a court appearance. They hadn’t bothered to buy new shoes to go with the new suits, and were all wearing battered combat boots.

  Two of them had brought baggage. One had the requisite briefcase, and the other had an unexpected duffle bag almost certain to be full of killing tools. He suppressed a shudder and hoped they would be pointed at someone other than him.

  “Pozdravleniya,” he said, then added, still in Russian, “Which of you is Umarov?”

  To Peter’s surprise, the one who stepped forward and introduced himself as Umarov in that now-familiar, creepy phone-sex voice was the youngest-looking of the group. He was of a slight build, with narrow shoulders and small hands, as if he hadn’t received enough nutrition as a child. He had a sharp, Slavic profile and his light-brown beard was wispy and still baby-fine. He couldn’t have been old enough for a legal beer in the US, but he had terrifying zealot’s eyes.

  A guy his age should be busy trying to start a garage band, or talk girls out of their trusiki, Peter mused. But the world was full of child soldiers, teen gang members, and lost boys of all kinds. There was nothing he could do to save them from the fate they chose. And it wasn’t like he was planning to kill these guys himself—just point them at the Koreans. If they didn’t want to start something, they didn’t have to.

  And if they did shoot first, they still might win and walk away unharmed.

  Peter wasn’t putting their fingers on the triggers. He just provided them with the opportunity.

  That was what he told himself, anyway.

  He turned and let the Chechens into the locked stairway. They followed him upward, their boots thudding on the stairs, and out onto the windy roof. As soon as they had emerged, they set themselves up in a precise, military formation. The guy with the duffle bag unzipped it and pulled out an AK-47, then stepped off to one side, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he chewed a wad of gum. He kept the barrel pointed down, but was bird-dogging the Koreans the entire time.

  The others passed around a variety of firearms as if they were candy bars, while Peter stood there trying to look calm and relaxed.

  Jaruk’s 1911 against the sweat-slick small of his back no longer seemed like much of an asset.

  He asked Umarov if they were ready. The Chechen nodded and gestured for the kid with the briefcase to hand it over to Peter.

  This was it. His moment to shine.

  Peter nodded. His palm was slick with nervous perspiration, and he had to grip the handle tightly to keep it from slipping while he walked toward the wasp-waisted center of the roof.

  As he reached the skylight, he couldn’t help but notice that the Koreans had also gunned up, and were scowling through the gloom at the Chechens. Although being in the crossfire made Peter feel like a mechanical duck in a shooting gallery, he also knew that all those guns would keep the two groups focused on each other, and not on him. Which was exactly the way he had planned it.

  Nevertheless, it felt as if his heart was trying to beat itself to death against the inside of his ribcage, and the high wind was wicking the cold sweat away from his exposed skin, making him feel chilled and shivery. Yet he couldn’t let himself think about any of it. He had to concentrate on the sleight of hand that was coming next.

  When he reached the skylight with the missing pane, he dropped the Chechens’ briefcase into the suite below, smoothly grabbing his own identical case, and never breaking his stride.

  The Koreans were so busy giving the Chechens the stinkeye that they barely noticed Peter until he was right beside them, handing the case over to Mr. Park. The Korean nodded and passed it to the tall guy with the bleached hair, trading it for the one he was holding.

  But Park didn’t hand over the Korean case. Instead, he waited silently as the tall guy opened the one Peter had given them, and began to inspect the contents.

  This was a tricky spot. The point where everything could go to hell.

  Peter held his breath, and clenched his fists.

  Inside the case was a device of Peter’s own creation. He’d told both sides that he could deliver to them a device which would allow the user to hack and reprogram armed UAVS, also known as drones. In reality, the Korean was examining an old laptop motherboard and frame, grafted to a touch-screen tablet and the controller for a toy helicopter.

  It only needs to be convincing for a few minutes, he reminded himself. He’d told each group that the other one was selling this technological unicorn. Both parties thought they were the buyers. Peter already had the Chechen money, which he’d dropped through the skylight. Now he needed to get the Koreans’ payoff, as well, so that it could join the first case in the suite below.

  On paper, it all looked simple.

  Peter liked to believe that, after a decade of experience as a freelance “social engineer,” he was able to predict human behavior like a veteran sailor could predict the tides. Along the way, however, he’d also learned to expect the unexpected.

  Stay calm, he reminded himself.

  To his amazement and relief, Blondie nodded his approval. Peter felt every muscle in his body turn to relieved jelly as he let out the breath he had been holding, trying not to be too obvious.

  So far so good.

  Mr. Park handed Peter the other briefcase, motioning with his weak chin, gesturing toward the antsy Chechens. Peter thanked him in Japanese, and started back across the roof.

  When he reached the skylight, he made the second crucial swap, smoothly dropping the Koreans’ case into his suite and grabbing his own. He could feel the
Chechens’ hard eyes boring into him as he cleared the final stretch, hoping all the while that the shadows had kept his secret.

  By the time he reached the other side, he was clenched-up again. He handed the ringer case to Umarov. They were less than ten feet away from his escape route now, but one of the Chechen boys had positioned himself in front of the door. Peter’s only hope was that when the govno hit the fan, the goon would leave his post to join in the action, giving Peter the opportunity to take a powder, unnoticed.

  The kid with the Kalashnikov drew down on the Koreans with rock-steady hands. He spat his wad of gum off to one side, narrowly missing Peter’s sneakers. Umarov opened the case, revealing its contents—several copies of the “Gentleman’s Guide” to Bangkok’s red-light districts.

  Life would be so much better for this kid, Peter thought to himself, if he spent his rubles on a hot soap massage with a happy ending. Umarov swore and flashed a low hand signal. The kid with the rifle unceremoniously shot Mr.

  Park in the face. His aim was superb, considering the lighting, the high wind, and the distance of the target.

  This couldn’t be his first time.

  Peter hit the deck and covered his head with both arms.

  The Koreans returned fire.

  Chaos erupted with so much noise that it was impossible to distinguish one sound from another. Bullets struck the rooftop and dislodged bits of concrete, but most of them flew by at a safe height. After a few seconds Peter pulled the gun from the small of his back and raised his head to check out the scene.

  One of the Korean muscle twins was bleeding from his left arm, but still firing steadily from the cover of the western stairwell, while the other dragged his fallen boss around the back. Blondie had thrown himself down on his belly with the precious case under his chest, and was shooting wildly every which way.

  Peter eyed the door to his eastern exit, wondering where the guy who’d been standing there had gone. He was about to make a run for it when his question was answered by a hand gripping the back of his shirt, and then hauling him forcefully around the back of the stairwell.