Compromised

by Tom Saric

  This man knew. If anyone could connect Paul to Hadad it was John Daniels. His helicopter had appeared in the middle of a desert to take Hadad and Ellen away. What dealings an oil company had with a terrorist, Paul had no idea.

  Two cars had left since Paul had been watching, and there was no movement inside the house. The distance from the road troubled Paul. He couldn’t simply hop the fence, saunter across the grass, and knock on the door. There could be a maid or a butler in the home, if not a security guard. He couldn’t press the buzzer on the gate and announce he needed to talk.

  He leaned against the trunk of the tree. He had spotted four security cameras. An eight-foot iron fence surrounded the entire property, which seemed to stretch back an acre or more. He assumed that cameras covered the entire perimeter.

  Paul walked towards the west flank of the property, lined by a row of tall ash trees and low-lying brush. Thorns scratched his legs as he passed through. Cameras perched on top of the fence, every twenty feet or so.

  Paul dug through the brush, and found a branch wedged deep in the ground. He gripped it like a fishing rod and reached towards the security camera. The tip touched the camera and swiveled it about an inch. He tried several times, the branch bending each time, but it wouldn’t budge. Sweat ran down his face and neck. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and let his shoulders rest. Then, he took the branch and swung with all the force he could manage and connected with the camera, turning it a hundred and eighty degrees.

  Paul tossed the branch aside and jumped onto the fence. He gripped the top bar, ignoring the pain in his hand, and pushed his feet into the vertical iron bars, trying to get some traction with his loafers. He managed to wedge his foot between two of the vertical bars and pull himself up. At the top, he avoided the spears and dropped over to the other side.

  He fell hard onto the grass, rolled over, and scrambled to his feet. He glanced up at the cameras along the fence and calculated the trajectory of the blind spot he had created. Then he ran, half-crouching, towards the mansion, across the open field of grass. He headed straight for the stone patio at the back of the house.

  He stepped onto the deck, careful to not to make a sound, and looked through the back window at the kitchen. Paul’s initial plan was to wait in the yard until Daniels came home, then enter through the back door and force Daniels to talk. As he passed the patio door, he saw something he hadn’t expected—a woman, presumably Daniels’ wife, was still home.

  She moved into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on, and looked through the collection of boxed teas in the cupboard. This meant any motion sensors in the house were off, and Paul could get to Daniels sooner than he thought.

  Paul charged through the door and ran up to her before she was able to turn around. She began to yell, but Paul clamped a hand over her mouth. She stiffened in his arms.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, but I need you to stay calm.”

  Paul held her until she seemed to relax, then he released his grip. He turned her around and looked her in the eye.

  “I need your help. I promise I will not hurt you. I need you to tell me if anyone else is in the house.”

  She shook her head.

  “What is your name?”

  “Joan.”

  “Okay, Joan, I need to talk to your husband John.”

  “About what?”

  “He might be able to help me,” Paul said. “Someone’s trying to frame me, and John might have some answers as to why.”

  “What would John have to do with any of this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A door slammed, then footsteps approached from the hallway. Paul grabbed Joan and covered her mouth.

  “Sweetheart?” a booming voice. “Forgot a report, so I had to swing ba—"

  John Daniels stopped abruptly in the doorway as soon has his eyes met Paul’s. A bolo tie hugged his neck, a neck that was craned to the side as he sized Paul up.

  “I won’t hurt her John. It’s you I need to talk to.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Paul stared at Daniels, trying to see if Daniels recognized him. But Daniels’ eyes seemed empty.

  “I’m Paul Alban. And you’ve tried to frame me.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about? I don’t know who you are.”

  “I need information from you. You, or someone attached to your company, has tried to frame me. I need to know who.”

  Daniels shook his head. Paul realized that Daniels had no idea who he was. He had to give him more information.

  “I came here from Somalia where I work for the U.S. government. Someone connected to your company used National Clandestine Service channels to feed me information that I gave to Somali rebels. Now, the NCS suspects me of having conspired against the United States. I need to show them I followed protocol. I need to track down who it was in your company, so I can sort this out.”

  “My company?” Daniels snarled.

  “Yes. A helicopter registered to VeritOil picked up a known terrorist in the Somali desert.”

  “What?”

  “There’s got to be a money trail, a money transfer, or something. Flight logs, someone who authorized the flight into Somalia two days ago.”

  “You’ve just told me you’re a wanted fugitive. You’re running from the U.S. government. You have my wife held hostage. And you want me to help?” Daniels picked up the telephone sitting on the small end table beside the couch.

  “Who are you calling?” Paul said.

  “The police.”

  Paul sprung up and reached for the phone Daniels had to his ear. Daniels twisted and lifted the phone high in the air and then recoiled, the point of his elbow connecting with Paul’s nose. Paul fell to the carpet, catching himself on his palms. Blood poured out like an open faucet. He scrambled on all fours before Daniels’ foot came up into his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Paul crawled to the doorway, each breath sharp and painful. When he got to the doorway, he ran into the kitchen and pulled a chef’s knife off of the magnetic strip above the countertops. He sprinted back into the living room holding the knife in front of him. Daniels saw him coming and tried to side step out of the way. Paul grabbed Daniels’ forehead from behind with his free hand, yanked back, touched the blade to his neck, and told him to drop the phone. Daniels did so.

  “Listen carefully to me,” Paul said. “You’re going to help me. We’re going to drive to your office and you’re going to go through all records until we find who is involved. If we don’t find anyone, I’ll assume it’s you, and I’ll kill you.”

  29

  At Dulles, Bailey Clarke flashed her identification badge at the airport security officer and then passed through a set of double doors reading AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY – ALARM WILL SOUND. She walked to the end of a dimly lit hallway and stopped in front of the customs control room. She placed her hand on the door handle and let her fingers dance nervously on the cool metal. Crilley had been short on the phone when he called her to meet him at Dulles immediately. He didn’t give her any further details. Earlier, in his office, he had told her he would debrief Paul Alban and she could take the day off. Now he was pulling her back in. The only conclusion she could come up with was that something had gone wrong. She thought of Alban’s last words to her, I’ll call you when I get in.

  Part of her knew Paul Alban wasn’t going to get on that plane, but she chose to ignore it. Her instincts told her Alban sensed a noose being wrapped around his neck and slipped away before Crilley could tighten it. She had the feeling that Alban was right. Crilley wasn’t going to let him go free, she was almost certain about that. What she couldn’t understand was why Crilley was leading her along.

  She took a breath and slipped quietly into the room. Inside, Crilley was in full tirade mode, standing in front of a group of customs officers, screaming. His forehead had turned red and sweat rings had formed through his white shirt. File folders and papers were spread across a desk in the mi
ddle of the room. Two men sat in front of a monitor, reviewing security footage.

  “I don’t understand this,” Crilley yelled and pointed at the papers on the desk. “We have records that have him confirmed for the flight from Somalia, from Egypt, and from London! And then what? Poof! He’s gone. Someone explain what the hell happened to him!”

  Crilley stared at the officer nearest him, huffing, expecting a response. The man put his head down uncomfortably. Bailey hid behind a group of officers trying to stay out of Crilley’s line of sight.

  “Um, sir?” One of the officers in front of the monitors raised his hand. “I think I have something here. It’s footage from Thurgood International.”

  The group followed Crilley and huddled around the monitor on the far side of the room. Bailey followed and stood on the balls of her feet, looking over the shoulders of the men in front of her. On the monitor she saw Paul Alban, a man she recognized from the file. He was standing at customs, handing his passport over, and walking right through.

  “Shit!” Crilley yelled, breaking through the crowd and moving back towards the table. “We’ve just let a wanted criminal back into the United States.” Crilley kicked the table with the side of his foot, sending it sliding it across the room.

  Bailey stood frozen. She had sensed Crilley had lied about Alban being allowed to come back to the United States freely. Now he referred to him as a wanted criminal.

  “You.” Crilley stomped over to Bailey. “You talked to him last. What did you say?”

  “Exactly what we had talked about,” Bailey replied. “That he was coming home. That it was over, the weapons recovered.”

  “Well he must have got spooked, ‘cause he got on a different flight and now he’s gone.”

  “I don’t know why he would do that, sir,” Bailey lied.

  “Find him and bring him back.”

  “Oh, I’ll find him,” Bailey said more to herself than Crilley. “I have to.”

  30

  By the time John Daniels inserted his pass card into the elevator panel, whisking Paul, Joan, and John up to the executive suites inside the VeritOil headquarters in downtown Arlington, Paul felt a flame of hope light inside him. His heart thumped with excitement. He felt as though he were on the verge of making the breakthrough that would lead him to Ellen. It didn’t escape him that part of his excitement was the chance for revenge on Kadar Hadad. A second chance.

  The elevator beeped and the doors slid open, revealing the plush carpets and mahogany furniture of the executive suites. Classical music played in the background. Paul followed Daniels into the office marked OFFICE OF THE CHIEF. Daniels flicked on the floor lamp. The office was well over five hundred square feet. An enlarged black and white photo of what Paul assumed was a young John Daniel in overalls, beside a dozen or so other men sitting at the foot of a tall oil rig, hung on the wall behind the desk.

  Paul knew he didn’t have much time. The NCS were likely already looking for him. It was only a matter of time before they tracked him down and took him into custody. He motioned Daniels to turn on his computer. Joan sat by the window and stared outside. Daniels took the leather armchair at the desk and Paul hovered over his shoulder as the computer booted up.

  “What do you want me to look at?” Daniels glared.

  “Budget information. Your spreadsheets. If your helicopter was in use, that means someone paid to use it. We’re looking for any unusual money going out.”

  “Out? What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, John.” Paul smiled. “Your company stands to get a lot if the U.S. takes over the Puntland like it did Iraq, with VeritOil owning the rights to its oil.”

  Daniels looked up at Paul, expressionless. “I had nothing to do with this whole thing, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “I’m not. I don’t think you have a clue what’s happening in your company.”

  Paul looked over Daniels’ shoulder as he opened up a series of Excel spreadsheets. He scrolled through pages and pages of budget information. Paul’s vision became blurry as he tried to keep up with each row of money transfers. Each transaction had a label for the money source, destination, and the amount. Each was coded, from what Paul could tell, by country of origin.

  “Who codes this?”

  “The CFO, he codes the material.”

  “And you double check it all.”

  Daniels flashed a crooked smile and then returned to his screen and kept scrolling down the page.

  “I think he means to say that Craig looks through it all and John doesn’t bother.” Joan broke from her statuesque position by the window.

  “What?” Paul said.

  “Nothing,” John waved his hand dismissively.

  “No, not nothing.” Joan walked over solemnly. “Craig Evans is John’s advisor. He looks over all the finances because John doesn’t like to. And he trusts Craig with everything.” Joan stood at the edge of the table with her arms crossed and her face suddenly flushed. “And this wouldn’t be the first time Craig shuffled some money around. But John overlooks all that. Because Craig is, how did you put it, John? The son you never had. ”

  Paul didn’t say anything; Joan had said enough. He could tell by Daniels’ face that he had no idea what he was looking at when he examined the spreadsheets. He was a figurehead, pure and simple.

  For the next hour, Daniels scrolled through the spreadsheets, stopping when Paul pointed something out onscreen. They searched by date and then searched the spreadsheets by dollar amount, limiting themselves to transfers up to $15 million. Paul estimated that if there were a transfer related to a nuclear weapon, it was unlikely to be larger than that to avoid attention. Even with a narrowed search, there were a dizzying number of transactions each day, and there were no guarantees the transaction was recent.

  Paul rubbed the corner of each eye with his fingers, trying to refocus. Daniels kept scrolling. Then an entry caught Paul’s eye.

  “Stop. That one.” Paul pointed at an entry onscreen.

  It was a twenty-four thousand dollar outgoing transaction from a VeritOil account to an account number which was not coded by country. There were a series of them, every two months.

  “What does that mean? There’s no country code.”

  Daniels made a hmpf sound, shifted in his chair, and then shrugged. Then he continued scrolling.

  “John, what is that? I know you know.”

  Daniels rubbed his lips together, shaking his head. “Offshore.”

  “In which name?”

  Daniels glanced at Joan and then at Paul and then at Joan again. He placed his elbow on the desk and touched his forehead to his palm. “Mine.”

  “You’re stealing from the company, John?” Joan asked.

  “I borrow to invest from time to time,” Daniels spoke slowly. “Blue chip stock. I take the investments and put all the money back in a month later. No one loses.”

  “I can see it coming back right here.” Paul pointed at an entry lower down on the spreadsheet. “How often are you doing this?”

  “Once a month.”

  “What do you have in there now?”

  “Nothing from the company.”

  “What about this one, then?” Paul pointed at another entry, two weeks later, for the same amount. “It doesn’t seem to be coming back in.”

  Daniels stared at the screen. “This isn’t me.”

  “Well, it’s going to your account.” Paul scrolled down. “Every four weeks, there is twenty-four thousand going out, but these show nothing coming back in.” He kept scrolling. “There’s at least twenty of them. That would be close to half a million.”

  “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Who else knows your account information?”

  Daniels looked up at Joan, who shook her head with her hand over her face. “Evans.”

  Daniels picked up the telephone on his desk and dialed a long distance number. He recited his account number and identification code. “Yes, I was wo
ndering about transactions made from my account in the past forty-eight hours… Is that it?... No?... How much?... I see.” He fumbled placing the phone back in the cradle. “Four hundred and eighty thousand. It’s gone.” Daniels slumped into his chair like he’d been sucker punched.

  “Where’d it go?”

  “It’s been transferred to another account.”

  “A payment.”

  Daniels sat slowly shaking his head side to side. “You were right, Joan. You were right about him all along.”

  “You have to call him in now,” Paul said.

  31

  John and Joan sat in silence in the chief executive officer’s office while they waited for Craig Evans to arrive. Paul paced across the plush grey carpet, stopped occasionally in front of tall, elegantly carved bookcases, and ran his hand across the books, squinting to read the titles in the dark.

  Daniels had called Evans an hour ago and asked him to meet in the office under the pretext of setting up a press conference to discuss the state of the company stock. It was the best story they could come up with. Daniels assured them that nighttime meetings between himself and Evans were common. Evans agreed to come without any hesitation, saying he would break dinner plans with his fiancée. Daniels was satisfied Evans didn’t suspect that anything was out of the ordinary.

  It didn’t sit well with Paul. If Evans were involved, he could know Paul had entered the country. And Daniels’ voice sounded wooden and rehearsed on the phone.

  There was a confident knock on the door and then Craig Evans poked his head in. “John?”

  “I’m here, Craig. Please come in.”

  “Sitting in the dark, John? That’s a little creepy. Mind if I turn on the lights?” He flicked the light switch beside the door.

  Evans looked younger than thirty-six, clean-shaven, in a striped shirt and khakis. When he saw Joan and Paul, his confident smile melted away. He gave a limp wave towards Joan and then turned back to Daniels.