by Guy Harrison
Chapter Twenty
Riddled with anxiety, I don’t get much sleep. I leave the Hampton Inn at the first hint of the rising sun. Due to the ongoing reconstruction of Philadelphia’s rail system, one can no longer take the ninety-minute train ride from Philly to New York. I ditch the rental car and take Greyhound up to the Big Apple. After arriving in New York just before noon, I check in early at a hotel on the Upper West Side, close the blinds, and finally fall asleep.
Although my plan was to search for the A of I’s headquarters as soon as I arrived, stopping for a nap works out for the best. Since I’d no longer be a shape shifter upon destroying the Arrowhead, it might be nice to escape into the chaos that is rush hour. That is, of course, assuming I get into the facility, find the relic and get out.
I stop to eat at an outdoor café and enjoy a salad and a turkey sandwich. I so badly want one of New York’s renowned slices of pizza but I didn’t want all of that fatty goodness slowing me down. I’ll need to be light on my feet.
Upon arriving at the park’s western boundary, West Drive, I thank my lucky stars that the old man’s manual was as specific as it was about the facility’s location. Central Park stretches two and a half miles long and a half a mile wide.
I take note of the time. It’s nearly four o’clock. With the summer solstice quickly approaching, the sun won’t vanish for another four hours.
After crossing West Drive, I enter a walking trail that runs along the circumference of the reservoir and head south as I look for a possible entry point. There are a couple of stone structures overlooking the south end of the reservoir. Beyond the structures is also a narrow bridge—presumably for walking—that runs over another walking trail.
You can find diversity at almost every corner of the United States, but even Miami doesn’t have anything on New York in that regard. And it’s more than just race, too. I’ve passed hipsters with flannel shirts, punks with red hair, and Asian people covered with tattoos.
Before walking much further, I decide that now is a good time to change into Richardson. When the foot traffic along the trail dissipates, I walk off of the path and find a grouping of trees behind which to hide.
Swoosh!
My last two transformations have been the most extreme I’ve undertaken. Last night, I was the youngest person I’ve ever changed into. Today, having changed into Richardson just once before, this is the oldest form I’ve taken and I feel every bit of sixty-something. And although I’ve been spared the hindrance of the old man’s balky knee, all of my joints do feel sore. This disguise will prove impractical once I have the Arrowhead.
I get back on the trail and stop dead in my tracks when I hear a voice behind me.
“Donald!” a man says. “Donald Richardson!”
I turn around and see a younger man, perhaps in his early forties, wearing a suit and tie and a big smile on his face.
“What are you doing here?” he says, now just steps from me.
“Oh, you know,” I say with a shrug, trying my best Southern accent, “just couldn’t stay away.”
“Ah, you must be here for the meeting.”
“That’s right, I am here for the ... the …” I try my best to look senile.
“NA quarterly budget meeting.”
“That’s it. Yeah. Wait, what’s NA?”
The man laughs. “You going senile on us?”
“I must be. Haven’t been the same since I retired. Hey, you think you could get me into the meeting?”
“Oh, of course,” the man says with a snicker. “You’re Donald Richardson.”
I nod and smile.
“It’s good to see you, old friend,” he says with a firm handshake.
My hand feels like leather in his. “Same here. Always good to see a familiar face.”
As we walk further south down the trail, I glance at the man, hoping to catch any glimpse of identification. As brilliant as this is, it feels too easy. Richardson could have called the A of I to warn them that I was coming. Still, the primary goal right now is to get into that building by any means necessary.
The man’s cell phone rings. “This is Mayne … Uh-huh … Do what you need to do, just make it happen … Bye.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. That call didn’t sound like it had anything to do with me.
We merge onto another walking path, passing the stone structures.
“How long did it take you to get here?” I say.
“Not long. I flew. The hardest part was getting through the airport. Pittsburgh’s is the worst.”
“Isn’t it?”
We approach the bridge and Mayne pulls a key out of his pocket. “Hey, whatever happened to that one girl you hired?”
“Valerie?”
“No, the military girl. Eva? Ella?”
“Elena.”
“Yes,” he says. “That one. Elena Jimenez. Did you ever pursue that?”
“Yeah, I hired her.”
“No,” he says with a laugh, “I mean, did you ever, you know, pursue that?”
I look at him with a blank gaze. I’m not sure what to say. I can’t imagine the real Richardson having this conversation. “Uh, no,” I say with a nervous smile. “I can’t say I did.”
“Dammit, man. What a waste. I thought the Philly girls weren’t cutting it for you.”
My smile quickly fades.
“Remember how you fought me over her?” he says.
I respond with a shrug. “I guess I changed my mind.”
“I wonder if she still remembers me. Hey, do you think you can you get me her number?”
“I’ll work on it.” I turn away for a moment and roll my eyes. I really hope Richardson didn’t hire Elena for her looks. I’m having difficulty believing that the old man would be that type of guy.
We stop under the narrow walking bridge with Mayne moving over to the right side of the enclosure. He looks both ways before kneeling down to the small space where the underside of the bridge meets our walking path. He brushes some grass aside, uncovering a keyhole in the ground, puts his key in the hole and turns it. Mayne then stands and steps back as a hydraulic system raises the patch of grass slowly like a gull wing door.
“What happens if there are civilians under this bridge?” I say.
“Haven’t you been here before?”
“Long time ago,” I say with a smile. “Before your time.”
He nods, accepting my explanation. “If there ever are civilians around, we just wait them out. No one goes in or out.”
“That’s simple.”
“Yeah, well, they don’t get many visitors here.”
I look into the opening under the bridge. A wide staircase leads down into an open lobby.
The door closes behind us as we start walking down the stairs. Agency of Influence Headquarters is like a warehouse. The gray masonry walls are barebones and the lighting is simple. The lobby is equipped with a stage and chairs, presumably for large gatherings while a long, rectangular wooden box is affixed to the wall at the far side of the lobby. The facility’s lone visible hallway is situated to our right. Several men in suits and ties walk in that direction.
Mayne puts a little more pep in his step. “I think they’re starting.”
When we reach the bottom of the staircase, I turn around and notice a video monitor on the wall to the left of the stairs. The monitor shows the area right outside the entrance, under the bridge. Below the monitor is a silver button. On the other side of the staircase is a plastic case stuffed with leaflets. I grab one and look at the cover. It’s a map of the entire facility.
“C’mon,” Mayne says. “We’re going to be late.”
When I start to follow him, I feel a rumble under my feet. “Is that an earthquake?”
Mayne shakes his head and I think I see him roll his eyes, too. “That’s the subway underneath us.”
I continue to follow him into the hallway. We pass a couple of small offices before entering a conference room. In the middle of the
room lies a large conference table, one with the capacity to accommodate close to twenty people. A teleconferencing device sits in the middle of the table and all of the chairs at the table are full. It looks like Mayne and I will be standing through this meeting.
Also, forget what I said about diversity in New York, it doesn’t apply here. Presuming the other men in this room are all branch directors, I wouldn’t exactly call the Agency of Influence an equal opportunity employer. I’ve never seen so many older white men in one room.
As we enter the room, all eyes turn to me, including those of the man standing at the front of the room.
“I see we have a special guest,” the man says with a German accent.
“I found the poor schlub sleeping in a cardboard box on Fifth Avenue,” Mayne says.
The entire room bursts into laughter and then applause.
“Well, welcome, Mr. Richardson,” the German says.
A man seated in front of us stands up and motions for me take his seat. I thank him and sit down.
“And how is retirement treating you?” the man at the front of the room says.
“Oh, it’s good,” I say with a smile. “The worst part is having to actually spend time with my wife.”
More booming laughter, more applause. Did these guys throw back a few before the meeting?
“Well, we’re glad to have you.”
After all of Richardson’s underlings in the Philadelphia Branch were sacked and disavowed, it’s pretty telling that the old man is welcomed back by his old employer with such open arms.
“As I was saying,” the German says, “our investments and donations are doing well as the second quarter and fiscal year come to a close. Because of this, and a steadying of our operating costs, we’re actually on pace to double our surplus this quarter.”
The man pulls up a PowerPoint slide on a screen behind him, showing how the A of I fared financially over the past three months in comparison to previous quarters. Sitting here and listening to this presentation takes me back to my days at Maxwell.
I wave for Mayne to lean in to me. “Who’s this man speaking right now?”
Mayne looks at me as though I had just told him that I was born without testicles. “Lasse Gantert, executive director of the A of I. That’s the man that let you retire.”
“God, I’m so senile.” Shit. I suspect I’m one more false step from blowing my cover.
“As you can see,” Gantert says, changing slides, “over the past year, we’ve done quite well, despite some unforeseen expenditures.”
The slide depicts continuous cost and revenue increases over the past twelve months. On the cost side, there were particularly large increases last June—about a month after the Suburban Station attack—as well as this past February.
Gantert gives me the floor when I raise my hand.
“What on earth are those two large jumps in cost?”
He looks back at the screen before turning back to the audience with a wide smile on his face. “Well, the first one should definitely be familiar to you. Those were the severance packages we had to give to every member of your staff, including all the concessions we made to the one agent—what was his name?”
“Calvin Newsome.”
“Right. You know, I still don’t know how you convinced me to give him all of that. He got lucky.”
I was lucky? How could I forget? Never mind that I had my face reshaped like it was made of Play-Doh. No, the Agency of Influence owed me absolutely nothing at all.
“The other jump, as most of you might recall,” Gantert says, “was the amount of resources we had to pour into sprucing up our Detroit branch.”
I look down at my hand and remember the map I picked up at the entrance. I open the first page and see an alphabetical listing of offices and points of interests highlighted on the map by a corresponding number. At the top of the list is the Arrowhead of the Seminole.
“As the overall numbers show, however, we’re doing very well. That’s a testament to the sound leadership we have in this room. Give yourselves a round of applause.”
The men in the room respond with thunderous applause. I, too, clap my hands in an effort to blend in.
Gantert goes to the next slide with the click of his presentation remote. “Here are our influence rates for the quarter that no one gives a shit about.” He breezes past the slide before anyone can see its content and the directors all share a good laugh.
I try hard not to let my perplexity show. These guys really have no interest in seeing how their branches have actually performed?
“And now, the part of the meeting you’ve all no doubt been waiting for.” Gantert pauses a moment to swallow, letting his words wash over the room. All of the directors sitting around the table sit up, almost in unison. “You all did a very good job of keeping your operating costs down starts. Because of this, everyone here will receive significant increases to their quarterly bonuses.”
He clicks the remote once more and unveils a list. All of the information crammed on this slide is illegible from my vantage point.
Gantert then leans toward the teleconferencing device. “For those of you that aren’t here, you’ll be emailed this information,” he says before passing around sheets of paper.
A man sitting next to me hands me a copy of the information listed on the PowerPoint slide. I look at the sheet and study its information. It lists numerous North American cities in alphabetical order with a dollar amount next to each of them.
My eyes quickly scan the cities I’ve become most familiar with. Philadelphia has $650,000 listed next to it. Miami has $487,000. Montreal, $329,000 Canadian.
The room fills with the sound of pleasant surprise. Some in the room gasp while others cheer loudly. Some of the men simply sit back in their chairs and smile.
“What is this?” I say to the man who gave me the sheet of paper.
“Oh, these are our bonuses for the quarter.”
“For the quarter? Who gets this money?”
“Oh, we do,” he says, as though there were no other alternatives. “It’s our director’s bonus.”
“Keep up the good work, gentlemen,” Gantert says over the merry din in the room.
I stand up and look behind me. Mayne has left the room. I squeeze my way out of the room, leaving the bonus sheet on the table but taking the map with me.
Out in the hallway, I lean against the wall, trying to keep my blood from boiling. I love a substantial salary as much as the next guy, but these directors are millionaires on bonuses alone. Wouldn’t an agency that prides itself on its generosity want to allocate this large of a surplus elsewhere? Anywhere? No wonder the Philly branch had so few employees. No wonder this facility is so damn drab. No wonder no one has sought to put an end to the Agency of Justice’s terror campaign.
What if the A of I’s donors caught wind of this? They’re practically throwing their money away. Because of the secretive nature of the agency, those donors can’t claim any kind of tax benefit. These wealthy people, who otherwise believe they are making sizeable contributions to society, are simply filling these assholes’ wallets.
Valerie was right. The Agency of Influence’s mission is utter bullshit. I do believe that Richardson genuinely cared about his staff and its work. But, at the end of the day, he was content collecting abnormally fat checks, not that I totally blame him. It’s still shocking that out of however many North American branch directors there are in this agency, there wasn’t one that couldn’t accept this money in good conscience.
Don’t hate the player, hate the game. I understand that concept. If you put a half a million-dollar check in front of someone every three months, they’re going to take it.
I would.
Thankfully, I wasn’t an A of I for very long. I’m not blind to the truth; I’m one of earth’s endangered citizens. The Agency of Influence has essentially taken a collective piss all over the purported vision of its founding fathers and is now defecating on the human
race. I’ll feel no remorse upon destroying the Arrowhead.
I open the map and find the Arrowhead’s location. It is at the bottom of a stairwell located at the end of this hallway. How arrogant can these people be? According to this map, their power source is on full display, exposed to the facility’s visitors like a museum exhibit. My fault. I’m being too logical. Who here would actually want to destroy the relic?
Plodding down the hallway, I take a look back. Nobody’s following me. As I descend down the stairs, I hear the men begin filtering out of the conference room and back into the main lobby.
When I reach a half-landing, the bottom level calls out to me. My heart rate jumps. What sort of Indiana Jonesian traps await me downstairs? I take a deep breath and continue down the stairs, this time taking it one soft step at a time. As my head clears the top floor, I look at the ceiling. No cameras. I reach the landing and turn to my left.
There it is.
The Arrowhead of the Seminole sits inside a glass case situated in the middle of a room. The chamber is the first of many rooms along a narrow hallway. At the other end of the hall is a nondescript, unmarked door.
I could destroy the relic where it sits right now, ending all of this madness. Given the throng of men upstairs, however, that strategy would not prove prudent. I’m better off quietly swiping the Arrowhead and then leaving the building, destroying it once I’m in the clear.
When I enter the room, I behold the Arrowhead, its precious stones glistening in the room’s exhibition lighting.
I hold out my right palm and raise it, lifting the relic’s case about a foot or so; just enough to float the Arrowhead into my left hand.
“You know …” I hear a voice say behind me.
My heart jumps up into my throat. I drop the case and watch it shatter into countless pieces. I turn around to look at the voice. It’s Mayne.
“… the first rule of being an Agent of Influence is that you never, ever use your power in an A of I facility, unless necessary.”
“Well, I’m not an A of I anymore,” I say after taking a deep breath, “and I’d say this qualifies as necessary.”
“You know, you really had me fooled. Until you opened your mouth.”
“Richardson call you?”
“I called him. We might be greedy but we’re not stupid.”
I purse my lips. “That’s one mistake I’ll never have to worry about making again, is it?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing. Give it to me,” he says, stepping into the room with his right hand open and outstretched.
“Don’t come any closer. I’ll break it.”
“Those men upstairs will kill you.”
“You guys have your money.”
“It’s not just about money.”
I tighten my grip on the relic. “Of course not. If your precious donors only knew.”
“Give it to me!”
Suddenly, I feel myself thrust backwards. I close my eyes and brace myself. With a thud, the back of my head hits the wall. The room goes fuzzy as I land face down on the cold floor. I feel a force pull at the Arrowhead in my left hand. I tighten my grip, no longer afraid to break it.
