by Dom Testa
“That would be inspiring.”
We set down our drinks and stepped into an embrace. Depending on my body du jour, Christina could come up to my chin, my nipples, or even sometimes come eye to eye. With my current height her head rested naturally on my shoulder. I liked that.
“At least you smell good,” she mumbled into my shirt. “Thanks for wearing it.”
I generally didn’t care for cologne, but, again, it was an anchor point, for Christina as much as for me. She’d bought me her men’s favorite and I kept the bottle at Q2 so I could at least come home with a familiar scent.
You think your marriage takes work? Try walking in the door as a different person every so often. Christina and I use as much humor as possible about the situation to keep it on a semi-normal basis. And, what the hell, she gets the best of both worlds: a man who is loyal and completely dedicated while she enjoys the sampler platter.
Don’t think for a moment that didn’t bother me in the early days. It was a paradoxical spin on paranoia. I was jealous of myself. “Eric, honey,” she’d say in her playful, snarky way. “I love you for your mind.”
Being a secret agent for your country takes all kinds of sacrifices, and nobody had made more than I.
“Where’d you cash in this time?” she asked, sitting down and patting the cushion next to her.
I dropped onto the couch and let out a long breath. “The beautiful mountains of Utah. Some sort of paramilitary organization with lousy fashion sense and worse hygiene.”
“And they got the drop on the great Eric Swan?”
I took another sip of the drink. “Yes, they surely did. Well, they didn’t. They brought in a ringer.”
When I didn’t continue, just staring out the window, Christina caught on. “You’re kidding? Him?”
“Can’t prove it yet, but I think so. Of course, even if I did find out while I was there, I didn’t have time to upload. I’m pretty sure, though.”
“And he did the deed?”
“I’ll never know. But if so—”
“If so,” Christina said, “you’ve extended your Guinness world record for most times killed by the same person.” She laughed. “Does Quanta know?”
“God no. All I told her was that there was a redhead I want to investigate further.”
“So he went red this time. Well, he doesn’t change his look as drastically as you, but close.” She studied my form again, still without a glimmer of approval. “If you’re reinvested, you must have something new brewing. I’m assuming you’re off soon.”
“In the morning.”
“Wow, one entire night at home.” She patted her chest. “Luckiest wife ever.”
I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Remember, all my talents transfer with me.”
“Hmm, the jury is out on that. Remember the one that was about 5-10, but really built?”
“I said talents, not tools. What about you? How’s the world’s greatest chef?”
“Just busy enough.”
Christina Valdez, at 39, had made herself into one of the country’s most sought-after chefs. She’d worked for a Michelin 3-star restaurant in New York before taking a slight demotion to move to Washington to be with me. The nation’s capital was lucky to have her. So was I.
Our partnership was difficult, no doubt, but she lived well. You don’t each buy a two-bedroom condo on the 7th floor of the Stadler Building unless you’ve both made it. The government paid for mine because I killed for them. The masses paid for Christina’s because she cooked for them.
Yes, there was a hers and a mine. We didn’t technically live together because Q2’s rules forbid it. No agent was allowed to be married, and we were even discouraged from close, personal relationships of any kind. That’s another story for another time.
But Christina and I enjoyed having a secret marriage, even if it was common-law and had begun with a private (just us) ceremony on Kauai. To us, we were husband and wife, and to us that’s all that mattered.
Did Quanta somehow know? I often thought she suspected something, but as long as I provided suitable results she seemed willing to look the other way.
Just to be sure, Christina and I kept separate condos that shared a wall. Three years ago we’d spent a long weekend putting to use the skills she’d acquired from her parents’ home improvement business. We’d sliced a doorway between the two units and camouflaged it with an actual moving panel, disguised as a bookshelf. Cheesy maybe, but effective, and kinda fun for us.
And Christina would be the first to tell you that separate condos might be the supreme ingredient for a happy marriage. You might think it’s separate bathrooms, or separate beds, or even separate bedrooms. Those are solid choices, but imagine separate condos that connect.
She decorated the way she liked and I did, too, no compromise necessary. We all know that compromise simply means both people are left unhappy, right?
The arrangement worked for us. I’d get home from an assignment and one of us would be the visiting team for the night. Tonight I had home field advantage.
Our drinks finished, we spent a few more minutes just watching the final shades of purples and oranges accompanying the sunset. Nothing else could be said about my new assignment. I couldn’t give specific details, and Christina wouldn’t want to hear them. She knew what I did, who I did it for, and was one of the only people on the planet who knew that somehow technology helped me rise from the dead.
Sadly, because of that, I’ll never meet her family, all of whom live in another time zone. But Christina said I should probably be glad. We left it at that.
When darkness had finally settled in we didn’t bother to turn on a lamp. She just took my hand and led me from the living room toward my bedroom. I thought I heard her say something about a ‘test drive.’
Chapter Five
Las Vegas does nothing for me. It’s the poster child for desperation, a sparkling, radiant magnet luring anyone who’s ever sought excitement in purely artificial form. I rank Vegas right up there on the list of biggest letdowns, right after New Year’s Eve but before losing your virginity.
Part of the problem could be that I don’t care for gambling. I’d mentioned the fact to Poole, who’d said I do that with my life on a weekly basis. Poole might grow on me after all.
The truth is I just can’t handle the incessant noise of a casino. Life is boisterous enough without excess electronic stimulation.
Within an hour of the plane touching down at McCarran International I’d picked up the Mercedes SUV and now stood at the front desk of the Encore. The courteous woman who checked me in said there’d been a delivery for me, but the courier refused to leave the package. When they returned she’d send them straight up to my suite.
Which, let’s face it, was magnificent. Floor-to-ceiling windows lit up each of the three rooms. I stowed my bag and poured a small whiskey-diet with double lime. The knock on the door came just as I expected it. The Q2 courier followed textbook protocol.
I opened the door, said, “You must be Taylor,” and the woman replied, “Almost every day.” I took the box she held out, then shut the door as she turned back toward the elevator. Just like that I had the Glock and three magazines of 19 rounds each. If I needed to fire more than 57 shots on what was supposed to be a purely fact-finding trip then somebody at Q2 had made one horrible miscalculation.
I sat down with my adult beverage and flipped through the folder Poole had compiled for me. The bios for the two young executives of LoGo, Lucas and Gillian Ormond, were about as sterile and boring as you’d expect for a company this size. The twins were obviously sheltered like any reclusive billionaire, and the few photos available were the same variety of posed pablum I’d seen in the company promo video.
One thing I noticed this time, however. Lucas smiled freely; Gillian, never. She struck every pose with the same kind of cold, emotionless face you saw on the runways at Fashion Week.
Who do you trust less: the person always smiling, or
the one who never does?
The official company materials claimed they were alternately raised on the east coast of the United States and the southern coast of Spain, each spoke three languages fluently, and each held an MBA in finance and macroeconomics.
The cynical side of me wondered if those MBAs were purchased rather than earned, especially since the alma mater mentioned had received, according to Poole, more than one sizable gift from the family’s trust.
Both had worked at LoGo since finishing school and had risen to the top after the tragic death of Niall Ormond. That’s what had me most interested. I’d just turned the page to begin more of that homework when the desk phone rang. It was an assistant at LoGo, confirming my appointment with LeMan for 2 o’clock. If I left Las Vegas at this time of day, she added helpfully, it should take about 40 minutes.
It took me exactly 34. I figured the unbridled power of the Mercedes had something to do with the discrepancy.
I sat in the idling car a block from the gate of LoGo headquarters, the air conditioning on medium. December temperatures in this part of Nevada could reach into the 60s, but today was hot. I used the last few minutes before my appointment to scan Poole’s file on this guy LeMan.
He was 49 years old, with multiple business degrees and short stints at traditional power companies before jumping to LoGo to work for the twins’ father. There was no personal information, nothing about his hobbies or interests, and the company photo would never earn him a swipe right.
It was almost too sterile. Alternative energy companies often present a pleasant, relaxed front, designed to combat the staid, decrepit image of old-school oil and gas. LoGo was buttoned up, and obviously preferred to showcase their products while keeping their people out of the public spotlight.
But everything seemed normal for a person in his position, a corporate shield whose job was to deflect people. I was sure he’d do everything possible to keep me from meeting with the twins.
At ten till two I cruised into the guest parking lot, then stepped out and shouldered my leather satchel. I ascended marble steps to impressive glass doors opening to a lobby best described as glorious. Brilliant sunshine through glass walls highlighted a water feature to beat all water features. Plunging three stories, the thunderous falls signified one of the many alternative energy sources LoGo dealt in.
So that covered solar and water; I wondered where the salute to wind lay?
Ah, above me. The entire atrium was cooled by a horizontal turbine spinning overhead, identical to those found at the eye-catching wind farms on the plains. The blades were massive. Taken all together — the sunlight, the imposing fiber-reinforced epoxy turbine, and the powerful crash of the waterfall — guests understood they were stepping into the lair of a dynamic force unto itself.
It was not subtle.
Naturally I was kept waiting for 15 minutes while LeMan was summoned. I thumbed through a magazine and pictured him sitting at his desk, idly checking the time, waiting just long enough to emphasize his importance. When I heard the click of his shoes on the decorative brushed concrete floor I kept my gaze on the magazine. Let him call out to me before I rose. Two could play his game of supremacy.
“Mr. Dean,” he said, his voice a rich baritone. I looked up to see a hand extended my way. I casually set the magazine aside and stood up, grasping his hand. “Mr. LeMan,” I answered.
He smiled. “Just LeMan.”
“All right.”
LeMan was medium height, with thinning dark hair and glasses too large for his face. Think early Elton John. His rehearsed smile lasted a bit longer than normal, and his handshake, too. But I showed I could keep it up as long as he could.
“Would you come this way, please?” he asked, removing his hand and indicating a curving staircase. As we took the steps he made polite conversation, asking about my flight, my hotel, my drive from Vegas. And, he observed, wasn’t it hot today? Not usually this warm this late.
In only sixty seconds I’d decided I didn’t like him.
His office was spartan, implying that full attention should be focused on him rather than furnishings. I took the chair on the near side of a large, gleaming desk, noting its completely bare surface. Other than a phone, there was nothing. Was that impressive or an act?
“So,” he began. “Your firm has made an overture toward investing in LoGo. First let me say we are most grateful for the confidence.”
“As you say, it’s an overture,” I said, adopting a relaxed tone. “My job is to assess whether or not we move forward.”
“Certainly,” LeMan said. “But we have no indication to what degree Locker-Mann’s interest lies. Is this a minor investment or would you call it more substantial?”
“Eight hundred million,” I said without hesitating. “Most people would label that ‘substantial,’ I believe.”
The number had the desired effect. The eyebrows behind the Rocket Man glasses arched and LeMan said, “I see. Yes, that is a sizable show of faith.”
I’d now assumed control. Figures like that automatically reverse the polarity on a relationship like ours. In other words, it would now behoove LeMan to practice the art of ass-kissing. I was having the time of my life.
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “Alternative energy is becoming a darling for certain investors, people who want everyone to see what kind of businesses they back. You know, go green, save the Earth, save the whales. It’s quite en vogue at the moment. LoGo has caught their attention. Of course, I’m not a bean counter, LeMan. There are plenty of those at Locker-Mann, and no doubt they’ll want a thorough look at LoGo’s books. That’s all a formality, and something you’re accustomed to, I’m sure. From what I’ve seen of your building, you’ve already had a few serious believers.”
I leaned forward. “My job is to assess a company’s leadership. An intimate assessment, you might say. We have a history of creating strong relationships because we choose to partner only with strong people. Good people who have good business sense. That means the people at the very top.”
LeMan inclined his head in agreement, pursing his lips and adopting the most earnest look he could muster. “Yes, of course. I think we all agree a winning business plan begins with the people forging that plan. I take it you’d like to interview Lucas and Gillian?”
I sat back again. “Oh, interview is probably not the word I’d use. So formal. No, really I’d just like to socialize with them.”
“I’m sorry. Socialize?”
“Sure. My specialty, you could say, is learning everything I need to know about people by spending time with them outside the office. Nobody’s their real self at work, wouldn’t you agree, LeMan?”
He opened his mouth to answer, then obviously realized what it said about him if he agreed. After a slight hesitation he simply said, “What an interesting observation.”
I offered a toothy smile. “My first appointments are like this. Five minutes. Just enough time to set up an introduction with the people I need to spend time with.”
LeMan was flummoxed, I could tell. His task of deflecting contact with the Ormonds could hardly withstand an eight-hundred-million-dollar battering ram. That was perhaps 5 percent of LoGo’s market cap, a figure Quanta and her team had decided was just the right amount to get attention and yet be believable. Now, of course, would come the part where he’d be happy to reach out to the Ormonds.
“I would be delighted to speak with the Ormonds,” he said.
“Well, that’s a good start, LeMan. As my British friends would say, good show!” I stood up and collected my satchel, the one stuffed with papers and an automatic weapon.
He rose as well. “Perhaps, Mr. Dean—”
“Please, Conrad is fine. As long as we’re on a one-name basis.”
He smiled. “Perhaps, Conrad, you’d care to have a quick look around before you drive back to your hotel?”
I shook my head. “You know, LeMan, that’s a kind offer, but nothing here would mean anything to me. No offense,
I’m sure it’s impressive. Hell, the lobby alone is impressive. Just not my field of expertise, you understand. I’m a people person.” I handed him a business card, one of our Q2 series-8 pieces. “I look forward to hearing from you soon. The sooner the better, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”
I let him escort me back down the curving staircase to the fortress-sized glass doors where we shook hands again. I put my sunglasses on and walked back to the Mercedes, feeling smug. I can play a lot of roles when called upon, but humbling an asshole like LeMan is one of my favorites.
Once back on the highway I opened an app on my tablet and punched in an access code. After cycling for a few seconds it settled down and I was able to play it through the car’s audio system.
LeMan was speaking. “. . . don’t know. Certainly seemed legitimate, and our background check was clear.” Pause. “I don’t know that, either. But Richter should be finished with his room by now. He’ll call any minute.” Another pause. “Sure. If Richter gives the thumbs up, how soon do you want him there?” Longer pause. “I agree. Yes, of course.” The sound of a phone disconnecting and footsteps receding.
A series-8 is one of the few gadgets my organization supplies with almost guaranteed success. It’s a heavy-stock business card, just thick enough to contain a listening device. It’ll end up in a trash can, the fate of every business card since the invention of business cards. But for the time being it did its usual bang-up job. In my line, every scrap of intel can be crucial, and this time I’d snared a name.
Whoever this Richter was, he was obviously rifling through my hotel room. Which was not only fine, but expected. I’d left just enough corroborating evidence of Mr. Conrad Dean lying around. Now it was only a matter of time and place. My guess was that the time would be soon. Even if LoGo was up to no good, they couldn’t pass up at least a preliminary discussion with an investor of that size, just for appearance’s sake. Nothing would raise more suspicion about a company than turning down almost a billion dollars.
