A few moments later he walked the Gardaí officers back to the door, thanked them for their time, then closed and locked the door before they’d reached the front gate.
The Gardaí officers thought his behaviour strange but knew each person deals with grief in different ways.
Sam slumped onto the threadbare couch in the front room. It still bore the stains and tears from the mutt they’d adopted many years before. The mutt was long gone, the ruined couch the only evidence it ever existed. Marnie was determined to replace it with one made from a lovely Italian leather with his proceeds from the next job.
He stared in the direction of the television mounted on the far wall. His eyes focused on everything, yet nothing. By his arm, on the end-table, a picture frame held a photo of him and Marnie at a small café in Rome. Sam with his arm draped around Marnie’s shoulders; she was smiling, he making a face at the young waitress taking the photo.
Sam went over the instructions he’d received and knew he’d not made a mistake. He was a professional, he knew better. Slip-ups also got you killed.
But if a mistake was made, why Marnie and not him?
He dropped the frame to the floor and buried his face in his hands. His train of thought leading him to a dark place and darker times. Where battle lines were drawn and no quarter was asked for, or given. And where death sentences were meted out, from friend or foe, for the slightest of mistakes.
The first gut-wrenching sob emptied his lungs and left him gasping for breath. The tears which followed stung his eyes, leaked through his fingers and pooled on the sitting room’s wooden floor.
Ah, jaysus, woman. What did you do?
Melbourne, Australia
Monday, March 21
The dim light from a small desktop lamp shone down on the keyboard as Dayne began the login process to the Williams & Teacher operating system. It was past 11:00, so he felt confident the law firm’s offices would be deserted, therefore his remote accessing of their systems would go undetected.
Earlier in the day, through his clickjacking program, he’d successfully captured the solicitor’s login credentials. Now, he entered the same passcode, pressed enter and waited for the system to allow him access.
On the desk beside him lay a ticket for tonight’s Lord Huron show at the Corner Hotel. He’d planned on going to see the indie-folk band from America with Craig but begged off earlier in the day. He told Craig to go ahead without him; that he didn’t need his help, and that the search may be a total waste of time. Truth be told, Dayne hoped to find something of value other than what interested his best friend. Craig, he knew, wouldn’t jaywalk without a gun pressed to his head, so the little Dayne shared about tonight’s foray into corporate espionage the better.
While Dayne waited for Garth’s home screen to load, he accessed his iTunes library from the second monitor and set it to shuffle. The openings chords to a Paul Dempsey tune filled the room.
A moment later the green and white logo of Williams & Teacher dissolved from the screen to be replaced by a menu page:
Human Resources, Law Library, Current and Archived Files, Client Information, and Email Options.
Okay. Now let’s see what you’ve been up to ya slimy bastard.
Dayne clicked on the client information tab, thinking it the most logical place to begin. Depending on what he discovered, his search could expand from there. As he delved through the client list, and Garth’s work for each, he quickly understood he’d uncovered a little more than he bargained.
Holy shit! What DO we have here?
He inserted a thumb drive into his workstation’s USB port and began the painstaking process of selecting and transferring files. And like picking fruit from an over-abundant market stall, he took time to pore over his choices, selecting only the choicest most succulent items.
As the sky began to brighten, Dayne still hadn’t budged from his seat facing the monitor. His bladder screamed to be relieved, but, he estimated, just another 15 minutes of downloading files and he’d have everything he needed.
Earlier, he determined this one attack would be the only time he’d risk accessing the Williams & Teacher system. The level of cyber security they employed was state-of-the-art, far beyond what he expected for a small law firm, making future forays into their systems, even for him, just too dangerous. However, the amount of information he’d gleaned was immense. The value to the firm, of what he’d uncovered, incalculable.
As the last of the file transfers finished downloading, he carefully logged off. His cyber footprints invisible. The virus remaining in Garth’s workstation, even if discovered, untraceable.
Dayne rose from his chair, stretched his tired limbs and made his way down the hallway to the toilet at the rear of the house. The rising sun shining through the louvered window caused him to wince. Below, a steady stream of urine hit the bottom of the bowl for an interminable amount of time.
As he flushed, he noticed the ingrained water rings in the bowl and thought it a shame his cleaning habits were so abysmal.
Shit. What a bloody mess.
He could just as easily have been talking about his best friend Craig’s situation.
Rome, Italy
Monday, March 21
Dottore Dominic Previti hurried down the cobblestoned lane holding the morning’s copy of la Repubblica over his head. A sudden March shower interrupting an al fresco lunch at his favourite trattoria, just one of many lining the Piazza di Spagna. The sudden downpour sent him scurrying back along the Via del Babuino in search of shelter and his scallops bobbing in an ever-thinning Alfredo sauce.
He stopped under the awning of the entrance to his offices and surveyed the damage; his Bruno Magli shoes were soaked, his cashmere suit faring no better, and his silk Prada tie, a present from his wife for his birthday, most likely damaged beyond repair.
The ornate latch creaked and the heavy wooden door opened with a sigh onto the foyer of the non-descript office building. Dominic tossed aside the sodden newspaper and shook himself like a stray dog. Without further ado, he crossed the foyer inlaid with the finest Carrara marble and took the elevator to the fourth floor.
At 65 years of age, Dominic Previti still cut an imposing figure. Thanks to regular exercise four times a week at his health club, his body remained toned, his back straight. His dark complexion, thanks to his Sicilian heredity, contrasted brilliantly with the glossy sheen of his thick silver mane.
The elevator door crept open, as if not wanting to take anyone by surprise, into the foyer of Williams & Teacher’s Rome offices. Dominic Previti angled sideways to be gone from the elevator before the door fully opened and strode past the reception desk.
As he whisked by his assistant, he asked perfunctorily.
Any messages, Angelina?
The Rome offices of Williams & Teacher had occupied the fourth floor of the building on Via del Babuino for the past 15 years. At the southern end of the narrow lane nestled the demure Piazza di Spagna and many of the finest designer stores in Rome. To the north, the Via played host to a small number of boutique hotels, museums and galleries, before spilling out into the grand Piazza del Popolo which, in turn, fed into the magnificent grounds of the Villa Borghese.
No, Dottore. No messages.
Dominic Previti, the firm’s senior partner, continued past his assistant without even acknowledging her answer and made directly for his computer. The answer he was looking for to his urgent question would not come via the telephone.
It took a moment for him to login to his secure email system. While waiting for the encryption system to fully engage, he stared out from the large bay window of his office. Although the Tiber River lay just a few hundred metres to the west and the Villa Medici a stone’s throw to the east, he could see nothing but the cluttered rooftops of his fellow Romans. Bedraggled vegetable plots surrounded makeshift clotheslines. Some lines stood empty. The majority, weighted down under their heavy loads, sagged low in the unexpected downpour. Patio furniture, in
various stages of disrepair, waited for the sun to return.
Dominic dragged his attention away from the outside world and focused on the task at hand.
The request for action to his counterpart in the Dublin office of Williams & Teacher he’d sent late on Friday. Even allowing for the one-hour time difference, he’d expected an update this morning. Surely, he wondered, a full weekend of investigating one Irishman couldn’t be that complicated.
As the inbox of his email system populated the screen, he immediately noticed the new message from Joseph O’Donovan.
Dominic had known Joseph for close to 20 years. Both men made senior partner in the late 1990s, Dominic, the senior by two months. He trusted Joseph implicitly and knew whatever recommendation his friend made in this matter could be trusted 100%. However, it still only made him feel slightly less anxious. His largest client was not one with which to trifle, their account generated fees measured in the millions annually, and the exposure alone of a failure on his behalf would be devastating, if not deadly.
Before reading Joseph’s response, Dominic scrolled back through the entire message string.
March 18 –
Request immediate assistance. Surveillance required on a subject in your market. Name – Eamonn Mahoney. Additional details attached. Our client here has concerns of a leak in his supply network.
Please investigate and report back. ASAP.
-D.
______
March 18 –
Will do. Any further info available? Put the proverbial cat amongst the pigeons, has he?
-J.
______
March 18 –
Client – V – hates to lose valuable source but can ill afford public exposure. May want to cross reference your client – SF – for more background. Does that help?
-D.
______
March 18 –
Oh dear, heavy hitters indeed. Your needs are crystal clear. Will have my best team on it. Expect an initial report back to you Monday a.m.
-J.
______
A tentative knock on the door caused Dominic to pause.
Yes, Angelina. What is it?
Your afternoon espresso, Dottore.
Angelina, the firm’s 20-year-old receptionist of 6 months timidly entered the office juggling a tray holding a small cup of espresso. She placed it gently on the edge of his desk as if it was a kilo of plastic explosives and smiled in triumph.
Can I get you anything else, Dottore?
Dominic proffered a smile he assumed sufficiently hid his disdain for her incompetence. And then wondered, not for the first time, which had the higher I.Q, the desk or Angelina?
That will be all, thank you.
Before returning to the important business at hand, he followed the hypnotising sway of Angelina’s hips as she retreated from his office and instantly recalled exactly why she was still employed.
He shook the impure thoughts from his mind and returned his attention to Joseph’s email.
March 21 –
Initial report suggests a leak. It appears someone has already begun cleaning house at this end (see attachment). Unsure if Eamonn is the problem, but he controls the majority of the operation, per SF.
My opinion – Consider source compromised. Will await your instructions on next steps.
-J.
______
Dominic clicked on the attachment symbol, and a newspaper article appeared on the screen from the Irish Times.
It recounted the story of an elderly lady from the town of Bray. The victim of an apparent hit and run accident over the weekend. It went on to say the van involved in the accident was found abandoned and ablaze in an open field 20-kilometres to the south. All attempts at locating the driver so far proving fruitless.
The article then went on to recount the life of a Mrs Coogan. At this point, Dominic lost interest.
Dominic pondered the meaning. On the face of it, an innocuous enough story, but Joseph must have had a reason to include it in his response. He thought the manner in which the accident played out spoke to a professional hit. Although he couldn’t fathom why kill a seemingly innocent lady. But if Joseph felt it an important enough link to include in the report, it must be something their client needed to know.
Why he’d been pointed in that direction, to a hit and run in the small Irish village of Bray, may have been unclear to his 65-year-old eyes, but he knew it must tie in with this Eamonn Mahoney.
Dominic reached for the phone. It may not make sense to him, but he knew the person to whom it would.
Angelina, please get me Father Thomas on the phone. And be sure to let him know it is urgent.
Melbourne, Australia
Tuesday, March 22
Ambrose Sinclair, the senior partner of the Melbourne office of Williams & Teacher, stood before the panoramic view of Port Phillip Bay. The afternoon sun cast his reflection on the glass and his gaze shifted from a freighter making its way slowly towards the heads, and Bass Strait beyond, to the elderly gentleman staring back.
At 73 years of age, his thick head of hair was now white rather than the jet-black of his youth, his back slightly stooped which once stood ramrod straight, and arthritis in his knees drew the curtains on a once potent tennis game. But as any of his adversaries would tell you, his mind remained as sharp as a tack.
He turned from the window and snatched the one-page summary of the previous week’s general meeting from his desk. On the third Friday of each month, all 15 senior partners gathered via conference call to make a five-minute presentation of their prior month’s business highlights. These summaries included not just the highlights of the main offices, but also the satellite offices to which each senior partner maintained responsibility.
These offshore entities, although outside the purview of the official Williams & Teacher umbrella, were just as important to their overall success. Linked through an intricate web of shell companies, numbered accounts and, in many cases, virtual offices maintaining nothing more tangible than a post office box; the reach, wealth and power of Williams & Teacher expanded exponentially. And far more than was visible to the prying eyes of the general public.
This spider’s web of deception devised by prior senior partners of Williams & Teacher, and painstakingly implemented over the years, made it one of the most influential private law firms in existence. Though to the outside world, it appeared a staid relic of days gone by. Their highly-selective choice of new clients mirrored this perception. And, it went without saying, why security was of the utmost concern.
Although the Melbourne office stood at a record level of billable hours, Sinclair knew they didn’t operate in a vacuum. Several items brought up during the meeting niggled away at the back of his mind. Like leaving home and wondering if you turned off the iron, every siren heard renewing the fear. And right now, his instincts told him the alarm bells ringing in his mind were very real. He quickly perused the notes again to ensure his recollection of those conversations was accurate.
Miami – reported an abnormal increase in internet traffic at one of its Central American subsidiaries.
Enhanced security measures recommended.
Rome – Major institutional client raised a concern in regards to the continued viability of mid-level fundraising source. Requests security check of said source to be undertaken.
Request approved.
Rio de Janeiro – Requests vetting of a potential client. The recommendation coming from Minister (client) within ruling State government.
Vetting approved.
The remaining 12 offices’ reports were much more mundane, including his own; however, for some inexplicable reason, these three drew his attention.
Rio de Janeiro:
The ruling party of President Rousseff in Brazil lay in ruins with her likely to face impeachment proceedings in the not too distant future. Sinclair thought it more prudent, just until the dust settled, to be withdrawing from that political arena.
However, his vote was overridden by the other partners.
Next item, Rome:
It sent shivers down his spine hearing a concern raised by one of their major institutional accounts. If he was correct, it was their crown jewel of clients, and every effort must be taken to appease them. His concern regarded the “source” to be investigated, more than likely Italian based, but it never hurt to know in advance.
The firm’s security detail had descended on his turf, thankfully, only once over the years; investigating a wayward Member of Parliament subsequently fired as a client. A team of three men flew in from London to conduct their due diligence and ensure nothing of an inflammatory nature could be traced back to the firm. For a week, no one in the office felt safe, himself included.
The security team subsequently determined their office diligently covered all tracks; with paperwork establishing the minister’s illegal offshore dealings being surreptitiously transferred to an untraceable affiliate and the relevant file history deleted from their server. Though, in the end, it was a moot point. Early one morning, a city worker discovered the disgraced politician’s body hanging from the limb of an elm tree in Fawkner Park. An inquest ruled the cause of death as suicide. Some in the press were sceptical, but with little to go on, soon lost interest. Sinclair thought some questions are best not asked.
While recalling those days back in the late ’90s, he momentarily forgot the third item he’d highlighted.
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