by Joe Goldberg
New Kids are younger, modern-era risk-takers who looked outside Kirkwood for like-minded New Kids to force Kirkwood into the future or, at the very least, to move it out of the past.
Three years ago, when CEO Samuel Kirkwood was looking for a new chief strategy officer, he felt intense pressure from stockholders and brokers to shake things up. He did this by selecting Tom MacBride, a wunderkind of tech start-ups. A New Kid. Then he hired George MacLean as CFO a year later. Not a true New Kid, but someone viewed as a cost-cutter.
But the highest levels of the company, both Old Timers and New Kids, were privy to a secret. For the first time in its illustrious one-hundred-and-twenty-year history, Kirkwood International Industries' demise was a serious topic within their closed meetings.
Peter stopped at a massive floor-to-ceiling oak double door with a sign with gold lettering on a black background that declared it “The Jacob Kirkwood Boardroom.”
“Schaeffer.” The deep voice came from behind Peter, causing him to jump.
He turned to see Benton, Senior Director, Personal and Facilities Security, Office of Security, Kirkwood International Industries. Everything about Benton said retired Chicago cop—the notoriously dishonest kind of Chicago cop. Which is what he was before retiring and coming to Kirkwood as security chief. Chia Pet gray hair and a face that only a mother could love. Gray pants. Gray jacket. Gray skin. An over-sized badge on the breast pocket that just said, “Benton.” No one was sure if it was his first or last name.
“Oh. Hi, Benton. On your nightly vampire leftover donut prowl?”
“I should shut that smart mouth of yours, Schaeffer,” he said in a low and menacing rasp.
Peter felt Benton needed to take counter-intelligence and the threat from competitors seriously. If Peter was trying to get information on the competition, the competition was trying to do the same to Kirkwood. Those companies could count on help from their home intelligence services to steal secrets. Not Peter.
Economic espionage had infected corporate America. Business leaders would rather ignore it for the sake of profits and market share. Even worse, many were willingly handing over trade secrets and intellectual property as terms for doing business in their countries.
Benton hated Peter for sticking his nose into his business.
“They are waiting.” Benton jerked his thumb toward the boardroom door.
Tom MacBride was sitting one chair from the end along the far side of a massive wood Board of Director’s table. “Peter. Come here. Sit.” He indicated the chair to his left.
MacBride was a New Kid who did not care if he fit the corporate executive slicked-backed image. A rare combination of brilliant scientific mind and entrepreneur. Corporate executive and nearly nice guy. A tangled mop of red hair hung from his head, stopping just above his shoulders. His hair framed a ruddy face, large eyes, large bushy eyebrows, and a large nose balancing large black-rimmed glasses. He looked a little flabby under his loose-fitting wrinkled shirt and jacket.
“Can you tell me—” Peter started.
MacBride cut him off as he raised his hand like he was being sworn to testify under oath. He punched a button on the phone on the table.
“He is here.”
The Jacob Kirkwood Boardroom was a monument to the Old Timers. A rectangular and windowless space. A massive mahogany table dominated the middle of the room, accented by Kirkwood black and gold. A dozen huge black leather executive chairs surrounded it. Twelve black and gold leather desk blotters, notepads, pens, and golden mugs were uniformly positioned at each seat. Everything prominently displayed the renowned Kirkwood block “Golden K” corporate symbol made famous through various iterations for over a hundred years.
To their right, another oak door at the end of the room opened. Peter tried not to look surprised when Kirkwood International Industries’ Chief Executive Officer Samuel Kirkwood, and Walter Jessup, Chief Legal Officer, walked into the boardroom.
MacBride stood. Peter followed his lead and did the same, feeling his pulse thump in the arteries of his neck.
Kirkwood reached out his hand and walked toward them.
“Hello, Tom,” he said, shaking his hand. Then he turned. “Peter, it is wonderful to see you again. I am glad you could make it,” Kirkwood said with a weak smile. They shook hands. “Please sit.”
Peter laughed a little to himself. Among employees, Kirkwood was nicknamed “Mr. Wonderful” for his constant use of his favorite word. The CEO treated everyone with respect. Peter knew Kirkwood genuinely appreciated the work of the competitive intelligence group.
Kirkwood took his birthright location in the larger executive chair at the end of the table. Jessup sat across from MacBride to Kirkwood’s right.
Samuel Kirkwood was small and round and pink. To Peter, he looked like what Charlie Brown would look like if he ever grew up to reach his late sixties. The new employee indoctrination to Kirkwood International Industries required a lesson on the founding of the company. Peter took it over a decade ago, but the room reminded him of the key facts.
Wilbur Kirkwood, Samuel’s great-grandfather, was an engineering visionary who started Kirkwood Equipment Manufacturing, as it was called then, in Chicago, in 1897. It was created to supply railroads with automated block signaling and train operation controllers. Wilbur Kirkwood expanded his manufacturing operations to build automated systems for the massive oil and transport monopolies run by JD Rockefeller. A few years later, JD introduced Wilbur to steel magnate Andrew Carnegie who bought Kirkwood Equipment Manufacturing products by the Rockefeller-controlled trainload to support Carnegie’s new enterprise—United States Steel Corporation.
In less than a decade, Wilbur Kirkwood shared brandy and cigars with the wealthiest men in American history. Wilbur passed the company to his son, Benjamin, who passed it to his son, Jacob, who passed it to his son Samuel, who changed the name to Kirkwood International Industries, KII.
“First things first,” Jessup said, lowering his voice as if someone was listening at the door. “Peter, what we are about to discuss should not be shared outside this room. Understand?
“Yes.” Peter nodded in agreement.
Walter Jessup was in his mid-sixties. An Old Timer. The lean and athletic lawyer seeped an aura of old-money Ivy League wisdom and prudence. His expertly cut hair was graying at the temples. His accent was eastern New England, and his sentences were delivered as if he were giving a final summation to a jury.
“Time is of the essence, so let’s get started,” Kirkwood started.
“We hope you can use your CIA intelligence skills and connections,” Tom said.
“How can I help?” Peter asked, swiveling his head to look at each man.
“You recall the contract we signed with Ukraine for our new KirkComm2400 line of equipment?” MacBride continued.
“Yes, sir. We were asked to do some research on it at the time.”
“Yes, I told Walt and Sam that. Maybe you can do a quick summary.”
“Well, if I remember correctly,” Peter’s eyes looked up as he went into recall mode, “we did a profile examining their customers, product lines, and legal issues hoping to find the company’s strategy and tactics. We mined their social media. We constructed a profile on Viktor Bondar, his daughter and, I think, his son—"
“And what did you conclude?”
“I wish I had time to re-read it. I could go to my office and pull it out of my files.”
“Do your best,” Tom said.
Peter sat forward. “The Bondar family is rich, powerful, and as corrupt as they come, even by Ukrainian standards. One thing was clear.”
“What was that?” Kirkwood asked.
“It’s hard to figure out why we would work with a guy who is the equivalent of John Gotti.”
“They are a strange assortment of people,” Kirkwood said, as he slowly rotated his leather commander chair toward the oil painting of his father on the wall above and behind him.
“You have hit upon the
issue, Peter,” MacBride confided.
“There is a significant issue we would need you to help us with related to this,” Jessup said. He picked up his pen and absent-mindedly tapped it on his coffee cup.
Jessup straightened his back. His neck seemed to extend his head a few inches higher like a turtle. “It is, beyond a doubt, a critical issue.”
“What is it?” Peter asked. His hands started to shake with stress. He hid them under the table, but he saw they were more stressed than he was.
Suddenly, the boardroom door opened. A man with gray hair and a bright tie walked in. Peter was stunned. He knew exactly who it was.
“Danny! I am glad you are here. Just in time,” Kirkwood said as he stood, arm extended.
“Gentlemen. I sincerely apologize for my tardiness. Samuel. Don’t get up. Please sit.”
“Danny, you are right on time, as usual. This is Peter Schaeffer. He runs our intelligence function. We were just explaining the Ukraine situation to him,” Jessup said.
“Peter. This is Danny Chapel,” MacBride said, nodding his head in the direction of the distinguished guest. “Peter, Danny happens to know Viktor Bondar well. He will be a great asset.”
“Mr. Chapel,” Peter stood up as Chapel walked toward him. Peter’s hand immediately got wet and shaky. Peter was sure his heart was about to explode.
I’m in the same room with Danforth Chapel. Holy fuck.
“Peter, I have heard great things about you,” he reached out with his perfectly manicured hand and shook Peter’s. “And call me Danny.”
“Of course, Danny, sorry.”
Danforth Chapel has heard of me? Did he just walk over to shake MY hand? Holy fuck.
He wore expensive Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suits. A four-hundred-dollar cut for his full head of gray hair. Tinted Dolce and Gabbana twenty-five-thousand-dollar glasses covered money-green eyes. Testoni goat-skinned shoes. A Rolex Submariner clipped to his wrist. He completed the look with his famous flamboyant, colorful silk ties.
The Danforth Chapel Company was the world’s leading private intelligence agency. It should be, since Chapel created the industry. Discreet, successful, and expensive. Thirty-five offices, thousands of specialized employees, and connections spread across all regions of the world were the vanguard of his reach, but at its nexus was Danforth Chapel.
Danny solved problems. The kinds of problems that fit into categories such as embarrassing, scandal, blackmail, espionage, fraud, asset recovery, kidnapping, or top secret.
His problem-solving acumen had become a truism in business. If someone had been bad, they would be sent to Chapel. To the private intelligence industry, he had become a verb: “Get this company Chapeled.”
Chapel sat next to Jessup and across from Peter. He pushed back from the table and crossed one leg over the other—hands folded in his lap.
“Tell Peter and me about this case. As I understand it, George had a briefcase with him? And the loss of that case is a threat and could be used against your company?” Chapel asked.
“We need that case,” Kirkwood added.
Peter nodded that he understood, but he didn’t.
“What was in it? Why is it so important?” Peter asked.
Peter saw Chapel smile, as the others just sat looking at each other.
Wow, the silence in here just got deafening, Peter thought.
10
Serge Taube
Belgrade, Serbia
“Serge Taube. You have been a bad boy,” Bridger said as he sat on the seat across from the man.
Taube looked up to see who had made the mistake of sitting uninvited at his table. When he saw Bridger, he set his knife and fork down, paused, then carefully scanned the Tavern room of the Dva Jelena—The Two Deer Restaurant. At just after 3:30 p.m., the frontend of lunchtime, the rectangular room was filling with diners. It was a medium-sized rectangular room with tables lining the wooden walls. The light from bright lamps shone off the polished walls and framed mirrors.
The sound of the conversations echoed off the low ceiling, as did the traditional Serbian music that came down the wide staircase from the larger restaurant above.
A few tables away from Taube’s reserved corner table, three men jumped to their feet and took steps in the table’s direction. Bridger saw Taube wave them off with a flick of his fingers.
“Bridger,” Taube said with a sigh.
Taube was small. Thin. Frail-looking. Skin the same color as spent chewing gum. His gray hair was oiled and combed back from a receding hairline. His eyes were set so deep into their sockets it was hard to see what color they were. Gray goatee. A voice like a Gatling gun. He wore a thick knit wool tan sweater.
“It is good to see you again, Serge. You look well.”
“I look like shit. What are you doing here?”
“You know why I am here. I would have thought the man once labeled the biggest bad guy dealer of arms and munitions in the Balkans would be smarter than that. Especially after the U.S. and U.N. listed you as a human rights abuser a few years ago. That was after the U.N. blacklisted you and added you to the travel ban list after that nasty affair in Liberia. And after the U.S. froze your assets and barred anyone from doing business with you. Did I miss anything?”
Bridger looked eagerly at the plates of traditional Serbian food on the table.
“And because of all those illegal actions taken by your government, I have retired. It is what we bad guys are supposed to say in this situation, right?” Taube said. His blue lips curled with a smile as he speared a minute piece of beef cevapi sausage and slowly placed it in his mouth.
Bridger picked up the wine bottle off the lime green table cloth, checked the label, and nodded his head in approval. He raised the bottle up with a questioning look at Taube, who exaggerated his own nod of approval. Bridger poured, sipped, and smiled.
“Well, that is not what I hear. I hear you are still in the arms biz. Let me get this right.”
Bridger took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and put it on the table. Holding it down with one hand, he wiped his hand over it to smooth out the wrinkles. He looked at it and read.
“You are a silent partner in a boatload of companies you indirectly own and manage. You are up to your skinny neck in all aspects of your private company’s daily operations.”
“Not true,” Taube said, still chewing on the same small piece of meat.
“Oh, come on, Serge. I thought we agreed long ago we wouldn’t try to BS each other.”
“Go on. What else do you think you know, Bridger?”
“Well, I know you are brokering and soliciting new illegal arms deals.” Bridger looked up at Taube and stared into his eyes with the look a parent gives to a naughty child. “You have friends and family signing the deals for you. By the way, how is your nephew Jovan? Still hiding in Armenia? I am sorry about that.”
When Taube didn’t answer, Bridger continued as he casually placed his hand over his ear.
“You have at least three companies, here and in Cyprus, through which you negotiate your contracts and international sales. I think they are—”
In his ear, he could hear Imp stammering, “Geez, these names suck. Something like Parrrr-mesan-iki Tech. Moon-pie-ski-nov Limited. Advil-aspirin-deet Technologies…or something like that.”
Bridger sighed and dropped his hand.
“Well, you know who they are. The point is, your big three-billion-dollar bottle of Rakija comes from your new number one client—the People’s Republic of China.”
Taube sat back. He pulled a battered and tarnished silver cigarette case from his pocket, flipped it open, took out a thin brown cigarette, and placed it between his lips. He lit it with a small lighter.
“China has been a good friend to Serbia and the Balkans.”
“As I understand it,” Bridger said, as he re-filled his glass, “and correct me if I am wrong, you are about to put into motion—without the usual public procurement regulations and procedures—a st
ate to state agreement that Serbia and China signed years ago.” Bridger plucked a sausage from the plate and ate it in two bites. “Damn, these are the best cevapi anywhere. It is why I knew you would be here.”
“Why is my business any business of yours?”
“Excellent question. Sharp as ever, Serge. Nothing is ever done for nothing, especially in governments known for corruption. Everyone needs that little extra off the top. They are making lots of secondary and sub-contractor supplier agreements, also without public oversight. Millions. Maybe billions.”
“As you say, corruption is normal. Why bother with me now?”
“Damn fine wine,” Bridger said, as he reached again for the bottle. The remaining wine filled Bridger’s glass only halfway. He shook it over the glass to get the last drops, then set it down.
“Do the people of Serbia know that their president, minister of the interior, and others are paying triple for some of the goods, so their elected officials can get just that much richer?”
Bridger reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket. He looked back over at the table with the three guards. Each was leaning forward, ready to jump on Bridger and beat him to death at the slightest threat to their boss. One looked more noticeably upset. The leader of the team, Bridger surmised.
He pulled out his phone and waved it mockingly at the man. After a few swipes of his screen, he found what he was looking for.
“Do they know that their country is selling off control of the mining and construction industries? Or that you are acting as a go-between for Ukrainian oligarchs and arms dealers, not only to procure small arms and mortar deals but in exchange for positions in Ukrainian munitions and helicopter companies?”
The lack of movement in Taube’s eyelids told Bridger he had surprised the old man with his knowledge of the deal.
“No?” Bridger continued. “How about the Russians?”
Taube leaned forward and raised a thin hand to take the phone. Bridger sat back, keeping it out of range of the man’s reach.