Vertical Run

by Joseph Garber

Dave simply looked at him.

  “Might I come in? It is my office, you know.” His voice was baritone, perfectly pitched, and as musical as an opera singer’s.

  “Certainly,” Dave replied. His back had been turned. The man had to have been standing there for more than a few moments. He easily could have crept away to call for help. He didn’t. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a danger — at least not a danger of the conventional sort. “Please close the door behind you.”

  “Of course. By the by, have you occasion to employ my office again, and wish privacy, all you need do is rotate this lever.” He twisted the lever. “Perfect security. A system of deadbolts. One requires it in my trade. Perfect security, I mean.” He stepped forward into the pool of light.

  Dave studied his features. The man looked to be the very devil himself, as darkly handsome as Lucifer Morningstar ever was. With the grace of a hunting cat, he dropped into one of the lolling chairs and smiled. “Let me introduce myself.” His smile widened. His teeth showed. “Whenever I begin a sentence thus, I almost feel obliged to add I am a man of wealth and et cetera. Nicholas Lee, at your service. Do call me Nick.”

  The chief executive of Lee, Bach & Wachutt. Dave had never met him, but he recognized both the name and the face. The face in particular — it had graced the cover of Institutional Investor, Business Week, Fortune, and a half dozen other magazines during the eighties. However, during the nineties it was more often to be found on the front page of The New York Times business section, usually beneath a headline containing the words “Federal Indictment.”

  “Dave Elliot.”

  “So I gather, and I must say that I am both charmed and delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  Dave lifted a questioning eyebrow.

  “Well, one always feels a certain frisson upon encountering a celebrity, doesn’t one?”

  “Am I that famous?”

  “Most assuredly, sir. The statutory fifteen minutes of fame promised by Mr. Warhol’s bromide is surely come upon you. Even now, the bulldog editions of the tabloids blazon your photograph. Not that one man in a thousand would recognize you. The change you’ve wrought in your appearance is most startling. By the by, the tabloids have dubbed you the ‘Amok Exec,’ a not uneuphonious sobriquet, you’ll agree. Further, certain sources kept by me on retainer report that tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal prominently displays your face in one of those oh-so-complimentary stippled drawings of which its editors are so fond. The headline associated therewith is, I fear, rather less so. Complimentary, I mean.”

  Dave groaned. “What are they accusing me of?”

  “Accusations, none. Implications, many. In this era of libel lawyers grown plumply prosperous, no publisher of balanced mind accuses anyone of anything. Instead they pose questions, raise hypotheses, and strew their sentences with words such as ‘alleged,’ ‘speculated,’ and ‘supposed.’ For example, it is alleged that you hurled the unhappy chief executive of Senterex through a window forty-five stories above street level. It is speculated that you did so because he’d caught your spoor in the vicinity of the financial cookie jar. It is supposed that you’d been doing something naughty with corporate currency trade. That’s usually what it is, isn’t it? Dubious currency trading, I mean.”

  “Usually.”

  “Well, tell me, sir, did you do it? Diddle the dollars, I mean. No need to be shy. We are friends here, and I am most accustomed to keeping confidences. Do tell me, how much did you pilfer, and why? Was it one of the three R’s? Rum, redheads, and racehorses, I mean. Come, come, sir, midlife crisis visits us all. Do not be ashamed to admit its taint. You can tell me. I shall be most discreet.”

  Lee’s coal black eyes sparkled. His skin glowed. He was, Dave thought, too interested.

  “It’s not important now.”

  Nick Lee leaned forward. Dave observed a small band of sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Of course it isn’t. It’s the merest curiosity on my part. Nonetheless, I should consider it a kindness if you would gratify it. My curiosity, I mean.”

  Dave shook his head. He had just deduced why Lee was so interested in his and Senterex’s affairs. Now he planned to have some fun.

  Lee simpered. “Perhaps we could work a trade. Trading is my profession, after all. One buys; one sells; one hopes for a modest profit. It is the soul of capitalism. Trading, I mean. Thus, if you will be so kind as to give me a hint or two as to the factors underlying your current situation, then I, perhaps, might be able to do some small service for you.”

  “It would have to be a rather large service.”

  Lee steepled his fingers. “Ah, how cunning of you. You understand.”

  “Sure I do. Tomorrow morning Senterex’s stock is going into the toilet. The news of Bernie’s death and the rumors of financial impropriety will do that. And if I …” His inner voice offered advice, Bait the trap. “If I or someone else …”—Lee licked his lips—”… have been playing fast and loose with Senterex’s corporate cash, then the company’s stock will dive even further. On the other hand, if all is well — or if the damage is only modest — then the stock will rebound. In either event, a man who knew the truth would be in a good position to make a killing.”

  Lee was hooked. Dave was afraid that the man was going to drool. “Just so. Puts and calls — the leverage in options trading is so attractive.”

  “Someone who had inside information might make $5 for every $1 he invested.”

  Lee sniffed. “I tend to think in terms of making $5 million for every $1 million invested.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Well, sir, will you strike a bargain with me? The hour’s already late enough. Shortly trading in London, Frankfurt, Amsterdam, Zurich, and Milan commences. If we are to strike a bargain, let us strike it now so that I can go about my business.”

  “What’s your offer?”

  “I make you my best. The lamentable fates of such peers and colleagues as Messrs. Boesky, Keating, Levine, Milken, and et cetera have persuaded me to make provision for hasty travel. One never can tell but that one might need to decamp on rather short notice. Hence, across the Hudson at the Teterboro airport, I keep a Gulf-stream fully fueled and prepared at all times. It is stocked with all the necessities, including, I might add, some several bundles of Deutsche marks, Swiss francs, yen, pounds sterling, and, if memory serves, a roll or two of Krugerrands. The range of the jet is such that you might choose as your place of refuge any of the traditional South American bolt-holes, or if you wish, and as I might recommend, sunny Spain, balmy Portugal, or even carefree Greece. The cost of living in such places is low, the climate clement, and the authorities inexpensively pacified. My limousine is parked on Fiftieth Street, sir. The chauffeur waits. You can be airborne in an hour’s time, and all your troubles behind you. What do you say to that?”

  “That you’d trade me to the authorities as soon as I was out of your office.” Dave brought a pistol up level with Lee’s chest. “According to the newspapers, you’re facing prosecution for every crime in the book. You’d offer them me in return for dropping a few charges. You’re a dealer, Mr. Lee, a trader. You’ve said so yourself. You couldn’t pass up a deal like that.”

  Lee’s face fell. “No, really, I do not …”

  “Shut up. I’ve got two things to tell you. The first thing is that I wasn’t looting Senterex’s corporate treasury. At least not alone. Bernie was in with me. Actually, it was his idea. We stripped the pension fund, the ESOP, and the treasury. And, we got it all. There isn’t a dime left. Senterex is bankrupt. Bernie couldn’t take the pressure anymore. That’s why he jumped out the window.”

  Lee nodded furiously, his eyes aflame with greed. “Yes, oh, yes!”

  “The second thing is this: You’re going to sleep.”

  Lee’s head jerked. “Oh no. You can’t. The foreign markets open any minute now. I can sell short …”

  “Too bad. But not to worry, I’m sure you’ll be awake in time for the New York opening.”

>   “Please,” he whined. “Please. Let me at least call Frankfurt.… ”

  “Well …” Dave stood. Lee looked up eagerly. He reached for his telephone. Dave liked the angle at which he held his chin. Lee caught the look in his eye and squealed, “Don’t hit me! I bruise! In my bathroom. In the cabinet. Drugs. Sedatives. Sleeping pills. I have chloral hydrate. Just don’t hit me!”

  * * *

  The weight of Nicholas Lee’s gold watch felt good on his wrist. Dave needed a watch, and was pleased to discover that Lee wore the same heavy Rolex as he did.

  On the other hand, Nick Lee’s wallet was useless. All he carried in it were his credit cards. However, there was an 18 karat Tiffany money clip in his pants pocket. It held a sheaf of twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Best of all, there were some $500 bills. Rather a lot of them, as it turned out.

  First you feed him a poisoned stock market tip, then you swipe all his pocket change. I like your style.

  Dave tucked a pillow under Lee’s head. It was the least he could do.

  The radio in his pocket stuttered. Ransome’s voice came on. “Okay, people, it’s time to rock and roll.”

  CHAPTER 9

  JACK

  1

  A combat unit is at its most vulnerable when moving into position. For the next few moments, Ransome’s men would be off guard and distracted as they climbed stairs, opened doors, and took cover. Dave would have the advantage.

  “Myna, I’ve sent some more bodies down to the lobby.”

  “They’re here.”

  A few brief minutes of confusion — he couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. He had to get to the forty-fifth floor — to Bernie’s credenza and Marge Cohen — ahead of them.

  “Good enough. I want them out of sight, and I want them on full alert.”

  “We’re locked and loaded, Robin.”

  The elevators were out of the question. There were two separate banks, one serving the lower twenty-five floors, and one serving the top twenty-five. He couldn’t take an elevator to Senterex without first returning to the lobby. The man called Myna was monitoring the elevator control panel. He’d know the moment Dave pushed the button for 45.

  “Alpha team. Partridge, you’ve got the con. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “Affirmative, Robin.”

  The only thing to do was to run for it. Run up thirty-four flights of stairs.

  “Parrot, you’re in charge of baker team. It’s reserve duty for you. Forty-third floor outside the south stairwell.”

  “Aye, aye, Robin. We’ll be on post in three minutes.”

  But he hadn’t called Kreuter yet. He looked at Lee’s private telephone. He took a step toward it.

  “Pigeon, you’ve got delta. Kingfisher, you and charlie team are with me.”

  “Aw, boss, I’s regurgitated. Sapphire’s mama done …”

  “One more Amos and Andy joke, Kingfisher, and your next tour of duty is Antarctica.”

  Dave stopped and shook his head. Kreuter wouldn’t talk to him. Trying to call him would be a waste of time.

  “Now all of you, listen up. Keep away from the entry points. I want no one visible near the stairs or elevators. The only way this thing will work is for the subject to have a very easy time getting in.”

  “A roach motel?”

  “You’ve got it, Pigeon. He checks in, but he doesn’t check out.”

  Dave turned toward the door. He stopped, and looked toward the telephone. He didn’t know what to do.

  “One last thing. It is my strong preference that the subject not be killed. I would consider it a personal favor if you aimed for the legs. Stop him. Feel free to mess him up. But do not kill him unless you have no alternative.”

  Dave frowned. Ransome’s order was puzzling. Had the situation changed, or …

  The man called Kingfisher spoke again. “What have you got in mind, chief?”

  “Revisions to this afternoon’s orders have come in. We’re instructed to put the subject in an acid bath when we’re finished. However, I find in these orders no requirement that he be dead when we do it.”

  “Gotchya, chief.”

  Dave grimaced. Got you, Ransome.

  “Head ’em up and move ’em out.”

  Dave looked at the door. He looked at the phone. He had to make a decision.

  2

  “Bitte?”

  Dave wanted to rip the telephone out of its socket. The goddamned woman didn’t speak English. “Kreuter,” he hissed. “I want to speak to Mr. Jack Kreuter. Kreuter. Please.”

  For the third time she answered, “Nien, nein, ich verstehe nicht.”

  It was infuriating. The seconds were ticking away, and the damned woman refused to understand him. How could she not understand Kreuter’s name? Goddamn her to hell!

  The Swiss are supposed to be bilingual. Dave tried some sophomore French, “Mademoiselle, je désire à parler avec monsieur Kreuter, votre président.”

  “Bitte?”

  Dave went pink with fury. “Kreuter. Kreu-ter. You dumb kraut, don’t you know your own boss’s name?”

  The woman replied politely, “Eins augenblick, bitte,” and put him on hold.

  A few seconds later another woman’s voice came over the line. She spoke with that lilting singsong accent so common among English-speaking German women. “Yes. This is Solvig. May I help you, please?”

  Thank God! “I’m calling for Colonel Kreuter.”

  “Ah.” Dave could tell that she had covered her phone’s mouthpiece with her hand. He heard her rattle off a stream of German. Then she spoke to him again. “Sorry for the confusion. We say ‘crew-TER’ and you say ‘CROY-ter.’ Sorry.”

  Dave ground his teeth. She continued, “Herr Kreuter is not in the büro, how do you say, the office yet. I expect him any time. May I take a message so that he can return your call?”

  “I’m not reachable. I’ll call back. Tell him that Dave Elliot called, and that I’ll call back …”

  The phone clicked. Dave’s heart fell. “Hello!” he shouted. “Hello! Are you still there?”

  After a moment’s silence, a slow, sly drawl: “Well, I’ll be switched. Jest tie me up an’ tickle my fanny with a feather.”

  “Uh, is this …” He stumbled. He knew who it was.

  “Son, it sure as hell has taken yew the longest damn time to get around to callin’ me. I’d kinda given up hope on the subject.” The connection between New York and Basel was clear and perfect. It sounded like a local call.

  Jack seemed ready enough to speak to him. It wasn’t quite the reaction Dave had expected. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. “Well … you know … uh …”

  “Sure. Yup, sure do. Suppose I mighta called yew, but I figured the time an’ place of it was more for yer choosin’ than mine.”

  He wasn’t sure how to interpret Jack’s words. He stuttered lamely, “So, er … Jack, how are you?”

  “Largely unchanged, son. The good Lord seen fit to let me keep my hair an’ keep my health. Can’t ask more than that. An’ whut about yew? Yew doin’ well and feelin’ fit?”

  “After a fashion.”

  “An’ yer family? How’s that li’l blonde honey whose picture yew was always a-moonin’ after?”

  “Annie. Fine, but we … Well, I’ve got another wife now.”

  “Yeah, well don’t we all. Speakin’ personal, I done burned through pretty near a six-pack of ’em. Like the man sez, shit happens. So whut about yer career? Yew doin’ well — bein’ a big time lawyer an’ makin’ lots of money?”

  “I didn’t go to law school. I’m just another New York businessman. But, yes, I guess I’m doing okay. Or at least I was. I sort of … well … you could say I’ve lost my job.”

  “Sorry to hear that, son. Truly sorry. Now me, I’m a-rollin’ in it. Ol’ company I got me here, she jest mints money. Damnedest thing yew ever seen. Gonna get me one of them great big vaults like ol’ Scrooge McDuck. Yew wouldn’t think that the ancient an’ honorable ca
llin’ of combat warrior could be run at a profit, but she surely is. Son, I tell yew, mercenaries an’ arms tradin’ is the growth business of the nineties.”

  “I’m pleased for you, Jack.”

  “So yew says you’ve lost yer job, does yew?”

  “Well …”

  “Hell, son, then why don’t yew put yer butt on the great silver bird, an’ fly on over here. We’ll sit an’ jaw some. Meybe I got a job openin’ lyin’ loose somewheres.”

  “Uh …”

  “Come on, son. Yew was always my favorite, yew know that. Never met none better than yew.”

  “Jack, I … oh hell, Jack …” No, this wasn’t what he expected. It wasn’t even close.

  “Aw, come on, boy. Whut is it? Is yew still all knotted up over whut happened back in ’Nam?”

  “It’s not that.” For some odd reason, Dave felt his eyes tingle. “Or it is. But, Christ, Jack, I turned you in!”

  “Yeah, so whut?” Wrong answer. It wasn’t what Dave wanted to hear.

  “You were court-martialed.”

  “So whut again?”

  Speechless, Dave worked his jaw back and forth.

  “Bein’ court-martialed weren’t such a bad price to pay. Them were evil men and needed killin’, and when they was gone, the earth was a somewhut better place.”

  Dave could barely manage the words: “Jack, I blew the whistle on you.”

  “Aw, shee-it, that’s why yew ain’t bothered to call me all these years. Yew figured I was still p.o.’d or somethin’. Dumb, son, that was purebred dumb. Ain’t never been mad at yew ’cept meybe for a little bit. After all, yew only did whut was right. Now, son, yew ever see me once complain ’bout a man doin’ the right thing? Nope, it ain’t in me. Sure, I was a mite worried ’bout the proceedin’s. But not all that much. Figured they wouldn’t have the nerve to put me in the brig whut with everythin’ I knew an’ all. An’ they didn’t. So whut the hell, they booted my buns out of the Army. Now I got me a fat ol’ Swiss bank account, an’ I tool my bony behind around in a great big Mercedes car, an’ when I drive up they send their flunkies runnin’ out to open up the door for me. Heh! So yew tell me, son, yew tell me, jest whut the holy hell have I got to be pissed at yew about?”