by Steven Brust
“Donny! After you made those mysterious spooks you work for pay me so fast, and then fed me such an easy search? Of course I did.”
“Jeffrey, you are so my hero. I’m putting you on speaker. Okay, go.”
“Hello, mysterious mystery people. My name’s Jeff and I’m your host. Let’s play ‘Find the Bad Guy.’ Or is he a good guy, Don? You never told me. Anyway, Augsburg Financial, where Nagorski worked until December of 2011, yeah, right before Christmas, happy holidays, is a holding company that specialized in investments in—Okay, look, it was one of those places that got fat off the mortgage boom, and was too small to be saved by the bailout. They got gobbled up, and bunches of old shit started coming to light, which Nick first tried to bring to his bosses, then sent on to the SEC sometime in late 2009.”
“Wait,” said Susan. “So this guy’s a whistle-blower?”
“Tried to be, but he was, uh, whistling in the dark.”
“I see what you did there,” said Donovan.
“It took a couple of years, but word got back and they fired him. Then his house got repossessed, he got divorced—”
“Jeff, you’ve been working!”
“Hey, I’m the man, right? I’m like Mr. Universe in Serenity without the getting stabbed part. Or the sexbot.”
“Yeah, I gotta see that movie.”
“You really do,” said Marci.
Susan said, “It opens with this really cool—”
“Go on, Jeff. Quick.”
“Right,” said the phone. “He got divorced, lost custody, and about a year ago he dropped off the grid. I’ve always wanted to say that.”
“Glad to give you the chance. So no word of him since then?”
“Last thing we have is a phone call to United Airlines on April third of 2014.”
“Where did he want to go?”
“No idea. All I’ve got is that the call happened.”
“Okay. Good. You rock. I am hanging up and composing an email to the people who pay you. I mean, right now. It’ll be sent before the echo of my voice dies in your ear.”
“That’s why we get along so well.”
“Later, Jeff.”
“Later.”
He disconnected, and said, “Not now,” to the pair of voices that demanded attention. “Before we do anything else, I’m sending that email.”
* * *
Becker left the conference and returned to his desk. There was a lot to process, starting with the whole scope of what was happening. And the sudden appearance of Shveta Tyaga in the mix was more than a little chilling. It was clear that Longfellow’s team could be in danger, and he needed to address that before doing anything else. They were going to need backup, and none of the other teams was available. That meant talking to Recruitment and Training, and finding the best students, and finding who was currently available on the short—too short—list of freelancers.
He opened up a new file and started a list of names. Once it was done, he ran some searches on it and filled in contact information.
He printed the file, because he wanted a hard copy on which to either make notes or, more likely, scratch off names. He took the sheet, and was about to make his first call, when he hesitated, considered, and, at the bottom, added a question mark followed by the name “Matthew Castellani.”
* * *
I figured Charlie must know me pretty well, because among the things he left for me in a bag next to the massage table was a bottle with a single Ambien pill. Maybe I’d find it easy to fall asleep, but more likely not.
I returned to the hotel and forced myself to eat something, though I didn’t want to. Then I went back to my room and tried to lose myself in a Will Smith movie, but I couldn’t concentrate. I paced around the room, then went out and took a walk. People in New York are actually nicer than we in the West think they are, but they’re always busy. I watched them for a while, wondering if there was more neon in New York or Las Vegas, and if someone, somewhere, was getting a Master’s Degree in something by studying the question.
I felt better after the walk, and, more important, it killed some time. I went back and watched the rest of the Will Smith movie. Then I took the pill and went to bed. I tossed and turned for a while, but the Ambien did its job.
Tomorrow I’d do mine.
14
INSECURITY THEATER
The hard work was done.
Donovan had had his share of crap jobs, and one thing he’d learned was that when someone told him the hard work was done it usually meant there was a lot of boring, grinding bullshit left.
All of the information they needed was publicly available online—it just had to be dug out. Names of CEOs, major shareholders of publicly traded stock, all the stuff. Marci sat at the computer because she was better at it than the rest of them, but that still didn’t make her fast. Donovan wished he could just bring Jeff in on things and have him work it, but that would violate protocol even more than he, Donovan, was comfortable with—not to mention the cow Oversight would have about it.
After several hours at it, Donovan was starting to get a bit punchy, and was thinking about calling it a night, coming back to it in the morning. That’s when the email arrived.
“All right,” he said. “We got something.”
They turned to him.
“Not the shooter, but we have a name for the supplier. Charles Leong. Some years ago, before I started with the Foundation, he was de-sorcelled for committing a string of murders of—get this—evil sorcerers.”
“For real?” said Susan.
“In effect. Sorcerers who were doing fucked-up things. He went on a killing spree until they caught him.”
“Do we know where he is?”
“Probably somewhere in North America.”
“That’s helpful,” said Marci. “So, do I switch to him?”
Donovan considered, then shook his head. “No. Keep doing what you’re doing. I’m going to see if I can figure out a way to find Leong.”
Marci nodded and turned back to her work. Donovan called Jeff, and left him a message asking him to locate a certain Charles Leong, probably living under an assumed name; to Donovan it felt like a pointless request, but, hey, Jeff had surprised him before.
An hour later, Marci sat back and said, “Okay, got it.”
They huddled around her, looking at a half-profile chest-up picture of a man in his late fifties with distinguished gray hair, a firm mouth, and mild brown eyes. Donovan looked for the evidence of airbrushing, but it was hard to tell. Makeup, though, for sure. Lots of makeup.
“His name,” said Marci, “is Douglas Winston Lowrey, and he is—”
“Not our guy,” said Donovan.
They looked at him. “Uh, sorry, Marci. I shouldn’t have interrupted.”
“No,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“We’re looking in the wrong direction. No, that isn’t right. Not entirely the wrong direction, we just—okay.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. It was good to be able to see, but his eyes seemed to get tired and sore faster than they did before he’d gotten himself blown up. Note to self: Don’t get blown up anymore. He said, “None of the people he killed worked for Augsburg Financial, or for any of the companies that bought up Augsburg Financial. That isn’t who he’s after. If it was, there would have been more bodies. Or at least different bodies.”
Susan grabbed a kitchen chair, pulled it up to the computer, and sat down, leaning forward. Donovan just watched over Marci’s shoulder.
“I wish,” said Marci, “you’d said this before I spent five hours—”
“No, no. Don’t worry. You didn’t waste your time. We need this.”
“So, then, what are we looking for?”
“We’re looking for whoever betrayed our shooter. That’s what’s motivating this guy: It’s that he lost everything because of someone he thought he could trust.”
“So, a friend?”
Donovan shook his head. “You’ve got your guy at the top the
re, Mr., what’s-his-name, Lowrey. Now go back down a little. Lowrey has hired someone in the last year for a high-power, big-money position, and it was someone who until then worked for the SEC.”
Susan said, “Wait, for the—oh.”
“Oh yeah,” said Marci.
“Nagorski was a whiste-blower, turned the information over, got hosed.”
Marci didn’t speak; she was already at the keyboard.
“And I’ll tell you something about the guy,” said Donovan. “He’s now rich, and he’s not a sorcerer, but he knew someone in the Mystici. In fact, I’ll tell you exactly who he knew: the late Georgio Byrne Lawton-Smythe. What the connection is I don’t know, but—”
“Cambridge,” said Marci. “They were classmates at Trinity College, in England.”
“No shit,” said Donovan. “Damn. Well, now I feel all smart and shit.”
Marci nodded. “His name is Paul Whittier.”
“There’s the target,” said Donovan.
“Looks like,” said Susan. “Can we verify it? I mean, come at it from the other direction, just to be sure?”
“What do you mean, the other direction?”
“The chain,” said Marci. “The chain of bodies. How does everyone fit together?”
Donovan nodded. “I like that. Let’s start with Whittier. Somehow, Whittier learns that there’s someone who wants to kill him.”
Susan said, “How?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a sorcerer tells him?”
“How does the sorcerer know?”
Donovan spread his hands. “A disruption in the Force? How do you sorcerers find out stuff like that?”
“In my case,” said Susan, “I read it in the newspaper.”
“I get my news online,” said Marci.
“People,” said Donovan. “Let’s focus, all right? It’s late.” He kept forgetting how young they both were. Christ. Sometimes it was like being a nursery school teacher. “Maybe that’s what happened; maybe someone took a shot at the guy, and it made the news. Somehow, he learns his life in danger. He makes a panicked call—or maybe not a panicked call; maybe he was all ice cool—to his old buddy Lawton-Smythe, who he knows has connections to the Mystici, because Lawton-Smythe is the one who arranged for the spells that got him where he is, right? I mean, we’re pretty sure he used magic to advance his position, and that fits in with Lawton-Smythe’s skill set. That was the call in 2011: ‘Hey, buddy, help me advance my position, and I’ll slip you some bucks.’”
The others nodded. “Okay,” said Susan. “Then what?”
“He wants protective spells.”
“What?” said Marci. “He didn’t have any? Someone like that is bound to be walking around with the magical equivalent of a bulletproof vest on, don’t you think? I mean, if he knows there is such a thing.”
Donovan moved around to the head of his small kitchen table, looking at the other two. “Maybe he did. Maybe whatever protection he had saved his life, and that’s how he knew he was a target. That would make sense. But when someone actually takes a shot at you, whatever protection you have, no matter how good it is, all of a sudden doesn’t feel like enough. Your mind starts working on you. You go, ‘Well, that stopped him from killing me, but now he knows about it, I need something better.’ So you call your old school chum, Lawton-Smythe, and say, ‘I need more protection.’ Lawton-Smythe doesn’t do that sort of thing, so he calls someone he knows in the group: Nate Blum. He says, ‘Hey, this dude is in danger; can we up his protection?’”
There were more nods.
“All right,” Donovan continued. “Now Blum is in recruiting, right? He knows everyone, and what they’re good at. So, who can cast the spell?”
“Alexander Young,” said Marci. “He has exactly the right skills.”
“Yeah, but why would he do it?”
“Money?” said Susan.
“Okay, sure,” said Donovan. “Money. Young does it for money. I figure, a lot of money.”
“Whittier can afford it, right?”
“I don’t think,” said Donovan slowly, “that that’s how these people work.”
Susan and Marci looked at him with identical what do you mean? expressions.
“I’m trying to come up with an explanation for what we know happened,” he said. “And what happened is that Blum called Caren Wright. Why?”
“I give up. Why?” said Susan.
“Move, Marci. I need the computer. Susan, there’s a corkboard at the back of the bedroom closet. Could you grab it, please? Put it on the table.”
Donovan turned on his printer, plugged it into the laptop, sat down, and went to work.
An hour later, there were pictures of Nagorski, Lawton-Smythe, Blum, Wright, Lundgren, Young, and Whittier on the board with notes on the lines of how they connected. “Okay,” said Donovan. “Whittier calls Lawton-Smythe asking for magical protection. Lawton-Smythe calls Blum, who knows who’s good at that kind of thing. Blum, our guy in the MetLife Building, is the key to the whole thing, because he’s in recruiting. When I say ‘recruiting,’ you think ‘personnel’ because that’s the ticket; in the Foundation, recruiters are the ones who know what everyone does, so let’s assume it works the same with the Mystici.”
“Why?” said Marci. “I mean, why would a recruiter have that kind of connection?”
“Because they not only know everyone they’ve recruited, but they talk to each other, and they gossip, and unlike us, they’re actually part of the organization. They’re the ones with the connections inside, and outside.”
“Okay,” said Susan. “Yeah, that fits with what I know. So, Blum is the one who put it all together?”
“Yeah. I figure if Wright got her position in part thanks to magical help, then she owes the Mystici. So Blum calls in a debt. He says, ‘We need you to call in a favor from Benjamin Lundgren.’”
“Wait,” said Marci, looking at the board. “How does Wright connect with Lundgren?”
Donovan picked up his Sharpie and wrote under Lundgren’s picture: “Rich as fuck, considerable real estate holdings in the San Diego area.”
“Oh,” said Marci.
“So, why Lundgren? What does he bring to the table?”
“Money,” said Donovan. “He pays Young for the protection spell.”
“And our shooter, Nagorski,” said Marci, “then follows the same chain, killing them all in order, so by the time he’s ready to take out Whittier, Whittier has no more protection, and maybe doesn’t even know the others are dead. See? I was right. The chain of bodies.”
“Your new name,” said Donovan, “is Girl Detective.”
“I’m currently working on an impotence spell.”
“Point taken. So, is everyone happy we’ve got the guy?”
They both nodded.
“Good,” said Susan. “Let’s get some sleep.”
* * *
Matt had good eyes, and knew how to use them. But one thing he couldn’t tell: Did the Brit soldiers parading through the airport at a trot, in fatigues, rifles at port arms, know how stupid they looked? As far as security was concerned, it was a pointless exhibit, “security theater,” as the experts called it. But, watching their faces, he couldn’t tell if they knew it. He was inclined to think they did, in which case, kudos to them for hiding it.
He watched them, had flashes of Afghanistan, and thought, It could be worse. It could have been twenty years ago, and I could have been British, and been sent to Ireland.
He stood next to a shop selling things that said: “BA” and wondered. What if he’d joined up, and been sent to do that? He’d heard stories—he’d spent a summer with an uncle in St. Paul, and there’d been a small but active community of “boy-os” who drank hard and listened to loud music Matt hated and sometimes talked about what they’d seen—though never, ever, what they’d done. Would he, Matt, have told his CO to get stuffed, rather than do those things? True, Matt had done some pretty ugly things in Afghanistan, but that was different be
cause—
Because—
Fuck that. I came here to do something. Time to be about it.
He was setting off to check into ground transportation when his cell phone rang. It was a blocked number, but what the hell. He answered.
“Mr. Castellani?… This is Manuel Becker. I’m hoping you can do something for me. How fast can you return to America?”
“Uh, I’m at Heathrow, but on the wrong side of security.”
“I’m booking you on a flight right now. Virgin Atlantic, departs twelve thirty. I’m texting you the information. If you leave your luggage behind, it will save time at Customs. This could be very close.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Becker.”
“I have backup flights available if you don’t, but try.”
“I will.”
Matt turned back toward the checkpoint. Security theater. Son of a bitch. He hoped he’d make it.
* * *
For the second time, Donovan woke up next to Susan, and for the second time, he muttered, “Dayam,” under his breath, and for the second time he stumbled out of the bedroom to find his computer was in use.
“Do you ever sleep?” he said.
“Sure. Two hours a night, whether I need it or not.”
“Fucking kid. Back in a minute.”
Shaved, showered, and teeth clean, he gave the bathroom over to Hippie Chick, who had the grace to at least look tired. He started coffee, grunting at Marci that he wasn’t ready yet when she started talking. He put on tan slacks and was looking through his shirts to find a nice one when he realized he was only doing that to look good for Susan, at which point he gave himself a good talking-to and put on a T-shirt he’d picked up in Vegas and that had seen better days. Then he got some coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, next to Marci and the computer. “All right,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
“I got a bunch of background on Whittier. He’s been working with the Mystici for a while. They aren’t just protecting him. If you look at how he rose up, how he got his money, the whole thing, they’ve been helping him all along.”
“If he went to school at Cambridge,” said Donovan, “he didn’t start out poor.”
“Poor? No. Not really rich by these people’s standards, but certainly not poor. He started out as the son of a high-level Mystici operative.”