by Dan Alatorre
DeShear nodded. “Then the right person can ask a few key follow up questions . . .”
“Which,” Lanaya said, “having already engaged, they’ll be remiss not to answer.”
“Not answering will be considered an impediment to the audit.” Camilla rubbed her hands together. “A fact that I’ll be only too happy to explain. Answering will tip their hand.”
“Wow,” Lanaya said. “And while they’re hesitating, trying to think of what they ought to do or not do, the noose will tighten. Answer, lose your job. Don’t answer, go to jail. I like it.”
“We’ll have this whole place bagged and tagged before the board gets here,” Camilla said. “Then we interview the executive committee, and anything that doesn’t match what we’ve already been told, somebody’s going to jail. These witnesses will flip to our side and rat on each other like you’ve never seen.”
Lanaya looked out the window. “It’s hard to believe we’re so close to shutting this whole sordid mess down.”
“We’re close. Real close.” Camilla stood, returning to the front of the plane. “Keep it together, though, because things never go exactly as planned.”
Lanaya sat back and re-opened the laptop, entering the three, twelve-digit passwords to access the black screen site.
“Back to work, huh?” DeShear said. “Good for you. I think I’m going to catch a little slee—”
Lanaya gasped.
“What is it?” DeShear sat up. “What’s wrong?”
Her face white, Lanaya turned the computer to him, displaying the only message.
Your life is in danger. The Greyhound is heading to Indonesia. DO NOT GO to the Angelus site there.
-Double Omega
Chapter 22
The tail lights of Dr. Hauser’s Rolls Royce shut off with the engine, and the heavy driver’s door swung open. A foot, clad in an Italian leather loafer, stretched out to the concrete floor of the parking garage, followed by a dark, wooden cane. Eventually the other foot appeared, and the tiny, stoop-shouldered old man himself.
Dr. Hauser’s knobby fingers gripped the car door until he was certain his feet would keep him upright, then he let go and shoved his hand into his suitcoat pocket. He took a half step—and abruptly stopped. In the spot next to the one marked “Reserved for the Chairman of the Board, Angelus Genetics,” the van door slid open. Two men and a woman stepped out.
The closest man to the doctor had a dark goatee. He glanced at the old man’s cane. “Arthritis?”
Hauser narrowed his eyes, a white puff escaping his lips as he spoke. “Excuse me?”
“The cane,” the man said. “Is it because you have arthritis? Your knees give you problems in cold weather?”
“I’m old.” Dr. Hauser frowned, looking over his expensive but ill-fitting suit. “Everything gives me pain in cold weather. Warm weather, too.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe my news will take some of the sting out of this frosty December morning.”
“So you’re not here to rob me, then.”
“No.”
“Good.” The doctor pulled his hand out of his suit coat pocket, holding a .38. “I’d have hated to put a bullet hole through the pocket of this jacket. It’s a Brunello Cucinelli. Cashmere and silk.”
The man smiled. “You know, I wondered why a man who drives a Rolls Royce would walk around alone in a parking garage. People who drive a Rolls have things other people want to take from them.”
“I park here because it’s my parking spot and I’m a creature of habit. This has been my parking spot at Angelus Genetics for over a decade. But I’m not stupid, either.” He slid the gun back into his pocket. “We live in dangerous times, and they keep getting more dangerous.” Pointing to his car, the doctor sighed. “Did you know the Silver Cloud comes with bulletproof glass and run-flat tires, as standard equipment? No world should need cars like that.”
He raised his chin and peered down his nose at his three companions, his words echoing off the concrete walls of the parking garage. “Well, then, I suppose you’ve come to talk business. You are recently from Atlanta, I take it?”
“We are, sir.” The man lowered his voice. “And we are here to report a successful set of conclusions regarding the unfortunate incidents that took place in Centennial Park.”
“They’re dead, are they? Both of them?”
The man nodded.
“Good. Can’t say I’m unhappy about that. I did the best I could to find competent people the first time, but one doesn’t simply Google ‘assassins’ and get ten good killers from Angie’s List.”
“Angie’s Hit List, maybe.”
“So why are you here?” The doctor’s voice was gravelly and low, almost a mumble. “I thought payment had been arranged through my attorney.”
“Mr. Jennings saw to it that me and my associates were paid very well. We feel our relationship has advanced to a point where you’d want to retain our services for some additional challenges the company seems to be facing at the moment.”
“The IRS?” The doctor growled, hoisting his cane at his car. “That’s where I’ve just come from, meeting with the lawyers about the Infernal Revenue Service. They slapped a demand letter on us and now I have to catch a plane to keep their big noses out of our business in Indonesia. Still, not a good idea to start shooting government types. There are a lot of them, and some carry big rifles and drive tanks.”
“Sir, we have come to believe the geneticist and her friend are on the way to Indonesia.”
“And how,” the doctor cocked his head, “did you come to believe that?”
“We get paid well for our services, and in turn we pay our sources well. Those government types with the big guns? Notoriously underpaid, as are cops and IRS agents. We simply network enough to let people know we can assist them with their financial burdens, and information magically flows to us.” He looked around the garage. “It’s amazing what a teller at a police or military credit union can tell you about folks with top secret clearances who are struggling to make ends meet.”
The doctor nodded. “I’m impressed with your candor—and it takes a lot to impress me. Go on.”
“We’ve also recently learned that a small group of people have been quietly making key employees of Angelus and its subsidiaries disappear. With you and the other board members all rushing to get together to protect your Indonesian asset—the largest asset on the Angelus balance sheet—I think it’s very unlikely these assassins would waste such an opportunity.”
“I don’t like the idea of guns, mister . . .”
“Presley. But please—call me Elvis. And these are my associates, Janet Jackson and George Michael.”
“Hmm. As I say, I don’t care for guns—unless they’re mine, and they’re pointing at people who’d like to kill me. Then I like guns a great deal. In this case, I’d like to place an order for as many guns—and people to use them—as are necessary to ensure I return safely from my overseas business trip, and to subdue any particular element that dislikes the way I run Angelus Genetics. Am I talking to the right party, Mr. Presley?”
Elvis grinned. “You are, sir.”
“Good. And just so we are absolutely crystal clear, you need to be completely successful in this venture, or the first task of your replacement will be making sure you and your colleagues disappear.”
“I’d hoped our work cleaning up the mess in Atlanta would be proof enough.”
“Never hurts to remind the service provider what’s at stake.” The doctor waved a hand, shuffling toward the garage exit. Elvis followed.
“Atlanta was petty cash,” Dr. Hauser said. “If they’re coming for me in Bali, I want a small army to meet them. See Jennings’ people for the money, like last time, and get enough hitters so you can eliminate this threat without breaking a sweat. I want no mistakes this time.”
“Not a problem. Can we expect any help from the Indonesian army?”
“For what I’m paying their prime minister, I
certainly hope so. But let’s face it, they’re not exactly the U. S. Marines, are they? Or should I say former Marines?” He glanced at Elvis’ companions. “I’ll arrange for some speedy jets to get you and your first team where you need to go. Obviously, you can’t all fly to Bali with us on our plane, but I’ll accommodate two of you. The others will travel on jets that are just as good and just as fast. How soon can you be ready?”
“I took the liberty of making some arrangements in anticipation of this meeting going well. My people can board a plane within the hour, with a not-so-small army to follow by this time tomorrow morning.”
“We might not have that long. And what about this Greyhound character? Think he’s already in the air?”
Elvis’ jaw dropped.
“You’re not the only one with contacts, Mr. Presley. Nor are you, Miss Jackson and Mr. Michael. This is serious business, and I do my homework. You go airborne when my plane does, understood?” The old man turned and leaned close to Elvis, his stale coffee breath permeating Presley’s nose. “This situation ends only when a few bullets come to a stop in the back of The Greyhound’s skull. And anyone who worked with him—or even considered working with him—needs to die, too. Slit the throats of their sleeping children and then burn the house down. I want my message delivered in the absolute harshest terms possible, so no one ever tries anything like this again.”
Presley stood, staring at the tiny man, not speaking.
“Too rich for your blood, Elvis?” The doctor wiped a drop of spit from the corner of his mouth.
“No. Just . . . not what I was expecting, sir.”
“Good.” Dr. Hauser’s shaking hand let go. He walked away, his cane pounding the garage floor with each step. “Then The Greyhound won’t expect it, either.”
* * * * *
“My head won’t stop pounding.” The Greyhound rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut, pulling a pillow over his eyes to block the light. “What did you give me?’
“Steroids,” Maya said, crossing the hotel suite and coming to the bed. “Among other things. The new mix seems to help the others for extended periods, but it’s a daily routine.”
She took his pulse and temperature. Both were normal for a change.
“Steroids, huh? Well, if that’s what it takes.” He sat up, pushing the sheets aside. “I have to tell you, aside from the headache, I feel great. Like I finally have energy again.”
Maya watched him stretch. “It’s an experimental mix, and it’s expensive, even to a big-time hedge fund manager like you.”
“Former hedge fund manager. Now I do this. How much?”
“Five thousand a dose, and you need several doses a day, but the results are encouraging.”
He stood and walked, flexing the muscles of his half-naked torso. “It’s worth it. If you can get me a version that doesn’t come with the skull splitter, I’ll take a month’s worth.”
Maya picked up an oxygen sensor and blood pressure monitor, carrying them to him. “Sit down so I can get your vitals. I said the drug is new. It doesn’t have a version without a headache side effect yet.”
He sat in the chair by the desk, holding his arm out to her. “I’ll still take a month’s worth.” He drew a deep breath as she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm. “Where’s Dominique? I have some traveling to do.”
“She split for work. Hold still.”
He frowned. “I told her to quit. She knows I have enough money to take care of whatever she needs.”
“She needs to stay connected. Her sources bring in half of our information, so let her.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He looked around the room. “What about Britt? Where’s he?”
“Getting breakfast. We weren’t sure when you’d wake up, and we were hungry.”
The Greyhound stared at her. “How long have I been out?”
She waited until the blood pressure cup had deflated before she replied. “Long enough to make us think you might not wake up again.”
“That’s amazing. I haven’t slept more than three hours at a time in months.” He stood again, pacing around the room like a panther. “I really feel strong. This mix may be the one.”
“You say that every time. It has other side effects, like irritability, but I’m not sure we’d notice that one. Plus the usual anger flashes and rage that come with steroids.” She scribbled some notes on a pad. “But with proper dosages, we can keep you running for a week at a time at this stage, maybe more. That’s what we’re seeing in the tests.”
“A week? Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”
“You haven’t been around, and it’s a trial drug. I can’t just grab a jug of it and board a plane. I’ve been stealing a dose here and there on the side and having a private lab make more for me in secret. The bill for that has been big. Even you’ll think so.”
He went to the closet and grabbed a suitcase, tossing it on the bed and opening it. “Doesn’t matter. If we own the patent rights, we’ll make it back.” Returning to the closet, he clutched an armful of shirts and pants against his chest, carried them to the suitcase, and dropped them in. “And money won’t matter to me if I die from not having your special cocktails. So get me a month’s worth. I have a plane to catch.”
* * * * *
The Cessna bounced from turbulence. DeShear grabbed the headrest of the seat in front of him to stabilize himself from the jolts. “I have to admit, I thought I’d like Hawaii more. But the airport looked great out the window. I almost saw a palm tree, I think. Very . . .” He glanced at the cheat sheet. “Indah.”
From her seat at the front of the plane, Cammy took a bite of a donut and flipped him off.
“Don’t make jokes.” Lanaya opened the laptop again. “The black screen site has gone dark, and that message is scary to me.”
“I know,” DeShear said. “I’m sorry. Look, you said Double Omega died, so this could be a hoax of some sort—”
“It’d be the first in the history of the site.”
“Okay, well, whoever The Greyhound is, he or she will be running into a lot of armed FBI agents if they try anything.”
She shook her head. “Nobody can access the site unless they know the codes, and those are extremely secure. Greyhound may be a code name for the group behind the murders of the Angelus employees.”
“But what I was getting at is, if your friend is dead, somebody’s posing as her. If it’s not a hoax, it’s either intended to scare you out of coming, or it’s a warning to be very careful if we come. So . . . who has access to the site?”
She leaned back in the seat and stared at the plane ceiling. “At our peak, there were a few dozen users. We asked questions before admitting anyone, and security held up tight. Up until a few months ago, I felt very good about the site.”
“What happened a few months ago?”
“Get ready,” Camilla said. “Seatbelts on. We’re going up again for the next leg. We land in Bali in about two hours.”
Lanaya knitted her hands. “Hamilton, if it’s been breached, then who knows what information has been compromised?”
“Okay, calm down.” He placed a hand over hers. They were trembling. “Let’s go over the facts. It doesn’t matter if The Greyhound is headed for Indonesia. We wanted him there. That helps us. Next, whoever he brings, we never expected him to come alone—and Cammy has a ton of heavily armed people on our side to guard us.”
Lanaya nodded. “I suppose that’s true.”
“So somebody was trying to help you with that message. That’s a good thing. It’s not the dead girl posting messages from beyond the grave, so the question is, who is it really? But as long as we’re in the hands of these fine folks with all the weaponry . . .” He pointed at the others on the plane. “I think we’ll be okay.”
“My brain knows all that, but my heart won’t listen.” She sighed. “It keeps worrying and beating fast. I think the pounding in my chest is so loud, it’s keeping everyone on the plane awake.”
DeShear smiled. “Yeah, well, if you weren’t worried, you wouldn’t be human. Just . . . close your eyes and focus hard on something else. Like your kids. Getting them ready for bed on a school night, making them brush their teeth, fighting with them for five more minutes of TV. Focus on that. See if you accidentally fall asleep. We have a big day ahead of us.”
“My youngest always does that.” She curled up in the seat, resting her head in the leather cushion and facing him. “Every night, it’s ‘Five more minutes, Mom? Pleeeease?’”
“Typical kid.” DeShear shook his head, chuckling.
“I miss them, Hamilton.”
He put his arm over her shoulder and patted her on the back. “You’ll see them soon, don’t worry.”
“Promise?” she whispered, closing her eyes.
“Promise.”
Chapter 23
She stared at the picture. It hadn’t faded. Neither had the memories.
Sitting in her car, the woman tapped a cigarette out of the teal-colored pack and placed it between her lips. Her trembling fingers dug through her purse and found the butane lighter. With a flick, the little flame appeared. She held it to the tip of the cigarette and inhaled, heat and bitter smoke flowing over her tongue and down her throat, filling the insides of her lungs.
She still wasn’t used to it. Never would be, probably.
Smoking can kill you. She’d heard that how many times over the years? She’d said it, too. Didn’t matter. It was a habit of necessity, and had been for quite some time. One does what one must.
She breathed out, the smoke cascading across the steering wheel of the Mercedes and into the windshield, rolling slowly outward over the dash board.
Her father used to lower the driver’s window a little when he smoked. That was when she was a child, and doctors in TV ads actually recommended certain brands of cigarettes over others. “More doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette,” the black and white ads proudly boasted. Men in white jackets sat at desks puffing away; elegant ladies wearing strapless gowns and pearls blew streams of white past their lipstick, then smiled at the camera.