by Jeff Buick
"Who?"
"His name is Carson Grant, head of the Platinus High Frequency Trading division. Grant is on the inside track and would have known Fleming was in Cabo San Lucas and wouldn't be checking his e-mail."
"Opportunity," Trey said quietly.
She didn't acknowledge the interruption. "He swiped into the building at 8:36 on Wednesday, August 11th. Sixteen minutes later, Alicia Crane arrived. Grant went directly to his office on the forty-sixth floor and Alicia followed when she arrived. The elevators only went to forty-six. No other floors."
"And Alicia Crane's office isn't on forty-six."
"It's on eighteen." A brief pause and the CIA agent continued. "Twelve minutes after Crane arrived on forty-six, someone hacked into Fleming's computer. They downloaded two groups of e-mails. Four from you and three from a man named Jorge Amistav."
"Who is that?"
"Amistav is a mid-level arms dealer. He brokers deals. Usually stolen or damaged weapons. We'd love to take him out but he never does anything quite bad enough to justify it."
"Pity," Trey said.
She ignored him. "Now you're up to speed. Do not do anything that links the agency to this."
"Promise. Sort of." He waited a second, then added, "I owe you one, Anne."
"You did a lot for us when you were here, Trey. It's payback."
"Cool. Thanks."
He replaced the phone in his pocket and took a couple of deep breaths. Carson Grant. Who the hell was this guy and why had he opened up this can of worms? Why would a Wall Street golden child with a seven-figure income care about what his boss was mixed up with outside the office? It made absolutely no sense. Yet Grant had talked a friend into hacking the CIA mainframe and looking through a highly classified file. Then he had downloaded e-mails that tied William Fleming into an illegal act in a foreign country.
Fleming was going to go ballistic when he found out.
Trey briefly considered not passing the information along, but discarded that path as dangerous and stupid. There was no reason to protect Carson Grant from his own curiosity. The bottom line was, the man had poked his head into a place where it could get cut off. That decision on how to handle Grant was up to Fleming. Trey dialed a New York number on his cell phone and waited. Fleming answered.
"We found the intruder," Trey said.
"Who is it?" Fleming's voice was terse. And anxious. He wanted to know.
"Carson Grant."
At least thirty seconds passed before another sound passed across the line. "Are you absolutely certain?" Fleming asked.
"Of course."
Another long pause. "Take care of Mr. Grant," he said. The line died.
Trey shuffled back to the group. All eyes were on him as he sat down. He looked at Alexi. "I have a job for you," he said.
"Excellent news," Androv responded. Excitement crept into his eyes. More than excitement. Desire.
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Chapter
45
FOB Ma'sum ghar, Afghanistan
Russell had never felt inadequate in front of a camera. Until now.
He sat on the pile of sandbags that rimmed his bunk and stared overtop of the video camera - outside the wire at the vast expanse of desert to the south. The sand dunes were so close he could see the ripples scarring their smooth peaks. Beyond the massive sand waves were more of the same. Unending, like the ocean, but barren of life. Even the Taliban steered clear of the wasteland that extended south from Kandahar to the border with Pakistan.
The resupply trip from the FOB to Mushan was vivid in his mind. He was stunned at the vulnerability of the convoy and the speed at which the Taliban were all over them. There was no doubt about the viciousness of the response to their presence. But nothing impacted him more than the pregnant woman and her husband.
What had happened after they left? Was she alive? Did the baby survive the birth? He had asked himself the same questions a hundred times over the last twenty-four hours. And he was still without answers. The scene haunted him now, and he knew that it would stay with him forever.
Russell dragged himself off the sandbags and checked the settings on the camera. He had to film the report. That was the reason he was here. To show the world what insanity looked like in the first person. He scanned his notes, then touched the record button and took his spot on the x he'd marked.
Yesterday, we ventured outside the wire. A hundred vehicles left our new home at FOB Ma'sum ghar and headed for the combat outposts on the road to, and just beyond, the town of Mushan. American and Canadian soldiers working together to resupply troops who are dug into the rocks and sand that permeate every corner of Afghanistan. Tanks. Stryker armored vehicles. Trucks. Hundreds of troops. An impressive force.
Yet the advantage still lies with the insurgents. They waited for us. Patiently. When we hit the edge of Mushan they took out one of our lead vehicles, then laid down an unrelenting barrage of mortar and small arms fire. The convoy was under threat of annihilation.
In the midst of the battle, a human tragedy unfolded. A pregnant woman and her husband came to us in crisis. She was in labor and ready to deliver her baby. There was no doctor for hours in any direction. Her only chance was for one of our medics to assist in the birth. To ensure the woman and the child had a chance at life.
But that didn't happen. If we had stalled the convoy for the time it would take to help her, we would likely have been killed. The moment the disabled vehicle was removed from the road, we left. Chances are - we left her to die.
This is the tragedy of Afghanistan. We want to help. To change lives and bring stability to a country that hasn't known peace for thirty years. Normal does not exist in Afghanistan. If there is a traffic jam it's not because there was a fender bender, it's because an IED exploded somewhere ahead on the road. Electricity and clean water are luxuries, not necessities. Medical facilities are non-existent. Guns are everywhere, and trust is nowhere. Hope has been erased from the average Afghan's dictionary. They exist in a constant state of strife. Conflict surrounds them on every corner. Death and suffering are constant companions.
So how does Afghanistan rise out of this mess? It's a good question, and one that does not have an easy answer. Perhaps, there may not be an answer.
Yesterday - outside the wire - we couldn't help one woman in crisis. How are we supposed to help an entire country in crisis? This is Russell Matthews reporting from FOB Ma'sum ghar, Afghanistan.
Russell retreated to his bunkhouse and replayed the video. Satisfied, he compressed it and sent it to Anita Greenwall in Boston. He sat in front of the computer for a couple of minutes, thinking about Andrew James. There was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind about the soldier's story. Something about the man and the picture he painted of his life in the US was bothering him. Finally, he gave in to his curiosity and keyed in a message to Anita, asking for some back-story on Andrew. He shut down the computer, packed up his gear, and stashed it in his bunk. He went to the kitchen and ate sitting by himself in the corner. The scene kept coming back to him. The woman, pleading in foreign words to save her baby. The husband, desperate for someone, anyone, to save his world from collapsing. The mortars crashing down. Andrew pulling him back to the Stryker before they were killed.
Some days he loved his job. Today, he hated it.
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Chapter
46
Day 24 - 8.19.10 - Morning News
Midtown Manhattan, New York
Benediem bottomed at 2:15 EDT on Thursday, August 19th. The company's CEO faced
the television cameras in Chicago for the second time in four days and broke the bad news. They were preparing to file for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. All operations for the parent and subsidiary companies had ceased, effective immediately.
Carson watched the death of a giant corporation from the quiet luxury of his office. He had orchestrated the collapse and was struggling with both remorse and loathing. The loathing was for William Fleming - for Wall Street - and for himself. They not only chased the American dream on Wall Street, they manufactured it. When the markets weren't aligning, they adjusted them. When people were scared, they assured them the new derivatives were sound. When they needed growth, they stimulated financial investments based on smoke and mirrors, not value.
But while the loathing was distressing, the remorse was much more difficult. He didn't know who to feel sorry for. They were all out there. Families who had saved their hard-earned money and entrusted their portfolio to the investment brokers. The institutional investors who had picked Benediem as a solid performer and were now watching their mutual funds plummet. He didn't even want to think about the people who relied on Benediem for services.
He switched off the television and went back to the pile of work on his desk. Chui had the new algorithm ready for a test run. They were still at least three weeks from implementing it even if the tests went well. No more pushing the envelope. That decision had come from his desk and he didn't care if Fleming liked it or not.
Six o'clock rolled around and he packed up and headed home. Nicki had supper ready and they ate as she talked about her friend in North Carolina who was getting married in September. Exciting times. The message was sparklingly clear. She would like to be suffering the same excitement as her friend. And soon.
Carson cracked a beer and retired to the living room after supper. He poked around on the Internet while Nicki watched television. The thing with Fleming and Trey Miller was driving him nuts. The two men were connected and up to something. He Googled new strings of keywords but nothing was working. He went back to the final words he had tried on Tuesday night, but dropped St. Petersburg.
Lindstrom Moscow
He touched the enter key and worked his way through the Moscow listings for major attractions. The first good hit he got was for Julie Lindstrom and the U2 concert in Moscow. He went to the website for her security company, Details Matter. She provided an all-inclusive service to bands and celebrities while they were on the road. The site was short on exactly how she did that. In fact, the site was short on most things. It was a slick place that catered to the rich and famous and couldn't care about impressing anyone else. Like him. He killed the link and went to U2's site. The band was an icon - everything they did was somewhere in the stratosphere. Massive concerts that sold out the moment tickets went on sale. Multi-million selling CDs and DVDs. Huge philanthropic gestures. They were the real thing. He Googled the Moscow concert and added the stadium name and date so he would pick up related articles. A few came up in Russian, but one had been translated. He read through it.
The concert was the brainchild of a prominent Russian, Dimitri Volstov. He had enticed the band to visit Moscow and the copywriter was gushing about him like he was the second coming of John Lennon. He entered the Russian's name and scanned through the first few pages of information. Volstov was a player in Russia. He was the majority shareholder of international energy giant, Murmansk-Technika. He also owned steel mines and mills, oil pipelines and coveted real estate in Moscow, St. Petersburg and Paris. His yacht was four hundred and seventy-one feet - eighty-nine feet shorter than Roman Abramovich's, and eighteen feet longer than Larry Ellison and David Geffen's. Volstov was a regular on the Forbes top 100 richest people list.
Impressive.
Carson set the cursor back on the Google box and added William Fleming behind Dimitri Volstov. That would give him the Forbes list and their rankings. Interesting to see who was richer. He hit enter and froze.
The first article that featured both men was not the Forbes list. It was a newspaper story from March, 2002. He read every word of the article. Then he read it again. When he was finished, he sat back in the chair, his hands shaking so hard he could barely hold his beer.
Volstov and Fleming knew each other. And there was nothing friendly about their relationship. They had both invested in a pipeline to move oil from Russia across the rugged terrain of Turkmenistan to Russia, via Kazakhstan. Midway through the project the Kazakhstan government had decided they didn't want American interests in their oil shipping industry and had cut Fleming out of the deal. Fleming publicly blamed Volstov for inciting the anti-American sentiment in the country and causing the deal to fall apart. Fleming sued Volstov for $2.3 billion. He netted nothing for his trouble, except forty-two million in legal fees.
The pieces were falling into place. Knowing Fleming, his resentment was probably still festering. It was a stretch, but Carson instinctively felt there was a connection between Lindstrom, Miller and the concert.
Carson spent another hour on the computer, then followed Nicki to bed. Sleep was more than elusive, it was impossible. He lay in bed until a few minutes after three, then got up and made some tea. He paced the small apartment like an animal operating on instincts, but not sure quite what to do. Finally, he powered up the computer and returned to the Details Matter website. There was an 800 number and he dialed it, not sure what he was going to say. To his surprise, a live voice answered.
"Details Matter. Can I help you?" It was a man's voice, with a cultured English accent.
"Um, sorry, I thought I'd get voicemail at this time of night."
"The Baltimore office has the phone forwarded to our crew. We're in Europe. It's morning here. What can I help you with?"
"Um, you provide security for bands while they're on tour. Is that correct?"
"Yes. If you want to book us for your tour, call back when the US office is open. They do all the booking. We're on location with a band right now."
"Weird that you actually answer the phone," Carson said. He was floored that he had a real person on the other end of the line.
"Our CEO is a people person. She insists we answer calls whenever we can. I am busy though, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?"
"I just happened to notice that your firm is supplying the security for U2."
"Yes." Even one word was enough to catch the change in the man's voice. Suddenly cautious.
"I was wondering...if there were...any problems."
"Not that we're aware of, sir. Are there any problems that you are aware of?" There was no mistaking the difference in the tone and cadence of his words. He was on the offensive, looking for information.
"No. I don't think so."
"Who is calling, please?" the voice asked. More pleasant now. Not challenging.
"Um, I'd rather not say." Carson walked over to the window and stared out into the vacant street. The city was always so calm at this time of night. So deceptive. "With all the problems Bono has been having with his back, I was wondering if the Moscow concert is still on."
"Yes. You can find the information on our website. I would really like to know your name, sir."
"Thanks for your time. Sorry to have bothered you."
Carson hit the end button and dropped the phone onto the window ledge. Why the hell did he phone them? That was dumb. There was absolutely no upside to making that call. The only saving grace was that he had a permanent block on his number so the other party couldn't see where the call had originated. He was glad of that now.
A wave of exhaustion swept over him and he tiptoed into their room and slid into bed next to Nicki. She stirred but didn't wake. He pressed his body against hers and even in her sleep she snuggled into him. He closed his eyes as his mind shut down and he was asleep in seconds.
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Chapter
47
Helsinki, Finland
The man dialed Julie Lindstrom's number and waited.
His name was Evan Lucas and he took care of business when Julie was elsewhere. Which was often. Right now, she was in Miami signing a new band and wouldn't be back in Europe until Monday. That was far too long to let something like this sit unattended.
Every call that came into Details Matter was saved to a hard drive at their main office, and he had retrieved the digital recording of the conversation with the man asking about the U2 concert in Moscow. He replayed it twenty times, listening to the intonations and the pauses between the man's words. He knew something. Evan was sure of that. Once Evan deemed the call to have value, he had traced it. The phone line had a block on the number, but it was rudimentary and easy to bypass. It took less than five minutes to pull the caller's name.
Carson Grant.
Another half hour and he had Grant's life printed and sitting on the desk in front of him. He lived in New York - Soho. He was engaged to Nicki Parkins, who suffered from cystic fibrosis and no longer worked. He had recently been promoted to the head of High Frequency Trading at Platinus Investments. The information ran on for three pages of single-spaced, eleven-point font. His bank accounts, his credit cards, his purchasing habits over the past five years. The amount of data available if you had the means was incredible. And Lindstrom's company certainly had the means.
"Hello." Julie's voice was tired.
"It's Evan."
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
"Things are fine here. We're set for the Helsinki show and Horsens went off without a hitch. Bono is holding up well. His back isn't causing him much pain. That's not why I called. There's something else going on that I think you should know about."